She walked into a little boutique inside the Omni Hotel, looking for a dress to wear that evening when she went with Paul to his club and to a show. She went to the rack on her left, flipped one dress after another, made a face, and walked to another rack, deeper in the store.
“May I help you?” A young shop girl with tight uplifted breasts, in a low cut gown, smiled at her. Linda thought of her own breasts, and thought them too small. She wore a size three dress, and wondered how Paul saw anything about her physically exciting, if indeed he found her physically exciting. With his reserve she wondered.
“No, I’m just looking,” Linda said aloud.
“Let me know if you need any help,” said the shop girl with the bright smile and large breasts. Then she shop girl walked back to her counter and read from a magazine.
Linda looked again at the dresses hanging on their racks. Her hand would slip between them, move them. Do I have shoes to match? Are the colors right for my eyes, my hair? Is it well made? What is the price?
She picked two off the rack, and walked towards the dressing room near the counter and the smiling shop girl. Out of the corner of her eyes she saw a white dress and glanced at its size, nodding to herself. She stopped, reached out for the dress.
It was made of pure silk, a “nothing” sort of dress, with a neck line cut modestly low, sleeveless, with spaghetti straps. She held it up to herself, and saw that it would need no alteration. Linda could not afford it, not with her part time job and the money her father sent her each month for school, but still, it would be fun to try it on, to see herself wearing the dress.
In the dressing room she slipped her sweater over her head, took off her jeans and stood in her pants and bra, looking at herself, briefly, in the mirror of the stall. She felt disappointed with her body. Her body appeared so small to her, so flat. She took the white silk dress and slipped it over her head. She stood admiring herself in the mirror.
It worked.
It almost worked.
The lines of her bra, and the lines of her pants, were clear beneath the thin silk. She would need to wear it braless. She reached behind herself, unhooked her bra, slipped it off and then zipped back up the dress.
Her nipples became erect from the soft caressing silk brushing against them. Her small and sensitive breasts felt the silk, delighted in the feelings of smoothness and tactile pleasure. She loved the feeling of the dress. She loved the look of the dress.
Wicked thoughts seduced her imagination. She thought of herself wearing the dress with her nipples erect. She thought of herself wearing the dress without pants and watching Paul react to her wearing such a dress, modestly revealing her body to him. Perhaps he would react to her. Perhaps he would step out of his suit of good manners and allow his passion to replace his composure.
She had to have the dress.
She looked again at the tag, and pressed her lips together.
“Yes,” for dinner with Paul, and a show, and maybe something special after the show. “Yes.”
She had shoes, simple flats. She had jewelry, a necklace of fine pearls, and matching earrings. She could make the dress work.
“Yes,” for dinner with Paul, and a show, and maybe something special after the show. “Yes.
She turned, looked at the way the dress fell against her bottom. The dress was gathered tightly against her waist and hips. She looked at how the dress flared from beneath her hips, slightly snuggled against her thighs, and then fell in unpressed folds to her feet.
Finally she took off the dress. She was running late. Paul would collect her at six. He possessed the maddening habit of being always exactly on time. Paul lived in a metronome world, each tick exactly timed, the cadence of each movement, each word, precisely correct.
She walked into her small apartment, and kicked the door shut with her foot. She glanced at Grandmother’s clock on her mantel, then swore quietly beneath her breath. She was late, and she knew how Paul hated for her to be late. He had reservations, and they must not be disturbed.
She dropped her parcels on her bed. She slipped off her sweater and tossed towards the corner of her room reserved for clothes not so dirty they could not be worn again. A pair of jeans lay there, a white blouse, another sweater. She walked into her bathroom, ran the tap, brushed back her hair, kicked off her flats, quickly slipped out of her jeans and pants, and tossed her dirties into a basket beneath the sink. She showered quickly, taking the time to shave her legs carefully, and to shave beneath her arms. She brushed her hair when she was done with her shower, applied some lipstick, some modest eye shadow, then walked into her bedroom and touched her dress upon her bed.
She put it on and looked at herself in the Victorian mirror near her wardrobe.
She smiled to herself.
“Yes,” she thought. “Yes.”
She delighted in the way the dress fell over her tiny breasts, caressed them, exciting them with the smoothness of the silk. Again her nipples rose, and she giggled.
She turned, looked over her shoulder at the back of the dress. She could see how the fabric fell against her bottom, molded itself to her bottom. The feeling of the silk against the flesh of her bottom excited her, pleased her. She turned back around, smiled, almost laughed.
“Won’t Paul get a charge from this?” she thought to herself. “Bottomless beneath my dress. Wouldn’t his Mother be thrilled?” She laughed some more, feeling embarrassed and excited at the thought of wearing nothing beneath her dress, of attacking Paul’s composure with her small body. The silk of her dress touched her body, seduced her body. The smoothness of the silk delighted her body.
She went to her vanity and found her pearls, her earrings. She looked in her wardrobe and discarded the idea of wearing her white flats. She would need hose with them, and she would not ware hose beneath the dress. She chose some white sandals instead, bent over, strapped them on. She looked up at the clock beside her bed. Paul would knock on the door any moment now, and she was ready, except for packing her handbag.
She stood up and walked towards the mirror.
The light through her bedroom window showed through the sheer fabric of the dress. There, in her most private place, a dark triangle shone through. The dress molded itself to her curls, and the thin silk defined her curls. She stood looking at the Victorian mirror, and her mouth fell open slightly. Tears of frustration formed at the corner of her eyes.
“Ah, damn it!” she yelled.
She looked at the clock and saw she had no time to change her wardrobe. Tears threatened her makeup.
“Ah, damn it!” she yelled again, louder.
She needed to wear her dress without pants or hose. She needed the affect it would have upon Paul. She wanted Paul to sit at his club, and sit at the show, and all the time think of her in her dress. She wanted to use her dress to fracture his granite composure.
She looked again at herself, and her lips pressed together in a tight thin line. Linda would not have her dream denied. She took a deep breath, one of anger, one of determination. Then Linda reached behind herself, unzipped her dress, and let it fall to the floor beside her mirror. She walked back to her bathroom and found her razor.
Paul rang twice, then glanced at his watch. He was running late, and he hoped she would not delay them further. His reservations at the club were for six. The show started promptly at seven thirty. They hadn’t much time.
Her door opened.
Paul stood back and looked at her.
She looked, remarkable. She wore a white something, with thin straps, that seemed to mold itself to her tiny body. The fabric flowed over her breasts, outlining their smallness, their perfection. He saw a hint of nipple beneath the fabric of the dress, and his eyebrows rose slightly. He had never seen Linda dress in so daring a fashion.
He admitted to himself he enjoyed the effect. “Are we ready?” he asked.
“Except for my handbag, won’t take but a second.” She answered.
She let Paul into her apartment, and offered him a chair, as she spilled the contents of her purse onto her table, selected those things she needed for the evening. Then she stood up.
Paul looked at her as she stood beside her only table.
The fabric of the white dress seemed to mold itself to her body. He looked at her breasts, and smiled at how obvious it was she wore no bra beneath her dress. He looked at her legs. With the light coming from the kitchen window, and casting exactly the right shadow, he could see clearly the outline of her legs covered in white silk. He looked at her intently, and saw, through some strange trick of shadow, a fold, a cleft, a line, there, between her legs. The white fabric seemed to hug to her, to mold to her.
“Surely not,” he thought to himself. His thought was defensive, and beneath it lay a second thought, a thought he was not prepared to think, a thought which disturbed his perfectly ordered sense of place. “Surely not,” he told himself more firmly, knowing, knowing absolutely, he was lying to himself.
“Are we ready now?” he asked.
“All ready.”
Paul stood up, smiled his very best smile, for surely she deserved his very best smile, and reached out to her. His hand found her waist, and he brought her close, and her face tilted upwards for a kiss. His hand moved downward from her waist, across the tightness of her bottom, and he felt the curves of her body, the tightness, the smoothness.
He could lie to himself no longer. He broke the kiss and stepped back from her. “What, what are you wearing beneath your dress?”
She took his hand and she smiled a certain sort of smile he had never seen her smile before. “Not a damn thing. Come on now, we shall be late.”
He allowed himself to be led from her studio apartment.
They rode in his Jaguar from her room to his club. He noticed the looks Linda received from Anna at the front desk of his club. They waited only moments before being led into the dining room. A waiter came, took their orders for drinks then left for the bar. Paul looked at her, looked at how the white silk outlined her nipples. He felt passion invade his stoic interior, creating a warmth through his body. He wondered if she felt the same warmth inside her body. Her nipples were erect suggesting she might be cold, but it seemed unusually warm in the club. He doubted she was cold.
“I like your dress, Linda.” He said.
“Thank you.” She said.
She smiled at him. Her smile was thin, predatory. He enjoyed the thought of being her game.
“What time is the show?” she asked.
“Seven thirty.” He replied.
The waiter came with their drinks, and slowly put them down, spending an extra second admiring Linda’s dress, her breasts.
They talked about several things over dinner, his work, her college, Southern Politics. She had the lamb, he the pork roast. When they were done he signed his card, and rose, and helped her from her seat, looking secretly at her dress to insure she had spilled nothing upon it, and was pleased when he saw the dress was still virginal white, unblemished.
He sat beside her in the Church Street Theater, only vaguely noticing the show. They had gone to see A little Night Music. He thought the play mostly dull, the songs uninspired. He sat beside Linda, occasionally looking down and noticing how the white silk of her dress formed exactly to the curves of her thighs, to the valley between her legs. He noticed the faintest hint of shadow, the slightest suggestion of shape and form between her legs, a shadow, a form of the valley between every woman’s legs.
The suggestion of that valley, the knowledge she wore nothing beneath her dress maddened him. He wished to leave the theater and go to her studio apartment and, and, and. . .
The fantasy eluded him.
He would not think himself a rapist.
Still . . .
The play ended, and they stood, and he led her from the theater, and drove to her apartment at sixty eight Wentworth Street.
As they walked up the two flights of stairs towards her door Paul placed his hand about her waist, and she snuggled her head against his shoulder. She felt the strength of him, and she smiled to herself. Paul was strong, in all the ways a man could be strong. He never allowed himself the faintest hint of weakness, not in his body, not in his view of the world, not in his conduct. His strength attracted her, and infuriated her. She measured her own strength against his strength, and found she had too little. She wanted her own strength, her own measure of power, her own place where she might have control.
They arrived at her apartment, and she stepped aside to fetch the key from her handbag and opened her door, inviting him into her room with a smile and a motion of her hand.
“Would you like a drink, Paul?” she asked.
“Yes, please. Gin and bitters, if you have it.” He answered.
She nodded and walked to her cabinet, turning on but one light as she went. She poured the gin, added a few drops of bitters and turned and walked towards him, the dress moving against her legs, and between her thighs, and caressing her legs with fingers of silk.
Paul looked up at her. The single light in the flat cast shadows about the room, cast shadows across her dress. He could see clearly now, in the dim light of the flat, assisted by the shadows, every curve of her body, every fold, every line. His eyes fell downwards from her breasts to her waist, and to below her waist, and saw, clearly saw, the outline of her sex against the white silk and the gray shadows.
Paul accepted the drink, took a sip, then set down his drink. Then he stood and took Linda’s face in his large hands and kissed her, openly, upon the lips.
Linda felt a moment of shock, of confusion. Paul’s kiss was unlike his other kisses. His kiss suggested need, and Paul never suggested need, not of her person, not of her sex. His arms came around her, and pulled her into him. She felt her body flow into his body. She felt the passion of his kiss, the warmth of his body, the erection beneath his gray flannel slacks. She felt her own need rising, demanding. She felt her own body respond as Paul’s body responded. Linda felt need overtake her. Her need was not entirely sexual. She needed for Paul to respond to her. She needed the power of stealing Paul’s self control.
His hand came to her breast, and he squeezed her breast too tightly, his fingertips pushing into her flesh. Linda took a deep and sudden breath, and put her hand over his hand, so that he might not remove his hand from her breast.
Then Paul lifted Linda into his arms, and carried her to her room, and dropped her upon her bed, falling upon the bed beside her. He did not remove his shoes.
“Yes!” she screamed in her mind. And then again, “Yes!”
For Paul was not making love to her, not holding her gently, and gently touching her, and slowly arousing her. Now he demanded her. His hand pushed up her dress, and his hand separated her legs. He pulled down the top of her dress with his teeth, and kissed and sucked her breasts.
“Yes!” she screamed in her mind, for Paul had lost. The game was hers.
She stood, walked to her bathroom, and slipped out of her dress. She hung it carefully over the shower curtain rail, then brushed her teeth, brushed her hair, removed her makeup. She sponged herself with a wet was cloth, then turned out the light and walked back to her room. She thought of going to her dresser to fetch a gown, then decided against it. She looked at Paul, spent, asleep in her bed, his body resting upon his side. She heard his gentle snoring. Linda smiled.
She slipped into bed, sliding her body next to his body. She felt his warmth, the smoothness of his flesh against her flesh. His flesh felt different from the silk, not as arousing. She smiled.
She would wear the dress again, when Paul invited her to some event where she might wear the dress. She would watch as men admired her. She would feel Paul beside her responding as every other man responded. She would let Paul respond, and tease him, and arouse him, and have her measure of control over his control, over her own life.
She saw in the bathroom, for she had not closed the bathroom door, her dress hanging lifeless from the shower curtain rail. Her eyes focused on her dress. She spent too much money upon the dress. She would eat tuna the rest of the month. She would eat tuna and drink tea, and think of her white silk dress and her power over Paul.