A fictional account of a real woman.
Although Blaine had told Carol to meet him at his hotel at 8pm, he called a few hour later and told her
they
needed to run an errand before their
date
. When they met, he was unsatisfied with her attire and insisted they go back to her apartment to change it.
"This one," Blaine said, holding out a thin white camisole with spaghetti straps.
"Blaine!" Carol giggled like he had zero understanding of women's fashion. "That's not meant to be worn outside the boudoir."
He continued rummaging through her closet as if he hadn't heard her.
"Why do you even want to go out anyway?"
He continued ignoring her.
"C'mon Blaine. You wanted to see my bedroom, now you've seen it. I get nervous you being here. You know I don't live alone. I'd die of humiliation if someone caught us."
"And this," he said pulling a short blue skirt with a Union Jack pattern out from the back.
"Oh god Blaine, where did you find this? I didn't even know I still had it; it's got to be fifteen years old.
"Try it on."
"Blaine it's completely out of style. I couldn't wear something this short...at my age. I doubt it even still fits."
"Try it on."
Carol looked around. "Here?" she asked. "In front of you?"
"We're going to be standing right here when your boyfriend comes home at the rate you're going."
She slid off her sandals and opened the fly on her jeans. "I've never stripped for you," she said with a shy smile and slid her pants down her legs. Stepping out, she stood there in her knickers while he handed her the skirt.
"I told you it was too short," she said when the skirt was in place and the hemline rested a few inches below the gusset in her knickers.
"It's perfect," he said. "Where did you buy it?"
"Buy it?" she snickered as if conversing with a twit, then said, "Sorry, I didn't mean to sound like that. It's just that I bought it so long ago..."
"No woman forgets buying a skirt like that."
"Oh fuck, let me think. It was a boutique...I don't think it's there anymore. It was a time in my life when I was feeling unloved, unwanted...don't make me say it Blaine, don't make me say I was cheap."
"You are cheap, Carol. You're slutty. You're easy. You're cheap."
"Oh shit Blaine. I know you're right. I'm all those things with you. Why do you make me feel good about it?"
"You bought the skirt and what?" he asked, returning her back to the topic.
"I was going to a party. I felt vulnerable, probably because I was so horny. I hadn't been fucked in months and I wanted to break my dry spell. I went into a store that catered to teenagers and bought the most outrageous skirt I could find. I wanted the guys to reckon I was "easy" to use your word."
"Were you?"
"Gloriously! Do you like that, Blaine? Knowing I could be a bit of a slut even before I met you?"
"Do you?"
"Sometimes. There were times when re-living certain parts of my past WAS my sex life."
"Put on the top."
"I told you I can't wear that outside. Here, I think I have something almost as good..."
"Put it the fuck on."
Carol began undoing the buttons of her blouse and shrugged it off her shoulders. She stood in a plain white bra gathering her courage.
"They're not as big as some women," she told him in preparation for revealing her breasts. "A bit droopier with age..."
"Just take off the fucking bra, Carol. Everything doesn't have to be a narrative."
"I can get chatty when I'm nervous..." she said, smiling weakly, still talking.
"The fucking bra cunt."
She reached back and unfastened the clasp. She cradled the cups in her hands, defending her modesty for a final moment, and then she discarded the garment. She stood before him, naked from the waist up, for the first time. She waited for him to speak but he said nothing. She lifted the camisole above her head and let it slide over her.
"Take it off."
Blaine saw a sense of relief in her, happy that he'd come to his senses, that he wouldn't force her to go out in that top. Quickly she tugged off the top even though that meant baring her breasts again. It wasn't that she objected to him seeing them, just that he seemed so disinterested.
"Rub your nipples," he ordered. "Make them hard."
Carol's first reaction was to speak, to argue with him but she caught herself. She lifted her hands and began caressing her breasts. She stroked her nipples causing them to pucker and harden.
"Pinch them. Make them good and hard. I want to see them popping from under that top.
So much for not wearing the camisole in public, she thought. She started pinching and pulling at her nipples.
"Harder!"
He watched her bite her lip as she squeezed and twisted her nipples with more force than she'd ever used on herself before. Her areola were dotted with little bumps and the nipples stood out, reddened, almost raw. He tossed her the top and she put it back on.
