Tailor Made

Two things immediately strike you about the polka dot satin dress lying on the bed. It is identical in design to the one I am wearing on this, our second date. It is also too big for me.

The thrill you felt when I invited you back to my flat has been building since we came through my door and I began to strip you naked. Your clothes are in the porch, along the staircase, on the landing, but my dress is still on.

You joked about not being able to find my zip. I point to the dress on the bed. "Can you find the zip now?" I ask.

If you were to think back to our first date you would remember me talking about my newfound hobby as a seamstress. Your polite interest became excitement when I told you that I would make your dream dress for our next date.

"This is what you chose," I say. It is pink with large white dots, a flared skirt, tight waist, cap sleeves and high collar. You were particular about satin.

"Is it shiny enough for you? You said that it turned you on." I lift the dress on its hanger and hold it against you. The soft material brushes your skin as it swings from side to side. You try to hide your arousal behind the skirt but it begins to show through. "Shall we see how it fits?"

I circle round you with my hand on your head and put the toe of my shoe in the back of your knee. You kneel without saying anything. You put your arms up when I ask and meekly put your hands through the arm holes. The fabric slips over your body and the skirts gather about your hips.

You let me zip you up as I tell you how perfectly it fits you. I describe you in ways that make your cheeks redden. So pretty, such curves, so pert, such poise. I adjust the way the folds drape over your bottom.

"Now we're just the same," I say. I slide a footstool in front of you. At my insistence you lay forward onto it. "Well, almost the same."

As you look back you see me flip up first your skirts, exposing your bottom, then draw back my own. You half think about moving as you see the strap-on beneath, but I place a hand in the middle of your back. With my other, I squeeze lubricant onto the cock then onto you. You feel the coolness of the gel and tighten.

"I'm not going to stop," I tell you. "So try to relax and give yourself to me."

I keep talking to you as I use the strap-on to spread the lubricant where it's needed. I tell you that you're a tease who longs to be a tramp, a coquette wanting to be taken. I ease myself in gently.

"If it makes it easier, pretend that this is just a role," I say. "Imagine that you're a whore. How much do you think you would charge if you were?"

I'm halfway in and you moan a little as you begin to accept me. "Do you think you're a high-class escort, with your cute silky dress?" I ask as you breathe in. You breathe out and the dildo slips in further. "Or are you a cheap little tart?"

I reach round and take your cock in my hand. Ever so slowly, I knead more gel into the head, which swells beneath my slippery fingers. My hips press against your bottom now. I let the strap-on rest there, deep to the hilt, and I'm about to begin withdrawing when I feel you bobbing almost imperceptibly back and forth.

"You ARE a cheap little tart," I say approvingly. I let you set the rhythm and together we grind to the sound of your gasps. Your cock is as hard as it has ever been, dripping beads of precum. I feel you shudder as the dildo rubs the perfect spot inside you.

I want to humiliate you as you come and tell you so. "You love this too much to be a whore. You're a bimbo." I can tell you're close to a climax and let go of your cock but you compensate by stepping up your rhythm "

"Say you're a bimbo," I say. "Say it: 'I'm your cute little bimbo.'"

I cajole you again till you say it, over and over like a mantra. I give your cock one more stroke and you lose it. You let out a cry like an animal as you spill come onto your skirt.

I bring out my dildo, turn down your dress and leave you to rest as I clear away your clothes.