Danger In A Red Dress

I hope this short romp makes you smile. There is no overt sex. Enjoy.

Copyright 2020 -- All rights reserved

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Danger in a Red Dress

How would a good girl dress, and where would a good girl go, if she wanted to find herself a bad boy? Marc had the answer to both questions when he looked towards the bar. There sat his wife. One thought jumped into his head,

damn

. Damn that he found her in this seedy joint and damn that she looked so hot. She had slipped into that skin tight red dress she bought a few weeks ago, the sexy little number she told him was for, "our vacation in Vegas". He hadn't expected her to wear it right here in Dallas—especially not in this kind of neighborhood, and more especially, not without him by her side.

Earlier in the day, she had texted, "Honey, I'll be working late, don't wait up, might be a long night." His first thought,

It's Friday. Who works late on a Friday night.

Apparently, my wife,

he sarcastically answered himself. Curious, he had decided to find out what kind of "work" she was up to. He knew the score well enough by now not to waste time going by her office. He knew she wouldn't be there. But where would she be? Thinking hard, he remembered her and a girlfriend discussing a lively dance hall on Harry Hines Blvd. Seems this was the latest go to place for certain low-life singles on the make. Professional girls hung out there too, trolling for lonely men.

His amateur sleuthing paid off. Here he was and sure enough, there she was. No real surprise. This was exactly the type of place he expected his wife would choose to do a little trolling of her own, waiting at the bar for somebody, and it sure as hell wasn't him.

Now what? Now that he found her, he had no real plan. After a moments hesitation, he slid his way along the back wall of the huge bar and settled into a dark corner. Wait and watch for show and tell. Someone would show, and time would tell, what she planned to do and who she planned to do it with.

The dance floor and several tables were between him and his wife, blocking her view. In this dark corner, he doubted she could see him even if she tried. At least he hoped she couldn't. He didn't want to surprise her and interrupt whatever this was, at least not until the time was right.

Though she couldn't see him, he most definitely saw her. She dazzled, sitting alone directly under the light over the bar, her blonde hair and bright red lips advertising her availability to one and all. She accessorized her sizzling hot ensemble with black stiletto heels topped by a shining ankle bracelet twinkling on her right foot. She even wore the matching diamond earrings and necklace he recently surprised her with for her birthday. He pondered the irony, wearing the jewelry her husband bought her for trolling at the bar. She wouldn't be alone for long, not looking like that.

Yep

, he thought, looking at her sipping on a margarita,

she's working all right. She's working the room and every man in it like a violin.

Her carefree attitude, body language and come hither appearance broadcast to one and all she did not plan to leave the bar by herself. And her smile suggested she loved every minute of the attention she attracted.

The men in the joint were loving it too. And why not? There she sat, the prettiest girl in the place, her to-die-for body advertising the goods on sale, tonight only, free for the right buyer.

She swiveled and crossed her legs, allowing the slit in the already short dress to show more of her legs than most women had legs to show. Her five-foot-nine frame seemed made of legs, legs that went on forever, starting with those sassy stilettos, up past her dangling ankle bracelet, then past her muscular distance runner's calves and finally to those shapely tantalizing thighs, thighs hiding between them the simmering fire of passion Marc had enjoyed the last sixteen months.

Yep, here was the woman he cherished, the woman who pledged her undying love and fidelity to him before God, family and friends just two months ago at the First Presbyterian Church of Plano. Here she sat in this seedy bar, only two months into their marriage, waiting for some other guy—working late.

The waitress dropped off his beer and Marc nursed it like a newborn baby. He wondered how long this evening would go on, and how it would end. Would there be fireworks, or would the time sizzle away like a slow burn? Was she waiting for any random guy to proposition her, or was she looking for someone in particular? What was really going on here?

Marc waited patiently—as patiently as possible under the circumstances. His heart beat fast. He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly to calm himself. He wouldn't show himself until he was sure the time was right, however long it took, however long he had to sit passively and watch her flirt with other men.

And oh how she flirted. A man in a blue blazer with a loosened, red-striped tie walked over and sat beside her. Marc couldn't hear what he said but she laughed a few times. The man motioned and the bartender showed up with another round. Marc watched his newlywed wife, Sara, hold the drink in her hand, swirl it a bit and giggle at whatever the guy was saying.

So this is how she works late.

Red-striped tie guy, however, did not seem to pass muster. He got the message and drifted back down the bar, turning his attention to another scantily clad lady who had just breezed in. This second woman, less attractive than Sara, at least appeared willing. A working girl no doubt, she took only a moment to nod her approval of his suggestions. They gathered their things and left together, likely headed for one of the many seedy motels located up and down Harry Hines Blvd.

Sad,

Marc thought.

Another hour passed and three more gentlemen tried their luck with Sara, each politely turned away.

She must have someone in mind, someone she expects to meet here.

Marc wondered if the object of her desire would show, if she would find her guy, the one she wanted. If not, would she continue to brush away lesser admirers?

She just might,

he reasoned. Usually, when Sara set her mind on something, nothing else would do.

Returning from the ladies room, Sara took a moment to brush her flowing blonde hair back up over her head, using both her hands, pulling it together as though she was going to put it into a pony tail, a hairstyle she preferred when she wanted to look younger. Standing there, the lights cast a shadow of her silhouette against the wall behind her. Marc saw the physical embodiment of a stunning woman, a statuesque image to make any artist proud. As the twenty-eight year-old beauty raised her arms over her head, her firm, C-cup breasts thrust out, nipples on high beam, proudly proclaiming her feminine figure. To Marc, and to the rest of the heterosexual males in the room, her form rivaled Mount Rushmore in dramatic effect. Marc felt a combination of pride that she was his wife, and sinking concern that she was here looking for some other man besides him. He took a drink and swallowed nervously.

Stay calm.

She seemed to think better of the pony tail and let her blonde locks cascade back down, dancing like a golden waterfall. She shook her head until her hair once again lay gracefully below her shoulders, then pulled her phone out of her purse and worked with it. A moment later, Marc's phone buzzed on the table beside him. He glanced at her text. "Still at work, honey. Sorry." Marc glanced back up to watch her retake her seat, return the phone to her purse and scan the room, like a lion on the African Savannas, hunting the limp or the lame, searching for the kill.

Yeah,

he thought again,

working.

Ten more minutes passed. Sara sipped her drink, occasionally pausing to search out the possibilities. Marc saw her eyes come to rest on a newcomer seated several tables away from him. Her eyes zeroed in like a laser seeking its target. He tried to make himself small in his chair and followed her gaze. The newcomer noticed her looking, and smiled. Sara smiled back, licked her plush red lips, letting her tongue linger longer than necessary, and turned back towards the bar, flicking her hair back with her hand as she did.

The stranger recognized the signals; rose from his table, picked up his drink and made his way to Sara's side. Let the games begin. The man ordered another round of drinks for both of them and scooted his bar stool close enough to be shoulder to shoulder with this stunning blonde in the sexy red dress.

Unable to control himself, risking exposure, Marc grabbed his beer and moved a few tables closer, even though this put him near the lights around the dance floor. The denouement approached. He wanted to watch, he had to see for himself, close up and personal, what his wife would do, what this evening of "work" was all about.

His new location placed him near another single guy, a huge, burly sort of fellow, who evidenced ever bit as much interest in the babe in the red dress as Marc. Marc didn't blame him. Who wouldn't be interested, the way she flaunted herself. Marc wondered what the burly guy beside him was thinking of the little show they were watching. Better than HBO, that's for sure.

Both Marc and the burly guy sat slightly to the right of Sara and the stranger. From this vantage point, they had a view of their backs of course, but looking into the bar mirror, they could see their faces and torsos as well.

After another drink and a few minutes of talk, the PDA escalated. The stranger dropped one hand onto Sara's thigh, gently rubbing up and down, getting farther up and more inside her thigh with each movement. Marc grimaced when his wife glanced down at the hand on her leg, then flashed the guy her dazzling smile, the same smile that so endeared Marc to her when they met.

In the mirror, Marc watched the guy twist to face Sara, then reach his other hand over to fondle her necklace, the necklace Marc bought her, the necklace lying over her ample cleavage. After pretending to admire the jewel, the guy lay the necklace back on her chest and deliberately, slowly, slid his hand across her breast, before he pulled away. He was not subtle. Again she smiled.

The next movement surprised Marc most of all. In a slow, equally deliberate manner, his wife reached across and unbuttoned one and then a second button on the man's shirt. She moved her hand inside his shirt and caressed his chest, leaning over to whisper in his ear and nibble on his neck. The man leaned his head back and smiled with the sensation of her touch. With her hand on his chest, the guy moved his hand higher up her thigh until it was hidden from view between her shapely legs. Marc realized his fingers had to be touching parts most husbands assume are reserved for them. Sara still gave no resistance.

Marc's mind spun. How long would this game continue? How far would they take things right here in public? Would she leave the bar with the guy? Was this what she did every time she "worked late?"

Marc observed Sara looking inside the man's shirt down the front of his chest. There she saw a large tattoo of a coiled snake. After seeing the tattoo, she casually asked, "Nice ink. Do they call you Snake?"

"You know it, honey," he answered.

In a flash she straightened her back and leaned away from the guy. She reached down, flung his hand off her thigh, turned and nodded to the burly guy at the table beside Marc. At her signal, the large burly man jumped to his feet and rushed forward shouting, "Hands behind your back, you're under arrest."

The whole thing happened so fast, the stranger hardly had time to react. Before he could move from his stool, the burly undercover police officer had hold of his arms and produced a set of handcuffs. Sara stepped away from her stool, rummaged in her purse, pulled out a badge and announced, "Dallas Vice." She leaned forward, close to his face. "You like to slap women around don't you, Snake? A real tough guy, huh? Well tough guy, you're under arrest for three counts of felony assault and battery."

Snake snickered at her. "Three that you know of, bitch."

Remaining calm, used to insults from her collars, Sara turned to the burly officer assisting her and instructed, "Read him his rights Sergeant Taylor. Then get this reptile out of my sight."

Other patrons sat stunned, silent, as the perp was led out, hands cuffed behind his back, to the waiting patrol car parked discretely in the alley down the block. Marc, standing up and moving closer, noticed the prominent snake tattoo under the perp's unbuttoned shirt, as he marched away.

Marc approached and Sara glanced his direction. Her hardened cop scowl faded. Her shoulders relaxed and her countenance softened visibly. Smiling in pleasant surprise, she exclaimed, "My goodness, how long have you been here, babe?"

"Couple of hours.'

She chuckled. "Curiosity got the best of you, did it? You've heard me talk about my undercover busts so many times, you just had to watch one for yourself, huh?" she teased, gulping down the remains of her margarita.

"Yep. I tried to stay out of the way. Hope I didn't interfere."

"Not at all. Never even knew you were here. I was focused on finding this "Snake" character that's been beating the shit out of women for the last three months. How did you even know where I was?"

"You talked about this place last week at the party. Remember."

Impressed, she lifted her eyebrows and commented, "You're not such a bad sleuth yourself, are you?" She set her empty drink glass down, gathered her purse, grinned and moved beside her newlywed husband. Marc laced his arm around her waist and they left for the precinct. There was paperwork to do before they could return home, and to bed, to properly celebrate her latest catch.

Finis

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Did the ending surprise you? If so, I succeeded. If not, then you are a cagey reader indeed. And please forgive any legal errors in the little tale above. It is meant only as entertainment, not as an episode of COPS. As always, I welcome constructive criticism and suggestions.