Dressed to Impress Read online

  She ran her fingers through his hair. ‘I’m sorry for embarrassing you. And making you lose that deal.’

  Nicholas shrugged. ‘He was a jackass anyway.’ He pulled her closer to him. ‘And you could never embarrass me. I’m proud of what you did, actually.’

  ‘Proud?’ There was that smile again, forcing its way onto her face. But this time she didn’t hide it.

  He pulled her onto his lap. ‘I should have fought for us, like you did tonight.’

  She cupped his face and kissed him, melting into his lips so deeply that she couldn’t suppress a moan of protest when he eventually made to rise from the chair. But he quickly turned her protest into sighs of contentment by kneeling down before her and beginning to massage her feet. Debra leaned back. ‘That’s what you used to do when I came home from work,’ she said.

  He smiled. ‘And you were as ticklish as a –’

  His words were drowned by her giggles as he tickled the bottom of her feet, ducking as Debra kicked him. ‘Stop it!’ she squealed and wriggled her legs, shooting a pout at her husband. ‘Leave it to you to kill the moment!’

  ‘I killed the moment?’ He raised his eyebrows.

  ‘You killed the moment.’

  ‘Bummer. I wonder if I can get it back?’

  ‘I doubt that,’ she said, crossing her arms.

  He pushed her legs apart and positioned himself on his knees between them. ‘A challenge?’

  The lust sparkling in his dark eyes sent little tingles down her back. She bit her bottom lip and smiled coquettishly.

  ‘Hm,’ he said, fidgeting around the small ribbon at the top of her corset. ‘I think I’m a bit out of practice.’

  Debra had to laugh. He shot her a boyish look, then started to pull open the laces, one by one. The hook and eye closures came undone with little pops, and each inch of naked skin revealed by the receding material was greeted with a kiss. Nicholas slid his hand underneath the tight folds of her leotard and cupped her breast. Her rigid nipple slipped between two of his fingers and he rolled it until her back arched in the chair and the scent of her arousal filled his nose.

  His fingertips brushed the flimsy lace of her thong as he opened the bottom part of the leotard. His eyes fixed on her face, he ran his finger along her pussy. He held still for a moment, then moved the tip of his finger ever so slightly, stopping at the spot where her bated breath told him she felt his tease the most. She spread her legs a bit more. ‘You haven’t forgotten any of my weak spots.’

  He straightened up so his face was close to her ear and whispered: ‘And I haven’t forgotten how they taste either.’

  She uttered a little moan and then another as his palms rubbed her lips through the lace of her underwear. He withdrew his hand and slowly rolled the net stockings down her legs. Next, he placed a trail of little kisses up her leg, then pressed his nose into her lap. Debra heard a muffled sigh followed by a drawn-out groan. His breath pressed hot and damp against her skin. She buried her fingers in his hair and bent over to kiss him. ‘I love you so much,’ she whispered into his black strands.

  Nicholas looked up at her, cupped her face in his hands and drew her into a long kiss. He rose from the floor, took her in his arms and carried her to their bedroom. The leotard was stripped off, then the thong, and Nicholas gazed at his wife’s naked body: the lovely curved hips that swayed so smoothly when she danced, the pit of her navel that was so sensitive to his tongue’s touch, and her breasts, rounder ever since she had become a mom, and graced with greyish blue stretch marks. He bent over her and traced the ripples with his fingers, listening to her sigh as he very carefully drew the outline of her nipples. He soaked up that which he hadn’t taken the time to enjoy in so long. Languidly, his fingers ran over her breasts, moved down to her navel and then back up again, his eyes fixed on Debra’s face.

  She tugged at the belt of his slacks. ‘Get naked,’ she whispered and, without moving much, he did. He stripped off his shirt, removed his trousers, shed his boxer briefs. He cupped her delta and, although his hand lay still on her wiry curls, Debra’s breath sped up. He bent lower and kissed her breast. His lips enclosed her nipple, and he gently sucked at it. His bangs tickled her skin as his tongue licked her – deliberate, titillating. Hot darts shot towards her clit until the throbbing became so overwhelming she had to bite her fingers in order to hold back the moans building in her throat.

  Nicholas stopped and looked at her. He tilted his head and with a grin pulled her hand away. The silence had become such a habit, Debra couldn’t even remember the sound of her own voice when she relinquished her composure. ‘You don’t have to be quiet tonight,’ whispered Nicholas, placing a tender kiss on the tip of each nipple.

  She let out a soft moan. ‘More,’ he demanded. Lovingly whispering her name, he pushed two fingers into her pussy and watched her let go. She groaned loudly and cried out when he crooked his fingers inside her. He watched her writhe beneath him for a while before withdrawing his hand. His fingertips stroked her pussy lips, changing course whenever they came close to her clit, never touching it.

  Debra shifted underneath him. Her fingernails dug into his shoulders and arms as she clutched at an outlet for the pulsating of her clit. ‘Please …’

  ‘Please what?’ he asked, breathing a kiss on her dry lips.

  She threw him a reproving glance. ‘You know what I want you to do.’

  He nuzzled at her earlobes. ‘Oh, I know, baby.’ He kissed her temple. ‘But I want to hear you say it.’ His fingers circled the entrance to her pussy and pushed forwards only so much as was necessary to lure a frustrated groan from Debra’s mouth.

  ‘Touch my clit,’ she whispered.

  He changed neither the position of his fingers nor their pace.

  ‘Touch my clit,’ she repeated and raised her body with a rapt moan when he finally complied. ‘Touch me, touch me …’ she said, her voice fading. She stopped him before she lost control completely. ‘Love me, please,’ she whispered, fondling the nape of his neck.

  Finally, she was lying underneath him again, feeling his weight on top of her, being owned by him in a way she would only allow him to own her. Eyes locked with hers, he entered her and began to rock her slowly. He watched her lips quivering, uttering sweet, lustful moans as their bodies fell back into the familiar rhythm.

  Emotions washed over her, demanding tears as well as smiles. She pressed her lips against Nicholas’s shoulder and held onto his body. She could feel her sweat mingling with his, she could feel his palm against hers as their fingers entangled and his breath dampened her neck. She could feel the shudder that ran through his body before his muscles tensed and he thrust into her once more, breathlessly uttering her name as he finally let go, uniting with her in a culmination that shook them both.

  Panting, Nicholas collapsed onto her body. He buried his face in her neck and didn’t move. Debra relished the feeling of his warm come filling her and his cock slowly shrinking inside of her.

  ‘I want to stay like this for ever,’ she whispered as waves of cosy fatigue replaced the tremors of pleasure that had left her flesh so wonderfully satisfied.

  ‘So do I,’ he said, stroking her face. ‘But I guess as often as we can will have to do.’

  She wrapped her arms around him tighter. ‘Is that a promise?’

  Nicholas kissed the tip of her nose. ‘It’s a promise.’ He rolled over and wrapped their bodies into the blankets. ‘I love you,’ he whispered into her hair. ‘And I love what you did tonight. But can I ask you one favour? Please never do it again.’

  Debra laughed and kissed his shoulder.

  ‘Will they let you keep the corset though?’

  ‘It’s mine.’

  Nicholas let out a content grunt before closing his eyes. Debra watched him fall asleep. Without touching it, she traced the bruised patch above his cheekbone. Tomorrow, watching him shave would excite her even more.

  ‘Nicholas?’ she whispered.

  He mumbled drowsily.

  ‘Do you still have that aftershave lotion I like so much?’

  ‘Hmh.’ He drew her close into an embrace. A trace of stubble tickled her bare shoulder, and she laughed softly against his skin.

  Shutterbug

  Mina Murray

  When Howard recounts the story of how he and Amy first got together, he tells people it began with New Year’s resolutions and ended in love. As with most unreliable narrators, there are a number of details he omits. But that’s where I come in.

  Howard Venn was not the type of man likely to be cast in the role of romantic lead. Statisticians are generally under-represented in cinema and Howard’s footwear alone was enough to disqualify him. Pairing orthopaedic sandals with white socks, Howard carried himself with a punctilious bearing that said simply pedant. To most people, he looked like an ascetic. But then most people didn’t know that Howard had spent the last hour of this rainy Monday afternoon hunched over in the supply room on Level 3 of the Baker & Sons building, wanking over pictures of Amy that he wasn’t supposed to have.

  Howard had not had much luck with women. He found it too intimidating to approach them out of the blue, without a formal introduction. Howard preferred structured environments. He had signed up to several adult education classes in the past few months, such as Still Life for Beginners, Part 1: Fruit and How to Get Your Game On (although he never ended up attending that one). He also enrolled in a salsa class for singles, rationalising that everyone would know why they were really there, thus forestalling the awkwardness and recriminations with which his attempts at seduction were usually met.

  The consensus among the class was that Howard led well and always maintained a perfect frame, but would never set the world on fire. Howard had picked up on this, of cours
e, and could only look on with a mixture of detachment and despair as one by one the students paired off. Brent – a fortysomething-ish man with a bad comb-over who was almost as wide as he was tall and could not get through a single song without sweating through the back of his cheap polyester shirt – seemed to fare particularly well. Howard was at a loss as to the source of Brent’s unusual magnetism. When he made discreet inquiries with his fellow students, they replied that Brent had personality, Brent was fun. No one had ever told Howard he was fun.

  By the end of the course, Brent had succeeded with not one but two of the female students. Howard wondered how such an arrangement could possibly work. Having little experience in these matters, he could only assume it would operate as some sort of sexual time-share where each woman got precisely half of one week, and alternate weekends. Howard did not imagine this would be a particularly satisfying state of affairs for any woman. But then he could not imagine one woman, let alone two, being attracted to Brent, so clearly there was more than one part of the equation he hadn’t solved.

  The upshot of all this was that Howard was the only man left standing alone at the end-of-class dance, in a red sequined shirt that caught the light like a disco ball, and a pair of trousers so tight he feared he’d caused himself permanent testicular damage.

  Across town, Amy Jenssen was having a similarly disheartening evening. She had been harangued into a striptease class by her well-meaning friend Celine, who thought that it would improve Amy’s self-esteem. She had ignored Amy’s protestations that having to gyrate in front of floor-to-ceiling mirrors – next to women more lithe and coordinated than herself – in little more than a feather boa and underpants would likely be counter-productive. But Celine was determined, and so Amy gave in.

  Tonight was the final night of class, when each student was to invite their significant other and perform for them a routine they had learned over the past month. Not having a significant other, Amy performed her lap dance to an empty chair.

  Both Howard and Amy had resolved that this would be the year they found love, but at the six-month mark, things were not looking so good. Amy had been on one failed blind date after another and Howard had not fared much better. Neither, though, had considered an office romance. Sure, they had shared a brief kiss under the mistletoe at last year’s Christmas party, but the punch had been heavily spiked, and it was a kiss executed with more enthusiasm than skill, the clunky frames of Howard’s glasses colliding with Amy’s own in a graceless plastic pas de deux.

  When Howard sees Amy in the photo and framing store the evening after the salsa dance ball, he hides behind a display case. It’s not that he dislikes her – quite the opposite, in fact. He still remembers their kiss with fondness (and bewilderment at his uncharacteristic boldness). But, after his demoralising evening, the last thing he wants to do is put himself out there. And Amy – who isn’t in the mood for company either – is concentrating intently on which photos to print at the self-service kiosk. She stares at the screen in indecision, and casts furtive glances over her shoulder before finally confirming her selection. When a shop assistant stops to ask if she needs any help, she blocks his view of the screen with her body. Howard watches in fascination as a pinkish blush creeps up her milky-white neck. When she hurriedly gathers up the photos and stuffs them into her bag, he can’t help but wonder what she has to hide. He won’t be wondering long.

  In her haste, Amy hasn’t finalised her session properly. The machine has begun to print a duplicate set of photos and shows no signs of stopping. Howard knows it will charge Amy’s credit card with each frame it prints, and as there are no staff nearby he steps in, cancels the operation himself and collects the extra prints. Most of Amy’s photos are happy snaps, innocuous enough. But not all of them. The last three are experiments for Amy’s erotic self-portraiture class (another of Celine’s bright ideas).

  The first of this triptych is a picture of Amy dressed as a harem girl, in a costume that to most people wouldn’t be terribly risqué. But it is to Howard, accustomed as he is to seeing Amy in her regulation business shirt-and-skirt combo. He examines the image in detail, trying to determine if Amy has underwear on beneath her filmy blue trousers, and, if so, what colour.

  In the second picture, Amy wears a lacy black skirt and a tight beige sweater that plunges into a deep vee between her ample breasts. She’s lying atop a heavy oak desk and her shapely legs are stretched up into the air at a right angle to her body. Howard’s gaze travels along the long line of her pins, past her lacy stocking-tops and over her neatly crossed ankles. When he sees her shiny black Mary Janes with their stiletto heels, his cock jumps in his trousers. It jumps even higher when he sees the way Amy’s back is arched, her head hanging just a little over the edge of the desk, her brown eyes staring directly at him through her spectacles, the epitome of the naughty librarian, every bibliophile’s pin-up girl. There’s a sign on the desk saying ‘Shhh’, and Amy has a finger pressed up to her crimson-painted mouth.

  The last photo is the most revealing. It shows Amy facing the camera, legs spread wide as she sits astride a wooden chair. All she’s wearing is a satiny red bra, a black underbust corset and frilly red panties. Her tiny waist is whittled down to practically nothing by the bones of the corset, her already generous breasts and hips and ass now the obscenely exaggerated curves of fertility statues. Her feet are bare, which Howard finds hopelessly erotic. He wants to drop to his knees and suck on her pretty pink toes.

  He finds himself now in a rather awkward position. For one thing, he has an erection. And he doesn’t know what to do with the photos. He can’t leave them there for some stranger to find, but he can’t give them to Amy at the office either, for reasons that are obvious. So he carries the photos with him when he goes to the framing counter to pick up his Still Life achievement certificate, then heads back to his empty apartment.

  The next day Howard brings the photos with him to work. To leave them at home would be an admission that he intends to keep them, and he knows that would be wrong. He puts the innocent photos into his filing cabinet, but dares not leave the others there. Those he carries on his person at all times. He promises himself he’ll return the whole set to Amy today. All he has to do is wait until he knows she’ll be away from her desk, and leave them in her drawer. She gets the photos back, he gets to remain anonymous. Simple. Except that the pictures are so bewitching he can’t bear to part with them, even though they’re burning in a hole in the pocket of his jacket and the longer he keeps them the guiltier he feels.

  But guilty isn’t all Howard feels. Whenever he closes his eyes, he sees Amy. He can’t concentrate on his work; he sends the wrong reports to his clients; he is afraid to stand up because he is hard, again. To his growing consternation, Howard realises there is only one way to deal with this sort of problem.

  Carrying a file in front of him for cover, he heads down the long hallway to the supply room at the end of his floor. Checking carefully to make sure no one sees him, he unlocks the door with his master key and flicks on the light. An anaemic glow illuminates the steel shelves lining the walls. There is a single chair in the room, used by the clerks when they do stocktaking, but other than that the room is bare. It’s perfect for Howard’s purposes. He shuts and locks the door behind him, then takes the photos of Amy out of his pocket and lines them up, reverentially, on one of the shelves closest to the light. His belt makes a clanking sound when his trousers hit the floor.

  Howard likes to draw out his pleasure, so he strokes himself through his white Y-fronts to start off with, tracing the outline of his cock under the fabric. The cotton feels good against his skin, and he uses the material to increase the friction on his shaft. Only when he feels ready to burst does he free his cock. A clear drop of pre-come rests on the tip: Howard rubs the pad of his index finger over it. He licks his palm to make it wet, wraps it around his shaft and jerks off gently, staring all the while at Amy’s photographs. Would she like watching this? he wonders. Would she like the way he’s now gripping his shaft with both hands? The way he’s leaning back and pumping his hips up and down, thrusting his cock up into the ever-tightening grip of his own two fists?