Sometimes truth is better than fiction. Enjoy.
The Skandalous Bytch

The Dress

	I'm staunchly opposed to dresses. Not dresses on other women,
mind you. A dress can be beautiful, it can be sexy, it can be
sophisticated and classy. It can be raunchy and slutty. It all
depends on the woman wearing the dress.
	I've avoided dresses for as much of my life as I can remember.
Maybe it stems from being forced to wear pink and white frills
with matching hat and shoes as a child. Maybe it stems from my
rebellious nature, and my hesitance to draw attention to myself.
Maybe it stems from poor body image and (dare I blame the media?)
the focus on being slender and bony, heroin-chic masked by
magazine articles that ask "Is she TOO thin?"
	I am not thin, I am not by any means model material. However I
am also not entirely nondescript. Depending on who you ask, my
most "well-pronounced" features could be my tits or my ass. Great
if you're into being howled at stopping at the gas station, or if
you enjoy attempting to squeeze past the creepy guy who just
refuses to move out of the way in the grocery store. My life
might be alot easier if I got off on that. Not to say the
compliments aren't somewhat appreciated, and God knows I'll smile
and nod, say "Hey, baby, how's it going?" But I'll keep walking,
get in my car, and drive off with a wave, knowing that I've
controlled the situation without being rude but without ever
giving them a hint that I might be interested in more than quick
bullshit.
	As a result of whatever the stimulus behind my refusal to
conform to the ideal of how a woman dresses, I wear almost solely
jeans and generally an effectively tasteful yet low-cut shirt
that allows me to catch the moment a man's eyes drift,
unconsciously, knowing that it has nothing to do with me but
everything to do with a general obsession with breasts. As for my
ass, I've given up any hope of doing anything with that. I have a
true "ghetto booty," an ass you could bounce a Buick off of.
Better to keep it, and my legs, well hidden under a thick pair of
denims than to reveal the tragedy.
	So when he told me how beautiful and sexy and "sensual" he
thought I was, it sounded like talking shit. I heard, "I want to
fuck you, and if I have stretch the truth to do it I will." I
know that isn't why he says it. I know that, at least to him, I
AM that beautiful, and I AM that sexy, and I CAN be that sensual,
if the right person is around to bring it out.
	And when he told me he wanted to see me in a dress, thought I
would look "amazing," I was heartbroken. I thought, "He's seen
lots of women, probably stunning and 'perfect 10s.' He's
definitely turned down way sexier women than me. And now he's
going to ask me to humiliate myself, to face one of my biggest
fears: rejection."
	So when I found myself looking at dresses I felt foolish. I felt
truly ridiculous and even a little angry at myself. Who was he to
try and change my perception? Why was I even entertaining the
thought when I knew it would end in nothing but catastrophe and
gut-wrenching rejection? But I looked. The first time I even
tried a few on. Too loose in the front, too tight in the back.
Too baggy and tent-ish. Too frilly. Too DRESS.
	The second time I was determined. I'm not a shop-til-you-drop
girl. But I was NOT leaving until I had at least an idea of what
I was looking for. I went to three different department stores,
and my heart sunk as I saw that the only dresses they carried in
my size looked like something you'd see on an old woman in a
church: bright green or orange with the complete jacket to match.
Maybe if I got a hat with big flowers and a wide enough brim it
would conceal my shame.
	I had one last bastion of hope. As mentioned, I didn't wear
dresses, even in high school, but I had found my prom dress (yes,
I said "prom", which I went to solely because my parents didn't
expect me home afterward so I had a full night of underage hotel
room fucking to look forward to) at one store, and maybe, just
maybe, they would have something that wasn't too humiliating.
	I tried on six or seven dresses, pretty much all black or black
and white. Black's a slimming color. The first one I actually
considered was very gothic lolita, cream underneath with gauzy
black lace over the top in swirls, with full sheer black over the
skirt portion and a wide band of swirly lace at the bottom hem.
It was sleeveless, cinched in just the right places to accentuate
hy hips, and cut low enough that I was definitely rocking a
tasteful amount of cleavage. But it was impractical, nothing I
could ever wear to work or out to dinner, only possibly to a high
school dance, and unfortunately they don't have high school
dances for 27-year-olds.
	The second possibility was more practical. Tasteful enough for
an interview or a funeral, still sleeveless and black, but long
enough to cover my tragic thighs and not so tight that it showed
my stomach too much. White underneath, with a black sheer slip
over the top that was still swirly and wouldn't require any
additional bra purchases. I hate bra shopping. Nothing fits quite
right, they either push up too much and squeeze in too far or
have straps that are too wide, built for comfort, not for
sensuality. At least that's how it works when you hit a 42D.
	I tried on both dresses a dozen times, judging goth and a little
slutty against practical and simple. In the end, shaking my head
at my own stupidity, I chose the practical dress. Even if he
hated it, if he said "You're right. You look pretty messy in a
dress," I would at least have something in a bind. You never know
when your friends are going to take the final great Ambien and
you have to write the eulogy. At least MY friends...
	As soon as I walked out of the store, dress in hand, or in bag
as it were, I decided I would be immediately returning it. How
could I have been so foolish as to think this would be a good
plan? Somewhere in my mind was the John Hughes scene with the
dorky girl coming down the stairs in the beautiful gown and the
speechless boyfriend, the father with a tear in his eye. And my
more focused and realistic mind saw her tripping on the stair and
tumbling to her death, or at least to 6 months in a body cast
with a lingering limp. In that moment I decided the ONLY way this
would work was with the right shoes. Something that would be flat
and black, more like ballet slippers than pumps. Something safe.
	I went directly to the shoe store, found two pairs of flat black
shoes, no heels or straps to fight with. And immediately hated
them both. Too clunky. Too everyday. Too boring. Ahh well, I
tried. But just for shits and giggles, just for the sheer
silliness, I found a pair of 4 inch heels, open-toed, with a
stable, wide base and, dear God, thin straps around the ankles. I
chastised myself for my stupidity as I tried them on, stood and
wobbled for a moment before walking perilously to a mirror. There
was a time, years ago, when I would actually wear boots with
heels. More platform than stiletto, but something with a heel
nonetheless. It wasn't a totally foreign feeling to be forced
onto my toes, a little off-balance and unsure, but admittedly I
felt a little sexier, a little more confident. Once I looked in
the mirror that feeling was confirmed through and through. No
matter how terrible I looked in the dress, he was going to LOVE
the shoes. Stripper-esque with class to spare.
	I paid for my newfound confidence and left thinking I would ask
him if I could come over tonight, formulated a plan to tell him
to come outside, that I had a surprise for him. We'd talked about
the whole thing for over a month, him saying he was taking me
shopping, me saying we'd see. As it turns out it was not the
right night. I couldn't even muster the courage to tell him I'd
bought "the dress". I still wasn't sure if I was keeping it,
though I was DEFINITELY keeping the shoes. It was an attempt at
safety. It was my secret, and I could choose to never even
mention it, to return the dress and maintain what little dignity
I had.
	I kept my little secret for a few days, telling myself
simultaneously to tell him and not tell him. To guard my dignity
and to lay it on the line, let him do with it what he would. I'm
not sure how I finally decided to break the news. Probably
involved liquid and smokeable courage, the combination that
finally lets me get rid of that pesky little voice that says
"you're an idiot for even thinking about this."
	I expected him to say "I'll be interested to see it," or "I'm
sure it looks fine." Placating and mildly insulting. Of course,
he wanted to see it. As soon as was absolutely possible. Oh Lord,
I'm in deep shit now. If I really look as bad as I think he'll be
disappointed and I'll be crushed. It will officially be the end
of my dress searching.
	I wasn't totally prepared the day we ventured out of his place
for some errands and I wasn't nearly awake enough to stop myself
when I said "We could always stop by the apartment and I could
show you the dress." It fell out of my mouth before I could stop
it, and I prayed for a moment that he hadn't heard it. I wanted
him to say "Maybe later," expected that he would want context and
a purpose behind seeing it, dinner and candles, mood and
ambiance. He didn't flinch. He simply said "Let's do it," and as
we ran our few errands of the day, the errands that were ticking
away the moments before my humiliation, I silently prayed he'd
forget.
	However, as with every moment we dread, the time did arrive that
we walked up the stairs to my apartment, which I currently share
with two roommates, a couple in the loosest sense of the word.
Both were out working, but one I knew would be back soon. My
rational brain wanted to wait until my roommate was there,
someone to give me an out and divert attention from me. He talks
alot. My less-rational and more female brain took over however.
The truth would be in the eyes of the man I was giving this final
part of me to. I had nothing else to give but my fear, my
self-respect. I had no other way to submit that I hadn't already
in my mind. That's another story for another time.
	I avoided for a moment, sat with him and had a cigarette. I know
he knew me well enough to know I was delaying the inevitable.
That I was savoring my last moments of dignity and safety. But
with the end of my cigarette came the snapping of my safety
harness. I wasn't wearing makeup, and truly if I'm going to do
something I AM going to do it right. He laid on my futon and
watched patiently as I put on makeup, brushed my hair, and sighed
dramatically at every possible chance. Finally I was done. There
were no more excuses, no more diversion tactics in my arsenal.
Well, there may have been a few, but he would have seen straight
through them and if there is one thing I can say about the man
who holds my fragile being in his hands, he does NOT tolerate my
bullshit. If I had dropped to my knees right at that moment and
reached for his cock, the one way I had left to distract him, he
would have lovingly and sternly denied me. Told me he thought I
was beautiful and demanded that I get my "sweet ass" up and put
on the damn dress already. My last chance at controlling the
tragedy to come. I made MY choice to get up and walk into the
bedroom, and finally face my dilemma head on.
	At this point I'll have to provide a short description of my
living situation. I live in a one-bedroom apartment. Reference
earlier comment about two roommates. The bedroom is not mine. My
futon is in the living room, the first room you enter when you
walk in the french doors at the front of the apartment. I have no
privacy, don't really need any. We have a standing rule that
fucking does not have to take place with no one else in the
apartment, just with a head's up that one may not want to enter a
particular room before getting an "all clear". Or they may. Just
be prepared for what you'll be walking into.
	I went into their bedroom, where I had stashed the dress and
shoes, half-expecting to never use either. I'm not much for fuss
and muss in getting dressed for anything. I was undressed and
"dressed" in minutes, though admittedly the shoes took longer to
put on than the dress. Had to be just right. I still wore my
panties, black lace, a last-ditch effort at decency in what I
felt was a very indecent situation. After a relatively quick
thrice-over in the full-length mirror, a quick check that my ass
did not indeed look like a sack of smushed jello, I opened the
door and made some now-forgotten comment about preparing him for
the tragedy.
	I walked the two steps from the bedroom to the living room, and
the look on his face made my head swim and my heart flutter. Any
fear I had of looking a flat mess, of being embarrassed and hurt
and rejected was gone. I was the only woman in the world. I was
the most beautiful being that ever existed. I was heaven and
earth and torture and redemption personified. Yes, true to my
love story fantasy, his jaw had dropped open, but his eyes were,
as they always are, everything. I could see his breath catch, I
could see every appraising glimpse, and as self-conscious as I
was, I was hypnotized by it. I walked to him, needing to be sure
he was really there, needing to know he was solid, I wasn't
dreaming this, and he touched me for a moment before telling me
to step back, that I was to "model" for him. Feeling still
beautiful and confident, but mildly foolish, I walked away from
him, being sure not to even attempt grace lest I fall flat on my
ass and make my worst nightmare come true. I turned once and
walked back, not stumbling, God no. I AM at least wise enough to
fake confidence when necessary.
	He stood, stepping close and reaching for me, his hands moving
over my arms, my sides, my hips, my ass. He told me I looked even
more awesome than he had imagined I would. And I knew he was
telling the truth. I had managed to pull off something I never
even knew I was capable of. I had floored the man who floors me
every day. I fell in love with him again, not for the first time,
certainly not for the last. But in that moment I was his world,
and I didn't need him to say that for me to know it. It was, as
it always is, in the way he touched me, the way his eyes drowned
me with no hope of ever breathing again. And I welcomed the
drowning, as I always do.
	From the second his eyes had captured mine, I had felt the now
very familiar ache in my most hidden areas, the slow heat and
humidity of a lust that has only ever been brought forth with
him, the torrent of anticipation and want and absolutely
nonsensical NEED to be whatever he wanted right at that moment.
	He told me to turn around, to move close to the wall and lean
against it. I knew what he would do, sort of. I expected him to
raise my dress to my hips, which he did, muttering "Let's see how
fast I can do this..." What I didn't necessarily expect was to
feel his already-hard cock pushing against my ass, separated by
millimeters of lace panties and khakis. It wasn't enough to just
make sure the heels would be the right height for a good standing
fuck, not with him. He stayed there for a moment, then moved
quickly away and back, fucking me without penetration, fucking my
mind before he even touched my pussy.
	I'm not really sure what happened in the next three or four
minutes. I know I called my roommate, who I expected to be back
any second, to let him know we were going to be borrowing the
bedroom for a moment. I was fairly sure there would be no bed
involved, we've never necessarily needed one in the past, but I
had no clue what he wanted, what was in his mind. It didn't
matter.
	While I was on the phone he DID check to see if the door handle
locked, which I had mentioned I wasn't sure of. It wasn't really
necessary. Even if there hadn't been a door at all nothing else
mattered except feeling him taking me over, being his beautiful
tragedy.
	I walked into the bedroom, and in moments his mouth was covering
mine, not kissing but devouring. Not loving, not sweet and tender
and seductive, but owning and claiming and demanding. His hands
were on my breasts, through the dress, and then one was still
there but the other was twisted in my hair. Not caressing, but
gripping and pulling my head and my mouth exactly where he wanted
it. holding my mouth under his, crushing against me and somehow
managing to unbuckle his belt and drop his pants at the same
time. Through the thin fabric of my truly unnecessary dress I
could feel his dick pushing against me, harder than recent
memory, standing perfectly horizontal and pressing into my belly.

	No time for tenderness, no time for foreplay. But he is
considerate, and I felt his free hand pushing against my panties,
feeling my already well-dampened slit forcefully, not teasing but
targeting exactly what he wanted: my ego and fear and submission
held in the secretive folds of my pussy. He found what he wanted
immediately, and pulsed his strong fingers against me so
insistently and with such intensity that I came hard in moments,
waves of surrender that make me shiver even as I write this. The
hand that was in my hair was gripping harder, almost blissfully
painfully, pushing me down to my knees in front of him. From the
outside it probably looks like it was totally about what he
wanted right at that moment. But he and I both know it was about
what I wanted. To be a conduit for his pleasure, a goddess who
worships on her knees at the feet of her worshipper. My lips were
on his cock, he was buried deep in my mouth and still his fingers
were grasped tightly in my hair. I wasn't sucking him so much as
he was fucking my mouth, pulling and pushing my head at the speed
and furiosity that he chose, something I had fantasized about for
months but never expected to happen. Some people can be so
self-conscious in those moments, "Is this okay?" "Am I hurting
her?" I like being used, in the right context, opening completely
that part of me that is nothing more than mouth and throat and
cunt and clit and ass until I don't remember that I really am
anything other than that. Until I don't care if I am more, I am
exactly what I WANT to be.
	He fucked my mouth for a small eternity, or maybe more likely I
had just lost track of how many thrusts, how many groans and
sighs and sharp, slow intakes of breath I'd absorbed. I was in a
place that is past heaven, is past lust and desire. I simply WAS.
It was, in all honesty, the first moment in my life I would truly
call "Zen." The first moment that nothing mattered other than the
feeling of him forcing himself deep into my throat, cutting off
my breathing. I died and was reborn on my knees. How appropriate.
	I heard him once, quietly, deliberately say "I need to fuck you,
baby." I didn't want it to end. I wanted to be in this moment of
total bliss and raw undoing of my ego forever. I did resist, for
a moment, savored a few last, deep penetrations of my soul before
I heard him again, not a request this time, but a demand. "I need
to fuck you right now, baby." It was barely more than a whisper,
sounded more like a confession than a command, and it was NOT
debatable. I tried to ask if he wanted me on the floor or the
bed, but he pulled me by my hair to my feet and pushed me toward
the wall. I've never quite gotten the mechanics of sex standing
up. Never had the experience with it, and frankly I'm a little
short to make it at all possibly comfortable for a man who is
literally a full head taller than me, but four inch heels added
an incredible ease to being slightly bent over steadying myself
against a tangible but completely irrelevant wall.
	My dress was already partly up from his earlier hand-to-clit
massage, but between both of our efforts it was past my hips in
seconds, only black lace saving me from total annihlation. I
always prefer when he pulls my panties down, it feels like a
final surrender, a final chance for me to resist and the ultimate
submission to him. I felt him move behind me, felt his cock
searching between my legs, felt it finally at the entrance to my
cunt, felt him pierce my body and my soul so fiercely the
distance to my next orgasm was measured in breaths. Compounded by
the fact that every furious thrust pushed against that most
secret and hidden spot deep in me that only he has EVER touched
and can play until I swear I'm going to combust. To be with a
musician is to become the instrument, to become the rhythm and
the melody.
	Again he was grabbing my hair, forcing my head back, pulling me
into every penetration with a furiosity that was NEVER tender. I
was right, I came so quickly the room dropped away. My knees did
buckle once, but his thrusts forced me to stay on my feet, held
me captive against the wall, supported me as he fucked me and
used me.
	Again it may have been measured in moments or hours or eons, it
makes no difference. I heard him growl, "That's it. Right there,
right there..." I could hear the sharp intake of breath that
always precedes his most intense climaxes. I heard the absolutely
inhuman growl that means he's coming, hard, and I felt three,
maybe four stabs deep into the very center of my soul, so sweetly
beautiful and terrifying. But he wasn't competely done, and
within two to three seconds he was still fucking me, more tender
and less furious, but steadily and intently, riding out the
pleasure than comes after the orgasm. The
still-so-close-to-climax feeling that, if nurtured properly, is
almost better than the actual orgasm.
	When he was totally finished, sweating and slowly,
heart-breakingly sliding out of my pussy as another beautiful and
soul-wrenching reality moved back in, that while fucking is a
gift unto itself it cannot be permanent, he moved closer against
me and kissed the back of my neck maddeningly, arms back around
me and hands gripping my breasts, reminding me that though we
were done for now, there WOULD be a next time and each moment
between is only a moment spent waiting for him to fuck me again,
to use me and drive me past pleasure to destruction and
rebuilding. He bit my shoulders in the way he knows drives me
insane and makes me shudder and before we slowly regained our
composure he said the words that melt my heart and prove my
efforts at giving myself to him are not EVER in vain: "My sweet
fucktoy..."
	 I was allowed to remove the dress and change back into my
jeans. I was allowed to become my strong and independent self
again, but only after the more important "unbecoming." I walk
into my unbecoming willingly and I welcome it, but ONLY for him.
He is my true mentor, my guide into my sexual and spiritual self.
The only man to whom I will EVER truly BELONG.