D Is for Dress-Up

by Alison Tyler

  I move slowly, like a cat, stretching and clawing, staking my territory ever-so-slowly, not caring whether the rest of the bar is watching or not. Once my entrance has faded a bit, the crowd seems to go back to their beer and gossip and I can enjoy the deliciously hip irony: that nobody would want to be that interested in what I have to offer for too long, and lose points in the art of detachment. It doesn’t matter, anyway, because my eyes are only on Mark, who’s been my lover now for a third of my life but still manages to surprise me with his boyish charm. His eyes widen, the more I put my energy into seducing him. He’s probably wondering why someone like me has immediately decided to pounce on the middle-aged guy wearing faded black jeans and an even more faded heavy metal T-shirt, the band’s name eroded after so many years. I run the tip of my shiny boot against his scuffed, worn one, waiting for him to figure it out, giving him time to notice that “Dorothy” is a dream, a mirage, a fantasy—and one that can actually come true.

  “So, lover boy, come here often?” I ask, making my voice smooth and sultry, a touch huskier than normal. I know if I laugh I’ll give it away, and I’m having too much fun in my new outfit and role to do so just yet. I’ve worn the dress before, and it’s amazing how demure it can look with a proper pair of heels, pearls, and my hair pinned back— why, I could even be someone’s mom, a perfect PTA specimen, or attending a fancy brunch at Tavern on the Green with his family, which I’ve done. Without the wig, lipstick, and boots, it’s really a simple dress, but with all the rest, I’m more of a hooker, give or take the heart of gold. I smile my big smile at him, then run my tongue lightly over my smooth, even teeth, the same ones he’s been looking at for over a decade. I take a step forward, so I’m off the stool and between his legs, close enough to feel his erection.

  I start gently shaking my hips to the honky-tonk song I can almost make out in the back room, and he reaches for my arm to push me back. “Uh, ma’am,” he stammers, his supposed Southern gentility warring with the swelling cock I can see and feel so near me. “This just isn’t right, I’m sorry. If circumstances were different, believe me, I’d be whisking you out of here right now,” he says before it’s his turn to lick his lips.

  It’s been fun, but even Dorothy got to go home eventually. I lean forward and gently suck on his earlobe, then let my tongue take a guided tour along that tender cartilage and then inside, not caring about how red I might be making his ear—or his cheeks. “Oh, Mark,” I purr, “I think I like our circumstances exactly the way they are.”

  He pushes me back and stares again, this time with a combination of laughter, amazement, and a hint of awed admiration. “Emily?” he asks, then turns my shoulders around to see if the birthmark on my back is still there, up near my right shoulder, the one that almost looks like a heart if you squint at it. His fingers trace it, and I feel all the love and warmth he puts into that simple touch. His hands go to my hips, then lower, skimming my upper thighs. I know he wants to see if the tiny arrow is still on my ass, the one he dared me to get, the one that only he knows about. I push those hips back against him, so I can feel his cock for real—well, as real as I can between the layers. It’s still there, still hard, still just for me. I rub against him for a moment as he reacquaints himself with my body, pulling my head back against his shoulder.

  For a moment, I miss my long hair, miss the way it would have tumbled down his frame, spilling over as if it belonged there as my neck arches up, my eyes and lips raised toward the concert poster—plastered ceiling. Then, just like that, I rip off the wig and do let my own natural blonde curls shake loose, down his back, tossing some to the side so they strike his face. After a few more intimacies between my ass and his hardness, I spin forward and give him another blazing smile. “Recognize me now?” I ask, and then, before he has a chance to answer, I give my husband a deep kiss, my tongue slithering into his mouth, overtaking him as I hold him close. I stay there until I need a breath, then pull back, gasping for air, my panties totally soaked.

  “‘Dorothy,’ huh?” he says, coiling one of my tresses between his fingers. “I feel like such a fool for not recognizing you.”

  “Don’t, baby—I would’ve felt like a failure if you did. I wanted to see if I could still surprise you, if I could still make you catch your breath and want me like you used to.” At that, he grabs me, pulling me close for a deep, intense hug.

  “Em, I want you even more now, whether you look like a trashy, but sexy, whore, or whether you’re fresh out of the bathtub. You know that. And I would’ve figured it out eventually, you know.”

  “I know. But now let’s go home and finish what we just started.” I saunter out ahead of him, trying to ignore the stares that are directed our way again, now that we’re leaving. I’m not sure, but I think Mark might’ve gotten some very enthusiastic thumbs up from some of the other patrons, and I may have even heard a high five. I’m too busy clicking my way onto the street, thinking about just how I want to come—with Mark’s tongue inside me, then with his cock, then… who knows? The one thing I’ve learned after all these years with him is that anything can happen, and no matter what I call him, or myself, we’re soul mates through and through.

  Just then, his hand is back on my hip. I’m about to step into a cab, but he pulls me close. “A lady of the night like you shouldn’t be so quick to get into her bedroom, should she?” he asks. I wink at the driver, putting my hand behind me to feel him even harder than before, as I let him lead me into a shadowy corner, where I face the brick wall, raise my arms, and give my body over to my husband as he gives his to me. After eleven years, he can still make me come in moments, and I muffle my cries as we do it quick and dirty around the corner from where I’d almost tempted him to stray. “I love you,” is the last thing each of us says before coming, his hot lava spilling into me as I clutch him, silently spasming as my climax overtakes me, lasting longer than I would have expected, the rippling aftershocks making me grip him even tighter.

  I laugh when I realize I’ve forgotten the wig, after I dropped it on the ground in my haste to show off my natural locks. But it more than served its purpose. If I need another, for a different sexy disguise yet to come, well, I live in New York City—I know where to find one. I nuzzle against Mark until the air gets too chilly, and then collapse in his arms during our cab ride home.

  Happy Anniversary, indeed.

  FRenCH CuT

  DON’T WEAR LINGERIE,” YOU SAID when I saw you undressing for the first time. “It’s not that I have anything against frilly underthings. It’s just not something I do.”

  I nodded, wanting you naked. Not caring that your underwear is practical stuff: all-cotton jockeys, sports bras, the occasional pair of boxers. Since that initial night together, I’ve come to understand that you weren’t exaggerating. I’ve never seen lace gracing that beautiful, slim body of yours, never seen a Wonderbra caressing those firm breasts or a French-cut pair of panties on your pussy when we undressed for the evening or to make love. You show a distrust of anything girlie, really, but clothing is where your sexy androgyny shows itself the most. You sleep in my old, threadbare tie-dye T-shirts, long enough to reach mid-thigh on your slight frame, and I’m not even sure you know the meaning of the word stockings.

  It all makes sense, really. You’re a natural girl. No meat, just tofu, legumes, the rare slab of salmon. No alcohol, just a few puffs off a joint when you’re in the midst of your once-yearly party phase. No coffee, just herbal tea with, now and then, a dollop of honey when you’re feeling really naughty. No chocolate, just a sprinkling of carob chips mingling with nuts and berries in handfuls of savored trail mix. For you to wear lingerie would be as strange as a French whore downing a jug of Odwalla and a handful of chlorophyll and superfood tablets.

  Which is why it grabs me when I see the lacy white thong riding up above the waist of your hiking shorts. I can’t take my eyes off it as I hurry to keep up with you on the difficult trail. For the first few minutes, I want to tell you, want to sn
eak up behind you and whisper in your ear that I’ve noticed. But I remember your lecture, when we started hiking together, about wearing sensible underwear and cinching your belt tight enough that it doesn’t slip down over your hips. I know there’s a reason you’ve broken your own cardinal rules, and something tells me I’m going to find out.

  We’re close to the summit now, the isolated spot you’ve told me about where we can see the whole Golden Gate spread out below us like an Impressionist tableau. I follow behind you, my cock tingling in my pants, hinting at a hard-on that wants so badly to spring out into the open air as my eyes linger on the French lace of your thong.

  It happens, finally, when you stop and bend over to pick up a pinecone.

  “Look,” you say. “It’s perfect.” You’ve got a natural appreciation for pinecones—they’re the seeds of the evergreen, though normally the reproductive potency of this one wouldn’t have such an effect on me. Now, though, it causes my cock to grow hard in my shorts, so quickly and painfully that I have to shift legs and tug at my jockeys.

  Because, when you lean forward, I can see down your top—and can see the hint of lace deep in your cleavage, the low-cut bra embracing your gorgeous breasts.

  “Uncomfortable?” you ask, smiling, looking up at me, still bent over, cradling the phallic pinecone suggestively.

  “Not at all,” I say.

  “Too bad,” you tell me. You toss the pinecone off the trail and launch into a tawdry sprint, your hips swaying more than a hiking instructor would like.

  Breathing hard already, I jog after you.

  We reach the rocks sheened with sweat, your tank top so damp that when you slip off your backpack I can see the straps of the bra, tempting me even more. I follow you up the last bit of the trail, out onto the plateau of rocks and dirt sparsely covered with scrub.

  “Isn’t it gorgeous?” you ask, sweeping your hand over the breathtaking view of the bridge, the ocean, and the bay. You bend over and start rummaging through your backpack; the thong climbs high, your hiking shorts falling further so I can see the curve of your ass.

  “Gorgeous,” I say.

  You take out the blanket and spread it on the dry brown grass. You take out two plastic wine glasses, set the small insulated lunchbox on the edge of the blanket, and stretch out beautifully in the slanted morning sunlight.

  “It’s awfully hot,” you sigh. “Don’t you think it’s hot?”

  “Sizzling,” I say as I come toward you.

  “Only one way to cool down,” you tell me, and reach for the buckle of your belt.

  I stop in my tracks, watching as you unfasten your belt and slide your shorts down your smooth, tanned legs. The skimpy thong you’re wearing plunges so low I can see the top of your blonde hair, and there on the front of it, rimmed by lace, is a little pink heart.

  You kick off your running shoes, slide off your socks, and reach down to pull up the sweat-soaked tank top. When you pull it over your head, I see that the bra matches the thong, a girlie push-up that makes your slight breasts look two cup sizes larger. The cups are so low-cut that they almost reach your nipples, which have gotten quite hard and are sticking plainly through the transparent sprinkling of lace. On the cups themselves is a pair of pink hearts, flawlessly matching the one on your pussy.

  “I just love to undress out in nature,” you tell me, smiling as you see my eyes drinking in your lace-clad body. “Don’t you?”

  I take the hint, dropping my backpack and stripping off my sweaty T-shirt, then kicking off my shoes and pulling down my hiking shorts and underwear as one. Your eyes linger over my erect cock, pointing toward you and slightly inclined like a come-hither finger begging you to come to me.

  But I’m the one coming to you, I know. You lie down on the blanket, stretching deliciously out and turning from side to side so I can see both the infinitesimal string slid between your buttocks and the tiny patch of heart-adorned lace that covers your pussy. You smile flirtatiously.

  “I went shopping yesterday while you were napping,” you say. “I don’t know what came over me.”

  I join you on the blanket, pressing my lips to yours and feeling your tongue surge into my mouth. My hand finds your nipples, feeling them harden still more under my touch, and the feel of them poking through the girlish lace excites me even more than I expect. Your fingers curve around my hard cock and you smile when our lips part.

  “I’m hungry,” you whisper. “Are you hungry?”

  “Starving,” I growl.

  “Good,” you tell me, and roll over, away from me. I reach out to touch your ass, fascinated by the unfamiliar way the lace thong looks against your tan.

  You unzip the lunchbox and take out a small plastic baggie, frosted with condensation. You roll against me, pushing me onto my back and climbing atop me.

  “Say ‘aaaaaah,’” you tell me. “And close your eyes.”

  I do it, opening my mouth. The cold morsel I feel between my teeth shocks me. When I bite, I taste the mingling of forbidden dark chocolate with the taste of strawberries.

  “Oh, wow,” I mumble, my mouth full.

  “Shhhhh,” you say. “Just taste. Keep your eyes closed.”

  I savor the taste of it, ripe and rich and invigorating. I hear you chewing, and when you kiss me, your lips taste of chocolate and strawberry. “Keep them closed!” you laugh.

  I feel you shifting on top of me, reaching out to the lunchbox. You place a chilled orb in my mouth and when I bite down I feel the sugared juice of a cherry overwhelming me. You kiss me, hard, your tongue slipping in and lapping at the syrupy confection.

  “One last time,” you say. “Sit up a little. Keep your eyes closed.”

  I hear the twist of a screw-top, the faint glug of liquid. You place the rim of the plastic glass in my mouth and your hand on the back of my head, telling me when to tip. Red wine floods my mouth, and I feel it dribble warm onto my chest even as I recognize the aromatic flavor— merlot.

  “Messy, messy,” you say, bending down to lick the droplets of wine off my chest. Your tongue remains against my skin as you lick up to my throat, then kiss me, your mouth tasting of sweet chocolate, fruit, and wine. You take a drink yourself and curl up on top of me, the soft lace of your bra caressing my face as it darkens from the droplets of red wine still slicking my lips.

  “I would have brought a cigar,” you tell me. “But that would have been going too far.”

  I’m overwhelmed. I have to have you. My mouth finds your nipple through the lace and I bite gently, suckling it into my mouth. You gasp softly as my tongue deftly pushes the lace down so I can get to the smoothness of your erect bud. Then you’re moaning, as my hands cup your ass and gently tug the lacy crotch of your thong out of the way.

  “If I’d known chocolate and wine would have this kind of effect on you,” you sigh as I guide you onto my cock, “I would have done this months ago.”

  Then you’re not speaking, you’re moaning, as I feel the head of my cock parting your lips, feel you sliding down onto me, hungry with need, my shaft filling your cunt as my mouth teases your nipple. The lace against my cheeks feels strange, erotic—but that’s not the reason I want you, nor is it the chocolate or the wine that’s intoxicated me. It’s the feel of your cunt around my shaft, the desperation with which you slide my cock deep into you.

  When I grasp your buttocks and roll you over onto your back, the wine goes flying and spreads a dark stain across the blanket. Neither of us pauses, even as the bottle tips and a stream of merlot begins to pool under you. I slide into you deeper, your legs going easily up onto my shoulders as I pick up the bottle and empty it over your breasts.

  “My new bra!” you breathe, only able to speak in mock despair for the faintest instant before my cock reaches its deepest point inside you and you thrust up against me, your lips open wide. I lick scarlet wine from your breasts as you clutch me tight, your hands running through my hair, your body meeting mine with each hungry thrust. By the time you’re ready t
o come, I’ve reached out and snatched another chocolate from the baggie.

  “Open your mouth and say ‘aah,’” I tell you, and my thumb teases open your lips just far enough to slip the treasured chocolate cream onto your tongue. You take the whole thing in one bite, your eyes closed, savoring the sensations. I’ll never know if you actually come at the very moment you taste the chocolate, because you’re one of those girls who comes so hard and so long that isolating your moment of pleasure is next to impossible. But the twist of your body and the arch of your back tells me that it’s close enough for lovers. I fuck you harder as you chew the cream and swallow, your moan rich and thick around the textured confection.

  Then I shut my eyes tight, on the brink of orgasm, and I should expect it—but I don’t.

  Somehow, without missing a beat, without lessening your own pleasure, you’ve managed to reach out and snatch a lemon crème from the baggie, even as it opens and the chocolates scatter across your belly. Your fingers pop the crème into my mouth and its taste fills me at the instant I come, orgasm and sweetness blending in a flash as I thrust deep into you, feeling myself clench far inside your body. When I sense your legs descending from my shoulders, your thighs caressing my sides, I settle on top of you and feel the squish of chocolates between us, coating your skin and mine in the melted ooze of indulgence.

  I lick the chocolate from your breasts, feeling only a tinge of sadness as I look at your ruined bra. You unhook it and squirm out of the bra, then reach down and slide off the thong, looking distastefully at it as I see that the chocolates and wine have run down, staining the pink heart with our jealously guarded vices.