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.