The school term was ending but my continuing education into my own sexual identity was just gaining steam. I had already learned of my innate desire to please other people where the realm of sexual adventure was concerned. If this drive to appear subservient in my role means to debase myself, I am finding that is what feeds my obsession. I will obey commands and put someone else's climax ahead of my own. Not because I don't know any better, but exactly because I understand that my body reacts orgasmically to being "forced" to perform. I don't want to delve into the psychology of my drive, but I think alot about it. My fantasies, and my limited experience have convinced me, that I reach a much higher state of arousal when I'm being told, (forcibly sometimes,) how and what to do. I can't help myself, this is what I so badly desire.
I was nineteen years old and a high school graduate. I was intending to take a year off in further pursuit of my softball career, in hopes that maybe an athletic scholarship would help me decide on a future college. My parents endorsed the idea, as they both worked hard to finance the education of my older brother. But first, before I said goodby to school friends, was the senior prom. I had no intention or any real desire to attend this semi-formal dance and late-night after party, because it would simply reinforce the notion that I had never been on a date and that many people assumed from my previous liaisons, that I was a closeted lesbian.
However, the girls on the team wanted to make a statement about our "unbreakable bonds." Though many of them were hetero, and even some of the "lezzies," had male dates, I wasn't in the mood to have my last remaining moments of my four years, to be gawked at and gossiped over. But I had committed to the team and we wanted to show a united front. We all found gowns of a similar style and in various shades of the school's colors, and we promised each other that we would spend atleast some big part of the evening together.
On the morning of the prom, I gazed at my lacy dress and high-heeled shoes and thought just how elegant it appeared. Then I feared how clumsy and clunky, I would look in this get-up. "Like dressing-up a mule in race-horse harness." I even stood infront of my mirror, straight from my shower, and studied my reflection in the glass. I was bare-lagged and my hair was bundled in a towel. The lazy-cat tattoo peeked-out at me from my upper thigh and another cartoonish, tiny, jagged-heart sketch, symbolizing my seemingly broken heart was just below my left breast.
Speaking of my breasts, they looked pert and supple, probably aided by my nervous breaths expanding and jiggling them on my chest, and the warm glow recently added from a hot shower. A few other choice discoveries awaited my inspection. My shoulders were fairly broad for a young woman but they made my waist look smaller and I could actually see a few of my ribs. Two years of varsity athletics had toned my body and added definition, where once only flab resided. The constant running shaped my thighs and produced flattering contours to my calves that were emphasized when I tried-on the four-inch heels. Under the towel, my brunette locks were sun-streaked, which high-lighted the natural auburn tints, and my dikey-do had grown-out to wear it hung in thick sheets and could have completely hidden my tits, if I ever wanted to go all "Lady Godiva." And my tits had benefited from my new body-sculpting, they were now a 34 and were closer to a C-cup and much firmer than I remembered.
But my mind still played terrible tricks on me. For me, the full-length glass reflected not mere reality but a "Fun-house" distortion of how I thought about myself. The insecurities that I nurtured for years continued to drag at my ego. I had always scrambled to get from the showers to my clothes without any of the other girls getting a closer look at me. This saved the humiliation of witnessing their sneering glances or of having to listen to their snide japes. Though my body changed over the course of two years, I still saw in my reflection; the limp, saggy tits with nipples drooping south, the half-shaved head, a wrinkled and rubbery belly that lapped over the fur-patch that was my unused cunt and the doughy, trunk-like legs that despite their size could barely support my weight. In my head, no amount of frilly finery could disguise this impending disaster, it was like pouring "ten pounds of mud in a five-pound sack."
Towards the evening of the big reveal, my mother helped me into the gown and styled my hair in a swept-back pompadour. She even lent me earrings and a necklace that dropped tantalizingly into my newly emerged cleavage. Before she sent me off, she was nearly in tears, remarking that I looked far more glamorous and so unlike the lost waif, who she fretted over entering my freshman year, so long ago.
I wanted to drape a scarf over my bare shoulders, (mostly to hide what I felt was my tits spilling-over the frilly top of my dress,) but she wouldn't allow it. My father and mother did pitch-in with some other parents to rent a limo for a few of us, so we wouldn't be seen having to arrive and leave unescorted. I know that I wasn't as clumsy as I felt, with my legs sheathed in stockings and walking in heels but my feet were plainly more used to sweat socks and spikes. Mom insisted that I quit fussing and fiddling with every bow or pleat on the dress and just as the fancy car was pulling up to the curb, she handed me a shot-glass of chilled vodka, "just a 'one-time' thing," she said, "to take the edge off and have a good time."
In the car, the other dateless girls were already chatting cattily, about who was sure to look like a painted whore or whose boyfriend would be the first to cheat on them, typical girl-stuff. As we approached the ballroom where the event was taking place, a hip-flask was produced and passed around. A second shot of vodka was more than I needed at seven o'clock with a full night ahead. But as mom requested, the edge was coming off! My head was already slightly spinning when we stepped inside the hotel's main conference room and my senses were immediately assaulted by the disco bulb and laser lights.
Most of the unattached boys were scattered around the room, tugging at their bowties or scuffling their patent-leather shoes while the single girls were generally huddled together, commenting on various forms of finery and frippery. An amateur band played the latest hits and a few couples were whirling across the dance floor, some working-up a sweat while most others lazed in each other's arms. My team was standing near the soda bar, surreptitiously spiking their lemonade with the contents of pocket decanters. I was convinced that I had wrung all the fun out of this non-event by now and was feeling a bit woozy. As the night drew near to a close and the lights had dimmed, I sat patiently by myself watching the others like someone working at a gas pump, as the other cars drove by.
It was past eleven, the room was in shadow and the air thick with smoke, hair gel and pheromones. My beautifully coifed hair had long ago lost its shape and was a stringy mess, laying plastered on my heavily perspiring shoulders. Hours of twisting and picking at the delicate folds of my expensive gown, had rendered it a wrinkled, baggy sheath that hung on me like a sparkly shroud. My sore feet had finally surrendered to the agony of tapered heels and my stockings were a tangled and torn knot in my purse. The girls had laced a few of my colas with something stiff and now the entire evening was making my head spin. I was near the point of asking the limo driver to take me back home, when I noticed some of my teammates whispering conspiratorially with a pimply-faced, string-bean, senior nerd named Adam. They were all looking in my direction and having a great laugh when Jenny walked over to where I was perched.
