Arriving home, you plop your bag down amongst your collection of canvas bags full of miscellaneous papers. The dogs are bouncing around like subatomic particles and I almost feel bad about what I'm going to tell you. Almost, not quite.
"Go look on the bed," I tell you.
You look at me quizzically and walk down the hall to the bedroom.
On the corner of the bed is the outfit I have laid out for you -- a short black miniskirt, a sleeveless blouse and sandals.
"What's this for?" you ask me, raising your eyebrows.
"Put it on. We're going out."
You study me for a minute trying to figure out what's going on in my head. I do my best not to give you any clues.
With a shrug, you sit down on the bed and take off your jeans, sliding them over your hips and down your legs and then kicking them over into the corner. You pull the T-shirt over your head and it joins your jeans in the pile.
You reach for the skirt but I stop you.
"No," I say, simply. "That's the entire outfit."
You look at me slightly aghast as you realize what I'm saying. The look on my face makes it clear that there's no point in trying to negotiate though.
You slip your panties off and it's all I can do not to fall to my knees and press my face between your thighs. Your bra follows and I can see your nipples are already hard as you wonder what's in store for you.
You slip the skirt on and pull the top over your head. You look gorgeous and just slightly slutty. I love it.
The arm holes on the shirt gape wide enough that the sides of your breasts are visible and, with the right angle or the right movement, even your nipples would be obvious. You tug slightly at the bottom of the skirt, trying to cover yourself more, but there's just not enough material. If you stretch or bend at all, your ass will be on display along with your bare cunt.
"I can't go out in public like this," you tell me.
"Yes you can." I tell you. "Let's go."
I lead you to the car with you making token objections but I can tell that you are excited by whatever I have in store for you.
"When did you do this?" you ask. "I made a quick trip home at lunch to get everything laid out. The rest of the evening is something I've been planning for weeks."
"Weeks?" you reply incredulously. "Oh god, what are you going to do with me."
I just smile and open the door of the car. Enjoying watching you try to climb in without baring everything.
I drive to a local bar that's a favorite of some of the college kids.
"I can't go in there like this. Someone might recognize me," you stammer.
"Probably so," I tell you as I get out and walk around to open your door.
You try to slide out of the truck, keeping your legs together, but it just makes your skirt ride up higher.
We walk in and the smell of stale cigarette smoke and beer greets us. It's definitely not a high-class establishment. The sound of pool balls clattering against each other is almost drowned out by the low-fidelity speaker on the jukebox as it blasts out the latest angst-ridden college rock hit.
Heads turn as you walk in and I see about a dozen young men slowly looking you up and down. The contrast of your skin against the black fabric serves as a beacon and I see some of them speaking to each other in hushed whispers as the jerk their heads toward you.
I guide you to a table in the corner and you sit down, scooting close to the table, trying to cover yourself.
Before we can even get comfortable a waitress comes over with a pitcher of beer and two glasses.
"Compliments of the guys at the end of the bar," she says, rolling her eyes.
It's obvious that it's Coors or something similarly watery.
"Gosh, thanks, but we'd prefer something darker, perhaps a couple of German ales," I tell the waitress. "But, if you would, please tell the guys that we would love to have them join us enjoy this pitcher."
I slur the word "pitcher" just enough so it could easily be heard as "picture."
The waitress ambles back to the bar and I see her nod in our direction and tell the guys something.
They're somewhat non-descript guys and I can tell that they aren't exactly the smoothest, most practiced sort.
They stand there stunned for a few minutes and I know they are trying to work up the courage to come over.
Finally, one shoves another hard enough that he stumbles and with a glare back at his buddies, he makes his way to our table trying his best, and failing miserably, to look nonchalant.
"Mind if I join you?" he asks, talking to his own feet.
"Sure," I say quickly before you can say anything. "Pull up a chair. And invite your friends over."
He grins broadly and looks back at his two buddies and waves them over.
A minute or so later you are surrounded by three young men. Each of them seems to be jockeying for position, wanting to be close to you. I sit back, amused, and enjoy the show.
You just sit there. It's obvious to me that the attention is getting you hot and bothered, but you refuse to show it and sit patiently, trying to make small talk.
The guys quickly finish their pitcher and we have two or three beers while chatting about various things of absolutely no consequence -- the weather, traffic, the price of gas, movies. I excuse myself to go to the bathroom and you look at me, practically terrified of being left alone with three obviously horny young men. I take my time in the bathroom and return after several minutes.
You seem to have taken a liking to the guy who was first to come talk to us. He is kind of cute and seems to have a good sense of humor. His arm rests on the back of your chair as he leans over to talk to you, pretending that the music is so loud that he has to get close to your ear.
I see him looking down your shirt and even from across the room, I can tell your nipples are hard.
I return to the table. "This place is just too smoky," I announce. "It makes me want a cigarette. Let's see if we can find someplace that's not smoky.
The favored youth pipes up. "None of us smoke. Our apartment is just around the corner."
You smile, about to refuse politely.
