Before we met at the gala, I called and gave you very specific instructions on what to wear. You know what this means, when I want you to wear something very specific. You love what this means. You breathlessly memorize every detail. In my mind you are touching yourself, fingers sliding inside your panties as you listen to my voice, but I know this is not true. You work in a cubicle. You are surrounded by bored, nosy co-workers. They do not see you the way I see you. They do not know what we know. They do not live as we live.
I dress in the generic black tie uniform required of me and arrive fifteen minutes after I have instructed you to arrive. I spot you leaning against the far wall of the room as soon as I walk in the door. The effect is cinematic; everyone and everything else falls out of focus, leaving only you in the center of the frame.
You are wearing exactly what I have asked you to wear. The tight black dress I love so much hugs your body, plunging dangerously low to show off your small and flawless breasts (in bed I do not call them breasts, I call them tits, but we are at a party that requires decorum so I think of them as breasts; later in the evening they will be tits, your lovely tits). No one knows you are wearing thigh high stockings except you and I. You know how much of a fetish I have for your stockings. You know how it teases me for you to wear them. You are not wearing panties either. No one knows except you and I. You love so much to tease me, and I so love to be teased.
More importantly, you are wearing a long string of pearls, in two petite loops around your neck.
He lay naked on the bed, his khaki pants neatly folded on the chair at the side, his polo shirt draped over it.
She stood at the foot of the bed, wearing a modest beige skirt and matching blouse, the dull black matte of the enormous hotel television a backdrop behind her. She kicked off her sensible heels. She unzipped her skirt and shimmied out of it, and when it was left dangling on her foot flung it onto the chair with a kick. She spent more time with the blouse, unbuttoning it one button at a time, maintaining simmering eye contact all the while. She opened the blouse, revealing the lacy bra that had been ticking in his imagination the entire day. She pulled the blouse off and tossed it next to her skirt.
Lacy bra and panties. He knew she had been wearing them; she had texted a picture of herself wearing them (and nothing else) that morning.
She hopped up onto the dresser counter that held the television. She slid off her panties, let them fall to the floor. She left on her bra.
And then in a move so fluid and cinematic it had to have been planned, perhaps even practiced, she opened the top drawer of the dresser with her toe. Her foot disappeared into the drawer, then returned into view with a thigh high fishnet stocking hooked onto her toe. She gathered the stocking with elaborate care, lifted her leg, and with studied slowness began to roll the fishnet up her leg. When she was done with the first stocking she slid her foot again into the drawer, pulled the matching stocking out of the drawer with toes foot, lifted her leg with a dizzying flair for the theatrical, and rolled it on her leg with the same considered slowness.
She loved dressing up for him, wearing anything he asked, making herself into a fetish doll, a sex toy. Anything he asked. Fishnet thigh highs, fishnet gloves. Collars and leashes. Thick, whorish makeup. He didn’t ask every time, but he did often. He found his mind took a series of photographs when she dressed like this, snapping away as he climbed her, rolled her, fucked her, used her: click, click, click.
He wondered what part of his mind was taking those photographs: the porn-y, objective part that loved seeing her dressed as his perfect fantasy woman, the part that worshiped thigh highs and chains and nipple clamps, or the emotive part of his mind that loved her for wanting to be the vehicle for all his desires, for taking on whatever role he requested. He’d switch back and forth, one moment fully immersed in the experience, the next slightly distanced as he watched her transform herself into his literal fantasies, mirroring his inner sexual life with uncanny, shape-shifting skill.
They had tried documenting their fucking with a cellphone a few times, and while taking the pictures was hot, the result was flat and insubstantial. Looking at them afterward was arousing only because the images were a talisman from the moment, taken while the moment was actual and happening. They were not the same as the pictures he took with his mind while they were fucking; those pictures were living breathing things, fully fleshed the instant they breached his waking mind.