We’re in the wedding dress shop, the shop with the wedding dresses and the lace and the pretty, innocent pictures on the walls. The shop with the quiet, respectable pastoral music playing in the background. You want to show me a dress you saw in the window, a dress you think might be the one, the style you’ve been looking for. Wow, but we’re excited! Two weeks to go and things are coming together.
Inside the shop the middle aged, middle class lady smiles politely as we enter but she is displaying just what she thinks as plainly as if she had said it outright. Me in my white jeans, new suede jacket, unshaven and with my hat, some kind of latter day beatnik poet and you in your oversized grey jumper over tight blue jeans, a vision of loveliness in wool.
We tell the woman that we’re interested in the dress in the window. She tries to catch us out at our silly game of let’s pretend by asking when the wedding is. We both come out with it in unison and she seems satisfied. She turns to enter the window to retrieve the beautiful dress and as she does so I catch your eye, widen mine and pull down the sides of my mouth ‘oooOOOOOooo’. You stifle a giggle and I put my hand round your slim waist, my thumb hooked into the waist of your jeans, just a flavour of warmth from your skin on my thumb. Mrs Hospital Corners turns back with the beautiful silk creation and begins to bang on about the various virtues of the style. We make sympathetic, overawed sounds and I slip my hand surreptitiously down the back of your trousers. You do not react, cannot react and I do not give anything away but my middle finger is very happy resting as it is between the cheeks of your perfect ass.
After perhaps an hour and a half of Mrs Snooty banging on about the cantilevered whatnots and the linen oojahs she finally deigns to hand it over to you. I ask if I may come into the changing room with you and she stiffens visibly (though not like me), raises one eyebrow and says she thinks that would be acceptable. I put on my best cheeky Cockney accent and say ‘thanks very much, Mrs.’ And in we go. This is one of the few shops in town with a mixed dressing room. It also has the largest dressing room in town, the size of our living room. It has a lock on the door, mirrors to all sides, benches, small but solid tables and more piped Chopin.
You head over to a peg and hang up the dress.
“You’re very bad, teasing that woman that way.”
I lock the door behind me.
“She’s only doing her job, I bet they get…”
You’re voice is cut off as I come up behind you, twist you round and kiss you hard on the lips.
“Aah, screw her.” I say
“No, screw me.”
I unbutton your jeans and stuff my hand down the front of them. You pant and gasp. You’re so wet, you slut! You knew what was coming, you planned this and it was meant to be my surprise!
You try to speak but I put one finger of the hand not engulfed in the warm liquidity between your thighs up to your lips, shhh!
You are stood in front of a small table and I lift you up and sit you on it. I then turn to the dress, which has a kind of a scarf affair to tie it at the waist, one could perhaps, with a lot of imagination, describe it as a belt. I whip this from the garment knowing that time is of the essence. How long have we before Mrs Snoop comes a-looking? Ten minutes? At the outside.
I wrap the scarf around your eyes, wave my hand in front of it to ensure you can’t see. I lift one perfect foot and slip off a shoe then a sock. I repeat with the other. Before thirty seconds are up you are naked. Yes, utterly naked as the day you were born. I waste ten seconds standing and looking at you, at your perfect thighs, legs, belly (that belly!) breasts and, yes, up the length of that exquisite inner leg to the jewel, soaking with anticipation and pouting, waiting, wanting. Your head is tipped back, resting against the wall with your lips slightly apart.
One minute thirty five.
