Sneak Peek: Story of the Dress (Patreon)

A minor setback, as I started writing the next "story" in chapter 6.  The framework bit with Julia and David at the "funeral" came out pretty good, and I started into the next bit of the story without problem (other than the crippling cold i was writing through).  But as I trundled along, it started to feel--I dunno--lackluster, a bit soulless.  It picked up where Julia's story left off: getting ready for work the next day, facing that first day in the office and it was... serviceable, but a bit... dull, maybe?

So I started again, and jumped ahead into the action: a club, a group of girls, a dress.  A bit more confusing, maybe, but possibly more dynamic?  It's still not where I want it, but i think I prefer it this way.

In any case, two sneak peeks for you today: the original version; and the new edit--which do you prefer?

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Version 2.0:

[...]

“David,” she begins, but I interrupt her.

“Cindy,” I insist. “David is dead, and… well, we’re here to commemorate that, right?”

Her smile is sad, but she nods. “Fine,” she says. “But I’ll need more wine.” She grimaces at the empty glass in her hand. “No offence, but no more of this corner-store shit, please? Open up the good stuff I brought.”

I give a laugh and step into the kitchenette and grab two clean glasses and crack open the bottle and pour us out fresh drinks. I’m considering what story to tell her next. She’s not ready for the rest of her story; neither am I right now.

She takes a sip and sighs with pleasure. “Mmm, that’s better.”

“Hey, that ‘shit’’s the best I can afford,” I grumble, and the bitterness is real. “You try getting by on a secretary’s pay.”

“No thanks.”

“Besides,” I add, pointing at the empty bottle. “It’s not that bad.”
 “Adequate at best.” She raises an eyebrow and smiles behind the rim of her glass. “Gauche, new world and pedestrian.”

“You forgot sharp, with hints of bitterness.”

“We still talking about the wine?”

I laugh and raise my glass in mock salute. Julia laughs too, but strained, stress visible in the corner of her eyes and the tightness in her neck. I know her, her body and she’s struggling and dreading what lies ahead.

There’s an uncomfortable moment of silence before she asks: “So… what’s next?” She stares into the ruby depths of her glass.

I tap my chin as though in contemplation. I’ve already decided. I hadn’t intended on telling her this story, but then I hadn’t anticipated acknowledging her love for me, either.

“How about,” I say, holding one painted fingernail to my lip, “I tell you the story of the first guy I sucked off?”

She coughs, sprays her wine, and it bubbles in her nose. I laugh, and she glares at me through watery eyes. “You did that on purpose.” She wipes her mouth and eyes, careful with her makeup. “You could’ve done that with the shit wine.”

“Yeah, but—” I shrug. “This was more fun. So. You wanna hear?”
 “Yes, I wanna hear,” she mimics.

I take a deep drink. “I’m going to have to be a hell of a lot more drunk than I am now.”

She tops up my glass.

Two: The Story of the Dress

Imagine a dress.

Imagine this specific dress: short—very short; panty-flashing with the slightest bend at the waist. And tight; very tight, hugging curves like a second skin, like a sausage casing, a sheer strapless painted-on tube reaching from tits to thigh. It barely clears the nipples, a built-in bustier top pushing C-cup tit-flesh upwards in a lewd, jiggling display.

Black sheer fabric embroidered with myriad silver, sparkling sequins in a swirling pattern of stars, veiling and displaying, with tantalising hints of naked flesh beneath. Wearing it made me a fishing lure dangled in water, dancing and flashing to draw in predators—prey, fresh meat, especially with me in heels, towering platform sandals and tottering, trotting steps, body shimmering with glitter, silver and steel flashing at wrist and ankle, neck and ear.

Now imagine me dancing: how I swayed and hugged my curves and languidly slid crystal-encrusted nails along iridescent flanks and reached for the ceiling with bare arms, slender shoulders dipping, hips swaying, bangles gleaming, head thrown back and hair glistening like gold under strobing lights to throbbing music. The only thing brighter than the flashing lights was the gleam of gloss on my lips.

Boys orbited us like sharks in the ocean, like pilgrims at a shrine; they circled me and they circled the girls and our purses on the floor at the centre of our shifting, sweaty, exultant circle of feminine indulgence, concentric rings of beauty and flesh and desire. And I was part of it, me, a man and yet the brightest gleaming star of them all, tits and ass and makeup and minidress and heels, a manifest dancefloor fantasy of youthful vigour and promised sex.

For all the dresses worn over the past six months, I’d never worn anything like this. Scandalously short, tantalisingly revealing, and tight—perfect for clubbing—worn with platform heeled sandals and hoop earring and glam makeup—dangerously braless, paired with a scrap of lace, g-string panties flossing my ass with each shimmy and shake. Sheer willpower and the outrageous cost of it all was the only thing keeping the whole package veering from ‘sultry’ to ‘slutty’.

It wasn’t a dress many women could wear with confidence. Hell, most women I knew would’ve felt insecure in this thing, coming off as ridiculous, or awkward in the heels, self-conscious at the exposure, embarrassed by the expanse of flesh on display, their whole body and posture betraying their discomfort.

And for David Saunders, wiggling into the tight little thing was like an act of ego-suicide, humiliating and shameful.

But fuck me if I didn’t look great in it.

And the pride and pleasure I felt—yes, pleasure, felt as a heat in chest and groin as I primped in the mirror and painted my lips and marvelled at my own audacity—at my own youthful sexiness stood in agonizing tension with the shame. Shame, at the debasement of displaying myself in this way for the enjoyment of men; humiliation, at the utter effacement of masculinity in this girlish presentation.

And that dress, and the girls who chose it for me, and the night that carried us to Tartarus, the waterfront club at the edge of the city; and the boy I met there, and what happened after…this, all of it, proved as much a nail in David Saunder’s coffin as anything Julia ever did.

Of course, that dress implied everything that led up to me wearing it, wiggling in musical ecstasy with a thousand other bodies pressing up against me, tits and ass and thighs rubbing in this bacchanal of youth and oozing sexuality.

Imagine the shopping, me and three girls in their twenties gliding through the shops, half-hearted protests as the digital shop assistant read our socials and biometrics and generated recommendations—the human attendants’ subtle guidance—the flurry of changes, laughs and giggles alongside performative catwalk displays, hair tosses and licked lips. Then the break for coffee and a sandwich and then back at it with a Saturday afternoon rolling out ahead, a glittering, glamorous procession of skirts and dresses, shoes, hair and makeup, nails punctuated by more breaks, some wine, talk about next weekend, uncomfortable questions about boys and eventually… looking at underwear.

More giggles then, and sideway glances, bit lips and inquisitive stares; odd silences; lingerie held up against bodies and always the unspoken question: dare I wear this? Will I feel sexy in this? Will I get fucked in this? Tension broken with manhandling sex toys, an impromptu sabre-fight with floppy-shafted dildo the size of forearms. And while the other two sifted through discounted nightwear, Mel sidled up to me and with a surreptitious tug at the elbow pulls me into a dark antechamber.

“Pretty fucking freaky, huh?” she said, and there was a wicked gleam in her eye as she looked across the room and then at me. Lifelike mannequins, mostly female, a few male, one or two ambiguous, stood or knelt or were otherwise posed in positions of bondage or punishment. There were harnesses and handcuffs, gags and plugs, whips and crops. Both leather and steel gleamed, and whilst black dominated, pinks, whites and reds burst like extravagant flowers in a Gothic midnight garden.

“How’d you like this?” Mel asked, drawing one finger along a sleek-looking collar.

I pursed my lips in silent disapproval.

She laughed. “You’re such a prissy little bitch,” she said, and bought it anyway, and a week later there I was, leather collar at my neck, cuffs at my wrist, steel d-rings hidden under layers of pink and fluffy scrunchies.

Then imagine the night we all went out. Before the club, next weekend and around at the girls’ for pre-drinking and prep, crowded into the tiny apartment they share a few miles from the offices of Volumina International. A little food—nibbles to soak up the booze, but not enough to bloat, girls’ clubbing outfits were fucking unforgiving—and drinks and singing and drama.

Emma knocked back two glasses of white wine spritzer and had a meltdown and locked herself in the bathroom for fifteen minutes. (“She fucking does this every fucking time,” Mel confided.) At twenty-four, Emma was the oldest of us by a year. She was beautiful, thought she was ugly, and was in desperate need of a win after getting dumped by her boyfriend since high school a year ago. Meanwhile, Willow was quiet until she got drinking—then she never shut up. She was a tiny little thing—about my height, actually—and cute, giving off a real tomboy vibe. (“Even more girly than you,” Mel said. “All frills and lace under there.”)

And then there was Mel. Mel was a bitch, a sexy, angry, insecure mess of self-destructive impulses, unrealized potential, and sharp intelligence constantly pointed inwards, assessing what she found there, and lashing out, projecting her disappointment on others. I hated her when I first started working at V.I. but now…?

God, how I wanted to fuck her. Frankly, there wasn’t one amongst them I wouldn’t have rapturously fucked.

Instead, I was doing Willow’s lips for her. “You’re so good at this,” she said. “How’d you get so good?”

“Shut up,” I said kindly, switching from pencil to brush.

“Because she’s a prissy little bitch,” Mel added, topping up my glass.

“Thanks,” I said, taking a sip. “And fuck you.” I smiled. “You’re next,” and I waggled the brush at her.

Version 1.0:

[...]

“David,” she begins, but I interrupt her.

“Cindy,” I insist. “David is dead, and… well, we’re here to commemorate that, right?”

Her smile is sad, but she nods. “Fine,” she says. “But I’ll need more wine.”

The Story of the Dress

This story doesn’t start in the club, of course. It started in the office and with my return to work and getting to know my colleagues. It begins with the living death of working Cindy’s job, a prissy, pretty and painted secretary, sitting and smiling in short skirts and high heels behind an illuminated desk at the offices of Volumina International—and ends with me between a boy’s legs, his prick in my mouth and his hands caressing my bobbing, eager head.

Returning to work felt horrible for David Saunders—for me—because unlike prior to visiting the Clinic, I now had to take the job seriously. Before, I’d had an eye on the exit door the whole time; I was treading water before rescue; it was a temporary, meaningless placeholder for my life until I resumed a male existence and a ‘real’ job.

But now? This was Cindy’s life—my life—for the next six months and—I shuddered to think—possibly longer. I couldn’t trust Katherine, or Jonathon or Crystal back at the Clinic and had no good reason to believe they were working to return me to the life I deserved.

But I needed an income. A home; I needed a place to live.

And so: to work.

That first Sunday after Julia I first spend finishing tidying and cleaning my little apartment, getting everything into order and put in its place. My previous condo—mourned for its luxury features, sleek lines, and expansive space—I kept in meticulous order, well stocked with food and drink and decorated in a minimalist but expensive style. No steel-and-glass drinks cabinet, bottom lit to cast the golden glow of expensive whiskeys or rare tequilas; or integrated smart features, top-of-the-line sound system, lighting, a swanky, gleaming kitchen and wide, photosensitive windows looking down across the full expanse of the city crowding at my feet. No.

Cindy’s home was a small, pokey little shit hole. But it was my shithole, now even if overflowing with the clothes and clutter and crap of a fucked-up twenty-year old girl. But it could be tamed, and over the course of that weekend I brought that mess of rumpled linen and discarded bottles of booze and dog-eared books under control.

It was still Cindy’s home but Cindy, I decided that weekend, was a changed girl after her stay at the Clinic.

But that Sunday evening, I stared into a freshly organised closet and found myself at a loss. Skirts and blouses and trousers hung neatly in their hangers, a neatly arranged cluster of colours and fabrics, lengths and styles, over stacks of shoes of varying height and comfort, racks of scarves, neatly folded shirts and trousers, and even a hat or two—and I didn’t know what to wear. My first instinct, staring into this closet nearly bursting with clothes was: I’ve got nothing to wear!

And that’s when the realisation struck: I needed Jules. I yearned for her guidance—for her to tell me what to wear—to dress me for the day, no matter how uncomfortable, tight or sexy or revealing. And I realised then that Julia’s heavy hand over those previous weeks had enabled me to dress for work and play the part of the sexy little secretary with ease because her dominance had robbed me of agency and therefore, of guilt. It wasn’t me who’d chosen the plunging, cleavage-baring top and short pleated skirt—that was Jules! The shiny tight pants and sheer mesh top over lacy black bra? Julia again. It was embarrassing, sure, but—not my fault, right?

Because two weeks of playing dress-up at the Clinic wasn’t the same as staring down the barrel of six months of dressing for the real world. I couldn’t just play at Cindy anymore; I had to be her. And that meant deciding then and there what I was going to wear that first day back at work.

The problem, of course, was that I didn’t have any appropriate autumn office wear. I’d have to check the bank account and hit up some shops on the way home after work. For now, I’d have to make do with what I had.

That first day back at work found me in a high-waisted, brown tweed houndstooth miniskirt with barely-there midnight pantyhose, slim leather belt, and a ribbed-knit turtleneck sweater over a sheer top. Baby blue bra and panties; low chunky heels for the trip into work and stilettos for the office. Knock-off designer purse, packed lunch, water bottle and a terrible, twisting pain in the gut. Mondays, right? Fucking hate them.