A Cocktail Dress And Complete Distress

As she walked into the room, her smile quickly turned to a frown. Would it be too quick to assume that love was no longer in bloom?

It’s all tantrums, tears, and hope held together by the memories of before. She looks so pretty in that dress, but her face could not hide the anger. You know what comes next. The fire in her eyes becomes the fire that she breathes as she scolds every little action you’ve done today. It’s your fault—always your fault. You just let her rant and rave because you’re tired, and the last thing you need is more problems.

“… and if that’s not enough, you just had to go and flirt with her, didn’t you? Is she prettier than me? Do I bore you?”

She is still talking about lunch. It’s been hours since it happened but you made the unforgivable mistake of talking to a waitress with more than just the usual collection of ten words and suddenly you’re the worst person ever. You don’t even bother to answer. You’re tired of this whole charade.

“Well? Aren’t you going to say something?”

“What do you want me to say, Ning? I didn’t do anything wrong. I’m not allowed to talk to people anymore?”

“That’s not what I mean and you know it! You should have known that I wouldn’t like it and yet you still went ahead and did it!”

If she hates that, she’s going to really hate what happens later.

“Look. I’m done. I’m going for a drink, I’ll come back when you’ve calmed down.”

“Oh, so I’m not even good enough for you to stay around and fuck me? You’d rather drink than be with me?”

It’s just one of the three situations where she isn’t shouting at you. When you’re in public, when you’re apart or when you’re between the sheets. So that’s the reality. Put the two of you alone in a room and you’re either shouting or shagging. Docked in tempestuous bays.

You’re slipping into your jacket and putting on those boots when she begins to say, “If you still loved me, you would…” and the door slams behind you.

A few drinks in, and she’s still on your mind. It’s hard not to think about her, even harder when there are pictures of her everywhere. She’s always in your head and it’s a curse. It wasn’t always like this. She used to make you happy. It was supposed to be easy, right?

Wrong.

“What am I doing here?” You whisper to yourself, but it’s not the bar that’s the problem. You’re asking a far more important question. You’re not asking why you’re drinking. No, there’s a far worse habit that rears its ugly head. It’s fucked up, you know it, but damn is she pretty. A cocktail dress and bedroom eyes are a dangerous combination for a man like you. You lie and bargain with yourself, telling the other voice in your head that you’re only human.

You see her sitting alone, drinking. It’s a familiar scene, one you’ve seen many times before. She’s been abandoned. There’s an emptiness in her eyes and she’s staring off into the distance. She’s not really here. She’s not really anywhere.

Until you reel her back to earth with a coy smirk and a quip, “You know, being stood up isn’t always a bad thing. Sometimes it can be an opportunity.”

She looks you over, the spark returns to her eyes and a smile tugs at the corner of her lips. You haven’t always been particularly smooth but she seems to like it. You both do. The flirting, the seduction. You both know what’s going to happen.

She starts falling over her words and giggling nervously. You’re both playing the same game, trying to find out how fast you can take her to bed. It’s a game you’re both going to lose. Her name is Giselle, and much like the girl you left in your apartment, she isn’t from around here. Not exactly anyway. You find out she was born here, but like her accent fails to hide, she grew up in a few different places. You don’t ask her why, she doesn’t ask you. She doesn’t ask why you’re here or why you’re drunk. All she wants is you, and you can’t say no to that.

“Picture this,” you tell her, “it’s the 1920s in the West and cocktail bars are all the rage—and we’re in the jazz era. Drinking culture among women is on the rise, and those women need the perfect attire. Something elegant and fancy, but also with hemlines free enough that they can get on the dancefloor and kick up a Charleston. That’s how we got cocktail dresses.”

“Oh yeah? And why do you know that?” She asks.

“Because I thank those women every single time I see a woman as beautiful as you wearing one.”

Giselle laughs, but the blush on her cheeks says she likes it. She’s a sucker for a bit of attention. You both are. Then there’s this back-and-forth of casual questions served with a side of not-so-casual looks. The glances at her chest. The way her eyes drift between your legs. The way she places her hand over the top of yours when you lean against the table—it’s all a game.

She’ll say things like, “You’ve got big hands,” and then bite her lip and look up at you.

“They’re good for lots of things,” you’ll reply and the suggestion is enough to have her mind working overtime. It’s also enough for you to forget the woman back in your apartment.

After a while, you decide it’s time to make a move. You ask her, “Want to get out of here?”

“Thought you’d never ask,” she replies and then it’s a matter of convenience that her apartment is just around the corner. So you’re stumbling down the street with her arms clinging to yours and your hand stealing a few deft touches of her ass. The walk isn’t far, and when you’re both inside her place, her mouth is on yours and your hands are all over each other.

You’re making out like horny teenagers, desperate and full of energy. Her fingers fumble with your belt while you unzip her dress and help her wriggle out of it. She is in nothing but a pair of panties and a strapless bra while your cock is out and she’s already stroking it, and then she drops to her knees and wraps her lips around it. Her tongue is hot and wet, her cheeks hollow as she sucks and the sounds are obscene.

Giselle has this look in her eye. She’s loving the way you’re staring at her like she’s the best thing you’ve ever seen. Her mouth pops off your dick and she smiles, licking her lips and then stroking your cock.

“You’re right; being stood up isn’t always a bad thing.”

You’re also so wrong. You shouldn’t be here, doing this, but god is she beautiful. Your hand is in her hair and she’s moaning like a whore, and there’s nothing you can do to stop. You’re not thinking about your girlfriend back home. All you can think about is how good it feels to have Giselle’s mouth wrapped around your cock.

“God, you’re so good at that,” you groan and she moans around you, and you twitch in her mouth. The vibrations are wonderful and she can feel it too. She moans even more and sucks a little harder, and she’s so good that she almost makes you blow your load in her mouth. You pull back, your cock slips from her lips and her lips turn up into a wicked smile. She knows what’s coming next.

Giselle is back on her feet and pulling you towards her closed bedroom door. She doesn’t open it, stopping you right outside and telling you to wait. There’s something on the cabinet that she reaches for, and you watch in filthy amazement as she steps around you and yanks your wrists back. Handcuffs click shut around your wrists and suddenly you’re very aware of how vulnerable you are.

“You’ve been such a bad boy,” she purrs. “And we’re going to have to teach you a lesson.”

“We?”

She opens the door and pushes you through it. You stumble and with no way to break your fall, you land on the carpet with a grunt.

“Hi, babe.” The voice is distinct. It’s familiar, and the owner of it places her foot square in the middle of your back. “Did you miss me?”

“Ningning,” you whisper.

“You thought you could get away with this shit again and again and again? Thought I wouldn’t find out about all the girls you’ve fucked? All the times you’ve lied to my face and said you’re out working late?”

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry,” she repeats and mocks. “Sorry, for what exactly? Sorry for lying or sorry because you got caught? Sorry that you just had her lips on your cock or sorry that you didn’t cum down her throat?”

You can’t answer. You’re speechless, and she’s digging her heel between your shoulder blades.

“That’s what I thought,” she continues. “You’re not sorry. You’re just scared of what happens next.” There’s a pair of hands at your ankles and you kick out the keep them away, only for Ningning to push her foot harder into you and tell you, “You’re going to let her tie you up, and you’re going to let her do whatever she wants.”

You feel the hands again, and this time you don’t kick out. Giselle ties a rope around each ankle and then pulls them tight together. You try to struggle now, but there’s nothing you can do. Ningning removes her foot from you and kicks you over onto your back. The girls stand side by side, both in only their underwear, looking down at you as if you’re dirt.

“You make me sick,” Ningning hisses. “I can’t believe I ever loved you. Look at you. Pathetic.”

“You can’t do this,” you whimper.

“You’re not really in a position to be arguing, are you?” Giselle points out. “Also why the fuck are you still hard?”

The girls are right. You’re hard, painfully so, and even though you’re terrified, there’s a part of you that’s aroused. Ningning can see it too, and she’s disgusted. “You’re not human,” she growls. “No, you’re just a dog, a dirty, dirty dog.”

“What are you going to do with me?” You ask, and the girls look at each other and smile.

“Giselle, why don’t you show him?”