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I had a particularly sharp memory, and it filled at that instant with an image of Belle in the airplane bathroom. I saw the soft mound just above her pussy, practically begging for the palm of my hand. I saw the curves of her hips begging for me to grip them as I spun her around and took her from behind.
If my dick had been stirred from hibernation before, it was now so violently awake that I was worried about the structural integrity of my zipper. Any more force, and we were about to have a wardrobe malfunction.
All I could see while I tied my shoes were Belle’s legs. There was a little pile of her running shorts beside her feet and her top, though.
I was straining for a better look when a woman emerged from a corner of the shop. “Sir?” she asked sharply.
I straightened so fast that my head banged against the wall behind me. I blinked through the pain, then forced a smile. “Ma’am.”
She stared for a few seconds, then went back to hanging up the dresses she was holding.
Busted.
A few minutes later, Belle stepped out of the dressing room. It was roughly that precise moment when my dick—the same one I’d decided was no longer part of the ruling governmental system in my mind—staged a full-blown rebellion.
The dickocracy had fallen to a coup. We’d officially entered into a dicktatorship.8BelleA confusing blend of emotions rushed through me. I was exhilarated to be wearing a dress from an exclusive designer that was breathtaking. I was giddy because I loved bridal boutiques and dress fittings in general, and this was the first time I got to try on the dress. And I was also overcome by overpowering guilt for loving the way Chris—an engaged man—was looking at me.
He half stood, then sat back down a little awkwardly. He crossed his leg, winced, then smiled. “Quite nice,” he said in an almost choked voice.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
“Yep. So, uh, how does this work? Do you give me a card and I rate you out of ten each time?”
“You rate the dress out of ten.”
“Right.” Chris’ eyes slid from my face to my hips, then back up again. “The dress.” “Well?” I spread my arms, giving it a little twirl. “This one is from an up-and-coming designer that everybody is talking about. His name is Pierre Gonfi.” I spent a little while describing all the unique features of the dress, from the leaf-like asymmetrical pattern that looked almost like armor over one shoulder to the hand-embroidered patterns throughout.
Chris nodded attentively, never letting his eyes move from me—from the dress.
“Gonfetti gets a nine out of ten.”
“Gonfi,” I corrected.
“Next!” Chris commanded, clapping his hands.
I headed back into the dressing room and let the employees of the boutique dress me up again. I couldn’t help watching myself in the mirror as they stripped me to my underwear, wondering why someone like Chris would’ve even bothered having meaningless sex with me, let alone the continued flirting.
Except I felt guilty for even wondering about it. I knew I should be doing more to shut down his flirtations, but part of me thought maybe that was just how he was. Some men really were that way, right? They flirted with everything that moved, and the ones who decided to marry them did so knowing full-well what they were getting into.
Even if that was the case, I had other things to think about. My career, for one.
I could be friends with clients, but it couldn’t go any farther than that. And the way I seemed to swoon every time Chris gave me the slightest bit of attention was not productive.
They tugged the latest dress on me, tightening it where they could. I wasn’t as big a fan of it as the previous dress, and I felt a little tempted to not even show Chris. Except my job was to make sure he had a chance to pick his favorite dress. Maybe this would actually be his style.
I took one last look at the ridiculously poufy shoulders and boxy frame that made me look like I belonged in the generation of big hair and empty hairspray bottles, then stepped out.
Chris’ eyebrows slowly crept up. “That’s a statement.”
“Yeah? What would you say the statement is?”
“That you look like an extra in some old-school David Bowie movie?” Chris grinned. “Not that you aren’t pulling it off, of course, but I’m going to give this one a three. And only because the model is bumping it up by two points.”
I tried not to smile but failed. “Okay. Not this one, then.”
We gradually worked our way through the rest of the dresses until we reached the last one. The best way to describe it would be if someone haphazardly wrapped me in thin strips of silk and connected it all with lace. It was so revealing that we had to take off my bra to keep it from showing through the cuts between fabric.
