And there’s really only one way to wear a dress like this, and that’s naked, the fit’s so perfect there’s no room for lace, not even a gossamer string. And with breasts as youthful and firm as yours, there’s never been need for a bra.
When you slip into it, you’re impressed, it could have been made for you, the cut so right, and you note with relief how the material at your chest has just enough weight to camouflage the push of your perfect nipples.
This is a detail you know to be a good thing, because you also know that just like the men, there are all too often three types of women out there on a Friday night who may pay you attention:
First, there are those who can’t seem to hide how resentful they are for how exquisitely good you can look, and the brazen attraction in those nipples of yours can douse their already burning jealousy in kerosene.
Then, there are those other women who may swear they’re straight, but can’t seem to disguise how they’re seduced by the sight of them, their eyes and expressions openly giving away their intentions with wanting to make love to them.
Finally there are the ones who seem to resent how you don’t need a man, how you’ve got to where you are, for yourself and by yourself. Independent, sharp, smart, and god-damn-it, bloody sexy too.
Mind you, let’s be honest, some of the guys struggle with this too. Hey ho, that’s on them, tonight you’re looking killer, and you couldn’t give a monkeys for any of them that don’t, can’t or won’t dig you!
You slip on those new heels, and oh-my-god they feel amazing. The mirror can’t lie; your legs go on forever, the dress sits perfectly, tight on your thighs.
You look so good, firm and toned, fabulously framed between the classy sophistication of the shoes and the oh-so sexy chic of the clinging body-con dress and as you turn to look over your bare shoulder and check the rear, you almost gasp at how seductively deep the back cuts; so low, so inviting.
A couple of final touches and you are ready for the road. You pop your little black and silver studded friendship bracelet over your wrist, slip on your protective angel-cross earrings, then mist yourself in luxuriant Chanel.
Taking one last swig from the chilled bottle of beer, barely half-emptied, before killing the power to the Sonos, scooping up your car keys and heading out the door, with your small purse clutched in your hand and a ton of confidence in your strut and stride.
It’s a beautiful summer evening, perfect for a drive, especially with some tunes blasting, and you bounce toward your little car with a real sense of fun and adventure.
Driver’s door swung wide open, you slide in rearward with your knees tucked tight together, swinging your legs up in and over the sill, and just as you do so a cocky young lad, in his twenties maybe, and coming from across the way, wolf-whistles as he approaches.
With a half smile-half smirk, thinking: cheeky bugger, you’re more flattered than offended, and you can see he’s not playing, sure he’s playful, but he means the gesture, he’s really liking what he’s just caught a glimpse of, it is summer after all, you are smoking hot, and he is full red blooded.
What’s a boy to do?