A Game of Dress-Up

It was Monday night and Vanessa was dressing up. It was, in fact, a holiday and she'd been home from school all day, free to laze about. The house was empty, her mom and brother were at the movies, and she was all alone, free to take her time. She stood in her bedroom in front of the full length mirror, watching herself and posing as she slowly and deliberately got dressed in her very sluttiest clothes, a kind of reverse striptease, for her eyes only.

She stepped into the tiny black thong panties—sheer Lurex, shot with metallic silver threads—pulled them up over her knees and smoothed them out. She hooked her thumbs into the waist band and drew them slowly up her long, smooth thighs, purposely avoiding her reflection in the mirror until they were all the way up, then she let the panties snap gently into place over her naked sex and raised her eyes to see herself in the mirror. She smiled.

She turned around and looked back at herself over her shoulder so she could see the black thong running like an exclamation point between the proud hemispheres of her ass, and then turned back, admiring the way the scrap of shiny Lurex barely concealed the trimmed patch of pubic hair, giving the panties a suggestive, sexy bulge. Moving closer to the mirror, she cocked her hips forward so she could just see her shadowy folds through the sheer fabric. She looked terribly sexy to herself, and she ran her fingertip over her crease, enjoying the sight of her red fingernail against the black panties as much as she did the shivery sensation of touching herself.

She was such a whore.

She wasn't going anywhere and she didn't have a date. Her mother and brother had gone out to see a movie, and Vanessa was happy to be alone with herself for a change. She studied hard during the week and when she wasn't studying she was working keeping Mr. Taylor’s books, so these few hours alone were precious: a time for a long, leisurely game of dress-up, followed by a prolonged, fantasy-fueled masturbation. It was something she rarely had time to indulge in anymore. She had no social life anymore, no time for boys. She had sacrificed everything for the sake of her scholarship, so this make-believe sex was the only kind she had time for.

It wasn't bad. It wasn't the real thing, but then it didn't have the complications of real relationships either, and this way she was free to indulge all her fantasies and desires without worrying what anyone thought. She was a perfect date.

She'd already showered and put on her makeup, more extreme than she would ever have worn in public. Her eye shadow and black eyeliner enhanced her clear brown eyes, and her lipstick was so shiny it was almost obscene, as if a lover's semen still glistened on her lips. Her earrings were outrageous: long, shimmery strands of rhinestone that flashed with the least movement of her head and gleamed wickedly against her dark auburn hair. She'd perfumed herself too, and even rouged her nipples to make them stand out. She felt deliciously wicked and wanton, a true whore, and it excited her terrifically. This was her favorite game.

She turned her back to the mirror and slipped on a black mesh and pleather corset, zipping it on backwards and then spinning it around so the zipper was where it belonged. She carefully lifted her breasts into the open demi-cups, then took a deep breath. She pulled the front laces hard, cinching her waist in so that the corset hugged her tight—tight as a lover's embrace, accentuating the curve of her hips and forcing her breasts up and out; so tight that even her rouged nipples looked redder, as if the blood from her body were being forced into her tits.

Now she allowed herself a peek in the mirror. The tightness of the corset even seemed to make her labia look engorged. They bulged behind the little black thong, and Vanessa didn't have to touch them to know she was already wet.

She was gett8ing very excited now, so she sat on the bed and put on her fishnet hose, drawing them slowly up over her legs, watching herself in the mirror as she extended her foot, pointed her toe and teased the stocking up her thigh. She pulled the stay-up elastic high on the her legs and smoothed it into place. She loved the way it gripped her.

The rule of the game was that she wasn't allowed to touch herself until she was completely dressed and had a fantasy scenario clear in her mind, but a little tease didn't really count, and she took a moment to lie on her side and spread her knees, admiring the contrast of the stockings against the pale flesh of her thighs. She ran her nails down the corset, over the smooth skin of her belly, and finally along the moist fabric of her thong, imagining a lover's tongue following the same path.

The panties she had worn for only minutes were already soaked. Although she would never let anyone else see her without her modesty fully intact, in her dreams she liked to wear the most provocative and blatantly sexual clothes she could find. In her fantasies she was irresistibly sexy; men admired her with or without her consent; she drove them wild, and yet she was always totally innocent. She couldn't imagine why men threw themselves at her feet.

The final bit of dressing always had to be done without peeking in the mirror, so as to get the final effect all at once. She put on her wickedly high heels, sexy strappy things that made her legs look even longer than they were, and then the dress.

The dress was the final touch, a buttery soft black vinyl number that snapped all the way up the front. She had bought it a size too small and had grown since then, so that it now fit her like a second skin, pushing her breasts in and compressing them into an erupting cleavage and showing every stitch of the lingerie underneath. The dress hugged her so tightly that even the cleavage in her ass showed clearly. It encased her in wicked, shiny black.

She finished snapping it up, took a moment to compose herself and shake her hair free, closed her eyes and turned around to face the mirror. Then she opened her eyes.

Oh yes. Perfect! What a whore; what a delicious slut she was! She looked like she was about to burst from the dress; her nipples were hard and clearly visible through the vinyl. The corset accentuated the generous thrust of her hips and made her look even more leggy, and she posed for herself, cocking her hip provocatively, raising an eyebrow, blowing a kiss with her red lips. God she looked cheap. Cheap and hot. Who wouldn't want to fuck her?

She could just picture herself walking into some bar or nightclub: all the men’s and even the women’s heads turning to look at her. She could imagine the men’s cocks getting hard in their pants as she walked in: all that male meat standing at attention, all those balls filling with come eager to be launched in her direction.

The next step in the usual game was to pose and admire herself until some very erotic scenario came to mind, then act it out is as best she could, touching herself, using her toys, and then end it with a savage and glorious full-throttle masturbation. But she felt so wonderfully sexy now she didn't want to rush through it. She liked the way her ass swayed as she walked in front of the mirror in the heels. She loved the way the dress held her. She cocked her head and watched the earring sparkle as they kissed her neck. She was excited when she felt how wet she was.

In her mind, the scenario was fairly simple this time: this was her place and she had a man over; just some friend, some good-looking man she worked with. He'd never seen her like this and would be unable to keep his hands off her. He'd seduce her and be amazed at the way the studious college girl had been transformed into a voracious slut, and she'd protest that she always dressed like this at home.

She had a sudden urge to have a drink. She didn't really like to drink, but she wanted the drink as a prop: sophisticated, dissolute. Maybe she'd have a cigarette too. She didn't smoke, but she had an old pack of Parliaments she'd bought months ago. She dug them out now from among her collection of clothes and put one between her lips. Perfect. She felt like a total whore.

She walked down the stairs to the kitchen, swaying slightly on the absurdly high heels, and after digging around in some cabinets, found an old bottle of whiskey. She put some ice cubes into a glass and poured the whiskey in. She found a book of matches in her mom's junk drawer and lit her cigarette. She took a deep drag into her mouth and blew it out, then lounged against the sink and sipped the drink.

It was awful. Just terrible, but she forced herself to take a little more. She liked the way it made her mouth feel, the way it stung her throat with just a hint of suppressed evil. Yes, this was what a real whore would feel.

She took another drag and turned to see her reflection in the dark window glass. Her very red lips parted sensuously as she let the smoke trail from her nostrils, then she puckered her lips and blew, just the way she'd blow smoke in some stud's face as a way of telling him to get lost. The gesture was so wicked she felt her nipples harden and she thrust her shoulders back to make her breasts stand out even more. Sh3e felt positively lethal.

She raised the cigarette to her lips and inhaled this time, concentrating on not coughing, then turned around and blew a stream of smoke at the light fixture. The nicotine rush made her slightly dizzy, and she leaned her ass against the sink and took another drink.

She was startled by a quick, casual knock on the front door, and before she could even think to react, the door opened and Rob Taylor—Vanessa’s boss and mother’s friend—walked into the room carrying the weekend’s accounts as he did every Monday.