Look at Me!
Look at Me!
Look At Me! Felix Baron
Table of Contents
A week back, Constance had caught Jeff rubbing pumice over the pads of his fingertips. Their eyes had met. His had been mildly amused. Hers, she felt, must have been both bewildered and excited. She hadn’t been puzzled. She could guess why he was doing that. It was pretty obvious. He was smoothing the tips of his long artistic fingers to make them more sensitive to the texture of her skin. How was a good girl supposed to react to that? Intrigued? Complimented? Offended? What was appropriate? Life, and love, could be very confusing.
Now they were in bed together and she was reaping the full benefit of his smoothing. Jeff had a touch that was so delicate it felt like talcum powder was being sprinkled on her skin. Sometimes she couldn’t tell whether she was actually feeling it or just imagining that she felt it. It was tantalising – maddeningly so. She loved it so much that she couldn’t stand it.
He was tracing lazy curlicues around her navel. She tried to imagine the sensations his fingers would be feeling, but failed. Instead, she concentrated on what she was feeling.
The meandering circles became ellipses that dipped further with each slow circuit. Constance held her breath. He brushed the edge of what he called the peach fuzz that coated her mound. That tickled.
If only he’d move lower!
But Jeff was taking his time. He always took his goddamn time! Sometimes she wondered if he did that to punish her for the one thing she refused to do for him, but that couldn’t be. Jeff loved to please her. When he teased, it was just to make her pleasure more intense. She liked to make his pleasure more intense, too, except for doing that one thing. Apart from that, she denied him nothing. That thing was a biggie, so she had to make up for it the best she could.
The one thing that she wouldn’t do for him was also, Jeff said, irrational. Well, maybe it was. She couldn’t help that. It was due to her upbringing.
He was cupping her, taking command of her sex.
His palm covered her mound. His fingers were curved down, over her sex, resting on its delicate pulpy outer lips. She moved her thighs further apart to accommodate his exploration. His fingers palpitated, pressing in a steady one, two, three rhythm. Constance could feel herself moistening. One fingertip was on her sex’s left lip, one on her right, and the other, delicately, so, so delicately, rested on the wrinkled crease where the lips met. The outer two fingers spread, parting her a fraction. The middle one curled down into her soft wet heat.
Constance groped sideways, into the fly of the pants of the pyjamas she insisted he wore to bed. Her fingers wrapped his hardness, not as a caress, but just for something solid to hold onto.
She was wet inside. She was so wet that it felt as if his middle finger was dabbling in a puddle of her juices. Almost splashing. And it wormed higher, insinuating itself up behind her pubic bone. Jeff’d told her that there was a soft dimpled pad there that he loved to massage. She loved it too. When he did that … Oh yes! Just like that.
And now his other hand was working its fingers under his cupping palm, searching out her little button and finding it. Her lover’s hands worked together, both rotating fingertips, one on her special place that was so deep, the other caressing her other special place, the one that was nestled just between her lips, where they joined.
Constance couldn’t think. She barely remembered to breathe. The gyrating fingers were winding something inside her up, tighter and tighter and tighter. She reached the point where she could imagine no greater disaster than that those fingers should stop what they were doing before she got to where she was rushing …
‘Don’tstopdon’tstopdon’tstop!’ That was her, babbling, wasn’t it?
‘I won’t, I promise,’ Jeff whispered.
The glorious thing happened. Ecstasy rippled through her. Constance’s thighs drew up to her chest, spread wide. Her hips came up off the bed, paused, then slammed down. Spasms convulsed her.
After a crystalline moment of sheer bliss, she returned to her senses. She let her legs drop back to the sheet. Oh yes, she was holding onto Jeff’s cock, wasn’t she.
From a dark recess in Constance’s mind, her dead mother started to scold her for thinking such a word as ‘cock’. That was OK. It was when Mom reviled her for showing too much skin that she couldn’t stand it.
Dreamily, Constance turned to Jeff and told him, ‘That was wonderful. What can I do for you, darling?’
‘Turn over, Connie.’
Oh! She knew what that meant. He was the first and only man who’d ever done that to her. Her mom had never warned her against it, most likely because she’d never imagined such a thing. It was certainly never mentioned in the Book of Chaste Behaviour that her Mom’s puritanical sect considered second only to the Ten Commandments.
Whatever, her mom wouldn’t be scolding her and spoiling Jeff’s, and her, pleasure.
Constance rolled onto her tummy and tensed, waiting. He was above her, poised for a second, and then he lowered himself onto her like a warm and heavy blanket of love. His weight was mainly on his knees and elbows but even so, it was inexorable. She was deliciously helpless, even before his fingers wrapped her wrists and the insteps of his feet nestled into the arches of hers. If she could move an inch, it was only because he allowed her to.
The heat of his cock’s stem spread into her spine from her tailbone to the small of her back. Feeling the length of it thrilled her. Even though he’d taken her, used her, that way before, what she knew he was about to do had to be impossible. She was so small. He was, by comparison, huge. Where he was going to enter her, it was a tight little knot. His cock – its head in particular – was far too big. Dreadfully big.
When was he going to do it? What was he waiting for? She couldn’t ask for it, could she?
The hidden minx inside her told her that she could.
Constance moaned, ‘No, Jeff! Please, don’t. Don’t do that. I don’t know if I can stand it.’ The cheeks of her bum flexed but all they could feel was his scrotum. She tried to work herself higher up the bed but his restricting bulk made that impossible.
Jeff whispered, ‘You’ll take it, Connie. I am going to make you take it.’
‘You are going to force your way into me back there, with that great big thing?’
‘Yes, darling. I am.’
‘That’s so bad.’
‘And you love it, don’t you?’
‘Admit it. You want it.’
He was torturing her. He knew about her upbringing. He knew how strict her mother had been. He knew that she hated to own up to her own perverted desires. Hated to. Loved to, if forced to. It had to be forced from her or she wouldn’t – couldn’t – do it.
Would it be the same with the other thing, the one thing she refused to do for him? If he forced her, would she find that she liked it? No! Don’t think about that. Thinking that way was dangerous. It woke memories of her dead mother’s rules.
Constance hollowed her back, tilting her bottom up at him.
‘Good girl! That’s right, just like that!’ Without releasing her, Jeff slithered back and lower, drawing his shaft down along the crease between her cheeks. He prodded. It wasn’t the right place, too low. Last time, he’d steered himself with a hand.
As if he’d heard her thought, he told her, ‘Hands free, this time.’
Jeff writhed an inch each way and up and down, probing.
The wet hardness of his knob was nestled right against her trembling pucker, kissing it. He pushed. Constance pushed back. If she concentrated on relaxing back there …
Oh. Oh. He was stretching her. He was forcing his way into the narrow constriction. Constance felt herself expand. It didn’t hurt, not much, but it was such a violation of her tender flesh.
And he was inside her.
Just the head. Her muscular ring gripped his cock just behind its dome. The moment, the brief second of maximum stretching followed almost instantly by a partial relaxation, had been exquisite. It was like some sort of revelation.
Perhaps he read her thoughts again because Constance felt his thigh muscles tense and then the reverse pressure as he drew back, almost dragging the sleeve of her rectum with him, and ‘popped’ out …
And rammed back in.
This time there was no pause. His thrust went on and on, opening her depths, forcing her back passage to adapt to the shape and girth of his shaft. Jeff’s pubes were grinding on her as if he was desperate to gain every last possible inch of penetration. And he was pumping. Each stroke felt easier than the one before and yet her excitement grew and grew.
His big hands took hold of her hips. Jeff knew not to pull her up to all fours – she didn’t allow that, just in case it dislodged the bedclothes – but he heaved her up off the bed just a few inches before slamming back down on her. She was totally impaled.
He half-rolled, so that her weight was on her left side. His right hand worked under her. Its fingers found her button again, but toyed with it for just a second before they squirmed past it, inside her. Jeff must be able to feel his own shaft pistoning into her. That was so obscene.
It was the obscenity of it that drove her over the edge into the chaos of her second glorious climax.
It must have been three or four in the morning when Constance woke up. It might have been the dim light from the small lamp on the bedside table on Jeff’s side. It might have been him folding the bedclothes down to her waist and fumbling with the buttons at her throat.
Constance sat up sharply, clutching the neck of her nightgown. ‘No!’
‘Please, Connie? Surely …’
She slapped his face and turned over to bury her face into her pillow. The bed creaked as Jeff got up. He’d be headed into her living room to finish the night on her lumpy couch. Well, she wasn’t going to be guilted into doing something she didn’t want to do. Let him suffer!
When Constance woke again, with the first light, Jeff still hadn’t come back to bed. Men! As if sulking solved anything. She decided that she’d take the moral high ground and simply pretend that nothing had happened. If he apologised, all to the good. If not, well, she’d just have to forgive him anyway. That was the way women were, forgiving and modest – sweet and modest – charitable and modest. Always modest. Modest. The damn word landed with a dull thud.
He wasn’t on the couch and it hadn’t been disturbed. There were no dishes in the sink. His shaving gear and toothbrush were missing from the bathroom. His spare suit wasn’t in the closet. There was a space on her bookshelves where his IT books had been.
Jeff had taken his things back to his own apartment.
She’d been dumped. Well, no. She’d dumped him, really. A slap across the face counts as that, right? He’d broken her rule. She’d slapped him. He’d left, taking his things. How did she feel about that? Crushed, for sure. Empty inside? Maybe. She’d thought he might have been the one. Angry? Yes, she was angry. How dare he! Look at all she’d done for him, the things she’d let him do to her. For him, she’d been a very bad girl. She’d enjoyed it all, but that was beside the point. When a girl does those forbidden things for a man she’s doing him a favour, no matter how good they feel. All she’d ever denied him was to let him look at her shameful nakedness. Could that be so important that it’d make him break up with her?
Couldn’t he have explained that?
Perhaps he’d tried, but not hard enough, obviously. The bastard!
What was it about the sight of a girl’s body, anyway? She’d let Jeff bugger her. Bugger, bugger, bugger. Bugger her. Fuck her up her bum. There! If he’d wanted a bad girl, she’d been the baddest, for him. He’d been ready to risk losing that, just for a chance to look at her naked? It made no sense at all.
Why were men so obsessed with looking at women’s bodies?
On a whim, very quickly, before the impulse fled, Connie sat down in front of her dressing table, slipped the top three buttons of her cotton nightdress and smoothed it down her right shoulder and breast – all the way, not just exposing its upper slope but baring it completely, nipple and all. By reflex, her eyes flinched away but she forced herself to actually look at her own smooth pink skin.
It wasn’t as if she’d never seen a breast before. When she’d first left the commune, it’d seemed that she couldn’t open a magazine or watch TV without them jumping out at her. Seeing and looking are two different things. Her mother had trained her to avert or close her eyes when they were exposed to immodest displays. It was hard. In the outside world, girls wore skimpy or transparent tops all the time, and not just in special places, like beaches, that could be avoided. They also displayed their legs in most unseemly ways. Her mother had allowed that exposed calves were acceptable. Not knees, though. Nor anything higher. Certainly not!
Well, there was her bare right breast, in the mirror, and she was looking at it.
In a way, it was a disappointment. Not because it wasn’t pretty. It was. Her skin was so pale a pink that it was almost translucent. She could just make out a delicate blue tracery below the surface. Her nipple was a crinkled berry, darker than its halo, but not by much. As for shape, she felt she could compete with the statues she’d seen when Jeff had dragged her to the museum to demonstrate that he was right and she was wrong.
How was it that she didn’t find the sight of her own flesh exciting?
Somehow, Connie had been sure that if she exposed herself that way, to herself, there’d be a forbidden thrill. There wasn’t. Not exactly. Maybe a twinge? How about if she imagined that it was someone else’s breast, Shirley’s, the office receptionist’s, for example?
Maybe she felt something. Just a pleasant little buzz?
Is that all there was to it? Why had Mother made such a fuss? Come to that, why had Jeff been so obsessed? It was his silliness that had broken them up. She’d like to … make him suffer! That’s what she’d like to do, and if she dared, she knew exactly how it was she could make him squirm.
For a moment, Constance considered touching her nipple but decided against it. She’d looked at it. That was a good start. Perhaps the first time she touched herself there, it’d be under the bedclothes. Little by little …
Towards what end?
Mother had liked to talk about the slippery slope. One little sin always leads to a slightly greater one, and so on, until you were damned to hellfire for eternity. Mom’d been right when it came to the physical acts. Connie had avoided being kissed until she was twenty but once she’d allowed a boy to put his tongue into her mouth, it’d been an exhilarating downhill ride, all the way down to sucking a man’s cock and finally to allowing Jeff to force his up her bum. After that, there’d been a bit of disappointment. By then, she’d committed all the sins she knew of, except the one of physical immodesty. What next? Well, now she knew. She’d exposed herself, to herself. Next, she’d expose herself to Jeff, just a little, just enough to drive him crazy. And to make him feel remorseful. Eventually, if he begged nicely, she might consider taking him back.
She didn’t dare, did she? Dare tempt Jeff? That way? Did she? It’d be the worst violation of her mom’s rules possible.
If she was going to do it, she’d have to do it straightaway, before her courage failed her. When she went in to work, in just under two hours, it’d have to be dressed as the new and slightly immodest Constance, not as whatever it was that she had been up to now. A frump? A prude?
Constance’s office ‘uniform’ was always a twin-set worn with a single strand of cultivated pearls, plus a straight skirt that went down to just below her knees. She had no alternative outfits, so she’d just have to see what she could do with what she had.
After forty minutes of experimentation, and feeling like a total hussy, Constance left her apartment with the waistband of her skirt rolled over twice, so that her hem just skimmed her knees, and wearing just the cardigan of her twin-set, with no bra under it and with the top button undone. She added a light topcoat. It wouldn’t do to get arrested on her commute.
On the bus, a man gave her his seat. Did the sluttish way she was dressed show on her face, somehow? When she got to the office, hung her coat and turned, reluctantly, to face the population of her working world, Shirley smiled a welcome at her. That was new.
For a while, Constance worked with her elbows tucked in tightly but she gradually got used to her breasts feeling loose and free and forgot about it until Larry, the mail delivery lad, brought her some files. His eyes widened and he blushed. Constance glanced down at herself. Damn! A second button had come undone. She was showing two inches of cleavage.
That was terrible. She wasn’t ready for such a blatant …
Or was she?
If she was so shocked at herself, how come her cheeks were glowing? How come she felt so warm down there?
Larry shuffled. Constance looked at him and quickly averted her eyes. The lad was wriggling to conceal an erection – that she had caused. He was only a boy – barely nineteen. At his age, he most likely had an erection most of the time. Even so, his reaction, she had to admit, gave her a certain sense of satisfaction.
As he turned away, Constance put her hand to her throat to do the extra button up again, but decided not to. Making men horny was kind of fun, she’d discovered. Sorry, Mom!
At coffee break, Shirley was pouring herself an espresso. The curvy redhead looked Constance up and down thoughtfully. ‘New boyfriend?’ she asked.
‘No. Why do you ask?’
‘You’ve got a certain glow about you today, honey, like you’ve been fucked three ways from Sunday.’
Constance had forgotten the earthy way Shirley had of talking when away from her desk. It should have shocked her but somehow she found it refreshing. ‘I dumped Jeff,’ she confessed. ‘Perhaps that’s it.’
‘The cute IT guy? He any good?’
Constance felt her face burn. ‘I guess. Yes, to be honest, he’s pretty good.’
‘Mind if I do him?’
‘You mean …?’
‘Fuck him. He’s pretty cute, but if you’d have a problem …?’
‘No, no, no problem,’ Constance lied.
‘Thanks. Say, Connie, you doing anything at lunch?’
‘I’m going to shoe-shop. Want to come along?’
What was happening? In five years, no one in the office had ever approached her socially. She knew that some of the other women, the younger ones mostly, got together to go places. She’d overheard some of them talking about going clubbing and the like. Constance had never been included. Now, just because she was showing a little cleavage, she was sure, she was being invited. How powerful was that?
‘Sure, love to,’ she said without stammering.
‘One o’clock, then?’
Time was, when Constance would have been mortified to have walked down a busy street beside an over-made-up girl in a too-short skirt and too-high heels who swung her hips so emphatically.
To her own surprise, shame was the last thing she felt. So how did she feel? There was a trace of pride in being seen with someone who drew so many approving stares. Then there was jealousy. Constance might as well have been invisible, or, at best, a moon to Shirley’s sun.
But she was prettier than Shirley. She knew that, even if the thought was immodest. She was prettier but she wasn’t – sexier. That was it. And that was by her own choice, or by her mother’s.
Damn you, Mom. Look at what you’ve deprived me of, all these years. Well, it ends, now! A sense of relief washed through Constance. She felt reborn, emerging as a liberated woman, free for the first time in her life.
Shirley said, ‘If you’ve got it, flaunt it. I just caught our reflection in a window and that’s the thought that popped into my mind.’
‘It’s my philosophy.’
‘Don’t hide your light under a bushel, right?’
‘Right.’ Wow! Shirley could justify her brazenness with quotations from the Bible. With that justification, Constance tried swinging her hips a little. It took a moment to get the rhythm right but, once she got it going, it almost felt natural. Almost.
‘Here we are,’ Shirley announced. She led the way in.
The boutique was called Spikes. Constance swallowed hard. The shoes on display were … impossible. But beautiful, in a dozen different perverse ways. There were sculptures in leather, scraps of fabric on soaring heels, straps that made Constance feel restricted just from looking at them, puffs of pink fluff and slivers of snakeskin. People actually wore these?
A tall thin man in lavender pants and a matching shirt waltzed up to Shirley and arced to kiss her cheek without making body-contact. ‘Shirley-girly, my pet! How nice to see you again.’
He turned his head to give Constance’s feet a pitying glance that made her want to hide them. To Shirley, he continued, ‘For work or for play, today, my lovely?’
He giggled. ‘Well, shoes are foreplay, in my opinion. What fun! New man?’
‘No. That’s why.’
‘Good strategy. Four inches again?’
‘And a half.’
‘Well, that’s progress at least. I’ll get you up to six inches one of these days, you mark my words.’
‘I’m sure that you will, but I don’t want to tower over all the men.’
‘There are many men that love to be towered over, Shirl. I’m tall but it hasn’t hindered me.’
‘They’re not my type, Percy.’
‘For sure,’ Shirley said. ‘Shoes for clubbing, please, Percy. I’ve got two new outfits, one in liquid gold, the other in a silver mesh.’
The strange man disappeared into the stacks.
Constance whispered, ‘What did you mean, “liquid gold”?’
‘It’s a fabric, very thin, very clingy, that looks like metal has been melted and poured all over you. It shows off your nips, and you can even see your bellybutton through it.’
‘Oh!’ Constance thought about that for a while, and about what it’d look like on Shirley, and on herself. Was she ready for something like that? Maybe not – not yet, anyway. Still, the thought of being seen in something so revealing made her feel a glow, down there. And if Jeff ever saw her in anything like that, he’d go crazy with desire, for sure.
Shirley put a finger on Constance’s knee. ‘Heels are very powerful. A woman can be old and fat and ugly but if her heels are high enough, men will still look at her that way.’
‘I kid you not.’
The shoes that Percy brought for Shirley to try had heels as thin and cruel as nails. The soles were like paper. The uppers were interlocking teardrops, one gold, one silver, and with gold and silver cord ankle straps.
‘Are those strong enough to walk in?’ Constance asked.
Percy’s eyebrow lifted. ‘If you’re looking for “sturdy”, you should try army boots,’ he sneered.
Shirley tapped Constance’s wrist. ‘Apart from a little dancing, I won’t be on my feet much in these. That’s the whole point.’
Constance thought for a moment, then blushed.
Percy squatted at Shirley’s feet. He lifted her left foot almost reverently, slipped her shoe off and eased a sandal on. One hand supported her arch; the other adjusted the ankle strap. Each movement was a subtle caress. When he’d repeated his actions with her other foot, he lifted them both to plant a pair of gentle kisses on the taut bows of her insteps.
Constance looked away and then back. It felt as if she was spying on lovers in an intimate moment. But she’d thought he was one of those ‘gays’. It was very confusing.
Shirley told Percy, ‘These are perfect. Your taste is exquisite, as usual. Now see what you can find for my friend, will you?’
Constance gasped, ‘What?’
‘You’re transforming yourself, aren’t you? A butterfly emerging from her chrysalis? Let’s move the process along, shall we?’
‘I didn’t say anything about …’
‘You didn’t have to. One day you’re a frump, the next day you look kind of pretty, and you aren’t wearing a bra. Draw a line from one to the other, and what do we have?’
Constance folded a protective arm across her chest. ‘What?’
‘Eventually, a very cute little sexpot, that’s what.’
‘I don’t know …’
‘I do.’ Shirley turned to Percy. ‘Conservative, for this time, dearest. Black, I think, and three inches?’
‘Does she have her learner’s permit?’
‘Sorry.’ He scuttled back into the stacks. He returned with a shoebox. ‘Plain black pumps. What could be more conservative?’
Shirley told him, ‘Help the girl try them on, then.’
‘Love to, but …’ His disdainful look at Constance’s scuffed loafers spoke volumes.
She kicked them off.
‘Thanks, Shirley’s friend. It’s not that those dreadful things are actually contagious, but …’
‘You wouldn’t want to soil your hands on them,’ Constance finished for him.
He squatted. From down there, he might be able to look up her skirt. Constance clamped her knees together but he didn’t so much as glance upwards. His eyes were on her feet.
‘What cute little piggies,’ he said. ‘Poor things.’ He looked up into Constance’s eyes. ‘They deserve better of you, you know,’ he accused.
‘There, there,’ he told her toes. ‘Percy will dress you up nicely. I’ll be right back.’ He took tissue paper from the shoebox and used it to pick Constance’s loafers up and carry them away. There was the sound of something being dropped into a waste bin before he returned.
Shirley whispered, ‘I know he’s a bit eccentric, but he does know his shoes.’
Constance replied, ‘I guess I have the choice of either buying a new pair or going back to the office in my stocking feet.’ She grinned to show that she wasn’t really upset. In fact, she was quite enjoying the strange man. She’d never before bought clothes from anyone who actually cared what she bought.
Percy returned and put the pumps onto Constance’s feet with as much tender care as if he’d been wrapping Fabergé eggs. As his fingertips slid across the sensitive skin under her arches, she felt an answering subtle twitch of the tendons that run beside the hollows high on the insides of her thighs. The vamps were cut just low enough to expose half-inches of toe cleavage.
‘Walk, please,’ he announced.
Would she stumble and disgrace herself?
Shirley advised, ‘Get your centre of gravity above the balls of your feet. When you walk, your toes go down first. Remember, one foot in front of the other.’
‘You can do it,’ Percy encouraged.
It was like having a cheering squad boosting her. Constance set her feet firmly, shifted forward and concentrated on the sensations her legs’ muscles were feeling. It felt good – an elegant tension that rippled up her limbs.
And she was erect.
Constance took a short step, then another. Emboldened, she made the next one longer and stumbled but caught herself.
‘You’re doing fine,’ Shirley told her.
‘And now you are become a veritable swan!’ Percy exclaimed. ‘Look at what those shoes have done to your legs in the mirror. Pull your skirt up a tiny bit, there’s a good girl.’
Blushing with pleasure, Constance pinched the fabric just above her knees and lifted her skirt’s hem a few inches. In the mirror, her ankles had become more slender, her calves fuller. There were dimples in her knees and her thighs looked shapelier than she’d imagined them to be – not that she’d ever given much thought to what her thighs looked like.
‘Oh!’ she said. In a rush, she added, ‘Perhaps I’ll take two pairs like these.’
‘No,’ Percy told her. ‘That’d be a waste. Come back in another week and we’ll try you in three and a half or even four inches. You’ll take to wearing real heels in no time, I promise. You’re a natural.’
‘But she’ll take three pairs of stay-up stockings,’ Shirley said. ‘Would you believe that she wears’ – her voice dropped to a whisper – ‘pantyhose.’
‘Of course I noticed. I just didn’t want to embarrass her by mentioning it.’
As Percy wrapped, Shirley gave Connie a quick lecture on how to sit to take advantage of her new look – ankles crossed neatly to the side, so demure, so enticing.
On the way back to the office, Constance got just as much passing masculine attention as Shirley did. It felt a bit like the time she’d got into her dad’s hard cider, thinking it was just spicy apple juice.
She stopped by the ladies’ room and popped another button at her throat. Jeff was way overdue to visit. Before they’d broken up, he’d paused at her desk at least once every other day. She couldn’t wait to see how he reacted to the new Constance but she imagined he’d be stunned, then contrite, then desperate to get her alone to make love. When he did, she’d leave the lights on. Ha! What he’d see would devastate him, and in a good way.
And she’d see him. She’d see Jeff’s naked body. How did she feel about that?
Jeff hadn’t passed by her cubicle that day, not once. Still, he had eight floors of PCs to look after. Perhaps he was very busy. Perhaps he’d simply given up on her. She had to face that possibility. What if Jeff took up with Shirley?
Constance had a quick flash of her ex entwined with her new best friend, two lithe and lovely young bodies, undulating urgently.
She hit Control 5 on her keyboard and brought the Andrew’s Aircraft queue up. The screen was a bit misty but then she blinked and it cleared.
Constance pulled her cotton nightdress over her head and down as far as her hips. She paused. Why did she have to wear that ugly old thing? Modesty? Hadn’t she shed that? She yanked the offending garment up and off, tossed it into a corner, scurried into bed and slid deep under the covers.
Why the rush? So she wouldn’t see herself bare? Was that how it was going to be? A constant battle between her newfound pride in her body and all those sad years of puritanical conditioning? She was not ashamed of looking at her own body, and she would prove it.
She always had a penlight under her pillow, just in case she had to get up in the night. Constance snuggled down with her knees up, making a tent out of her bedclothes, and turned the light on. The bulb was actinic, and gave a blue-tinted light that washed the colour of her skin out. The pinkness had disappeared, leaving her very white. It made her breasts look as if they had been sculpted out of pure snow. She cupped her left breast. It was soft but resilient, and very warm, almost feverish. Her nipple wasn’t soft, though. It was quite hard. When she squeezed it between two fingers, it felt like rubber. A harder pinch made her gasp. A little tug drew pangs of pleasure from deep inside.
Jeff would have killed to watch her play with herself. He’d asked her for that but of course she couldn’t do it for him, not back then. Now?
Even stimulated, her nipple was still snow-white in the flashlight’s light. Somehow, it looked a bit evil – like the skin of a girl vampire in a movie.
She’d noticed that effect long before, though not in an appreciative way. She and her cousin Sarah had told each other ghost stories by the light of that bulb, shining it up under their chins to make themselves look scary. Once, Constance remembered, Sarah had put the bulb inside her mouth so that the light showed through her cheeks.
There was a thought. What would it look like glowing through the skin of her …?
Constance tucked her pillow up to elevate her head. Her knees came up higher and spread wide. Two very decadent fingers parted the lips of her sex. The lens of her penlight slipped in easily, as if she’d been lubricating. Perhaps she had. She pinched her lips closed just below the lens.
How pretty it looked!
Her skin was glowing from within her body, glowing pink now, not white. Her flesh must have filtered the ultra-violet out. She moved the light. The glow followed suit. She pushed it deeper. The glow faded, then brightened as she pulled it back. And faded. And brightened. And … and … and …
Look at me, Jeff! Watch me fuck myself with a penlight! Look at me. I’m going to get there. I am. I am. I’m so close … I’m …
That’d been nice. It wasn’t quite like when Jeff had done it to her with his fingers, cock or tongue, but it was still very pleasant. That was an interesting lesson. While she waited to get back with Jeff there were ways she could cope with her growing need. She’d known that some girls got themselves off with their fingers, of course, and she’d try that, now that she was bad, like other girls, but she’d never considered using things.
Wouldn’t Jeff be surprised when she let him watch as she diddled herself with a penlight!
For the fourth time that Saturday morning, Shirley shook her head and told Constance, ‘I don’t think so.’
Constance pouted. ‘Why not? Doesn’t it look good on me?’
‘It looks great. Very sexy.’
‘Then?’ Constance checked herself in the boutique’s mirror. She’d never gone for a ‘tailored’ look before but it certainly worked for her. The minute she’d seen the trim little black-with-white-pinstripes suit in the window she’d known she had to have it.
‘The skirt, for a start,’ Shirley told her. ‘It only just covers the tops of your stockings, and then there’s a slit another three inches higher. The fit, for another thing. It really emphasises your shape.’
‘It looks like what it is, Connie, a whore’s version of a business suit. It’s “business” all right, but not the sort of business we’re in.’ She paused, looking thoughtful. ‘Connie, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that.’
‘You know I support you coming out of your shell, a hundred per cent. You’ve transformed yourself and I’m proud of you.’
‘With your help.’
‘Yeah, well, maybe too much of my help.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘You don’t go out at night, not to clubs or the like, and the sorts of things you’ve been buying lately are designed for night-time wear. They might be a bit too sexy even for singles bars, unless you want to give people the wrong idea.’ She bit her lower lip. ‘What I’m saying is, there’s talk around the office. You might have crossed the line in some people’s eyes.’
‘Crossed what line?’
‘The one between “classy-but-sexy” and “scorching”. Not that you look cheap, far from it. You look great – great enough that when you go to the water cooler, every man on our floor suddenly gets thirsty. How many of them have asked you out?’
‘A few,’ Constance confessed.
‘But you’ve turned them all down? If you went on dates to clubs you’d have a chance to show off all you wanted.’
‘I don’t know if I’m ready for clubs and dates yet.’
‘Still carrying a torch for Jeff?’
‘It’s hard to explain.’
‘You want the men to look but not touch, is that it?’
‘Shirley, the old me, she isn’t exactly dead yet. There’s still a bit of a puritan inside me. The way I am now, well, I could pull back if I had to, retreat into who I used to be, dressed the way I used to dress. On the other hand, if I got into a relationship the way I am now, that’d make the new me the real me and bury the old me for ever. I’d be burning my bridges. Does that make sense?’
‘Do I understand your words? Yes. Do those words make sense? No.’
‘Well, I’m buying this suit, anyway.’
‘But not to wear for the office, please?’
‘Connie, you know what you need, apart from getting fucked good and hard and often?’
‘No, what do I need?’
‘To give the new Connie a test-run. See if you like her well enough to live with her, and without the old you.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Find yourself a place to go where no one knows who you used to be. Be your new self there, complete with steamy relationships, if the right guys come along. Then, if it doesn’t work out for you, you can retreat back here, where I’ll be waiting to help keep you on an even keel.’
‘That sounds complicated.’
‘Nonsense! Next long weekend, take a mini-vacation somewhere where there’s lots of action. That might be all you need to sort yourself out.’
‘What if I fall for some guy who lives a hundred miles away?’
‘That’s something we’ll just have to deal with if and when it happens. One problem at a time, please, but if it does happen, ask him if he’s got a friend for me, right?’
* * *
On the following Monday morning, Constance got a call from Mrs Carey in HR. ‘Connie, I’m making up the vacation schedules.’
‘You didn’t take a single day last year, nor the year before.’
‘You’ll have accumulated eight weeks, come June the fifteenth.’
‘You’re entitled. If you decided to take it all at once, it’d really make things difficult for me.’
‘Sorry about that.’
‘So, you have to use some of it up, soon, like two weeks starting almost immediately.’
‘I’m telling you that you have to take time off, and you’re upset?’
‘Good, then I’ll pencil you in to be off for two weeks, starting Monday next, right?’
‘Oh.’ Was it fate? Two whole weeks, in another place, a place where no one knew her? That was exactly the medicine that Shirley had prescribed, except for the size of the dose.
Constance picked up the phone and got an outside line. Forty minutes later, she was booked for two weeks at Gran Playa Aphrodite, an all-inclusive, adults-only resort on the north coast of the Dominican Republic. Now she’d have to do some serious shopping. The one swimsuit she owned had a Peter Pan collar, legs and sleeves. It had just been worn for her ‘girls only’ segregated swimming lessons. Somehow, she didn’t think it’d go down so well in the Caribbean, particularly the pattern of yellow duckies.
When she alighted from her plane it was dark out. The air was as warm as fresh-squeezed milk. The airport was all grass huts and exotic plants, though the huts had been built out of two-foot-thick timbers that were held together by massive steel bolts.
A trio of pretty girls in flowery dresses greeted the passengers with weary ‘Ola’s and a few desultory dance steps. Well, it was eleven at night. There’d been headwinds. They were three hours late. The travellers were whisked through customs and into an open area that had buses parked around its perimeter. Hers was clearly labelled. Just twenty minutes after she’d landed, her bus was tunnelling its way between dark green walls of dense foliage. Constance caught glimpses of distant gas stations and fizzing neon signs but for most of the following hour it was just gigantic leaves brushing at the sides and roof of the bus and sharp turns taken too quickly. Then there was an open gateway that would have accommodated King Kong, and she was there, at the resort, in the place where she’d be free to explore her own immodesty to her heart’s content – but not until after a good night’s sleep and a long hot shower.
Once she’d booked in, a good-looking man in black short-shorts and a white T-shirt loaded her luggage onto a golf cart and whisked her along a many-curved driveway to her room on the ground floor of a three-storey modern pink-brick building. Constance tried to listen while he explained the mysteries of the air conditioning and so on to her. By the time he was done, she only had the energy to wash quickly and crawl into bed stark naked, for just the second time in her young life.
Constance was woken by happy squeals and splashes. The dappling of light on her ceiling told her there was brilliant sunshine and moving waves just a few feet beyond her gauze-draped French windows.
It was all waiting for her – people with admiring lascivious eyes – perhaps romance – certainly some sort of adventure.
And she was terrified.
Of course, she didn’t have to expose herself to risk and potentially to shame. The room had everything: a lovely onyx-tiled bathroom, a king-sized bed (for one?), a minibar and room service. There were likely to be some English-language programmes available on the 50-inch flat-screen TV. If she decided to chicken out, she could stay in her room for her two weeks, resting, just being idle. If courage came to her tomorrow, she could venture out then. If she never summoned the nerve, well, no one would know or care that she’d been a coward. She could lie to Shirley, make up tales of all sorts of wild adventures.
And her mother would have won. That was a sickening thought.
One step at a time, she told herself. Just do what comes naturally first, then see where that leads. Don’t think ahead. Don’t look behind. It was still morning, just. In the morning, she always got up and had a shower. So that’s where she’d start.
Constance hadn’t noticed it the night before but the air in the bathroom was scented. The shower itself was adjustable in a dozen different ways. She luxuriated, which isn’t the same as procrastinating. When she washed her intimate parts, Constance made a conscious effort not to avert her eyes.
As she stepped out, she remembered that the resort had hung a fluffy white robe on the bathroom door for her, on the outside. She could always wrap herself in a bath towel, but the robe was only a door away. She opened it.
‘So sorry, Miss. Housekeeping. You didn’t hear me?’
Constance reached to snatch the robe from its hook but the maid beat her to it and held it out to help her on with. Hoping that her flush from the hot water concealed her blushes, Constance braced herself and fumbled for the sleeves. There was no way for the girl to know that this was the first time since her adolescence that another human being had seen her stark naked.
‘You very pretty.’ There was admiration in the young woman’s eyes, perhaps more.
‘Thanks for that, as well. You’re very – kind.’ She couldn’t very well return the compliment. The girl was quite plain and very thin. She had virtually no bust, but her nipples were very prominent under her clinging white T-shirt. Perhaps Constance should compliment her on them? She had to suppress a giggle at her own thought.
‘Anything you need, Miss?’
‘No, thank you. I’m Connie. You?’
‘Thank you, Maria.’
‘See?’ Maria pointed to a heart-shaped do-not-disturb sign lying on the credenza. ‘For when …’
‘No problem, Miss Connie.’
Constance’s tummy rumbled, making her decision about what to do next for her.
For her first foray into the tropical world, Constance chose a beige playsuit. The fitted top had cap-sleeves and came down to about three inches below her bust. The shorts had four-inch legs and rose to a bare inch above her navel. She’d be exposing five or so daring inches of her bare midriff. Might as well jump right in!
There was a ‘train station’ grass hut about fifty feet from her building’s front door. There was a train already waiting. It consisted of an oversized golf-cart and a string of half a dozen two- and four-seater carriages with open sides and a brilliant yellow canvas roof.
The uniformed girl driver greeted Connie with ‘Ola’ and pulled away as soon as she was on board. Connie was the only passenger apart from a couple in the last carriage who were far too wrapped up in each other’s limbs to be aware that Connie had got on. Even from the far end of the train, she could hear the noises their voracious mouths were making. She focused on the scenery ahead but that didn’t block out the wet sounds. Connie squirmed, not quite sure of how she felt about the public display of sexuality.
The buffet building had windows that were three floors high. A dark Hispanic man was replacing a display menu. A sign announced, ‘Cover-up Zone’.
Oh hell! Was she underdressed?
Connie asked the man, ‘Excuse me?’ She made a gesture at her own outfit. ‘Am I covered up enough?’
A slow grin spread across his face. ‘No problem there, Miss. You plenty covered.’
That was a relief. She went into the dim room and was led to a table for two near the perimeter of the room, facing inwards. There was only a scattering of late breakfasters or early lunch patrons. Although the hot breakfast bar looked as if it was in the process of closing down, a cheerful server helped her heap a plate with scrambled eggs, bacon, sausages and home fries, plus a toasted bagel with butter and raspberry jam on the side. Constance was hungry.
She was halfway through her feast when a woman passed her on the way to the dessert station. The newcomer’s raffia wedges clattered on the tile floor. Constance looked up. The woman’s top was a poncho-style square of marmalade-coloured gauze. From the back, it was hard to see if she wore anything else. If she had the bottom half of a swimsuit on, there had to be very little of it. Constance could see every twitch of the woman’s lean hips through it. Fascinated, she watched as the woman served herself and turned back. Yes, there was a minute triangle of orange fabric covering her pubic mound. No, she had no bra on. The brown discs of her large nipples were plain to see.
The woman twinkled her fingertips at Constance and mouthed, ‘Ola!’
Constance swallowed before returning the greeting.
A movement off to her left caught Connie’s eye. A woman, half of a couple, had moved her leg and her skirt had parted up a slit that reached as far as her waist.
And this was a Cover-up Zone? It was very – confusing. The full implications of ‘adults-only resort’ crashed into Connie’s mind. It certainly didn’t just mean ‘no children’. She’d expected to come to a resort filled with honeymooners, retired couples and young singles, innocently or romantically disporting themselves in the sun and sea. She’d thought that her two-piece midriff-baring outfits and what she’d considered outrageously short skirts could make her the centre of attraction. If she met the right man, or even men, she’d been prepared to go beyond flirtation, perhaps. Whatever, she had anticipated being among the least modest of the vacationers …
Instead, it seemed that she’d landed herself in some sort of Sodom.
Was she sure? Well, now that the scales had fallen from her eyes, she’d soon be able to tell.
The train was idling outside. Constance said, ‘Ola’ and hopped on. The motor’s hum deepened and they were away. There were people waiting outside the small casino, the women dressed in everything from beachwear to tropical styled cocktail dresses but nothing actually shocking.
But the players on the tennis courts were topless, both the men and the women. A redhead stopped a serve with her left breast. Her giggling companions, of both sexes, vied to be the ones to kiss her hurt better. Hm.
The train got to the beach. Connie alighted. The snack bar, about 5,000 square thatched-roof feet of it, had the cover-up sign but half the women inside were topless. Apparently the rules slackened closer to the waves.
The beach was dotted with small tables, umbrellas and loungers, all facing the ocean. Next to the boardwalk there was a row of showers with frosted glass walls and doors. There were bins for used towels and racks for fresh ones. The Aphrodite couldn’t be faulted for the way it catered to its guests.
Connie trudged through sand as fine and white as sugar. She glanced down at the lounger she passed. Oh! The man sprawled asleep in it had a crumpled newspaper draped across his hairy chest but he was bare from his navel down, very bare and very large, curled like a gigantic snail out of its shell.
Connie focused straight ahead. Volleyball. Nude volleyball. The women bounced and jiggled. The men swayed like rope pendulums. Well, that settled that. Sodom it was! She’d come here intending to shock the other vacationers but it was she who was being scandalised. What next? As she made her way back towards the station, Connie considered her options. She could retreat. That would mean hiding in her room. Or she could just hang out, keeping herself to herself. In the clothing she had with her, she’d be invisible anyway. She could do her best with her wardrobe. Going topless wouldn’t be so hard, not when most of the other women were also showing off their boobs, as Jeff called them. That way, she might just be able to blend in.
That was funny. She’d have to show her boobs off so as not to be noticed.
But blending in wasn’t what she’d come for. She was there to be daring – the cynosure of all eyes. The third alternative would be to find some way to stand out from all the other women and become the Queen of Gomorrah.
‘I want to see the sexiest outfits that you have in stock, please,’ Constance blurted.
An exotic-looking girl stepped from behind the counter and grinned. ‘Right on, sister! Sounds like fun.’ Her hair was blue-black, obviously dyed. Her features were oriental, Chinese or Korean, Constance thought, but she had enormous luminous eyes and a red dot painted in the middle of her forehead. More, she was wearing a glittering metallic green and gold sari, but a very short one – just above mid-thigh – and four-inch heels. Just to complete Connie’s confusion, her accent was flat New York with no affect – the vocal equivalent of dead-pan.
‘You wanna stand out in the crowd, right? I can dig it.’
‘Can you help me?’
‘You see the problem there, right?’
‘You’re cute, very cute, and you’ve got yourself a killer little bod there. Anywhere else all you’d need do is flash some skin to get mobbed by suitors of a variety of sexual persuasions. Here, though, the main competition is a lot of pretty girls and handsome women. Their outfits range from tiny to nil. You might get noticed if you dressed up like a Las Vegas showgirl and hired your own band, but that’d seem a bit needy, doncha think? And wearing all those feathers would be a bit of a drag, if you’ll forgive the pun.’
Constance grinned agreement.
The girl continued, ‘You been down to the beach yet?’
‘Lots of naked girls and women there?’
‘Were they being stared at?’
‘Being nude is like “all done”. They’ve arrived where they were going. After a girl’s naked, there’s nothing more to look forward to. Strippers undress on stage. They don’t come out already bare, right? It’s the peeling that’s sexy.’
‘You think I should put on a strip-show?’
‘Nah. That’d be over sooner or later. What you want is to look like you’re doing a strip, or you’re just about to.’
‘I still don’t get it.’
‘You wanted to know what the sexiest thing I got for sale is?’
‘It’s this.’ She reached down a glass vial full of a clear liquid.
‘No. It’s called “Strip-Tack”. Exotic dancers use it.’ She picked up a length of fabric that looked as if it’d been sewn out of pale green fog. ‘Watch.’ Deft fingers dabbed a tiny droplet onto one corner of the scarf. She touched that corner to her wrist and let go. The scarf hung. ‘Pull it off.’
Constance tugged. The fabric pulled on the girl’s skin but it didn’t come free.
‘Now peel it.’
Constance got a nail under a corner and peeled the fabric away easily. ‘I see the possibilities!’
‘Good for you! I’m Tina, by the way.’
‘Constance – Connie.’
‘So you see the possibilities, huh, Connie? Now try this on.’ She took a little black dress from a rack. ‘That should fit you.’
There was a changing room, which, considering how casual everyone was about nudity, seemed quite strange, but Connie used it. From the waist down the dress was flouncy layers of fine black net. Above the waist, it had no back or sides at all, just a black satin ‘M’ that had points that reached just high enough to barely cover Connie’s nipples. It was held up by a spaghetti strap that looped behind her neck. From the front it was provocative. From the side it was very close to indecent – sexier, Connie realised, than topless would have been.
‘You like the look?’ Tina asked her.
‘That’s what you wanted, right. Now try it like this.’
The spaghetti strap was fastened to the bodice by a pair of tiny hooks and fabric loops. Tina inserted two fingers between the dress and Connie’s left nipple.
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