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Morning Song by Darlinggirl
 
November 2003
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Secrets stolen from deep inside...
November 15, 2003

"She's dressed in something very different tonight," a voice comments from the opposite end of the long table. "I don't believe we've ever seen her in a dress like that? What is it..my first thought would be Dolce & Gabbana?" The girl stirred just a bit at the sound of that voice...had she heard it before?

The sudden sharp burst of masculine laughter almost brought the girl's head up...but not only did she have her instructions, she couldn't have raised her head for the world...there were others here at her table...men.

Earlier, when he had brought her into the dining room to set her down upon the dark leather ottoman, he had given severe instructions to not open her eyes or raise her head until expressly asked to. She could tell by that note in his voice, he would brook no arguement this evening.

"Well, I'd bet the farm it came from Neiman's," bantered yet another male voice from near by...and yes, most assuredly, this voice was disturbing familiar. Even that note of supreme assurance and superiority...surely other men could have that voice. Please. She shifted slightly and her black-silk covered bottom couldn't quite keep a hint of kittenish wiggle out of that movement and the room went silent. Even the last bits of laughter ended suddenly.

Silence ticked by, accompanied by the friendly little sounds from the brass anniversary clock upon the cherrywood mantle...she stifled an impulse to inform the gentleman just who did her dress. Once again, a flicker of something flew across her face and she must have moved, again, even slightly, for with a suddeness that caused her to gasp, she heard a chair scrape back and footsteps moving across the polished wood floor.

A sharp intake of breath came from her pretty glossy mouth for she well knew the intent behind those sort of steps....she had heard them many, many times before. In spite of the shameful awareness that she had an audience, the girl put back her shoulders, pressed her knees together and kept her head down, glad for the wings of hair falling over her features.

Hand upon her right shoulder, firmly resting upon one bunched-lace shoulder strap, He was standing just to her right and every cell and fibre of her being resonated with that touch and presence. It was if the two were really linked by some silver chain of awareness and knowledge. Just by the way he had left his chair, she knew he was a bit displeased with her...and her heart beat a bit faster with this insight.

"It's not Dolce & Gabbana or Nanette Lepore but you are correct. It did come from Neiman's and would you believe I had to buy it for her. She's the funniest little thing...actually prefers to just look instead of buy. You all wouldn't believe the cajoling it took to get her to try it on...specially since I requested the salesgirl accompany her into the dressing room. I didn't trust the little thing to really try it on, just pretend she had and give it right back. Tricky she is."

A discussion of the merits of the LittleBlackDress then follows between the three men...she has counted three distinct voice but perhaps there are a silent few? She hopes not...for already she's grateful for the candle-lit and shadowy room and her place by the fire...the better to hide her furious blushing, for it's taking every teeny bit of self-control to keep from from bolting from this room like the embarassed and shy girl she really, truly is.

"Diane von Furstenberg. Black silk, I can tell it has a asymmetric hem...why don't you have her stand up so I can see it...it's a pity to hide legs like those under that pretty black silk." Darn. The owner of that man's voice knows a bit too much about clothes, she sighs inwardly. Now, she's to pay extra attention to him .

The man standing to her side laughs at this speculation and begins to toast the gentleman with lavish insults and and many private jokes...she hopes this continues for as long as the men want, for now they are all discoursing upon women's clothes, shopping, and the age old question: Do women dress to please men, other women or themselves? A very heated discussion flares all around the table and she can hear chairs being pushed back and movement of bodies as they refill cut-crystal glasses with the various liquors she herself set out earlier that day. Uh-oh. What is going on here??

"Is that a faint shadow of nipple I can see from clear over here?" This sudden question, the voice, the very words chosen give further hints as the possible identity of the owner of that voice...and her poor heart leaps in her chest so strongly she moves on her seat...and once again, the room goes quiet.

She continues to sit, quiet as a wee mouse (his very instructions), but it's hard!!! Suddenly aware of her cleavage, it's difficult to keep her shoulders back, for the dress is cut a bit low...and draped across her front. Like most small-breasted girls, she's never certain if she should really wear low-cut dresses and has never been totally comfortable wearing them...but she does all the time!

"Ain't that just the cutest thing...they're poking right up through that silk like pussywillow buds...no, maybe more like gumdrops, you think?" The hand on her shoulder tightens slightly as he speaks, for he has felt the trembling course through her shoulderblades at the other man's observation...and now, now, He's not only answered his friend but is drawing even more attention to her situation: A girl all alone, in the company of three men that seem to be very comfortable with each other...perched upon a dark burgundy-brown leather ottoman...dressed to the nines in a gorgeous, black silk dress, simple, feminine but showing a lot of fair creamy skin...arms, shoulders, the tops and curves of her breasts...skirt arranged to show a glimpse of long leg and black-and-silver ankle strap shoes. In spite of herself and the instructions she'd been given, her small hands come together in her lap and in her mind's eye she can imagine the picture she must be making...all black and silver and pink...glossy pink nails and lips, black silk, white skin...silver and pink grossgrain ribbon woven through the braid resting at the nape of her neck. Could the gentlemen tell that except for sheer, lace-topped stockings, she wasn't wearing anything under her clothes. Not one little piece of underthings, at-all. At that moment, she was actuely aware of the bare skin of her bottom resting upon smooth, cool black silk...it was becoming difficult to keep her knees pressed chastely together.

As if he's reading her thoughts, he moves his large, beautiful, well-shaped hand (she adores his hands) up to the back of her neck and rests it firmly there...almost loosely encircling her throat with one hand...possessing and controlling her again, with that one small gesture. She sighs...a long, shuddering sigh, quiet, faint...but the force of it moves through her whole body. Her head moves back, exposing the curve of her white rounded throat and she leans back into the palm of his hand...forgetting the room and its occupants..for the briefest of moments...all she is the skin meeting his hand...brilliant hot warmth creeping, then rushing over flesh, through blood and veins. A deep silence falls over the room...firelight flickering over all their faces. Someone moves slightly, glass knocking gently in amber liquid...the slight trembling becoming stronger, she feels his fingers now stroking her neck, the ridge of collar bone, curve of chin...fearful anticipation is melting, burning into yearning.

"See how she just loves to be touched. Total baby about it, too. Can't resist it ever, the helpless, shameless little thing." He informs the men...a curious blend of affection and tease in his voice."Ain't that so, babygirl? My baby just lives to be stroked, doesn't she? Don't act like you don't, it's written all over you, always has been...tell the men here, you love to be touched don't you? Answer me."..." a note of firmness creeps back into his loving voice...reminding her, yet again, just who is really, truly the boss here. Questions are to be answered, she's to pay attention, she is...with a quick shake of her head, she seems to slip out of the trance she had been drifting into and whispers, very low: "Yes." So soft and low, voice breaking round the lump in her throat...she can feel her voice sliding away as it's prone to doing when strong emotion washes over her.

" We couldn't hear her. Could you get her to speak louder? We want to hear her answer." The roaring in her ears drowns out awareness of this other man's reality...but she still can't speak. Wouldn't anyway, until the man at her right, whose hand now rests a bit arrogantly at the base of her throat, repeats the question.

He doesn't, though...instead she feels his hand move off her neck and then a tap on her shoulder..she shakes her head slightly and with a quick furtive movement, unclasps her hands...and puts them to either side of the rich leather, as they should have been all along. There couldn't have been anyway he hadn't noticed that tiny infraction, but she'd worry about that later. She knows he's moving in front of her and she knows what the tap means...she rises in one slow graceful motion to her feet...and hears a funny sort of strangled sort of cough come from further in the room, closer by the fireplace, she thinks. She glances up quickly and right into her man's eyes and looks away to take the hand he's offering to her. Keeping her eyes lowered, she stands there, taking the proffered hand and they stand like that for a few seconds...with those heels she feels how tall she is...five inch heels and her own height...she's almost six feet tall!! she can sense the man's shoulder by her...and still he's a lot taller than she. "Turn around, slowly, please, darlin'," she's instructed...and she does. Careful of the heels, the skirt of her dress, the edge of the old Oriental rug...noticing the flicker of firelight on the ankle-clasp...she turns so as to give the dress and firelight's full affect to their guest. His guests. When their eyes meet, cool brilliant smoky grey-blue peering into hazel-sherry-brown eyes...she can't help it...she smiles, a small, dimpling smile before she drops her gaze...mouth trembling just a bit.

"Dressed to kill, Sugar." Someone half-whispers over the snapping logs and ticking clock...somehow, his voice ringing clear as any bell through the room and its inhabitants. There's an undertone of something , something dark and rich and forbidden and a bit threatening just under the words. Forces are here, forces heretofore controlled and put away, playing to the surface. From the hand holding hers, she feels a huge surge of pulse against her palm and he then say calmly, precisely, "Again."

Still holding his hand as if they are about to begin a waltz, she turns slowly in a sort of faintly remembered debutante's pirouette, but even slower, free hand gesturing gracefully and well aware of that dress upon her body. The other men, forgotten but sensed, they could be mere shapes in the big room for all her awareness of them right now. Lost in his gaze, lost in firelight, lost in a free-fall of black silk and clicking heels...all liquid desire and sleepy, slow lust ...she stops and stands tall and silent...resisting a wicked impulse to drop a curtsey, for all she knows, that could completely shock the other men more than just about anything...even falling to her knees upon the old rug to wait. This thought causes her head to come up and gaze right into the eyes of the other very tall man in professorial tweeds with elbow patches, she just notices to her delight and amusement...and she does not look away. Not even a flicker.

The delicate tinkling chimes of the anniversary clock ping out awareness of the passing of time and she startles a bit, drops her brazen stare...once again knowing He's noticed yet another infraction of the Rules...and her face flames crimson yet again.

"Come over to me, Janelle..."here the other man's voice halters a bit and she can sense looks being exchanged over head..."Yes, walk over here to me." He's standing hard by the marble fireplace, one arm resting upon the carved mantle.

Suddenly, terribly aware again, she hesitates...oooh. Another little miss-step...and as He releases her hand, she walks the long distance across the now silent room to come to rest just about arm's length in front of her husband's guest. Again, she drops her head, with no reminder, for truly she has not a clue where to look or rest her own gaze.




 
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