Dress me up

When I was about five or six the idea of dressing up involved an old cardboard box stuffed with my mum and granny’s cast-offs – usually long patterned dresses, scarves and a dozen hats. My brother and I concocted various stories and characters. The only one I remember now was my brother’s ‘wedding’ to one of my dolls.

As one gets older the novelty wears off, or it does for many of us. In my teens and 20s, I went to a handful of fancy dress parties with varying degrees of costume success. But there usually reaches a point when either the fancy dress parties dry up, or the idea of them produces moans of “do we have to?!” or the use of a convenient, yet plausible excuse for declining the invitation.

As for dressing up in the boudoir – I have managed (by sheer fluke) to avoid such notions, feeling that I had neither the body, nor the confidence to carry off a ‘horny devil’, ‘French maid’ or ‘naughty nurse’ (sorry if these are obvious clichés), regardless of whether the outfit was constructed from fabric or PVC.

So having coasted through life and relationships without even a Venetian-style eye mask in my possession, I thought I was home and dry.

I also thought new man was contented enough with the odd bit of lacy lingerie – a basque here, a babydoll there.

That was until on one of his evening visits when he produced a package, something he had purchased online.

Innocently, I assumed it was going to be a piece of jewellery or little hand bag. But, as he pulled it out of the plastic packaging and unfolded the tissue paper, I saw it was black and shiny. It also seemed to have a lot of shoe lace-type bits attached to it.

When he held it up to show me, I realised that it was either a very odd-shaped handbag or something altogether unknown and unchartered for me.
I blinked in surprise, trying to keep my mouth closed and my expression neutral.

“It’s a cat suit,” he explained, as my calm exterior was clearly failing.

“Aah,” I replied, still unable to speak. (‘Hmm, middle-aged woman in a catsuit,’ I thought to myself).

“Well,” I said, trying to regain composure, “I will try to get into it.”

“It’s size eight to twelve, so I’m sure it will be fine.” He wasn’t going to give up on this.

I folded it up again, carefully, and agreed to try it on later. And I meant it. No one has ever bought me a PVC catsuit before and, I am told, the zip down the crotch nicely frames things, like a fanny display case…So who am I to argue with wearing something for his arousal?

Next, I need to decide what he can wear for me. The clichéd firefighter’s uniform, Batman, Zorro, or perhaps a blue boiler suit?



Four days later

I had missed him. It had only been four days, but it felt like an eternity and I ached from his absence. The emptiness was now palpable.

Six o’clock – he was supposed to be here now. I gripped my phone, looking at it every few seconds, knowing full well it would make a noise if anyone tried to call or text. But still, I may have missed it, not heard it, or could have accidentally turned off the sound.
I stared through the window, no longer caring about peeping discreetly from behind the curtain. Where was he? I flicked through the TV channels, not really seeing it properly, as my mind was full of him, needing him now.

Just as I went into the kitchen to put away a couple of plates – something to do to break up the waiting – I heard a car door slam shut. His footsteps neared the front door and I dashed to open it before he had chance to knock.

“Well, hello,” he said, unnecessarily and leaned in to kiss me. I thought he was going to pull away and start a conversation, but he stepped forward to continue the kiss. I locked the door and he kissed me again, this time deeply, his tongue exploring my mouth, his hands moving down my back, over my bum. He pressed against me, so I knew he was already hard.

Then, I gasped as one hand went down my loose cotton trousers.

“There’s plenty of room here, isn’t there?” He said, cutting straight to the chase with his long fingers. No gradual, subtle sliding over my knickers, but right on to my soft, wet and eager clitoris.

I had thought this was just a hello kiss, but I was ready for him, if it was right now, or a few hours later. Four days was too long.

So, his welcome fingers made me writhe and groan and forced my hand. To his belt buckle, button, zip, bulging pants and upright, throbbing member.

His fingers and kisses became more urgent, more intense – he wanted me there and then. He tugged at my trousers and I obliged, easing them down and stepping out of them and he followed suit.

“Here?” He suggested, pointing at the stairs. I agreed and bent over the bottom three or four steps, as he trailed warm kisses down my neck, shoulders and back, before gently lowering himself into my wet vagina. It felt so welcome, so good, so delicious that I sighed loudly.

He drew back and thrust again and again, harder, faster, as I leaned on my forearms on the step, sliding back and forth. I could feel him building up to a climax and I knew this was not going to last long, but it didn’t matter – the thrill of a spur of the moment ‘quickie’ was exciting in itself and meant my lover was as eager to see me as I was to see him.

“Ah! Yes!” He exhaled, as he exploded and collapsed on to my back, nuzzling my neck. I loved to feel his warm breath on me and his sweating body pressed against me, knowing I had caused it.

As we got to our feet, pulled on our clothes and composed ourselves, he hugged me tightly.

“God, I really missed you this time,” he said.

“Yes, I could tell,” I replied.