might happen by the opening of the alley, and my mouth veers close to her ear once again.
“So, you tell me,” I say, sliding my fingers from her pussy, lifting them, dripping, to her mouth. Her tongue snakes forth to taste herself there, a giggle, rough and low, making her body shudder lightly.
“Yeah,” she says, opening her eyes a crack, a smile playing on her lips. “You can dance.”
The Dress
Vanessa de Sade
I tell myself that I only keep the dress because I want to pass it on to my own daughter, although I know this is a lie. I am forty-nine years old and have a husband who has not attempted to navigate the path to my bed in well over a decade. I will never have a daughter.
And so the dress moulders in my attic amongst the fragments of my broken dreams, pristine, like Snow White in her glass coffin, its corsage of organza roses now as fragile as butterfly wings between the gossamer sheets of tissue paper that preserve the last lingering scents of my Cassandra.
Ah, Cassandra. Twenty years my senior, she ran a little dress maker’s shop in the old quarter of town, a modest single-fronted unit in a mellow red sandstone terrace, now long since bulldozed to make way for some neon-streaked shopping mall. But ever since I had been a little girl I had pressed my nose against her window and dreamt about the delights within, promising myself that, when the time came, Cassandra would be the one to make my wedding dress and that I would walk down the aisle in yards and yards of sparkling white tulle and looking like a fairy princess.
However, things being what they were, impatience got the better of me, and, after university and slaving for four years behind the counter of a sweaty local pizza restaurant, not to mention fending off the equally sweaty advances of my boss, I had saved enough to commission Cassandra to make the dress for my graduation ball. The contents of my denuded post office book clutched in my hand, I opened the door and walked determinedly into her winter white Snow Queen’s kingdom.
Outside, a chill wind was blowing and the rustling trees were tinged with their first scarlet blush, but, leading me past her alabaster mannequins and towering bolts of frosty-white fabrics, Cassandra took me into the warmth of the secret room behind the public façade of her icy realm. Here, the walls were papered in an intimate chrome yellow paper with a leafy Morris design, and a fire burned in the tiny grate, filling the room with the autumnal scents of wood smoke and pine resin, while rich Aubusson rugs draped the old walnut floorboards like a caress.
Cassandra smiled at me and sat me in a saggy arts and crafts chair, its soft cushions cradling my body in a tender lover’s embrace, and I flicked through pattern books while she sat on the floor, curled on the faded old rug like a tabby cat purring at my feet. She was a short, blonde woman, buxom and curvy, like an old fifties pin-up girl spilling out of her low-cut black dress, her huge breasts rising and falling with her breathing, her deep, deep cleavage an ivory chasm that I wanted to tumble into headfirst.
Finally, I found a pattern that I loved and she led me to a corner of the room where an old screen decorated with picture-postcards of Gaiety Girls stood waiting.
“Come along then, my duck,” she laughed, sliding her tape measure from where it had nestled around her neck like a whip. “Just strip off for me and we’ll get your measurements down in a jiff.”
“Strip off?” I stammered, and she smiled.
“Just to your underwear, my goose, I don’t need you starkers or anything,” she laughed, stroking my hair. “Now get along with you and hop behind the screen for me so we can get started.”
Scarlet, I turned my back to her and quickly pulled my sweater up over my head, ashamed of my old white bra, then let my jeans fall to the floor, standing there in just those old blue and white floral panties that didn’t quite contain my creamy
“So, you tell me,” I say, sliding my fingers from her pussy, lifting them, dripping, to her mouth. Her tongue snakes forth to taste herself there, a giggle, rough and low, making her body shudder lightly.
“Yeah,” she says, opening her eyes a crack, a smile playing on her lips. “You can dance.”
The Dress
Vanessa de Sade
I tell myself that I only keep the dress because I want to pass it on to my own daughter, although I know this is a lie. I am forty-nine years old and have a husband who has not attempted to navigate the path to my bed in well over a decade. I will never have a daughter.
And so the dress moulders in my attic amongst the fragments of my broken dreams, pristine, like Snow White in her glass coffin, its corsage of organza roses now as fragile as butterfly wings between the gossamer sheets of tissue paper that preserve the last lingering scents of my Cassandra.
Ah, Cassandra. Twenty years my senior, she ran a little dress maker’s shop in the old quarter of town, a modest single-fronted unit in a mellow red sandstone terrace, now long since bulldozed to make way for some neon-streaked shopping mall. But ever since I had been a little girl I had pressed my nose against her window and dreamt about the delights within, promising myself that, when the time came, Cassandra would be the one to make my wedding dress and that I would walk down the aisle in yards and yards of sparkling white tulle and looking like a fairy princess.
However, things being what they were, impatience got the better of me, and, after university and slaving for four years behind the counter of a sweaty local pizza restaurant, not to mention fending off the equally sweaty advances of my boss, I had saved enough to commission Cassandra to make the dress for my graduation ball. The contents of my denuded post office book clutched in my hand, I opened the door and walked determinedly into her winter white Snow Queen’s kingdom.
Outside, a chill wind was blowing and the rustling trees were tinged with their first scarlet blush, but, leading me past her alabaster mannequins and towering bolts of frosty-white fabrics, Cassandra took me into the warmth of the secret room behind the public façade of her icy realm. Here, the walls were papered in an intimate chrome yellow paper with a leafy Morris design, and a fire burned in the tiny grate, filling the room with the autumnal scents of wood smoke and pine resin, while rich Aubusson rugs draped the old walnut floorboards like a caress.
Cassandra smiled at me and sat me in a saggy arts and crafts chair, its soft cushions cradling my body in a tender lover’s embrace, and I flicked through pattern books while she sat on the floor, curled on the faded old rug like a tabby cat purring at my feet. She was a short, blonde woman, buxom and curvy, like an old fifties pin-up girl spilling out of her low-cut black dress, her huge breasts rising and falling with her breathing, her deep, deep cleavage an ivory chasm that I wanted to tumble into headfirst.
Finally, I found a pattern that I loved and she led me to a corner of the room where an old screen decorated with picture-postcards of Gaiety Girls stood waiting.
“Come along then, my duck,” she laughed, sliding her tape measure from where it had nestled around her neck like a whip. “Just strip off for me and we’ll get your measurements down in a jiff.”
“Strip off?” I stammered, and she smiled.
“Just to your underwear, my goose, I don’t need you starkers or anything,” she laughed, stroking my hair. “Now get along with you and hop behind the screen for me so we can get started.”
Scarlet, I turned my back to her and quickly pulled my sweater up over my head, ashamed of my old white bra, then let my jeans fall to the floor, standing there in just those old blue and white floral panties that didn’t quite contain my creamy
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