Glancing at the clock, I realize that I have plenty of time to finish powdering, primping and perfuming before Henry will be at my front door. I’ve allowed more time for my toilette than usual: a warm scented bath instead of the customary shower (which has the added benefit of perfuming the air), massaging my legs and arms with a generous amount of perfumed creme, a light dusting of scented talcum here and there along my skin (and over the cotton bed sheets), and a final spritz of Sung into the air which I let settle in my hair, on my shoulders, my back and my breasts. Not enough fragrance to create my own atmosphere, just enough to last through the evening–and transfer to my lover’s clothing.
Makeup and hair are finished. I’ll only need a moment to slip into my dress. (I hate getting dressed up and then having to sit around and wait, trying not to get wrinkled.) Tonight is the formal dance for the hapless eighth grade students whose mothers enrolled them in ballroom dance lessons. Eight weeks of foxtrot, waltz, cha-cha, swing and rumba. Twelve hours of learning the box step, listening to “Blue Danube” and “Cherry Pink and Apple Blossom Time.” Two months of after school dance lessons on Monday afternoon, 37 girls and 14 boys shuffling their feet in the large assembly room while “Mr. Pierre,” the owner of the local Fred Astaire Ballroom Dance Academy (“Let Us Show You the Astaire Way to Dance Success”), counts out the rhythm by loudly stamping the heel of his right foot in time to the music. Since, technically, it’s a school dance, a certain number of the faculty is required to be present and Henry, the eight-grade counselor, has graciously allowed himself to be pressed into service as a chaperone. And since I can rarely bring myself to tell him “no,” here I sit, looking forward to the evening ahead.
I hear the car’s engine as he pulls into the courtyard to park; I slide into my dress and shoes and walk toward the front door to greet him. I open the door in response to Henry’s quiet knock and stand back, looking at him admiringly as he steps into the foyer.
“May I just say . . . wow!” I exclaim as I take him in. The new suit he bought last weekend fits perfectly–the jacket highlights his broad shoulders and the pleated trousers accentuate both his trim waist and the curve of his ass.
“Mmm. You look good, you smell good, I could just eat you up,” I say teasingly.
“Maybe later, baby, maybe later,” Henry responds, looking at me appraisingly. “Um, Lauren, I hate to tell you this, but as much as I like your dress, you can’t wear it tonight.” “But why not, Henry?” I protest halfheartedly.
“Because we’re chaperoning a school dance, not hitting the clubs in Las Vegas. Didn’t I tell you that the girls have a dress code for tonight? The chaperones are expected to set an example. If you wear that dress, you’ll be giving the boys an advanced education. Don’t you have something that shows less cleavage and covers your shoulders?”
“Well, yeah, I guess so,” I say quietly, turning my back to him. “Unzip me, please?”
“Thanks, honey, and I’m sorry,” he responds. “We’ll go out to dinner next weekend and you can wear this dress for me then, okay?”
“Okay,” I nod. I feel him pull the zipper down and I make no attempt to catch the dress as it slides off of me. Stepping out of the circle of fabric, my back still to him, I bend over from the waist to pick it up. Taking a few more steps away, I turn to face Henry, saying, “It’ll take me just a minute to find something else. Are you thirsty? There’s some bottled water in the fridge.” Knowing that he’s now had a long moment to study the strapless black bustier, the french-cut lace trimmed panties, the garter belt and the seamed black stockings, I saunter back toward the bedroom to put on the dress I’d really planned to wear.
“Jesus Christ, Lauren, I’d like to fuck you right here, right now,” I hear him mutter.
“Oh, but we can’t sweetie. Can’t be late for the dance, can we?”
I hang up the first dress and quickly slide into a second one: a short-sleeved wraparound dress of midnight blue silk jersey. In less than a minute I reappear.
“Oh, by the way, I’ve got a little something for you,” I announce as I walk toward the refrigerator. I take out the yellow rose, tied with a small black and green bow. I fasten it to his lapel, sliding the pin through the buttonhole.
“What a coincidence, I’ve got something for you, too,” he responds, holding out a small clear plastic box.
“Thank you, Henry. I haven’t had a corsage since high school,” I smile, opening the box. I hear his soft chuckle as I find the second item just below the flowers.
“Henry, what’s this?” I ask, holding up the small pink phallic shaped cylinder. Flanged at the base with a ring at the end, I know what it is, I’m just surprised to receive a butt plug in tandem with a corsage.
“Just a little something I want you to wear for me tonight, Lauren,” he responds, bending me over the back of the sofa. I feel the back of my skirt being pulled up, my panties being pulled down, and the cylinder sliding between the lips of my pussy. “Jesus, Lauren, you’re already soaking wet. I’m going to lube this up with your honey, then I’m going to slide it up your ass. You’ll wear it all night, just for me, won’t you baby?” he whispers in my ear.
And because I can almost never say “no” to my lover, I nod as I feel the tip of the butt plug pressing against my rosebud. My back passage opens with the slight pressure, and Henry’s gift slides home.
“All night, Henry?”
“Yes, Lauren, all night.”
Helping me to my feet and straightening my skirt, he slides the corsage over my left wrist. Offering me his arm, he walks me out of my apartment and downstairs to his car, opening the passenger’s door for me like the perfect gentleman he is.
Heading toward the freeway, I fidget in my seat from the burning sensation caused by the butt plug.
“You’re going to have to relax, baby. You can’t squirm around like that tonight unless you want to attract a lot of attention. Besides, you’ve had bigger things up your ass, haven’t you?”
“I know, but I can’t help feeling self-conscious. It’s going to be a long night, tonight.”
“If we’re lucky.”
The drive is uneventful, and we make good time. We’re among the first to arrive. Henry greets the principal, one of the other counselors and a couple of teachers. Some of the students have noticed our arrival and are clearly amused to see the faculty members dressed up and with dates or spouses. Henry responds graciously to the numerous greetings from students.
“Hi Mr. Cooke!”
“Mr. Cooke, hi!”
“Are you going to dance, Mr. Cooke?”
An affirmative response prompts fits of muffled giggles. Middle school students have almost as hard a time picturing their teachers as human beings as they do imagining their parents having sex.
The DJ has set up his equipment and conducts a brief sound check. Strains of Henry Mancini’s “Theme from a Summer Place” fill the room.
And nobody’s dancing.
Ten boys and 22 girls line the walls of the assembly room, each looking down at the floor as if to memorize the pattern of the linoleum tile.
“Somebody’s got to get this party started,” Henry says quietly. “Care to dance, Lauren?”
“I thought you’d never ask,” I reply, smiling.
