by Alison Tyler
“Sweat and paint,” I said, an echo of the day before.
She smiled. “I think there’s a certain...anticipation there, as well, today. Do you think anticipation has a smell?”
Considering how horny I’d been all day, it wouldn’t surprise me at all, but I kept quiet.
She took my hand, kissed it, then spun me around and told me how beautiful I was. When she led me toward the huge bed, I followed as if in a dream. I found myself sitting amid a pile of expensive pillows, feeling naïve, innocent, and excited—all at once.
Standing at the edge of the bed, Isabel peeled off the T-shirt she’d taken from me. She wasn’t wearing a bra, and her nipples were very dark. I watched, in awe, as she pulled down the shorts.
Underneath she was wearing smooth cotton boy-shorts, a mediumblue color. They hugged her hips and didn’t quite cover the bottom of her ass. I stared.
She moved onto the bed and began kissing me with confidence, pushing me back. Before I knew it I was on my back, her lips on my neck and her hands caressing the skin above my stockings, moving higher and higher up my thighs. In a daze, I opened my legs for her and sighed as she lifted the dress and slid between them.
She took my face in her hands and stared into my eyes, whispering how beautiful I looked, how sexy I was. I melted completely, surrendering, opening my legs even farther. She moved into a high missionary position, her pubic bone pressing against my clit. Kissing me slowly, she began to move her hips.
We both groaned with the sensation. The material of the thong was perfect, allowing her to slide against me with almost no friction. I felt soaked, my lips engorged, my clit burning. She clutched my shoulders and moved faster, her tongue in my ear, her voice whispering.
“Come with me now,” she demanded. “Don’t wait, I need you now, come with me...” Her voice became guttural and her hips went wild. I clutched her ass, pulled her against me, and came fast and hard, yelling unashamedly throughout. Isabel spasmed against me and then collapsed, both of us gasping for air.
After a while, she slid sideways and propped her head up with her elbow. “I don’t know about you, but that’s how I wanted my high school prom night to finish,” she said.
I sighed. “This was definitely a whole lot better than mine.” I looked into her eyes. “But I’ll bet we’ve reversed roles.”
She smiled. “I wore that dress.”
I nodded. “My date decided she wasn’t really a lesbian after all— right after we got home and started making out.”
“Ouch. Well, Chad—swear to God, his name was Chad!—thinks he came before he’d stuck himself halfway in.”
I smiled. “Sex gets better, doesn’t it?”
She didn’t answer, but got up onto her knees beside me. “God, you’re lovely,” she said, looking down.
“I feel like a disheveled princess now,” I said. The dress was up around my waist. The corset was still too tight, one of my breasts nearly
spilling out the top. And the thong was soaked.
She growled a bit, lifting my leg and sliding one of hers between mine. Kneeling above me, she looked stunning, powerful, dominant. Her nipples grew as I watched.
“Can you loosen the corset,” I begged.
She pushed my upper body over sideways, but kept my leg pinned between hers. Although my face was mashed into the bedding, I took a deep, grateful breath as I felt the corset slacken off.
Grabbing my arm, she rolled me back. She yanked down the top of the dress, freeing my breasts, and then began to thumb my nipples. I felt my legs opening again. Pinching now, kneeling over me, our legs scissored together, she began to grind, slowly but powerfully.
“This will be a bit rougher,” she said, her voice low and primal. Pinned to the bed below her, I wasn’t in a position to argue, even if I’d wanted to. A good prom date should last the night. After all, you want to get the most out of those clothes.
PResenTIng PauLeTTe
DRESSED HER UP LIKE A DOLL. That’s what he had done.
It wasn’t that Paulette didn’t like it when Warren bought her things—in fact, she loved it. Warren had good taste, for the most part. The wine glasses he had given her for a housewarming gift— those were nice. That naughty latex lingerie he surprised her with on Valentine’s Day: he had practically read her mind.
But this…Paulette just didn’t know what Warren was thinking. She was going to tell him no, to take it back, that she didn’t give a damn what his reasons were, he could take it all and shove it up his ass. But she didn’t. She couldn’t.
It had nothing to do with manners. Paulette would return a gift quicker than you could blink, but this was different. This came from Warren, who had a way of convincing her of things, of making her see things differently even when her mind was already made up.
Simply put, it was the sex. Nothing else.
The sex, it made her foolish. Warren could fuck her into jumping out of a plane if he wanted. Indeed, he had fucked her into wearing this ridiculous outfit.
It was only a few weeks ago that Warren had come over, bags in hand, goofy grin on his face. He had pulled the top out of the bag first, then kissed her quickly on the neck before she could get a good look at it. He held up the skirt next, then slipped his tongue in her ear while she tried to explain to him that it was just too damned long for her taste.
Now she sat behind the wheel of her Mustang, twitching in her seat because the fuzz from the sweater made her itch. She didn’t know what made him think she would look attractive in the thing, anyway. It covered up all the good stuff and made her chest look flat. His mother would like it better, he had told her.
Maybe his mother didn’t have breasts.
The hem of the heavy corduroy skirt kept getting caught around the clutch, and Paulette had to hike it up around her thighs to shift gears. The skirt, she had argued, did nothing for her figure. It was so long and heavy that you couldn’t tell there was anything underneath, but Warren said his father always complimented women who wore pants and long skirts.
Maybe his father had never seen a pair of legs.
Paulette struggled to downshift when she approached a red light. She was used to driving in heels, but Warren had picked a pair of plain brown flats. He had snuck those in, just like he did the rest of the outfit.
Paulette didn’t even wear flats; Warren knew that. She didn’t like them and they didn’t look good on her.
In fact, none of it looked good on her. Not one piece. The whole outfit was plain, drab.
It was neutral, and Paulette was anything but neutral. Paulette was emerald and purple and cobalt-blue. Neutral was safe. Neutral was boring and predictable.
She shifted into first gear and pulled away when the light turned green. She shook her head. She thought Warren knew her better.
Paulette reached up and patted her hair, glanced at the short, slick pageboy in the rearview mirror. Warren had picked the style out of a magazine. She ran her fingers through it. It wouldn’t be long before the little waves began to reappear. Her hair didn’t even know how to be straight.
It was only three hours out of her life, Warren had assured her, and that was fine. But what about after today? What about when his parents decided to visit him in New York and she was there? What if they saw that she liked her skirts short, her shirts tight, and her hair wild?
Of course, Paulette knew how men were about their parents. She knew that this was big and she should be appreciative, not sweating over something so simple as an outfit. Hell, Warren had waited until they had dated nearly nine months before he even considered introducing her to them. She, by contrast, had invited him to dinner with her and her mother after only three weeks.
Paulette glanced at the index card with the directions jotted on it and turned down the suburban street. Her yellow Mustang looked out of place in a neighborhood full of luxury cars and expensive SUVs. Still, she guided it into the empty space next to Warren’s BMW.
Paulette stepped out of her car. She strai
ghtened her skirt and brushed at her sweater. Not that it did her any good. Not that it made the ensemble any less plain.
She reached up and smoothed her hair one final time and knocked.
Warren opened the door. He gave Paulette a once-over and smiled, seemingly relieved. Did he think she was going to change her mind at the last minute, show up in an outfit of her own choosing just to spite him?
His attire was equally plain. He wore chocolate-brown slacks and a pale-yellow shirt. His hair was cut low. He had trimmed his beard and mustache and taken out his earring.
Paulette saw a short, shapely figure approach him from behind.
Warren turned and guided the woman forward so that she stood beside him in the doorway.
“Mom, this is Paulette,” he said and gestured with his hands as if he was presenting a prize.
He was absolutely grinning. Looked like a goddamn cheetah.
The woman nodded, extended her hand, and gently shook Paulette’s. “It’s nice to finally meet you,” she said.
Mrs. Vaughn was just as Paulette had imagined her. She stood there, well put together in a soft-pink blouse and pleated gray slacks. Her hair was pulled back into a tight bun. Her makeup was soft and minimal.
Warren’s father came down the stairs and stepped slightly in front of his wife. He was tall, had a full-beard and mustache that was peppered with gray. He greeted her with a firm handshake and smile.
Paulette stepped inside and Mrs. Vaughn reached for her coat and hung it on the rack. She wished she could keep it on, keep the sash pulled tightly around her waist so that they wouldn’t have to see the hideousness that lay beneath.
Paulette simply nodded when the Vaughns offered her a tour of the house, and as she followed them from room to room, she silently prayed that she wouldn’t trip over the train of corduroy that wrapped around her legs.
Paulette wasn’t sure why the size of the house surprised her. Warren’s parents were well off, she knew that. Still, she felt overwhelmed sitting with them in their grand dining room. She felt out of place, like a pig in a museum or something.
The four of them ate their dinner in silence but for the occasional clinking of ice against glass and fork against plate. Paulette felt she should say something—compliment Mrs. Vaughn on the meal, praise the centerpiece or the china service—but she kept her mouth full and her smile plastered on.
She thought it best if she didn’t say much, if she just grinned and chewed silently instead of leaning over and asking Warren how it felt sitting next to a complete stranger at his family’s dinner table.
Warren glanced at her now and then, reached over and placed his hand on hers when she was fidgeting. He touched her knee when she was shaking her legs too much.
The first interrogation came from Mrs. Vaughn. “So, Paulette, Warren tells me you work in retail?” She set down her fork and folded her hands on the table.
Paulette glanced at Warren, who avoided her eyes. “Yes, ma’am, I manage a fabric store in the city.”
Mrs. Vaughn nodded. “Have you lived in New York all your life, or did you just come here for school?’’
Paulette forced the mouthful of salad down. “I grew up in Brooklyn,” she said. “I left there when I was seventeen. I started working at the store then.”
“So, you didn’t attend college?” Mr. Vaughn interjected, leaning forward, his head cocked.
“I’m in school now, taking night courses. I’m working to become a designer.” As soon as she said it, Paulette realized that it sounded more like an explanation than a general addition to the conversation.
Warren finally chimed in. “Paulette’s quite talented. Almost everything she wears, she makes.”
Mrs. Vaughn sat back in her chair, her eyebrows arched. She scanned Paulette’s outfit, which made Paulette shift uncomfortably in her seat.
“Warren picked this out, though,” Paulette said.
Mrs. Vaughn turned to her husband. “Charles, didn’t I used to own something like this?” she asked.
“I believe so,” he said, “I believe you had it in lavender, or blue or something.”
And it was then, just after the fish course and before the dessert, that Paulette thought she would be sick. The sleeves of the sweater were suddenly tight on her arms. The waist of the skirt was making it hard for her to breathe.
Paulette pushed her chair back and dropped her napkin on the table.
“Excuse me, Mr. Vaughn...Mrs. Vaughn,” she said and slipped through the nearest cracked door, hoping that on the other side of it was a toilet.
Relieved, Paulette sat down on the covered lid and looked around. The sherbet-orange color on the bathroom wall was nauseating. She placed her face in her hands and forced herself to breathe. In. Out. In. Out.
It sure was hard work performing for Warren’s parents.
Paulette didn’t understand. If Warren had wanted prim and proper, someone who would wear an outfit like this, and fit in perfectly with his family, he could have had that. But he had chosen her, had walked into her store that afternoon and taken her just as she was.
Paulette was a lot of things, but one thing was for certain—she wasn’t a fake.
She was thinking of going back out and telling his parents she didn’t feel well and she would be heading back to the city early, when the bathroom door creaked open and Warren came in.
He pushed the door closed behind him. “I just wanted to come in and check on you, make sure you hadn’t climbed out the window or something,” he said, smiling.
He shoved his hands in his pockets, rocked back on the heels of his shoes.
“Five more minutes of this charade and I will,” Paulette said.
She unconsciously ran her fingers through her hair, then hurriedly smoothed it down again when she realized that she was probably messing it up.
“Is it that bad?” Warren looked down at his feet when he asked.
Paulette folded her arms across her chest. “Yes, Warren, it’s that bad.”
He looked at his watch. “Well, an hour or two more and we can both head out.”
“I don’t think I’ve got even another second in me.”
Warren crouched down next to her and placed a hand on her back. “They like you a lot, Paulette. They really do.”
Paulette rolled her eyes. “Oh? Well, that’s interesting, seeing as how they haven’t even met me.”
“You did great out there. That was you out there at that dinner table winning my parents over. That was Paulette.”
She pulled at her sweater. “Nothing about this is Paulette. I mean, can you honestly tell me that you find me attractive in this?”
Warren cocked his head. “You’re not wearing it for me.”
“I’m sure as hell not wearing it for me.”
Warren threw his hands up in surrender. “Fine, Paulette. You want to take the clothes off, go ahead. Take them off.”
Paulette shrugged Warren’s hands off her. “Asshole. If I had a change of clothes, I would.”
Warren stood up, reached back, and turned the lock on the door. “Who needs a change of clothes?”
“Well, do you think I’m gonna walk out there naked? Or maybe have dessert with your parents in my bra and panties?” Paulette leaned forward on the toilet seat, propping her elbows on her knees.
“That’s not what I’m saying.” Warren’s voice had become deep, his words came out slowly. “Take it off.”
He moved closer, was so close to her now that Paulette could feel the heat from his body. She stood up, somehow thinking that being on her feet would give her more control.
Warren continued toward her and backed her up against the sink. Her ass rested against the cool porcelain.
“Here? You’re honestly telling me you want to fuck me right here in your parents’ bathroom, Warren?”
Warren’s expression was unchanged. “I believe I am.” Then he licked his lips. Ran his fingers lightly across her neck. Leaned down, pushed her sweater aside, and sucke
d on her shoulder.
And just like that, her skirt came off. The sweater followed. The awful flats dangled off her feet and fell to the floor. Paulette reached for the clasp on her bra, but Warren stopped her.
“No, stay like that,” he said, “just like that. Yeah. That’s my Paulette.”
Warren squeezed her breasts through the satin of her bra. He slipped his fingers beneath the crotch of her panties. He kept his shirt and jacket on, his trousers up. He unzipped his fly and his cock sprang free.
He lifted Paulette by her waist and put her on the sink. His hands on her hips, he urged her forward.
Paulette wrapped her legs around his waist. She pulled and held him close.
Warren fucked her in short, quick thrusts, plunging deep now and then. She dug her nails into his cinnamon skin. She gently bit his neck and licked his earlobes.
It took Warren five minutes flat to get her off, two more to get there himself.
He was panting by the time he was done, his breath coming fast and heavy. He straightened his clothes and washed his hands.
“I’ll go back out first,” he said. “You clean up and join us in a few.”
Warren slipped his tongue into her mouth. He brushed his hand across her wet cunt before he walked out.
Paulette bent down to pick up her clothes. The skirt and sweater were heavy in her hands. She brushed away the wrinkles, picked off the stray lint.
She held the clothes against her half-naked frame, looked at herself in the bathroom mirror.
No. This wasn’t her at all, and it would be a lie to put it back on.
Something had to be done.
Paulette began opening and shutting drawers in the Vaughns’ bathroom until she found what she was looking for. From the third drawer, she retrieved a pair of scissors.
She fixed the sweater first, cutting off the sleeves at the shoulders. She cut a plunging V at the neck.
The skirt was next. She cut away what seemed like yards of fabric until what was left was a corduroy mini with a jagged hem.
Paulette put the clothes back on, pleased with the way they fit her now. The outfit suited her. The shoes, though—nothing could be done about those, so she left them where they were.
