by Alison Tyler
D IS FOR
DRESS-UP
Also by Alison Tyler
Best Bondage Erotica
Best Bondage Erotica 2
Exposed
Got a Minute?
The Happy Birthday Book of Erotica
Heat Wave: Sizzling Sex Stories
Luscious: Stories of Anal Eroticism
The Merry XXXmas Book of Erotica
Red Hot Erotica
Slave to Love
Three-Way
Caught Looking (with Rachel Kramer Bussel)
A is for Amour
B is for Bondage
C is for Coeds
D IS FOR
DRESS-UP
EROTIC STORIES
EDITED BY ALISON TYLER
Copyright © 2007 by Alison Tyler.
All rights reserved. Except for brief passages quoted in newspaper, magazine, radio, or television reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying or recording, or by information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
Published in the United States by Cleis Press Inc.,
P.O. Box 14697, San Francisco, California 94114.
Printed in the United States.
Cover design: Scott Idleman
Text design: Karen Quigg
Cleis Press logo art: Juana Alicia
First Edition.
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Deepest Divine Distinction goes to:
Adam Nevill
Barbara Pizio
Felice Newman
Frédérique Delacoste
Diane Levinson
Violet Blue
and SAM, always.
Clothes make the man. Naked people have little or no influence on society.
—MARK TWAIN
CONTENTS
Introduction • ALISON TYLER
She Knew • CLARE MOORE
Skin on Skin • SASKIA WALKER
Dorothy for the Day • RACHEL KRAMER BUSSEL
French Cut • THOMAS S. ROCHE
Dominated Dolly • MARK WILLIAMS
The Mysterious Affair at Styles • LISETTE ASHTON
Smoking in the Boys’ Room • PAUL ROUSSEAU
Rags to Riches • BRYN HANIVER
Presenting Paulette • TENILLE BROWN
A Long-Held Fantasy • MICHELLE HOUSTON
Puss-in-Boots • SHANNA GERMAIN
Lipstick • TSAURAH LITSKY
Edit Me • ALISON TYLER
About the Editor
INTRODUCTION
DREAM WITH ME. Dream of closets filled with fantasy outfits... schoolgirl skirts, high-heeled leather boots, shimmering prom gowns, slippery latex slacks. Oh, and, of course, accessories: velvet gloves, fishnet stockings, lacy rose-adorned garters, silky scarlet knickers.
Now, dream a little more. Of a collection of stories featuring those same types of fantasy attire, a whole walk-in closet filled to overflowing with decadent tales. That was my dream when I put out a call for this collection. I didn’t assign outfits to the authors. Instead, I was much more interested in what “playing dress-up” meant to them.
To me, dressing up doesn’t mean donning high-heeled shoes and a fancy gown. Doesn’t always mean that, anyway. Dressing up is what I do every single day. Sliding on a different costume, depending on my mood. Some days, you’ll find me in jeans and a man’s-style bowling shirt featuring someone else’s name on the pocket. Other days, I need a schoolgirl skirt to feel complete. Check me out in my shiny penny loafers, opaque hose, and cashmere cardigan.
But dressing up inspires different things in different people. Some focus on the outerwear, like the uptight boyfriend in Tenille Brown’s story “Presenting Paulette,” who dresses his lady to look like his mother. Others notice only undergarments, like the narrator in Thomas S. Roche’s “French Cut.” Sometimes shoes are all that matter—drool over Shanna Germain’s fantastic fantasy footwear in “Puss-in-Boots.” And sometimes a true head-to-toe makeover is required for a sexy change, such as Rachel Kramer Bussel’s “Dorothy for the Day.”
Bryn Haniver’s narrator makes short work of an old prom dress in “Rags to Riches,” while a trip to a costume shop is necessary for the character in Michelle Houston’s story, “A Long-Held Fantasy.”
From slinky undergarments to the finishing touch of lipstick (lose yourself in Tsaurah Litzky’s unexpected treasure), you’ll find them all in D Is for Dress-Up. Now, open wide this fantasy closet, and reach inside...
XXX,
Alison Tyler
SHe Knew
DEEP DOWN, SHE KNEW she was going to get screwed.
She’d helped him pick out his clothes for his new job. She’d helped with three jackets and five pairs of pants, and about six shirts. He had been back a couple of times in the last two weeks. She’d helped him put on and take off jackets. She’d measured his inseam and his shoulders and his chest.
On his third visit, he didn’t bother going into the dressing room to change pants. He just dropped them there in front of her, and stood in his tight boxers. It was probably then that she went a little higher in his crotch when he was trying on another pair of pants. She touched his balls with the back of her hand, and kept on measuring.
He began to get bigger, and he turned away, embarrassed.
He paid for his selections, and asked her out, for Friday after the shop closed; for tonight. She knew she was going to get screwed. She thought about it all day. She thought about when it would happen, and where. She thought about what she should wear, so it would be easy for him, with a simple dress that would lift over her head in a flash, showing maybe a black lace bra.
Maybe a soft satin blouse with a hundred buttons, so that it would take forever to open her up, with only a T under it. She hadn’t decided, when she dressed in the morning, and now had only about an hour before he would walk in the door.
You had to wear the right clothes for a first screw. It was just a matter of how much time it should take and how hard it should be to get there. The last customer had long since left. She had to decide.
By the time the bell rang over the door as he walked in, she was ready. She was standing in the middle of the three dressing mirrors, so he saw her from front, back, and sides. She stood with her hands on her hips and her legs apart, in a mannequin pose.
He stopped when he saw her and crossed his arms as he stood there and took her in from bottom to top.
Brown wingtip shoes with black over-the-calf socks.
Very snug pleated and creased dark blue trousers with a faint pinstripe.
No belt.
Dark blue suspenders, buttoned to her pants, and tight against her chest.
A matching blue double-breasted jacket, buttoned.
A thin elegant white striped shirt, buttoned up to her neck.
A tight white armless striped undershirt, over her bare breasts.
And a silk blue-and-maroon print tie, properly knotted, hanging down her front.
No bra. And silk boxers. Black.
She was going to get screwed, but wanted it different. And wanted it to take time. He walked up to her. She pulled closed the curtain in front of the mirrors. She reached into her inside breast pocket and took out a deck of cards. She held them out to him in the palm of her hand.
He cut the deck. 7.
She cut it. 4.
She took off her jacket. One hardened nipple slipped from behind the suspenders, and pushed out the shirt.
He cut again. 10.
She. Jack.
She removed his jacket for him and hung it on the hook. It was one she had sold him.
Next, his belt. He insis
ted it was not part of his pants.
Her shoes.
Her socks.
His tie, his shoes, his socks.
He cut. King!
Ace!
He started to unbutton his shirt. She unfastened his pants instead. He dropped them and stepped out of them. He was bulging in his boxers. It was down to his boxers and shirt. She still had her tie, suspenders, shirt, pants, and underwear.
His shirt!
He took the deck and shuffled it. He stepped back off the platform and sat in the dressing room chair, in only his boxers. He drew a card, not looking at it, and tossed it toward her. It landed on the platform face up. 3.
He drew another card and, without looking at it, held it up for her to see. 5.
He got up, went to her, and undid her tie, brushing against her breasts as he removed it.
He went back to the chair and tossed her a 9. He held up a Queen. He pointed to her pants. She pointed to her suspenders, shrugged, and slipped them to her sides. Both nipples were hard.
8. 9. She started to unbutton her shirt, slowly, pulled it out of her pants, then pulled the shirt open to reveal her breasts and slipped the shirt off. He started throbbing in his boxers.
She walked over to him and drew a card. Ace. He drew. Ace! He held the deck to her. She slowly shook her head, and unfastened and dropped her pants. She stepped back and pointed to the mirrored platform.
He walked to it, shaking his head. Facing the mirrors, he slid his boxers down and kicked them off the platform. He didn’t turn around. She could see him, erect, from three views. He shook his head and put his hands on his hips, and turned around, stepping off the platform.
He drew one last card. The fourth Ace. He held it up for her to see. She knew she was going to get screwed. She knew it was going to be now. He slipped off her silk boxers and grabbed her in his arms, and pushed her back against the mirrors, and thrust himself into her.
SKIn on SKIn
DEEP BREATHS,” Jade whispered to herself, as she attempted to quell her erratic breathing. Walking down the narrow passageway, she eyed the purple-painted walls that were lit occasionally by triangles of hazy light. The beat of a bass guitar sounded through the walls and the floor. The atmosphere grew heavier as she reached the door at the end of the passage, resonant with a heady mix of heat, sound, and scent. Her heart rate quickened. She paused, noticing that the paint was cracked in the top left-hand corner of the heavy black door, lifting and peeling away, revealing the bare wood beneath. Jade had a keen eye for such things. That was why she had come to The Cave that night, to relish the surface coverings as well as that which lay beneath.
She glanced down at her outfit, hoping it would blend in with what she might find beyond the door. A cut-off latex top, sleeveless and skin-tight, left her midriff bare. A leather miniskirt was cinched around her hips, zippered from waist to hem at both front and back. Shiny soft plastic boots clung to her legs, like skins on her own skin. The decadent outfit gave her cover; it also gave her nerve. She lifted her chin. Jade was a shy but deep-down determined sort. She had an insatiable curiosity for all things sexual, which was inevitably leading her on, and she could insinuate herself into most places with utter stealth.
The door opened and a figure darted past her. Jade took a deep breath at the scene beyond. The room was full of bodies, moving, dancing, whispering against one another. The sound was vibrant, industrial dance music that sliced through the senses. It invaded her body with its powerful, undulating rhythms. A pulse point rapidly began to pound inside her. Flashes of brilliant color broke the pools of darkness that met her eyes: a transparent neon shirt flickering with movement, a streak of deep-scarlet satin hanging low on a tattooed back, white skin shining beneath the black straps buckled across a dancer’s back.
Strobe lights sprang to life, flashing a series of frozen images of the crowd in negative versions of themselves, before submerging them again into a heaving, dark mass of dancing. Fetish. Alternative. Jade smiled. How could she not love a fashion that revealed the body with such erotic candor? A wave of heat was building between her thighs.
She slipped easily among the bodies, unseen, brushing against them, her eyes taking in each and every clinging fabric, wistfully peeling them away in her mind. There was nothing like luxurious, fetishistic fabrics to reveal the erotic potential of the body beneath. After seeing a TV feature on the London fetish and alternative scene, Jade had abandoned the mainstream clubs she used to go to with her girlfriends or the gang from the office. She was working her way through a list of London alt.clubs with a mixture of arousal and trepidation. Had she known how tempting an eager innocent was to the fetish generation, her arousal might have reached boiling point before she’d even set foot inside one of the venues.
A woman in PVC sidled past her. Jade closed her eyes and breathed appreciatively. Like latex, PVC molded to the skin by virtue of the heat it met. The material outlined the body, emphasizing every naked inch of skin beneath, every curve, every ridge. Peeling warm PVC or latex off after a night constricted in the body-hugging material was one of Jade’s more pleasurable indulgences. The way the malleable, synthetic material lifted away from the skin beneath was exquisite. Shocked naked, every square inch of the skin felt the cold air racing over it, every nerve ending felt wired with sensation. It was one of the most delicious sensations she could imagine, and she wrestled with fantasies about sharing it with another, allowing someone else to peel back her synthetic skins and reveal what lay beneath. She had trod this path alone—a tourist silently observing, yet with her imagination running wild.
Jade headed toward the bar, a strip of smooth black onyx dividing the space between two dance floors. She leaned over it and gave her order to the barmaid, a woman with a crown of bleached hair and heavily kohl-lined eyes. The woman was dressed in a white sheath of a top, Lycra. It revealed her nipples, rock hard and aggressive on her lean chest. Jade turned away and drank her wine quickly. Her fingers traced the cool line of the marble bar and her eyes flickered over the scene in front of her. The place had an attitude of open appreciation about it, everyone eyeing each other and preening for the approbation of others. Jade put the empty glass on the bar and began to edge around the crowd. When she came on the ladies toilets, she entered and moved close to the mirror to check her makeup.
The bright light made her look paler than ever, so she reached into her bag for lipstick. Despite her dark hair, her skin and lashes were pale. Another lick of red strengthened her mouth. She unwound a tiny lid liner and began to outline her eyes. Her hands trembled slightly and the line escaped her control.
“Damn,” she breathed, and dropped the liner on the shelf in exasperation.
“Here, let me do it for you,” a voice behind her suggested. She turned and saw a woman with a shock of black hair standing some five feet away from her. She was watching Jade with a smile on her lips. Jade glanced at the scarlet dress that clung to her statuesque figure and remembered the flash of scarlet on the dance floor. It was heavy satin and pooled in all the right places—between her breasts, into the groin, around the thighs. Jade flushed when she realized the woman was smiling at her, as if aware of her wandering eyes. Was she being too obvious about looking? She glanced away. The woman sidled forward and picked up the lid liner.
“When I was a teenager, I used to do makeup for all my girlfriends. Now, lower your eyelids.” Jade complied, and her downcast eyes took in the red toenails that peeped from the toe of the woman’s low-slung black suede shoes. The black straps that bound her ankles emphasized the lines of her legs.
“They used to come to me, because I could do this really easily on others, but I could never get it right on myself.” Jade felt the smooth, damp line cross her right eye in a quick swoop. “Of course, the intervening years have improved my aim somewhat.” She drew a second line. “There you go.”
“Thanks,” Jade murmured. She looked admiringly at the woman. Her hair was thick and cropped into spiky layers around her
face. Her eyes were almost black and heavily fringed, her full, sensual mouth painted in a deep plum color.
“I’m Nadia,” she said. Then, with a knowing smile, she added, “You haven’t been to The Cave before, have you?”
“Jade,” she said, before adding meekly, “no, I haven’t.”
“I thought not. I’d remember you.”
Jade felt her cheeks heat. The woman had something very direct and playful about her. Nadia reached over to Jade’s upswept hair and pulled out a few strands to hang free, framing her face. The back of Nadia’s finger stroked Jade’s cheek. Jade shivered with delight, and Nadia smiled.
“Why don’t you come along with me, Jade? I know what lovelies you should talk to and whom you should ignore.” Nadia linked her arm through Jade’s and before Jade knew what had happened she found herself clinched against the lush, inviting woman, who then led her across the club with real purpose. The arm that held her was warm and silky-smooth. The satin dress moved as if it would slide off at any moment. Jade swallowed hard.
Nadia led her over to the bar and toward two men.
“Look what I just picked up in the ladies’,” Nadia said. Their heads turned in unison toward Jade. Jade noted the inference in Nadia’s comment. Had she been picked up? Well, she supposed she had. She felt herself blush, again, and looked at Nadia to avoid the curious stares of the men.
“This is Jade. Jade, meet my fellow creatures of the night. The bleach baby is Carl, the other is Sam.” Jade forced herself to follow Nadia’s arm as it languidly gestured toward the two men. Carl had long hair, bleached almost white. He wore tight black jeans and a flowing shirt that was tantalizingly unbuttoned, revealing the lean muscles of his chest and abdomen. He was incredibly handsome, with a sexual ambiguity that was fascinating. He smiled warmly, as if her joining them was the most natural thing in the world.
