My phone chimed, and I checked caller ID. It was Georges Marcineau, the recently crowned Sexiest Man Alive (at least according to one magazine).
"Georgie!" I gushed. I was smiling so hard my face was cramping.
"Hey there, baby girl!" he rumbled. Oh, that deep, delicious, resonant voice, just a hint of French-Canadian accent, causing a vibration way down in my...well, let's call it my soul. That same voice had made me melt three weeks earlier, when he said "I love you" to me for the first time, just before a limo whisked him off to Van Nuys Airport, where a private jet waited to take him to a movie location in Africa. He'd been gone since then, and I was missing him terribly and hoping for some...
"Good news!" he said. "We wrap in two days, so I'll be back in New York on Saturday!"
"Oh babe, I'm so happy!" I breathed a sigh of joyful relief. "Are you still coming to The Event?"
"Yeah, I wouldn't miss it for the world. But only because you'll be there." Even though he wasn't physically present, I blushed at the compliment.
"I can get there by 8:00," he continued. "You want me to pick you up?"
"Nope, I'll meet you there."
"You sure? It's on my way..."
"You'll see me there, baby, and not before."
"Hmmm...aren't you the mysterious one," he said. "Some kind of surprise?"
"Maybe."
"Aha, knew it! So, what's the surprise?"
"It wouldn't be a surprise if I told you, would it?"
"I bet I can make you tell me."
"If you were here, maybe...but you're not," I countered. He paused for a moment while the little boy in him desperately wanted to get an answer, but he decided to let it drop.
"Anyway, I'm wearing a pretty standard tux," he said. "Will that match up okay with what you're wearing?"
"Absolutely," I replied, then waited him out, knowing he'd ask...
"What are you wearing?" he asked.
"Maybe that's the surprise," I answered, in my most seductive voice.
♡ ♡ ♡ ♡
Naked dress.
Even if you've never heard the term, you can guess what it means. It's a garment (just barely), worn by a woman (usually a beautiful celebrity) to a very public event (i.e., red carpet).
A naked dress is a classic example of the concept of "less is more." The typical naked dress is usually some combination of sheer, short, slit, plunging, backless, cut out, lacy, diaphanous, sparkly and/or flesh toned. It's designed to show the wearer in all her glory, baring legs, arms, shoulders, back, tummy, and even significant portions of her breasts. Quite likely you'll be able to see right through it and get a very enticing view of her lingerie (if any), tattoos, buttocks, nipples, or all the above.
Get the picture?
The naked dress is designed to push the envelope of fashion, and some might argue it often ends up pushing the envelope of decency. My outfit, what little there was of it, was designed to push the envelope of naked dresses.
After ending the call with Georges, I immediately called Tiffany, my stylist. My brilliant, amazing, wonderful stylist, whose goal in life was to turn me into a fashion icon. And she was getting it done.
"What's up, beautiful?" her cheerful voice asked. My answer was two words:
"It's on."
Tiffany squealed in delight. Twenty minutes later, I stepped into a limo in front of my hotel. Tiffany was already in the car, and she gave me a rib-shattering hug.
A short drive later, Tiffany was ushering me into the modest studio of an up-until-now obscure designer who went by the name Shazari. I'd never heard the name until a few days earlier, when Tiffany had recommended her to create my dress for The Event. But that was Tiffany's superpower: plucking a talented unknown fashion designer out of obscurity and offering her the Big Break She Needed: dressing one of Hollywood's rising young stars, Sonya Shane (me), for a Major Event. She'd pulled it off three times already, in spectacular style. I was crashing all the "best-dressed" lists and emerging as a major fashion force.
Tiff introduced me to Shazari, who wore tight black sweats over her tiny, almost emaciated frame. Her hair was a barely-there crewcut, and her small face was almost swallowed up by an oversized nose. She wore enormous round glasses which dramatically magnified her dark eyes. She seemed intense, dour, and extremely nervous. I gave her a big hug which at first seemed to make her even more nervous, but then I complimented her work (Tiff had shown me her portfolio), and she managed something that vaguely resembled a smile.
But she still wasn't much for small talk, so the conversation died awkwardly before it really got started.
"Well, let's do this," said Tiffany, and with that, I started to strip. (Don't look so shocked, it was a dress fitting, for God's sake.)
"Bra too?" I asked, once I was down to my undies.
"Bra too, babe," said Tiff. I snapped the strap, peeled off the lacy black bra, and bared two of Hollywood's most highly acclaimed breasts. I stood before my stylist and my designer in nothing but a brief thong that matched the discarded bra.
I turned to face a large mirror that filled most of the back wall of Shazari's studio. I didn't feel particularly shy about being naked in front of professionals, but there's always that tiny bit of self-consciousness, so yes, I checked myself out in the mirror. Standing before me was a tall, dark-haired woman with surprisingly pale blue eyes.
And that woman (me) was, according to various recent movie reviews and magazine articles, "exquisite," "statuesque," "stunning," "a classic Hollywood beauty," and "rumored to be dating Georges Marcineau, the Sexiest Man Alive." I was also in the best physical shape of my life, having recently played the very physical title role in "Queen of the Vikings," a box office smash (and critical dud) that included many barely dressed scenes of violent sword fighting and passionate lovemaking between me and various muscular blonde men.
One of the movie reviewers had written, "The only redeeming feature of 'Queen of the Vikings' is Sonya Shane barely dressed in chain mail," which became the inspiration for The Dress...
Oh yeah, The Dress...
I'd seen a rough sketch of it, but now I'd finally get to see (and wear) the real thing for the first time.
Statuesque? I felt like the Statue of Liberty when Shazari hauled a little step ladder over next to me and started to climb. Well, it made sense, she was probably a shade under five feet tall in her sensible flats, and I was right at six feet in medium heels.
Shazari had something draped over one arm that looked like a metallic fishnet scarf. At first, I thought it was a measuring device, but I suddenly realized it was...
...The Dress...
Two steps up the ladder and she was still barely on my level. She told me to raise my arms, and she still had to go up to the top step (the one that the warnings on the ladder tell you NOT to stand on) to reach me. She stretched...I felt metal rings touching my hands, sliding down my long arms, caressing my nude body...and then I was wearing it, and I looked in the mirror...
"Oh my god," I whispered, so I wasn't QUITE speechless.
"Oh, dear lord," breathed Tiffany. "You are going to burn down the Internet."
How would I describe it? A dress made of holes, maybe. The ratio of bare skin to dress must have approached 100:1. The Dress consisted entirely of rings, which were made of a shiny, lightweight metal whose color was halfway between black and silver. Each ring hole was roughly two inches in diameter, and the metal portion was thinly gauged. Yes, it was reminiscent of chain mail, but the holes were so big and the chain so delicate that it wouldn't have done much to protect me from medieval weaponry.
It had a halter neck, leaving my arms, shoulders and upper back completely bare. It hugged my waist and hips, which held the whole thing together and kept it in place. The skirt was short, not even falling to mid-thigh, highlighting my long, toned legs, somewhere near the midpoint between loose and tight, so I knew it wouldn't be difficult to walk in. With the large holes in the rings, it was obvious I was wearing a thong. It was obvious what color the thong was. Hell, if your eyes where sharp enough, it would be obvious what brand the thong was. And as for my breasts...
...WOW...
My breasts were arguably my most notable feature. They had not (yet) been publicly exposed; my movie roles had shown me in all sorts of sexy garments, even skimpy lingerie, but I had avoided nude or topless scenes.
And of course, my red carpet looks, so carefully plotted by Tiffany, had done their best to remind the world that Sonya Shane Has Amazing Tits. Deep cleavage, plenty of side boob and even under boob, and material thin and sheer enough to HINT at my dark, erect nipples...but always within at least shouting distance of tasteful and classy.
Shazari's dress was a whole new world for me. The neckline itself was modestly scooped, only revealing the very beginning of the upper slopes of my boobs. From beneath, though, the large rings gave way seamlessly but quickly to smaller rings at the lower slopes, then faded from chainmail to something more like wire mesh just before reaching my nipples. My nipples...my large, dark, thick, prominent, sharply defined nipples...
Yes, technically they were covered by thin metallic mesh, but the reality was you could see them. Clearly. I suppose two people could have an intelligent debate about whether they were seeing my breasts and nipples covered (just barely) by thin, sheer material with a lot of tiny holes...or just seeing my breasts and nipples.
My pretty titties are 100% natural but quite firm. Still, everyone needs a little support now and then. The Dress gave me just a hint of lift, making me look spectacular, but still allowing a bit of sway and jiggle that looked dangerously erotic.
And my god, it felt incredible. It hugged, it touched, it caressed me like an intimate lover. The look and feel of it triggered my arousal. My first breath caught in my throat.
The fit was amazing. Shazari, working from photos and measurements sent by Tiffany, had absolutely nailed the fit, on the first try, without ever seeing me in person.
Well, at least I thought so. Shazari scowled, growled, and shook her head. "Way too loose," she grumbled. She grabbed a tool that looked like a screwdriver filed down to a sharp point, like a shiv (I was in a prison movie once, I know about shivs). She advanced on me with it, and for an instant it looked like she was going to stab me. But then she hooked a finger around a ring on my waist, touched the shiv to a spot on the ring, twisted, and the ring popped open.
