He told her that he would choose the dress for her to wear at her husband’s gala evening. He selects one in black; strapless, full length, and with a daring slit up the front of her right leg that does not stop until it reaches past the middle of her thigh. He has no doubt that adorning her statuesque curves it will bring her a good deal of attention, something he has divined that she craves, that she needs. His one concern is that some of the male guests will be capable only of engaging in conversation with her cleavage. He reassures himself that there should be a handful of men who know how to look at a woman like men, and not sniggering adolescents. If there are not, he hopes she will feel sufficiently self-assured to cup their chins in her hand, brushing her long, red nails against their cheeks as she lifts their eyes back to hers.
He places his handwritten note atop the black silk before he seals the dress within its elegant box.
I’m certain that your presence will inspire a good many shameless fantasies, and given that you’re a perceptive woman, you’ll recognise the hunger in the faces of those who want your flesh. The men who are wondering what it would be like to slip a hand through the slit in your dress and onto your stockinged thigh. The men who are wondering what it would be like to be alone with you, to take hold of the long zip and draw it slowly downwards until the dress slides from your body and pools at your feet. I want you to go without panties, to achieve the perfect blending of the dress with your curves. Those hungry men, whose eyes are drawn to you repeatedly, will be sure to let their gazes linger upon your arse at some point, as they try to discern whether or not – if they were permitted to unzip it – they would see you naked, but for your stockings and your stilettos, when your dress hit the floor.
Were I to be amongst the guests, such thoughts would be occupying my mind. They wouldn’t be my only thoughts, though. I’d be wondering what you were thinking whenever our eyes locked across the room. I’d be wondering if you were already moist at the thought of my cock, whether you were impatiently waiting for the opportunity to be alone with me, somewhere private, so that I could undress you … so that you could release my hardness from my trousers, and then guide it inside the soft, wet folds of your greedy-to-be-pleasured cunt.
But I won’t be there. So what will you do if you glimpse a man who you desire in my stead? How will you entice him away from this spectacular soiree? Will you run your tongue around your mouth as your gaze holds his across the floor? Will you slip your room key from your clutch bag and dangle it from your finger, to see if he’ll take the hint and escort you upstairs? Or will you simply ask him? “Would you like to fuck me?”
And if he says yes, if he cannot resist the temptation … will you make it to your room without kissing him, without him running his hand under your dress, without you clutching at his loins to see what treasure he has for you? If it were me that you chose, then before the lift doors had finished closing behind us, I would have kissed you, and slipped my hand through the alluring slit in your dress to stroke your thigh (and maybe higher too). I would have guided your hand to the front of my trousers, so that you could feel how hard you’d made me already.
Locking the door to your room would be thrilling, knowing that only a few floors beneath us, all those people, your husband and all his colleagues too, were completely unaware that I was with you, making you naked, making you wet … getting ready to make you come with my fingers and my lips and my tongue … and already thinking about sliding my thick cock inside you.
Does the prospect of cock that’s hard for you and you alone make you smile wantonly? Carnally? Does it leave you wet and swollen and aching to be touched and filled?
Be truthful: whose cock is enflaming your thoughts right now? Is it mine … or is it the stranger’s, the one whose time has yet to come? That excites you more, doesn’t it? Because I’m a known quantity, my desire for you a given. The stranger … the brilliant sparkle of his desire will excite you in ways that mine no longer can.
Will you be aware of his erection as he strides towards you, as he leads you towards the lobby, as he guides you inside the elevator? I know how you enjoy the sight of a man’s hard cock pressed against the inside of his trousers … knowing that he looks that way because of you, because of his need to have you, to make you his, if only for a short time. Would you be content to see, or would your need to feel be too great, to grip him through the material, to measure his thickness, his firmness? How long would you be able to resist unzipping him? You can imagine that only too readily, can’t you? Slipping your hand inside his trousers to grip him through his underpants? Or would you be too frantic, too greedy to settle even for that? Would you have to feel his naked shaft against your palm, to entwine your fingers about his bare, aroused flesh?
And once the door to your room is safely locked … who will seduce who, I wonder? I know both sides of you – the girl who aches to be taken and used … and the woman who knows exactly what she wants, whose hunger does not wait to be satisfied.
Which one of them will turn away from the inside of that locked door?
I imagine it’s the woman. I see you undressing yourself, crossing the room to him gloriously naked, slowly stripping him, all the time deciding how you want him to have you. Him behind you, I think. He’ll be kissing your neck and your shoulders, sending shivers cascading through your body as his cock throbs against your arse. You lean forward over the bed, cupping and caressing your breasts while you wait for him to enter you, his hard cock pressed against the cheeks of your behind, thrusting slowly across your skin. Will you reach between your thighs and finger yourself slowly, strumming your clitoris while your teeth bite down into your lip? Will you hold the lips of your sex open for him, and then look back over your shoulder and into his eyes, before asking – commanding – him to fuck you long and hard? Imagine it: his cock gently sliding into the warmth of your body, his hands on your hips, gripping you firmly as he starts to thrust deeply. Will you cup and caress his balls as he fucks you? Will you tell him what you are feeling, and what you want to feel? Will you guide his hands onto your breasts so that he can hold you, cup you, squeeze you, pinch your nipples between his thumbs and forefingers? Will you press his hand against your mound, show his fingers the way to your clitoris so that he can pleasure you yet more as he fucks you? Will you show him how you like to be stroked and caressed, how to make you come so that your body trembles uncontrollably, until you can barely contain your cries of pleasure? You want that, don’t you: to come all over his cock? And you want him to come deep inside you. I know you do. Will you press your fingers against the underside of his shaft as he climaxes, so that you feel every pulse, every throb? Will you sink your fingers inside yourself after he’s withdrawn, so that you can spread his slick seed across your labia and your clitoris, bringing yourself to another shuddering orgasm as he can only watch, spent?
He’d pondered on how to end the note. Eventually, he’d settled for:
He addresses the box to her place of work, and slips it into his out tray. Then he fishes in his drawer, and pulls out a heavy manila envelope. Inside is an invitation card. He places the card carefully on his desk.
Gala Evening it says in italics across the top.