This post is in the CRUELTIES category. Don’t read it.
You will find that this makes more sense if you have read the first part of the story
It hadn’t been a normal day, exactly, but then part of the allure of my time with him was that it was never boring, never without novelty, always with something new to experience.
As I see it now, his first goal with me was to get me used to this reality— get me addicted to it, almost— to learn that, always, when I was with him, I would be just a little unsure of myself— a little on edge, a little excited, a little apprehensive, very aware of my position as the passive acceptor of the wonders and novelties he exposed me to, never quite on stable ground, always having to check my initial reactions to what he showed me, where he took me, what he asked or expected of me, getting into the habit always of asking myself the question; what does he want of me here? — always second-guessing my own response, tailoring it to what I hoped would please him, in case he should lose interest in me.
So I simply accepted my nervousnness, my uncertainty, my doubts when he told me that he was going to ‘show me off’, that evening; concentrated on feeling intrigued and excited when he said that he wanted me to ‘dress to impress’. Later, I was overjoyed when he took me shopping for the first time ever, had me try on various dresses until he found one that pleased him (they were all wonderful to me, and indeed he had bought a couple that I had asked for— but he had wanted to find the one that was perfect for his purposes, and I was happy— near enough ecstatic, really— to help him with that).
The dress he chose was at the same time simple and sophisticated. Simple in that there seemed very little to it— a satin slip dress, in dark silver grey with the smallest hint of blue, with a halter-neck and an open cleavage, low cut at the back; rather short, very pretty, so classy that it was not slutty, but at the same time really very sexy.
What was clever about it was that it was actually two separate pieces of fabric, joined by a ribbon bow at the halter-neck and another which sat right at the join of my buttocks.
The shop assistant showed me how to put it on, first wrapping each slinky ribbon strap around my neck, then tying the ends at the front in a large, pretty bow at my throat, such as you would see on a present. Next, each strip of fabric was to be pulled around, behind my shoulder, then forward below the armpit, across a breast (carefully pulled tight in order to lift and separate, as the assistant put it), then cross the other strip, and wind down, around and behind my lower back, to cross again; brought forward across my belly to create the skirt, the overlap technically preserving modesty while suggesting easy access with an open, shadowed slit, finally to be wrapped around my hips and tied with another bow at the base of my spine, only just covering the lower cleavage formed by my buttocks, where another overlap both concealed and suggested.
That rear bow had to be tied by someone else, of course, and, with a conspiratorial wink, the assistant said; it’s such a sexy number, that if you get him to help, you might end up having a private party on the bedroom floor, and not go out at all!
It had been over a month since I had worn any underwear save for the waist cincher corset/suspender belt combination that he liked, but even one of those would be too much for this, so that I would be naked under the little dress, which so clearly invited attention to my breasts (my nipples very obvious through the thin, slinky fabric), and to the possibilities offered by the open overlaps at front and back, to the flapping pennants of the skirt; when I looked in the big mirror, it seemed that my thighs were almost entirely exposed.
I would wear nothing else at all, in fact, beyond a new pair of strappy high heels— very high, and with little elegant padlocks at the ankle straps.
With two big, loose bows— one at my throat, one at the base of my spine, feeling as sexy and desirable as I ever had, but also a little nervous, I sashayed out into the boudoir atmosphere of the little curtained-off area they had arranged so that men could sit and have a show before flashing the cash. There was no-one else there but him and the assistant, and I positively shimmied for him, wriggling my hips, working my shoulders, bending my knees, waggling my head from side to side, smiling cheekily and licking my lips, my hands fluttering in space at my sides, surprising myself by how eager I was to display myself like this.
It wasn’t deep surprise though, for, as ‘in lust’ with him as I was, certain that he was not at all as needy of me as I was of him, I continually found myself going outside my comfort zone for him, then finding that I liked it— finding that being outside my comfort zone in the ‘making myself sexually obvious’ direction was quite addictive. Certainly as long as I could tell it was working for him.
Picture: Perdita in the ribbon dress
So I shimmied and wiggled my way toward him, until, looking into my eyes, with a murmur of; So, this is an intriguing little present, he reached up and gently tugged at both ends of the bow at my neck, whereupon the knot evaporated and the silky ribbon gently unwound itself from my neck (pulled, I suppose, by the weight of my breasts), after which, remarkably swiftly, in a sensual glide of silk against my skin that was not at all unpleasant, the dress simply fell away. My eyes were wide, while his were smiling, pleased.
Instinctively, aware of the assistant, behind me, of the risk of strangers arriving to use a changing room, my hands flew towards my breasts, to catch the dress there, until something in his eyes stopped me, and I made myself stand there, lower my hands to my sides, as the dress slipped down to form a small, elegant puddle of grey silk at my feet, leaving me entirely naked but for the shoes.
There was a long moment then, before I found myself able to move; a moment during which, I now imagine— with the benefit of 20-20 hindsight— I had a presentiment of what was going to become of me. A chill passed over me, at least; naked before him, vulnerable, exposed before a stranger, having compromised myself for him, allowed him to compromise me.
But at the time, I shook it off, and giggled, and grinned, and sashayed and wiggled some more as I bent my knees to retrieve the smooth, slick fabric scraps, to pull them back into place, stage by stage, feeling my breasts move for him as I retied the bow at my neck, feeling the rush of heat to my groin at the thought of what had just happened, how exposed I was in this public place, offering him so much, when I had so little to offer him, except this body of mine, except my sweetness, my sweet eagerness to throw myself into anything he proposed for us, loving what he proposed, loving the vertiginous feeling of powerlessness it gave me to be so easy for him to mold, and still, still, with all of it, so terribly, almost painfully grateful to be permitted to be with him, to be looked after by him, to be allowed to offer myself to him, to receive him; to have as my reward the experience of being rutted by him, as freely, as casually, as thoroughly as he did it— his very deliberate, intentional, stated carelessness as to how it might be for me to be used like that the very thing which made it so mind-bendingly good for me.
I loved the outfit, and loved him for making sure I had something which would make him proud of me, and paraded again in front of him with a bubble of excitement growing in my belly, imagining the sex we would have after the guests had gone, after an evening of him watching other men staring at me, lust in their eyes.
For it was to be all men, the dinner— three men, he’d said, all old acquaintances, rather than close friends, so that I had not met them; would not recognise their names either, he said, still less be interested in what they did, so that all I knew was that there would be three of them, and that he wanted to show me off— I want them to drool, he said. Would I make sure of that for him?
I did ask him, whether he was sure that the dress was not just a little over-the-top for an ‘at-home’ dinner, to which he resonded with That’s the point, lovely girl— that we poor men will be rather informal, while you will be, as it were, a gift-wrapped, exotic creature, which I will present for their pleasure.
And of course I had giggled at him and said that I would do my best, even though I was blushing and trembling inside at the thought of a whole evening, with these men, strangers, at such close quarters, in such a dress; there would be precious little chance to be ‘off duty’, in such circumstances, it was clear.
He sent me home, then, in his car; No, pretty, some of us have to work for a living, you know; I’ll be back at around six— the staff and the caterers will deal with everything; your job is only to be desirable and sweet.
He kissed me, though, before he left— he rarely kissed me, these days, so this was a further joy to add to the day’s list, and I melted into him, resisting the impulse to embrace him as I dearly wished, remembering that he had asked me to become less clingy. It was hard, though, knowing that the assistant would be watching, to put my hands where he preferred them, loosely crossed, at the small of my back— the way you have them when I’m fucking your mouth — and even harder to keep myself relaxed for him as he used the openness of the dress to put his right hand straight between my legs, to stroke at my pussy lips, the other pushing up under the thin fabric to possess my breast.
Again, though, it was worth it; he had been helping me to see that being touched in public— intimately touched— was something that made an intensely intimate moment between us, emphasised how open we were with each other, and I did, I did feel the specialness of being kissed by him like this, in this semi-public place; my heart pulsed faster, and I moved for him, made my body offer itself to him as his hands suggested, felt proud and shamed at the same moment; let those feelings both be strong in you, he had told me— don’t fight them, but instead let them build the intensity of the experience.
Then his hands moved, came round behind me, brushed my own hands, but not to take them as I had thought; instead he untied the lower knot, briskly this time, then stood back, to observe how the dress unwound itself from below, this time. Which it did, the fabric simply falling away from my buttocks, then my belly, and then my breasts, to hang, two silver-grey ribbons, down my back, one at each shoulder blade.
“Interesting” was all he said, then turned me— rather, he had me turn myself, as I responded immediately to his signal pull at my left hip, so that now I was facing the girl, naked.
She had seen me naked, of course— I had been aware that it had been a shock to her to find me without underwear, but there was a business to being in a changing room, and the shop sold lingerie, so that had not been so strange.
To be naked like this, though, manipulated by my man, stripped, in front of her, was very different, and I could not meet her eye.
And then I was too busy processing something new to worry about her, as he began to plait the two wide satin strips around my arms, binding them together behind my back.
He had tied my hands before, of course— this was how I had learned to keep my hands behind my back in the first place, as an alternative to being tied, although, now, the times he insisted on tying me were exciting, as it sometimes meant that he was going to show me something new we could do, something that would test my limits.
But this was a binding— he was pulling tight, so that my shoulders felt stretched, pulled back out of shape— and in front of a stranger, naked.
He was only experimenting, though, it seemed, for he stepped away from me, and addressed the assistant, his voice normal, as if this sort of scene was an everyday occurrence;
“Useful. I’ll take two; the other colours also, two of each - the white, the black, the pale blue, the red— but not the green. Don’t worry if you don’t have stock, they’ll be collected. I’ll pay now, if you could— I have an appointment …”
He walked through the curtain and the main shop without waiting for her, or speaking to me, leaving the two of us. The assistant seemed more flustered than I, even, and dithered visibly, before making the right choice— to serve the customer, serve him; but before scurrying off, she implored— please— wait … wait in the cubicle, will you? And I’ll … I’ll be back as soon as I can to … to untie you.
When she came back at last, just as flustered, neither of us spoke; not once, nor looked each other in the face. Both of us, feeling his power, despite his absence, silenced and isolated by our weakness; ashamed.
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