The Mammoth Book of Erotica presents The Best of Michael Hemmingson Page 3

  However confounding The Other Dress was to even close observation, being so black it created a very sharp silhouette against almost any background; although the eye was confused by looking directly at her, there was no confusion about her profile. This created the unusual situation of seeing more by looking past her than by looking directly at her – affording more sensuous views to the peripheral observer than those engaging in casual social intercourse.

  To look at The Other Dress and heft the fabric in your hands it appeared and felt like extra-thick hosiery material – say about three, maybe four times the density. But hosiery, of course, is made to stretch taut; this fabric looked like it should do that, but did not. Rather than being of a tight strong weave, like hosiery, this fabric had an extraordinary suppleness, giving easily to the slightest pressure. As a result, it practically melted onto her body, adapting readily to the slightest curve. We’ve all seen formfitting dresses made of Spandex-like fabrics – they tend to be fairly thick fabrics; and, although form-fitting, they also tend to smooth out certain contours like the curves under the breasts. Even though they can easily reveal an unshielded nipple, that tends to be smoothed out somewhat. Not so with this fabric. Somehow this fabric followed the contour of her breasts deep into the curves on the underside; nearly invisible when you looked directly at them, in profile the silhouetted shape of her breasts was as plain as if she were standing nude, right down to the full detail of her nipples and areolae. The only contours of her body missed were between her legs. Even the cleft of her buttocks got resolved to some degree, almost in defiance of the laws of physics. This visual definition was aided by the fact that this is the one place where there is enough stretch in the fabric to create a little extra transparency, so the globes of her buttocks showed slightly less black than the cleft, creating an illusion of deeper penetration into the cleft. It is not obvious – of course, that is what is going on. I could well imagine someone studying her shape from behind and slowly coming to this comprehension: they are actually seeing the bare skin of her ass; and then following the lines of the dress up and down from there to gradually apprehend she is standing there completely naked except for this wispy-thin second skin. The bottom line is: this fabric almost disappeared, coating her body like flat black paint. It felt that way to touch; it felt like nothing at all.

  So where could she wear this dress? This was not something to don for a casual night out, like most of what I got her. It was too formal-looking. But: it was the kind of thing to wear for more ceremonious nights out, such as going to the theater, opera, or ballet. Imagine it – moving about practically naked yet fully clothed among the high-brow set in their gowns and furs and tails. Walking in and out of the glare of street lights, moving from the twilight of early evening into the bright light of the theater lobby, and again into the twilight of the main hall for the show; milling through crowds of hundreds at intermission, brushing closely with men and women alike left wondering, who was that barely masked woman?

  Thinking only about dress length, Ashley suggested maybe she should wear The Other Dress to the big party rather than The Dress. I thought otherwise. Although The Dress was devastatingly short, it was just short, and by being short only threatened to reveal forbidden fruits; decorum could be maintained by giving care to her posture and revealing only as much or as little as she wished, and only when she wished. On the other hand, The Other Dress, although covering her from neck to ankle, was actually more revealing once you were hit by its full impact, and no amount of tugging at hemlines or demure positioning could undo that revelation. Despite its much greater length. The Other Dress left very little hidden and nowhere to hide it. In the course of a long evening among friends and co-workers, as the big party promised to be, there could be little doubt that everyone would discover the barely hidden truth by the time the night was over. There was also the strong possibility that someone other than myself would ask her to dance.

  It would be apparent enough to anyone dancing with her in The Dress that she was braless and wearing very little indeed, but anyone who’d dance with her in The Other Dress would be treated to the marvelous but scandalous tactile illusion of holding her naked.

  I didn’t think the publishing company crowd was ready for that.

  White And Flouncy

  I had also bought her a short, white and flouncy one-piece dress made of a light sweater-like material that was mostly opaque but had just enough sheerness to make you wonder if you really saw what you thought you saw. It hung on her loosely by itself, and was made to be belted at the waist. This belting created a skirt portion that followed the contours of her hips rather well and then fell loosely, ending a little above mid-thigh.

  On the particular night she first wore it, she was meeting me at a designated restaurant after work, and we were then just going to wander the mall, hitting a couple of clothing shops. She arrived at the restaurant, not realizing she had forgotten the belt; the belt actually helped the dress behave itself. Without the belt, it tended to slide around in ways that one might not anticipate, and, by allowing the dress to hang away from her body more than was intended, allowed the ambient light to play with the sheerness of the fabric and show more of the shadowy outline of her body underneath. Under optimal conditions of lighting and position, more underlying detail could be seen now and then.

  Of course, I enjoyed this very much. After dinner, as we walked through the mall, she found she’d brought the wrong shoes; the ones she wore hurt her feet. So she kicked them off and we carried them in a shopping bag. So there she was, wearing a moderately sheer white flouncy dress, little more than a T-shirt in size, and nothing else, padding around barefoot in the most public of places. The mall was interesting, too, in having spots that had particularly strong lighting in which she looked practically nude, at least in silhouette. Having no undergarments for modesty, trying on outfits proved interesting as she modeled them in the generally bright light of the dressing areas of various shops.

  Just as the night was ending for us, we came across a once-a-year shoe sale at an upscale store and, being in need of good quality shoes, she decided to try it out.

  Now, I quickly put two and two together, realizing the exhibition potential of this situation: Ashley in a very short flimsy thing without underwear, trying on shoes with some salesman in position to get an eyeful; and, without the belt, her dress shifting about somewhat unpredictably . . .

  I hung out some fifteen feet in front of her, in position to catch a piece of whatever display she might present. Sure enough, after picking out a few pairs to try on, she sat down on one of those little stools and brought up one foot, letting a knee fall wide to one side. As a result, her dress slid to where the hemline was no longer on her leg but in her lap. Her cunt was visible not only to the salesman on his knees, but just about anyone within ten feet or so to either side of where I stood. She didn’t appear to grasp this and finished putting that shoe on; she stood up and walked around a bit, sat down again, and went through exactly the same motions with the next pair of shoes. Easily half a dozen times she got up and down, nonchalantly flashing cunt to half the shoe department.

  She ended up not finding any shoes she wanted to buy. I don’t think the salesman minded.

  She didn’t act like she knew what she had done.

  We went home and had dinner and I told her about it.

  Ashley blushed and said, “You could see my pussy?”

  “Of course,” I said.

  “The salesman saw it?”

  “I’m sure he did,” I said. “You had to know this.”

  “All I could think about were my aching feet,” she said. I nodded.

  “But it was in the back of my mind.” She smiled.

  I nodded and said, “I had this scenario in my head. Maybe I’m not there. The two of you are alone. You’re flashing him your cunt. He loses control. He grabs you, starts to eat your cunt out. Right there in the middle of the store. You don’t care, because you’re caught up in t
he heat of the situation. He makes you come. He stands; his cock is out, in front of your face. He says, “Suck me.” You take him. He comes all over your face, scooping his come onto his fingers, making you lick his fingers clean.”

  Ashley took in a deep breath. She said, “Would you like to see me with another man?”

  “I think about these things,” I said.

  “You would watch?”

  “I’d watch,” I said, “because I like to watch things.”

  “We did say we’d try everything,” she said. “I wouldn’t mind seeing you – watching you – with another woman,” she said.

  Unveiling The Dress

  Let your fantasies run away with you, and you’ll get in trouble.

  My wife, Ashley, and I illustrated the point.

  She was usually conservative and conscious of propriety – that she indulged me was a very deep gesture of affection on her part, and further indicated she was serious about inserting excitement and risk into our lives; something to be respected, I must say. It was easy when playing close to the line like this to trip over it, or to create situations in which the momentum of a moment may threaten to carry you across it. This was complicated by the fact that it was a moving line, a function not only of the fixed social mores of others but of both your states of mind. That’s why Nicole came into our lives as she did, and changed our lives in a way we never thought possible. But I’m getting ahead of myself. This isn’t about Nicole, not yet – but it leads up to how we met Nicole, how that line we made crossed with the lines she was making.

  There were two instances in our evening in which we blundered into this line. In neither case did anything unfortunate happen – not yet, anyway – and in each case we were in circumstances similar to those of other interludes; the difference in these two moments was in our joint constitution, and subtle miscues or misreadings of mood. Never underestimate the importance of communication, communication, and more communication.

  A small dinner party at the publisher’s house a few days before the company-wide party. I enjoyed imagining how a “trophy” wife or two in all their regalia would feel slamdunked when Ashley walked into the big party wearing The Dress. After this dinner soirée, I thought how, in this context, I was kind of a trophy husband. Considering how dolled-up Ashley was going to be, and how critical eyes would be on us all night, I took stock of my own wardrobe and realized what I had assumed I would wear, just by default, was not anywhere in the same class as The Dress. Giving it some thought, and of the more limited options open to men (a leather G-string and muscle shirt just wouldn’t cut it), I concluded I finally needed to spring for a tuxedo, something I have never owned in my life. There were several aspects to this idea that were relevant. One was simply that a tux would add an extra touch of class and glamor to my wife’s presence; which, of course, was what a good “trophy” husband should do. Another was that a tux is a stand-out kind of outfit; my dressing this way would help attract more attention to Ashley. Another, but more subtle, mien had to do with the magician’s technique for creating illusion; a magician will often use misdirection, focusing his audience’s attention one place while the real action is happening somewhere else. By wearing a tux I would (while there would be more attention to Ashley) help diffuse close scrutiny by causing attention to both of us.

  I decided to go for it, yet keep it a surprise, so I could just appear, like magic, completely decked like James Bond at his best for the night of The Big Do. (As a little surprise for her to find later, I wore a black thong under my pants instead of my usual Fruit-of-the-Looms.)

  I figured we should plan for a late arrival, so as to gain the maximum effect from our entrance; however, Ashley knew me to be an early bird by habit, and so would be expecting us to get there more or less on time. In order to defeat this expectation, I arranged to be delayed at work; I got home later than she expected. She was pretty much ready, keeping a snack warm for us to share (we would eat at the party, but that would be unusually late for us). We had our few bites together; then, as I hoped, she took to pottering around with dinner dishes while I went back to dress. This gave me the time I needed to get all put together before she would have a chance to see me.

  I was just finishing as she hollered for me to hurry my ass up. I took a position near the bedroom door where she finally saw me. Surprised, to be sure, and pleased, was she. With all the build-up for this party being focused on her, and as exposed as she felt in The Dress, she was glad to see I was going all out too. We almost fucked then and there, but that was for later.

  I must say that we looked dapper together, her all in black and silver spangles, me in the classic all-black tux, complete with bow tie, studs, cummerbund – the works. I had hoped to get her away from the house without a wrap, thinking that she could use my tux jacket for getting to and from the car – it was too nippy for her to contemplate that. I was pleased she did not opt for the calf-length overcoat, and instead chose a shorter, poncho-like wrap that draped a little elegantly over each arm in front rather than being tied or buttoned; a bit like an unusually large stole, I guess, but of a dense natural wool. Of course, I feared that once at the party she might not let go of the wrap, clutching it closed in front of herself in a final rejection of what we had planned.

  The night began with what I considered a good omen. I expected Ashley would have a tendency either to overcompensate in moments of self-consciousness and tug unmercifully at the hem of The Dress, or in moments of self-unconsciousness forget about decorum and let fly with some titillating views. As we got in our car, I held the door for her and she stepped in. In the course of this maneuver, she ended up flashing a rather wide view of Heaven’s Gate as she adjusted her legs, and because of the contortions involved and the friction of The Dress against her wrap, she missed the tail completely when she first sat down, sitting butt-to-carseat before realizing her rather displayed condition and tugging herself back to something approaching decency.

  I kept the heater on high as we drove to the party. This didn’t do me any good under all of my layers, but kept her mind off the cold. We arrived at the hotel that had been rented for the evening and began the search for a good parking place. We had to enter through one of those little gates with a uniformed gnome sitting inside, issuing passes and taking money. Once through, not fifteen feet from the little gnome’s hut, was what most people would consider the perfect space: as close as possible to the entrance/exit, right by the occupied gnome booth and under a bright streetlight for added security.

  Ashley said, “There!”

  I have an instinct to do as I’m told in a parking lot. If I don’t get the space she believes is best, there’s grouse to live down. Without thinking, without even being aware of it in real time, I cut the wheel and with a screech we were parked. She was sitting smugly, proud of herself for once again having found the best parking space in the whole lot. I recovered from my instinctive behavior, and sat there looking dejected.

  “What’s the matter?” she asked.

  I said, “Oh, it’s a great parking spot, all right. Hightraffic area, in easy view of the parking attendant, well lit, very secure.”

  “Yeah,” she said, touching her leg.

  “I was planning on driving around a bit to find us a nice secluded spot,” I said. “You know – for later.”

  “Oh,” she said, but smiling, “I forgot.”

  I didn’t believe her for a minute.

  She said, “That’s OK, we’ll go somewhere else afterwards.”

  We sat there for a bit, soaking up just a little more heat, then I leaned over and gave her a kiss for luck and stepped out. I rounded to her side and opened her door, whereupon I was blessed with another view of the Promised Land as she unfolded from the car. She realized it this time and, on standing up, started to pull her hemline toward her knees, which didn’t do much good. I reminded her of what we had practiced: that as long as she was standing up she did not need to tug on things in order to know that she was tech
nically decent. Simply smoothing out any wrinkles would assure that everything else fell into place. Moreover, the act of running her hands over herself to smooth them out had a rather sensuous look to it, as opposed to the rather awkward, self-conscious appearance tugging on her hemline telegraphed.

  “Just stay close to me,” she whispered.

  “Hell couldn’t tear me away,” I said.

  It was a fairly long walk to the ballroom. On the way, I kept replaying the roster of all the faces and names I could remember, and the various ways I’d imagined our entrance would work out. It didn’t happen any of those ways – I had been imagining our entrance as being dramatic, letting The Dress have its full and immediate impact. But since she wore a wrap, and kept it on for some time, the jolt of The Dress was smoothed out over a considerable period, until we eventually claimed our seats for dinner. For example, I had imagined the various senior editors and other execitives to be standing in a stuffy huddle when we walked up; I looked forward to seeing the steam rise from their collars as they looked her up and down, not quite knowing what to make of her new appearance; but no such melodramatic episodes occurred.

  I was reminded of how much camaraderie there is within the publishing company. Furthermore, it seemed the employees felt closer to my wife and the other female workmates than they did with the males, so we were constantly engaged by people of all strata. More, there’s a history in this company of the social barriers tumbling to dust by the time the annual Christmas party has run its course, so I expected things to get pretty loose by the time the night was over.

  It reminded me of a humorous incident: the first of these parties we attended some years ago. It was my first chance to meet almost everyone in the company, and so I was almost completely unknown to everyone else. We had had to leave rather early and Ashley waited for me while I visited the john. Returning, I saw one of the male junior editors come up to my wife, slip his arm around her and whisper a few sentences into an ear. She answered with something, then he whispered again.