Erotika:Bedtime Stories

"What do you think?" Naomi asked, turning to look at herself in the three-way mirror.

"It looks amazing on you. It Should. It's Dior, you know," Liz fluttered her hand in a feigned air of opulance, "You owe me big for this. I could really get fired."

"I know. I promise I will have it back by tomorrow."

"Please, please have it back by tomorrow. Girl, these dresses are so expensive it's like..." she trailed off.

"Yeah. I Know." Naomi was looking at herself. The dress was short and radiated with gold. One shoulder was covered with a tailored sleeve and the other was open with a strap. It was designed for a thin model without Naomi's voluptuous curves, and she was spilling out enticingly.

"Caliente," Liz commented, "That dress is lethal. I wish I had your legs, too, how much have you been working out?"

"A little more," Naomi lied, "I really like it. It does look really good." She avoided Liz's insistent stare.

"Aren't you going to tell me why you need a $2,100 dress for one night? I'm not letting you take it unless you tell me."

"I have a date with a very rich man."

"You are living a double life," Liz joked, unaware how close she was to the truth.

"Hey Cynthia," he greeted me as he leaned on the bar in front of me. I caught him flash his eyes down once to my cleavage.

"Hi." I leaned forward subtly to give him a better view.

"What can I get you?"

I fluttered my eyelashes. "Don't you know what I want by now?"

"No, but I'd sure love to," he answered with a wink, even as he reached down for a glass and began to make me a Rum and Coke, my drink of choice.

I almost got wet when he said that and subtly took a deep breath to contain myself. Was that an invitation? As I pondered, Tyler set my drink in front of me with a grin and headed off to another customer.

He thinks he's slick, smooth. He thinks he can seduce me. I think he needs to be taught a lesson. I think he needs to understand that you can't play women. He needs to understand that we're just as strong and sexual as men are.

Let's face it, you can't just walk up to a young lady and ask her if you can handcuff her to your hotel bed, and paying an escort wouldn't do it for me. It takes coincidence to get that to happen, coincidence and willingness.

To my surprise, she said nothing, she didn't even bat an eyelid. I have no idea whether or not she knew what had just happened. She merely sat back in her original position with her squirming toes teasingly placed underneath the cuff of my shorts, inches away from my straining member and carried on reading, albeit with a pinapple Bacardi Breezer in her right hand.

So I walked into Liz's office in my suit and fedora on that "recreation day" event, and she was sitting there, perched on the edge of her big wooden desk, carefully filing her nails. You've seen Sean Young in Blade Runner? Something like that. Ms. Peach was snugly encased in a 1940s style suit: black, complete with big shoulder pads, and very tight almost knee-length skirt. She had her own twist on the period, however, because the entire outfit was of soft leather. Very classy. Ah, that lovely white skin, ruby red lips and crimson nails...

"You know it's the mind-fuck that really gets me," he said as I bit my lower lip in anticipation of the rest of the story.

I had heard about hard over-the-knee spankings; about Dorothy measuring Mark's cock in a roomful of her friends; about her making Mark wear garters and stockings and threatening him with public exposure. Mark really seemed to be suffering, and I was getting all nice and squishy anticipating another wild tale he was going to tell me.

I have a love/hate relationship with awards shows.

I hate these things. I hate the glitz and glamour and wearing a dress that costs more than my car is worth. I hate walking a red carpet and smiling my best smile, wearing jewelry that needs its own security guard, showing off teeth whitened especially for this event, as if having my photograph taken by a bazillion photographers is going to determine the celestial course of my life.

I love these things. I love the excitement and charge of joy that sluices through the crowd. I love the way my heels sink into that carpet and the way my dress swishes expensively around my thighs. I love being blinded by flashbulbs and deafened by the roar of fans. I love this little pit stop in the celestial course of my life.

These award shows are so common nowadays. There are awards for everything, from best commercial to best album to best funny home video. For the price of fame, you can line your mantle with a golden bowl of popcorn, a record plaque or two, a statue of a little naked man encased in gold. The only thing surprising about the awards shows is that bright and shining moment of political incorrectness. The moment the trophy goes to someone who bucks tradition and the usual thank-you-to-management line.

I took pride in my political incorrectness underneath the business-like façade.

I stepped out of the limousine and took Bryon’s waiting arm. We were both dressed in black. The flashbulbs danced off the diamond at my throat. My high heels sank into the carpet. His good looks drew quite a bit of female attention from the onlookers. Strong of body and with a shy smile, Bryon looked the part of the classic heartthrob.

“Who is your date?” A photographer yelled while flashbulbs made little white spots in front of my eyes.

“He’s just a friend,” I said with an air of finality that ended the questions.

That’s when I felt it. I sucked in a sharp, startled breath. My knees went weak. I clenched his arm hard enough to leave marks with my nails. “Not here, not out on the carpet,” I whimpered.

Bryon leaned close to my ear, whispering low enough that even the most sensitive microphones couldn’t pick it up. “Just a friend, huh?”

My eyes trailed down his body…down the sleek suit, the perfectly knotted tie, the finely pressed shirt…down to his hand. Buried in his pocket. Holding the remote control to the shiny silver bullet that was buried deep between my legs. I felt another jolt and my eyes flew to his. He looked back at me with a patient smile.

“I want to meet Little Jimmy Dickens,” he said, as if nothing at all out of the ordinary was happening here. I tried hard to compose myself.

“What would you say to him?” I asked.

Bryon pondered this. I stared at the pocket of his suit. He pulled his hand out into view and I breathed a sigh of relief. We stood together and smiled warmly, posing for the photographers.

“We would place bets on how many orgasms you might have before they announce Entertainer of the Year,” he said with a grin. His hand slipped into his pocket. My wary glance brought a chuckle. “Relax, kiddo,” he whispered. “Keep up all that tension, you might have a big wet spot on that dress.”

“You would like that, wouldn’t you?” I said dryly. Bryon was my friend, but he had a wickedly evil streak running right through the gentle center. Why I had ever made that bet with him way back when, I had no idea. I didn’t even remember what the bet was. But it was damn sure I had lost, and now I was walking a red carpet with a Dior dress and a vibrating bullet.

Some things just defied all reason.


**********************************************************
This story is featured in it's entirety in the erotic fiction Anthology, 'Erotika:Bedtime Stories', available from booksellers nationally in the United States, Canada, Europe and Japan.