The Dinner Party 9

When Stewart arrived at the dinner party with a life-sized mannequin tucked under his arm, Stella asked him if he would care to deposit it in the cloakroom where the rest of the guests had left their coats.

Ignoring her, Stewart marched down the hall to the dining room. Stella scurried after him. The conversation stopped as he set the mannequin—dressed in a red satin evening gown, which was split to the thigh—next to the fireplace. All eyes were drawn to one of her legs, which jutted out from the slit. The guests held their breath as Stewart arranged her so that she balanced against the mantelpiece, then gave a collective gasp as the mannequin toppled to the floor. From her prone position, legs sticking up stiffly into the air, it was clear that she wasn't wearing panties.

"How to handle this?" wondered Stella, as Stewart lifted the mannequin back to a standing position. She watched in amazement as her husband, Graham, walked over to Stewart and handed him two martinis.

The mannequin, thought Stella—from her gazelle-like limbs to her parted mouth, that gave the impression that she was permanently poised on the verge of saying something witty—was the epitome of everything that Stella had strived for and failed to achieve during tortuous sessions at the gym. As Stella walked towards her husband, a wave of anxiety rising in her chest, she had the distinct impression that the mannequin's eyes were following her.

She tugged at his shirtsleeve. "What on earth are we going to do?"

"Do?" said Graham, a tall man in the latter stages of baldness. "About what?" He speared an olive and plopped it into a glass.

"About Stewart. Don't you think he's behaving a little oddly?" She looked over to the mannequin's martini glass, which Stewart had lodged between her fingers, where it remained untouched.

Graham chuckled. "Yes, quite amusing isn't it?"

"Well, I don't know," said Stella, feeling a little faint. The mannequin was still looking at her, this time she was certain of it. Her head had twisted to the left, and her gaze was trained directly on Stella.

Stella walked backwards towards the kitchen, tugging her fitted black dress towards her knees, wishing she had worn something looser. She usually considered her legs to be her best—well really, only—feature and had worn the dress to show them off, but since the mannequin had appeared on the scene she was convinced that the tight dress only emphasized the world of difference between her hippo-sized backside and the mannequin's slender haunches.

She shut the door behind her, took a gulp of air and began to stir the Cassoulet, which was bubbling on the stove. What on earth, she thought, licking the spoon absentmindedly and setting it aside, had compelled her to put on a pair of black hold up stockings this morning, as well as a rather provocative thong?

As she began to mix up a chocolate soufflé the question continued to niggle. It was hard for her to admit her motives to herself, but, if she was honest, the donning of the outfit had been a practical response to Graham's recent lack of sexual interest, and she was nothing if not practical, she thought as she whipped up the soufflé a little too vigorously. She could only hope that after the guests had left the sight of her saucy undergarments might bring forth some sort of response from him.

She poured the soufflé mix into individual serving dishes and slid them into the oven, flushing as she thought of the mannequin's eyes and the way they had followed her. She hadn't felt this way since she was fourteen and had had a crush on Miss Charlton, the gym mistress. Her insides felt all gooey as she put the soup tureen onto the hostess trolley and wheeled it into the dining room.

To her dismay, she saw that the only seat left at the dinner table was next to the mannequin, whose chin was now propped in her hand, her head turned expectantly towards the empty chair.

She could hear Stewart say to Graham, who sat beside him, "I've not known Carla long. It's very much early days …" Graham was indulging Stewart, Stella noticed, nodding attentively as he talked.

Stella poured the soup into the bowls and put them in front of her guests. Because her friends had impeccable manners, no one had dared to ask Stewart directly why he was so insistent that this dummy—Carla, as he called her—was his girlfriend. But mannequin or not, both the other men besides Stewart and her husband were transfixed by the perfect cream orbs that spilled out of Carla's low cut gown.

Not wishing to make a scene, she set a bowl in front of Carla. She would humor Stewart, as if he were a child with an imaginary friend.

As she leaned over Carla to put a bowl beside Stewart she felt a hand brush the back of her leg, so that she almost dropped the soup into his lap. She looked at Stewart. Had he just touched her? No, it was impossible. He was still rambling on to Graham, "The thing about Carla is, she actually listens to me. Whereas with Dorothy (his ex-wife), I could hardly get a word in edgeways …"

Stewart turned back to Carla and tied a napkin around her neck. As Stella sat down beside her she could scarcely believe her eyes as Stewart lifted her spoon, filled with cream of mushroom soup, to Carla's lips and tilted it. Some of the soup ran into the hollow between her lips, the rest spilled over her chin.

"Okay darling," he said, as if responding to an imaginary voice. "If you think you can handle it on your own." He let the spoon sink back into the soup and turned back to his conversation with Graham.

As she looked at Carla, at the viscous globules of soup that stuck to her lips, at her bright, vacuous eyes, she was vividly reminded on an image from one of those magazines that Graham kept hidden under his golf clubs in the wardrobe, of a girl who had just had a man ejaculate on her face. She would never let Graham do something like that to her, of course, although she had read somewhere that it was quite good for the complexion … She froze. Amidst the chatter that swirled around her she felt that touch again, and this time she was quite certain whose it was. Carla's hand was cupping her knee, then slipping under the hem of her dress.

She turned to look at Carla, whose blank expression provided no answers. She clamped her thighs together over Carla's hand, which was surprisingly warm, quite lifelike in fact, not stiff and cold as she would have expected. She felt quite flushed, as she gazed at Carla's nipples, clearly visible through the flimsy fabric.

"Go on," said a voice. "You know you want to." Stella's heart began to pound. Had Carla actually spoken to her? She reached down and pulled Carla's hand out of her skirt, trying to decide what to do. She was not one for making a scene in public. No, the best thing to do would be to take Carla into the kitchen and get to the bottom of this, woman to woman.

She leaned across Carla to Stewart. "I'm just taking her to the kitchen to clean her up. She seems to have got a little soup on her dress."

Feeling rather self-conscious, she helped Carla up. She was startled to find that Carla's limbs felt, not only like human flesh, but smoother, baby soft, and hot, as if there were molten liquid fizzing and bubbling beneath the skin. Despite the fact that her head was spinning and she felt unsteady on her feet, she put her arm around Carla's waist and carried her across the room.

As soon as she pushed open the door to the kitchen, Stella was hit by a heady gust of chocolate. The chocolate soufflés! She had completely forgotten about them. Leaning Carla awkwardly against the washing machine she pulled the tray out of the oven, turned off the stove, then, flustered, spun around.

"Now, what's all this about?" she asked. "What did you mean by touching me?"

In response, Carla took a step towards her and pressed her mouth onto Stella's, prized her lips open and poked her tongue in. Stella was surprised to find that it was enjoyable—extremely enjoyable in fact—to have Carla's tongue in her mouth, darting about like a snake. She felt her body respond urgently, as it once had with Graham, many moons ago. A tingle ran over her skin as she felt herself becoming wet, very wet, down there.

"Do you want to experience something different," whispered Carla, "or do you want to end up like them in there," she nodded in the direction of the dining room, "dead from the waist down?"

It was no longer strange to Stella that Carla had been transformed into a pliable, fleshy entity, that right now Carla was pulling off her dress to expose the hairless expanse of her pussy. Stella, without knowing why, disrobed, ripped off the thong, and, clad only in the stockings and heels pulled Carla towards her, a reckless passion coursing through her as they sank to the floor.

"You like me, hmm?" said Carla, kneeling up and scooping up a handful of the soufflé, then placing her fingers in Stella's mouth so that the warm chocolate melted on her tongue and dripped down the back of her throat.

Carla took another dollop of soufflé, and began to smear it across her chest, laughing recklessly while Stella crawled over to her and began to lick off the soft goo that flowed between Carla's breasts. Then, breathlessly, she pushed Carla down onto the floor and started to probe Carla's pussy. Even after many evenings surreptitiously scouring Graham's naughty magazines she had never seen a pussy as pale and glistening as Carla's. As she licked at it she was surprised to find the taste had a remarkable similarity to cake batter, a mixture of vanilla and musk, with a light dusting of cinnamon. Her mouth tingling with anticipation, she started to devour her with her tongue.

"Ooh," moaned Carla. "That feels sooo good." She lay flat on the floor, her chocolate smeared fingers squeezing her breasts together, as Stella probed her clit, drinking in the nectar that ran from it, until she felt an enormous surge of heat in Carla's pussy, followed by a tremendous shudder that shook Carla's body.

Carla moved on top of her and Stella felt a silky soft length of leg, dripping with soufflé, slip in between hers.

"This is so much more fun," said Carla, her hand moving over Stella's pussy and slipping two fingers inside, "than that boring old dinner party."

Stella was so excited that she found herself shouting, "Fuck me!" as she closed her eyes, felt Carla's fingers twist inside her, then pull out to be replaced by a cold, hard object.

"Sorry it's so cold," said Carla. "All I could find in the fridge was this zucchini." But Stella's pussy didn't seem to mind one bit about the coldness, as Carla plunged the zucchini in and out until finally Stella flailed against the slippery floor, her climax crashing over her.

Stella opened her eyes and looked up at Carla, her eyes no longer blank but sparkling with lust. Her long white body was now completely smeared in chocolate.

"What about my guests?" asked Stella, suddenly regaining her composure.

"Oh God, yes," said Carla. "Quick, let's get cleaned up. Stewart mustn't know what happened. He's never seen me like this." She ran a tea towel under the hot faucet and began to wipe herself clean.

"You mean, he thinks you're just a mannequin?"

"Of course. He fell in love with me when he spotted me in a shop window."

"You're having me on!"

"No, seriously. He just marched right in and bought me from the shop manager." Carla wiped her neck clean of chocolate. "I was grateful. All that standing around behind hot glass can get very tiring for a girl." As she started to run the hot towel over Stella's shoulders, Stella felt her pussy begin to throb.

"So Stewart doesn't know that you can come alive?"

"No, and I don't want you telling him either. It's an easy life, just acting like I'm made of plastic. He likes to look at me, show me off to his friends, and doesn't expect much in return." She shrugged. "It suits me just fine."

When they had both cleaned up and dressed, Stella leaned over to give her one last kiss, but even as she did so she felt the life leaving Carla's body, saw the eyes glaze over, felt Carla's limbs stiffen in her arms.

She pushed open the door. "Sorry I took so long." All heads swiveled towards her as she carried Carla back to her seat. "The main course is just about ready to serve," she said, flustered by the fact that everyone was still watching her, their mouths hanging open like dead fish. Then, finally, the silence was broken and conversation resumed.

"What is it?" Stella hissed in Graham's ear as she picked up his empty bowl. "Why did everyone look at me like that?"

"It's your dress," he whispered back. "It's on inside out."