****Author's note: I am entering this for the
Literotica Winter Holidays Contest
, so if you enjoy this story please give it a vote! This story does contain mild themes of reluctance. All characters in this story are over the age of 18.
*
The doorbell rang, and Gladys Newsome bit her dark red lip with excitement as she put on her pearl earrings and matching necklace. She'd agonized over this outfit for weeks, ever since George Miller asked her to the Christmas Eve sock hop at the nicest jazz club in town. Gladys' shoulder length brown hair was perfectly styled in pin curls and pulled back at the front, her curvaceous body was complimented by a dark red sweetheart neckline dress made of the most luxurious velvet material in New York, and she wore a white fur (genuine of course) shrug. Her dress fell to mid calf, complimented her slender ankles, which were further accentuated by matching velvet kitten heels. Gladys was a senior in high school and ready to start looking for a husband, and the only other family in Manhattan in 1947 that was as wealthy as hers were the Millers.
Gladys descended the staircase, her white satin-clad hands gently gliding over the banister. George was at the bottom, shaking her father's hand and kissing her mother's. He had a charming smile on his face. George offered Gladys his arm and she took it gratefully, imagining what it might be like to be on his arm every night for the rest of their lives. Gladys' mother subtly eyed her ensemble and pursed her lips.
"Gladys, you left your pocketbook in the parlor earlier," she said, and Gladys reluctantly let go of George's arm to step into the other room with her mother.
"Don't you think you were a little heavy-handed with the lipstick, dear?" her mother inquired gently, handing Gladys the aforementioned pocketbook, "You don't want to give this boy the wrong idea."
Grateful her mother couldn't see the neckline of her dress underneath her shrug, she replied: "Mother, the rest of the girls will be wearing lipstick. Unless you want me to be an old maid living with you and Father until I'm 30, I need George to ask me to go steady tonight. I need all the help I can get. George is a respectable young man, he won't do anything I don't want him to." Mrs. Newsome nodded reluctantly.
"Have a good time, dear. This would be an advantageous match for the company, but remember not to damage your reputation in the process."
Gladys and her mother left the parlor just as George was shaking Mr. Newsome's hand one final time.
"Have her home by midnight," Mr. Newsome said with a smile, and Gladys' heart nearly leapt out of her chest. Her father had never let her stay out this late, he must have really wanted tonight to go well.
The Newsome's had owned a small slew of car factories prior to The War, which had been temporarily converted to munitions factories. The demand for munitions meant the Newsomes had opened more and more factories, their wealth quickly accumulating. They were "New Money", and the Millers were blue bloods, able to offer the status and business connections the Newsomes desperately craved. The Millers wanted to expand their business prospects to automobiles. It was 1947, the automobile business was booming during the newly re-established "peacetime economy", so both families needed this match to go smoothly.
Gladys and George walked out to his brand new 1946 Triumph Roadster, the convertible top was up of course, and George opened Gladys' car door. She smiled at him and blushed as he shut her door, and then walked around to the driver's seat. Gladys was over the moon, her heart pounding beneath her pert cleavage. She shivered, the cold reaching her shoulders from underneath her mostly decorative fur shrug. The car roared to a start and George began the 15-minute drive to the jazz club. The city lights sparkled against the snow that hadn't been trampled on. The two found they had much to discuss as George attended an all boys school, and Gladys went to an all-girls school and were soon chatting along and laughing about the nuns who taught them, and how they would both soon be graduating. George was to study under his father to one day inherit the family business. His family was insisting on sending him to an Ivy League school, because only an educated man could handle business affairs of that magnitude.
Once the couple arrived and entered the dance hall, George checked her shrug at the door. His hungry, devilish eyes swept over the way her pearls highlighted her collarbone and her ample cleavage, the way her curls brushed her shoulders. This dress was very revealing, and George felt a stirring in his trousers.
"Ms. Newsome, may I have this dance?" he asked, offering his hand, and she accepted. They walked to the dance floor together and began to dance. Gladys hadn't even bothered to fill out her dance card, every dance was for George and George alone. George was a perfect lead, firm but not demanding, his hand resting gently on her tiny waist and guiding her hand with confidence. Gladys found herself blushing as she considered where else George's confidence might be of use to her. The air smelled like cinnamon and mint as the pair danced; they were a perfect match. It was as if they'd danced together dozens of times before.
While George was acting the perfect gentleman, his thoughts were less than gentlemanly. The Christmas lights glittered above the dance floor, and like any good Catholic family, the Millers celebrated Christmas. But as George looked down at Gladys, her cleavage gently brushing his chest, he had absolutely no intention of leaving room for Jesus.
