Note: This story was dynamically reformatted for online reading convenience. ï>¿Naked Dress by jamai Emotions laid bare on the Red Carpet. My phone chimed, and I checked caller ID. It was Georges Marcineau, the recently crowned Sexiest Man Alive (at least according to one magazine). "Georgie!" I gushed. I was smiling so hard my face was cramping. "Hey there, baby girl!" he rumbled. Oh, that deep, delicious, resonant voice, just a hint of French-Canadian accent, causing a vibration way down in my...well, let's call it my soul. That same voice had made me melt three weeks earlier, when he said "I love you" to me for the first time, just before a limo whisked him off to Van Nuys Airport, where a private jet waited to take him to a movie location in Africa. He'd been gone since then, and I was missing him terribly and hoping for some... "Good news!" he said. "We wrap in two days, so I'll be back in New York on Saturday!" "Oh babe, I'm so happy!" I breathed a sigh of joyful relief. "Are you still coming to The Event?" "Yeah, I wouldn't miss it for the world. But only because you'll be there." Even though he wasn't physically present, I blushed at the compliment. "I can get there by 8:00," he continued. "You want me to pick you up?" "Nope, I'll meet you there." "You sure? It's on my way..." "You'll see me there, baby, and not before." "Hmmm...aren't you the mysterious one," he said. "Some kind of surprise?" "Maybe." "Aha, knew it! So, what's the surprise?" "It wouldn't be a surprise if I told you, would it?" "I bet I can make you tell me." "If you were here, maybe...but you're not," I countered. He paused for a moment while the little boy in him desperately wanted to get an answer, but he decided to let it drop. "Anyway, I'm wearing a pretty standard tux," he said. "Will that match up okay with what you're wearing?" "Absolutely," I replied, then waited him out, knowing he'd ask... "What are you wearing?" he asked. "Maybe that's the surprise," I answered, in my most seductive voice. ***** Naked dress. Even if you've never heard the term, you can guess what it means. It's a garment (just barely), worn by a woman (usually a beautiful celebrity) to a very public event (i.e., red carpet). A naked dress is a classic example of the concept of "less is more." The typical naked dress is usually some combination of sheer, short, slit, plunging, backless, cut out, lacy, diaphanous, sparkly and/or flesh toned. It's designed to show the wearer in all her glory, baring legs, arms, shoulders, back, tummy, and even significant portions of her breasts. Quite likely you'll be able to see right through it and get a very enticing view of her lingerie (if any), tattoos, buttocks, nipples, or all the above. Get the picture? The naked dress is designed to push the envelope of fashion, and some might argue it often ends up pushing the envelope of decency. My outfit, what little there was of it, was designed to push the envelope of naked dresses. After ending the call with Georges, I immediately called Tiffany, my stylist. My brilliant, amazing, wonderful stylist, whose goal in life was to turn me into a fashion icon. And she was getting it done. "What's up, beautiful?" her cheerful voice asked. My answer was two words: "It's on." Tiffany squealed in delight. Twenty minutes later, I stepped into a limo in front of my hotel. Tiffany was already in the car, and she gave me a rib-shattering hug. A short drive later, Tiffany was ushering me into the modest studio of an up-until-now obscure designer who went by the name Shazari. I'd never heard the name until a few days earlier, when Tiffany had recommended her to create my dress for The Event. But that was Tiffany's superpower: plucking a talented unknown fashion designer out of obscurity and offering her the Big Break She Needed: dressing one of Hollywood's rising young stars, Sonya Shane (me), for a Major Event. She'd pulled it off three times already, in spectacular style. I was crashing all the "best-dressed" lists and emerging as a major fashion force. Tiff introduced me to Shazari, who wore tight black sweats over her tiny, almost emaciated frame. Her hair was a barely-there crewcut, and her small face was almost swallowed up by an oversized nose. She wore enormous round glasses which dramatically magnified her dark eyes. She seemed intense, dour, and extremely nervous. I gave her a big hug which at first seemed to make her even more nervous, but then I complimented her work (Tiff had shown me her portfolio), and she managed something that vaguely resembled a smile. But she still wasn't much for small talk, so the conversation died awkwardly before it really got started. "Well, let's do this," said Tiffany, and with that, I started to strip. (Don't look so shocked, it was a dress fitting, for God's sake.) "Bra too?" I asked, once I was down to my undies. "Bra too, babe," said Tiff. I snapped the strap, peeled off the lacy black bra, and bared two of Hollywood's most highly acclaimed breasts. I stood before my stylist and my designer in nothing but a brief thong that matched the discarded bra. I turned to face a large mirror that filled most of the back wall of Shazari's studio. I didn't feel particularly shy about being naked in front of professionals, but there's always that tiny bit of self-consciousness, so yes, I checked myself out in the mirror. Standing before me was a tall, dark-haired woman with surprisingly pale blue eyes. And that woman (me) was, according to various recent movie reviews and magazine articles, "exquisite," "statuesque," "stunning," "a classic Hollywood beauty," and "rumored to be dating Georges Marcineau, the Sexiest Man Alive." I was also in the best physical shape of my life, having recently played the very physical title role in "Queen of the Vikings," a box office smash (and critical dud) that included many barely dressed scenes of violent sword fighting and passionate lovemaking between me and various muscular blonde men. One of the movie reviewers had written, "The only redeeming feature of 'Queen of the Vikings' is Sonya Shane barely dressed in chain mail," which became the inspiration for The Dress... Oh yeah, The Dress... I'd seen a rough sketch of it, but now I'd finally get to see (and wear) the real thing for the first time. Statuesque? I felt like the Statue of Liberty when Shazari hauled a little step ladder over next to me and started to climb. Well, it made sense, she was probably a shade under five feet tall in her sensible flats, and I was right at six feet in medium heels. Shazari had something draped over one arm that looked like a metallic fishnet scarf. At first, I thought it was a measuring device, but I suddenly realized it was... ...The Dress... Two steps up the ladder and she was still barely on my level. She told me to raise my arms, and she still had to go up to the top step (the one that the warnings on the ladder tell you NOT to stand on) to reach me. She stretched...I felt metal rings touching my hands, sliding down my long arms, caressing my nude body...and then I was wearing it, and I looked in the mirror... "Oh my god," I whispered, so I wasn't QUITE speechless. "Oh, dear lord," breathed Tiffany. "You are going to burn down the Internet." How would I describe it? A dress made of holes, maybe. The ratio of bare skin to dress must have approached 100:1. The Dress consisted entirely of rings, which were made of a shiny, lightweight metal whose color was halfway between black and silver. Each ring hole was roughly two inches in diameter, and the metal portion was thinly gauged. Yes, it was reminiscent of chain mail, but the holes were so big and the chain so delicate that it wouldn't have done much to protect me from medieval weaponry. It had a halter neck, leaving my arms, shoulders and upper back completely bare. It hugged my waist and hips, which held the whole thing together and kept it in place. The skirt was short, not even falling to mid-thigh, highlighting my long, toned legs, somewhere near the midpoint between loose and tight, so I knew it wouldn't be difficult to walk in. With the large holes in the rings, it was obvious I was wearing a thong. It was obvious what color the thong was. Hell, if your eyes where sharp enough, it would be obvious what brand the thong was. And as for my breasts... ...WOW... My breasts were arguably my most notable feature. They had not (yet) been publicly exposed; my movie roles had shown me in all sorts of sexy garments, even skimpy lingerie, but I had avoided nude or topless scenes. And of course, my red carpet looks, so carefully plotted by Tiffany, had done their best to remind the world that Sonya Shane Has Amazing Tits. Deep cleavage, plenty of side boob and even under boob, and material thin and sheer enough to HINT at my dark, erect nipples...but always within at least shouting distance of tasteful and classy. Shazari's dress was a whole new world for me. The neckline itself was modestly scooped, only revealing the very beginning of the upper slopes of my boobs. From beneath, though, the large rings gave way seamlessly but quickly to smaller rings at the lower slopes, then faded from chainmail to something more like wire mesh just before reaching my nipples. My nipples...my large, dark, thick, prominent, sharply defined nipples... Yes, technically they were covered by thin metallic mesh, but the reality was you could see them. Clearly. I suppose two people could have an intelligent debate about whether they were seeing my breasts and nipples covered (just barely) by thin, sheer material with a lot of tiny holes...or just seeing my breasts and nipples. My pretty titties are 100% natural but quite firm. Still, everyone needs a little support now and then. The Dress gave me just a hint of lift, making me look spectacular, but still allowing a bit of sway and jiggle that looked dangerously erotic. And my god, it felt incredible. It hugged, it touched, it caressed me like an intimate lover. The look and feel of it triggered my arousal. My first breath caught in my throat. The fit was amazing. Shazari, working from photos and measurements sent by Tiffany, had absolutely nailed the fit, on the first try, without ever seeing me in person. Well, at least I thought so. Shazari scowled, growled, and shook her head. "Way too loose," she grumbled. She grabbed a tool that looked like a screwdriver filed down to a sharp point, like a shiv (I was in a prison movie once, I know about shivs). She advanced on me with it, and for an instant it looked like she was going to stab me. But then she hooked a finger around a ring on my waist, touched the shiv to a spot on the ring, twisted, and the ring popped open. What the hell. What was this, some kind of futuristic nanotechnology? Apparently, the rings weren't solid, but opened and closed with tiny invisible locking mechanisms. She popped off a few more of the rings, and I was suddenly thinking about the danger of a wardrobe malfunction. I pictured the bottom half of the dress coming off, leaving me on the red carpet in nothing but panties and a chain mail crop top. "Those won't open when I..." "No. Not without the tool." She sounded so dead certain that my fears vanished instantly. Then she was picking up some new rings from a little bin on the table and snapping them into place. I worried that this could take a while, that she could be trial-and-erroring all day, but just like that she finished. The new rings must have been slightly smaller and stiffer. The Dress was now tighter and firmer around my waist, really making my curves stand out, and feeling a little bit like an armored corset. The visual impact was significant. The Dress went from fitting me well to fitting me perfectly. Eyeballing myself in the mirror, I was certain I'd never looked sexier. Maybe NO ONE had ever looked sexier. I glanced at Shazari in the mirror. She had a look of triumph on her face. This odd, tiny, androgynous creature was a freaking genius, and she had created the masterpiece of a lifetime. Nothing could take this moment from her. Well, except maybe if I didn't like the dress. "Is it...too much?" asked Tiffany. Her voice was shaky, and angst filled. Glancing at her face in the mirror, I saw fear. Fear that she may have gone too far, crossed the line of decency, broken the powerful trust she'd forged with me. And what was causing that fear? I looked at my own face in the mirror and saw...stunned bewilderment. My jaw was hanging open, but my upper lip was curved and twisted. My eyes were wide open, but one eyelid was somehow arched higher than the other. My head was tilted sharply to one side. I was still feeling shocked and awed by the dress, and I looked... I looked...stupid. So of course, it was impossible for her to know what I was thinking. In this fragile moment, Tiff was fearing the worst. "Too much?" she repeated. "Way too much," I said. Tiffany's face displayed her rising anxiety. Shazari's look of triumph was gone, replaced by one of horror. "You're not gonna wear it?" Her voice was barely a whisper. "It's the most beautiful fucking thing I've ever seen," I replied. Then I let out a loud whoop and did a spin in my heels. "OF COURSE, I'M GONNA WEAR IT!" ***** Well, that wasn't quite the end of the fitting session. There were a couple of accessorizing issues, like... "Nipple covers?" I asked. "You mean PASTIES?" asked Tiffany in horror. "Girl, please..." "I guess you could wear them," said a frowning Shazari, in a tone suggesting she wanted to end her sentence with "if you're an idiot." "Free the nipples," said Tiffany. "You're a big star now, time for the titties to have a coming out party." My tummy fluttered with nervous butterflies at the thought of being so exposed, but...yeah, I wanted to do it. Which left only the question of... "What about the panties?" asked Tiffany, gesturing at the black thong I was wearing. "Obviously, that won't do." "No, not this," I agreed, because obviously it was way too small. "No, not that," agreed Shazari. "It's way too big." Huh? "You wear this with it," Shazari said, handing me a very, VERY tiny scrap of sheer black material. Gulp. Well, I guess I needed to try it on. So, I reached up under the dress and slid my thong down my legs... "Oh...my..." said Shazari. "Um," said Tiffany. "Might need a trim there..." And then I pulled the tiny G-string up my thighs and into place. It ALMOST covered my bush. A quarter inch, possibly a half-inch, of curly hedgerow peeking over the top of the panties. But the panties were black, and my hair is very dark, so you couldn't really see it...could you? I tried pulling it up a little higher, to cover more bush, but then the tiny gusset just slid up into my pussy. No, that was definitely worse. "You can't really see it," said Shazari, "but I'll adjust the G-string so it gives you a little more coverage." "Or you could just shave the beard, Cavewoman," said Tiffany. But I didn't want to shave it off because... ***** I had started growing it out right before we began shooting "Queen of the Vikings." I was studying the script and doing these horrific workouts to build muscle and I was trying to get into character as this badass Viking warrior goddess. Prissying around with my pubes just didn't seem like something a badass Viking warrior goddess would be doing. And afterward...I felt that shooting the movie had been an incredible experience. Demanding, physical, empowering...I loved the headspace I'd been in, and I decided to stay there by keeping up the beastly workouts even after we wrapped. And physically, I just loved how my body looked and felt. The bush felt like part of the package, so I never got around to shaving it off. Flash-forward a couple of months to Premiere of "Queen of the Vikings." I was still looking badass and feeling badass, but Tiffany had put me in this dress I thought was a little bit cutesy for a Viking queen (kind of a Little Black Dress variation with some pink highlights), but I trusted her because she'd just hit two massive home runs for me in the outfits she selected for me at the Oscars and the VMAs, and of course she turned out to be massively right (again) with the cutesy dress, and...okay, I'm digressing. Anyway, at the Premiere after-party, there was Georges Marcineau, reigning Sexiest Man Alive. He hadn't been in the movie, but he'd shown up for the Premiere because he was friends with Henri LeConte, the director. I hadn't met Georges before, so Henri introduced us, and I was absolutely mesmerized by the guy. Tall, really tall, like six-foot-five; narrow hips, massive shoulders, and chest; a jaw you could smash beer bottles on; dark hair, obsidian eyes, kissable lips, brilliant smile, easy laugh, this little smirk that told you he wasn't taking any of this too seriously...he was simply irresistible. Apparently, he was into me too, because his eyes locked onto mine and never left me for the rest of the evening. We talked and laughed and flirted and stared into each other's eyes, and everyone else was giving us plenty of space to make the magic happen. When he asked me to go back to his room (in the same hotel as the after party), it was an easy yes. When the door closed and we were finally alone, we kissed, groped, started to undress each other... ...and then I remembered that I still had that thick, luxurious beaver pelt... ...and he was just staring at it, and I found myself trying to apologize and explain, and I was about ready to ask him to give me ten minutes in the bathroom and let me borrow his razor... ...when he scooped me up, threw me on the bed, and put my legs over his shoulders and buried his gorgeous face in my muff and went down on me like I'd never been gone down on in my life. And when he finally came up for air, half an hour later, I'd lost track of how many orgasms he'd given me. Even after all THAT, for some reason I still felt shy about it and told him I was planning to shave it all off. And he said that if I did, he'd die of a broken heart. I didn't want that on my conscience. ***** "Yeah, adjust the panties," I told Shazari. ***** And then came the night of The Event. There were five of us in the limo (not counting the driver), but I was the only one who would be getting out, in front of a crowd, in my smoking hot little naked dress. Fuck yeah, I was nervous. Tiffany was there, of course, along with a hair stylist and makeup artist. The fifth was Monica, my assistant, who was on the phone with Event Security, coordinating my arrival. There were three cars in front of us...then one drove off, and we were now third in line. Tiffany and her team were chattering and fussing over me and driving me insane, so I made a hissing noise, and they went silent backed away. I immediately felt guilty when I saw the hurt looks on their faces. I was the product, but we were a team, and they were doing their best. I apologized, they smiled, and the vibe was back to positive. One car in front of us now, and they were taking their sweet-ass time... "Yeah, just Sonya," murmured Monica into her phone. "Okay, yeah, we're ready." The car in front of us drove off, and our car rolled forward into the drop-off zone. "Ready?" asked Monica, looking at me. "Ready." I glanced at Tiffany, who had tears in her eyes, and I bit the inside of my cheek to stop myself from bawling right along with her. "My god," she said. "You look so fucking beautiful right now." I wanted to hug her so bad...no, we weren't lovers or anything like that, simply good friends, but we were both huggers, and I felt scared, alone, and naked, and I really wanted to feel the comfort of her body. But we didn't dare. Everything was perfect; we couldn't risk a makeup smudge or a couple of hairs out of place at this point. Instead, I just scooted carefully over to the door and waited. "Okay, go," said Monica, and a large, uniformed man approached the car, reached for the handle, and pulled the door open. I was assaulted immediately by a wave of crowd noise and a blast of chilly late-Autumn wind. Glancing out, I could see what looked dozens...no, hundreds of people waiting to see the stars arrive. My body recoiled from the noise and the cold and screamed at me not to leave the safety of the car. But then another security guy reached in a hand for me, and I took it... I didn't just clamber out of the car like you normally would because I'd learned the hard way that some photographers and spectators at events like this would try to get in position to catch Celebrity Upskirt pics, and I wasn't having that. I squeezed my thighs together, pivoted my hips, planted my feet on the curb and let the security guy pull me up out of the car. And then all hell broke loose. Pandemonium? Chaos? Bedlam? Not sure if any of those were adequate to describe the scene as I stepped out into the Spectators' Gallery. The crowd was bigger than I thought, probably several hundred at least, and they were SCREAMING. Sonya Shane, one of the hottest names in Hollywood at the moment, was standing there in all her naked dress glory. And the big, rowdy crowd of spectators, reporters and photographers was losing its collective mind. "Beautiful!" shouted a man. "Sonya, we love you!" screamed a woman. "Fucking slut!" yelled someone else (okay, you can't please everyone). But most of the individual voices couldn't be heard over the crushing collective roar. Well, except for the shrill voices of professional and iPhone amateur photographers trying to get me to turn their way, to strike poses, to show off the shocking dress and the gorgeous body underneath. Bodies were pressing forward into the narrow red-carpet walkway, separated from me only by velvet ropes. Well, and a considerable phalanx of security personnel. The chaos was under control, if just barely, so I fought down my panic, smiled and waved at the crowd, and started moving forward. But I couldn't move too far or too fast, because there were a couple of officially credentialed photographers (one from New York Times, the other I didn't recognize) inside the ropes, and they were blocking my way while they got their shots of me. While I stood there, another gust of freezing wind rolled through, reminding me how naked I truly was. It was worse than being nude; not only was all my bare skin taking the wind directly, but the metallic rings that hugged my body were now icy cold. And the wind ruffled my hair...no, not the hair on my head, which was held in a tight French braid, but rather my pubic hair. The Battle of the Panties had continued to rage after the fitting. Shazari had made a tiny adjustment to the panties, but refused to add more coverage after that, because of some obscure point of artistic pride that we couldn't fathom. Tiffany had continued to urge me to trim the bush, and I finally relented and did a bit of landscaping. In the end, I was covered, but barely. At least until the limo ride. Getting in and out of the limo had caused the panties to move a bit. I should have thought to adjust them before I exited the car, but... But it was too late now. There was no way I was going to start fiddling with my G-string with a crowd watching, so I was just going to have to brazen it out. But I could distinctly feel my curly delights swaying in the breeze...and even though my dark hair would be hard to see against my black panties, some of those cameras had telephoto lenses... Fucking hell... Eventually, the credentialed photographers started backing up so I could proceed. People were still shouting at me: reporters barking out questions, paparazzi calling out instructions trying to get me to pose, and spectators yelling all sorts of things. Down here it was mostly spectators: celebrity watchers who wanted to get up close views of their favorite movie stars. At some events, I knew they sold tickets for this, while at others you just had to queue up hours in advance. Either way, these people were hardcore fans, and their energy was contagious if not a bit alarming. But despite the arctic winds and the ravenous mob, I was starting to settle down and enjoy it. Clearly the dress was a huge hit, and this was my first big event since the "Queen of the Vikings" premiere, and the attention was a rush. As I relaxed a bit, my smile was easier, and my body movement was more natural, and I started responding to the posing requests. I was starting to feel good. Good about being me, good about my body. I felt strong, beautiful, and sexy. Yeah, I was enjoying this whole naked dress thing, and I took a deep breath, and it caught in my throat, and my nipples, already tormented by the chilly wind, hardened even further. And something warm and sort of liquid rushed through my tummy...and lower... I realized that I was becoming quite aroused... ***** After running the gauntlet of the Spectators' Gallery, my next obstacle was the Photo Zone. This was backed by a temporary wall, adorned with logos for The Event and its major sponsors. Mercifully, it blocked the cold wind, and someone had even been thoughtful enough to set up a few of those outdoor heaters you see in restaurant patios. And wow, was it ever well-lit... the lighting array was almost blinding, so I could barely see the crowd of semi-credentialed camera guys (allowed into this area, but not "inside the ropes"). Facing the sponsor wall, twenty feet from me, was a steel crowd-control barrier holding the photographers back, and another barrier thirty feet beyond that to keep the spectators separated from the photographers. It looked like there were at least a couple dozen photogs, probably more like several dozen. They were loud and unruly, yelling at me to pose and turn this way or that way, but also yelling at each other as they jostled for position. No, not jostled; fought. Behind them, spectators were whistling and cheering and shouting at me. A slightly different form of bedlam from the spot where I exited the car, but bedlam, nonetheless. In fact, the overall crowd was larger, because people from the spectators' gallery were following along with me, squeezing up against people further up the line. The crowd was getting denser and wilder, and the security guys were looking nervous. All this chaos over one little Viking Queen in a Naked Dress? Go figure. I smiled and waved as I stepped out into the light of the photo zone, and the din increased exponentially. I gave them a couple of ordinary poses, front and back, but they were shouting for more. I curled my fingers like kitten claws and got a laugh from the spectators. Then I bent over a bit and stuck my butt out and pulled my shoulders back hard, making my boobs jiggle enticingly. Then I made a Betty Boop face and blew kisses at the crowd. That brought a shower of wolf whistles. Finally, I stood with legs straight, feet shoulder-width apart, and hands on hips. Adding a snarling scowl, it looked just like my pose in the "Queen of the Vikings" widely viewed promo poster. That brought a full-throated roar from the crowd and sent the photographers into a frenzy. Then I noticed a woman in a business suit standing just beyond the photo area, trying to get my attention while being otherwise unobtrusive. She pointed behind me, and I turned to see a rapper named BigDee patiently waiting his turn. Maybe was having a little too much fun. I grimaced and mouthed "Sorry!" at him, but he just gave me a big grin and shrugged. Suit girl ushered me to the next stage of my ordeal... ***** ...the Interview Area. At this event, there wasn't quite enough space for a decent interview area, so only two cable networks had been allowed to set up shop. My first stop was at the Catwalk booth. Catwalk was the premier network focusing primarily on fashion. They'd assigned a reporter named Robert Afton, a sweet-faced dad bod with a soft grey beard, who was known for being congenial and professional. "Sonya!" he beamed and gave me a quick hug. "You look absolutely sensational! What a gorgeous dress!" "Oh, thanks Rob!" "Sonya, this is one of the sexiest red-carpet looks I've seen in years! Tell us all about it, who's the designer?" "Yes, isn't it wonderful? The designer is named Shazari..." "Oh yes, Shazari is a rising star, she had her own shows earlier this year in Sydney and Los Angeles..." He proceeded to rattle off several factoids about Shazari, then asked me the perfect questions to match a couple of bullet points Tiffany had made me memorize. We both sounded like experts on Shazari, although I hadn't heard of her until a few days earlier, and I doubted Rob had either. Tiffany, working quietly behind the scenes, had earned her salary for the week. "...and I have to give a shout out to my stylist, Tiffany Stroud," I concluded. "Tiffany is the best," Rob answered, giving me a wink. As I stepped away from the Catwalk booth, I almost collided with BigDee, once again waiting in the wings. He gave me another big smile, looking quite happy and smelling like weed. "Damn girl, that dress is fire!" he said. "Aw, thanks! Sorry I keep holding up the line." "The night is your chalice, my lady. Drink deeply." Which sounded quite sweet, although a bit random. Suit girl was standing by as well, and she ushered me to my next stop, which was... ...The Shark Pool... Nina Sharnova, aka The Shark, was a glorified gossip columnist who had the top-rated show on CelebNet, an enormously popular network that handled news and gossip in the entertainment world. Fast and loose with the truth, beloved by her fans, despised by the celebrities she victimized: behold, The Shark. Nina had been talking shit about me for months. First, she claimed (falsely) that I had caused drama on the set of "Queen of the Vikings." Then she reported, long before anyone else, that Georges and I were seeing each other. (Okay, she got that one right, but at the time, we were far from ready to go public.) And she had continued to talk about it, undermining our efforts to keep it low-profile and private. The Shark gazed at me with cold, dead eyes and an evil smile as I stepped into her lair. The frigid wind was back, whistling through the rings of my dress and clawing at my bare skin. Her job was to strip me bare naked with her interrogation, but I was already nearly nude. "Well, it's the Viking Queen herself!" she said. "Sonya Shane, what a lovely dress, you certainly have the world's attention tonight, my Queen!" "Um...thanks, Nina." "Any particular attention you're seeking tonight, Sonya?" "Uh, haha, not quite sure what you mean..." "Well, it looks like you're here by yourself, yes?" "Yes." "Thought you might be here with someone tonight..." "Um, no..." "So, the designer is Shazari, correct?" "Uh, yeah." Fucking hell, how did she know that?" "You support her cause, that's lovely..." Her cause? What the fuck. Was Shazari funding terrorists? Was she a white supremacist? I felt a brief flare of panic but forced it back down. There was no way Tiffany would miss something like that. Nina was bluffing, trying to knock me off balance so I'd trip up over her questions about Georges. I just kept smiling and said nothing. She stared at me, letting a few awkward seconds tick by. I leaned away and started to turn, my body language letting her know that the interview would be over if she wasn't going to keep asking questions. "So," she said, catching me an instant before I bolted, "Georges Marcineau!" "No, I'm Sonya Shane," I replied. Her fake laughter at my joke was a cackle, and I tittered back. "Rumors are, you've been seen with him, several times, out in LA." "Oh, he and I are just friends," I lied. "And that's old news, I haven't seen him in quite a while." "Just friends, of course," she said. "Yes, he's been in Morocco shooting 'Desert Assassin,' right?" "I think so, yes." "But they just wrapped, right?" "I think so, yes." "So will he be here later?" "I think so, yes." "Hmm," she hummed, then paused for a moment, letting me dangle in the chilly wind. "Almost four weeks over there shooting. A long time to be away from your...friend. You must have missed him." "Terribly," I said. And I don't know why I said it, but it threw her off. She had expected another denial, and she needed a couple of heartbeats to decide if I was pranking her or if I'd just given her a big scoop. "Great to see you again, Nina!" I said as I pivoted and moved away, taking advantage of her hesitation. "No, wait, I --" "Cynthia!" I yelled, waving and jogging toward a small crowd of people I barely knew, who were starting up the stairs toward The Event entrance. Nina tried to call out another question, but I had already escaped the Shark Pool. And I don't know anyone named Cynthia. ***** After clearing the wild bedlam of the Spectators' Gallery, the piranha feeding frenzy of the Photo Zone, and the shark-infested waters of the Interview Area, I now faced the deadliest peril of them all: my own peers. The Red Carpet led me toward an ornate, marble staircase that would emerge onto the courtyard just outside the auditorium entrance. The staircase was wide but not very steep, consisting of two flights and a big landing halfway up. Someone in decent physical condition could easily jog the entire length without a significant uptick in their heart rate. But I was in heels and little else, and my adrenaline was pumping from my interrogation with Nina the Shark, and my body and brain were sending me these bewildering fight-flight-fuck signals. I was dizzy and breathless as I started up the stairs, and I slowed my roll and took my time. Which probably looked like I was just showing off, to the small crowds of my fellow celebs who had started to gather along the rails of the stairs. A knot of them was even blocking the Red Carpet itself, which is a definite breach in protocol, but what can you do. I didn't want to risk too many zig zags, so I selected a straight line opening just to the left. But that meant stiletto heel on bare, slippery marble, so I had to tread carefully. The last thing I wanted was a staircase tumble in a Naked Dress, especially with everyone... ...staring at me. And oh my god, were they staring. Conversations mostly halted or turned into whispers. I did a quick scan of my new audience but didn't see anyone I wanted to stop and talk to. I exchanged waves and hellos with a couple of people I sort of knew, but there wasn't a conversational group in immediate range that I could duck into. I was on my own. I began my ascent, focusing on each step, making sure my heel was properly planted each time. Click, click, click, one stair at a time, don't look down, don't look around too much...I was acutely aware of my breasts bouncing provocatively, my nipples (so hard they ached) scraping against the metal mesh, trying to burst out of confinement. I could see people ahead of me almost drooling as they eyeballed those titties. A cold breeze hit me from behind, reminding me I was almost completely naked back there; my slow, cautious pace was providing anyone behind me with a breathtaking view of my legs and ass. Finally, I reached the landing at the midway point. Mercifully, I saw familiar faces in a group coalescing around Corinne Saunders. Corinne and I had been in two movies together and shared an agent, so I considered her a friend. Corinne was a spectacular redhead and was one of the very few women who could arouse bi-curious feelings in me. Her warm, bosomy hug was quite welcome. "Oh my god!" she enthused. "That dress...oh my god, you look so amazing, I'm speechless!" Well, she looked amazing too, of course. She was Old Hollywood Glamour in a floor length crimson dress with a thigh slit that seemed to go on forever. Major league cleavage, lots of bling, and an intricate hairstyle that was somehow immune to the gusty winds. Bravo! I exchanged compliments with her and a couple other girls in the circle, but...speaking of wind...I was naked and freezing and needed to get inside a heated building soon to avoid frostbitten nipples. After catching my breath, I excused myself and resumed my journey. Click, click, click went my heels. Bounce, bounce, bounce went my boobs. Eyes, eyes, everywhere: gazing, caressing, ogling, groping, penetrating. Don't wear a naked dress if you get freaked out by people staring at you. I reached the top of the stairs and stepped out into the courtyard, which was crowded because only one auditorium entry door was open, so people were queueing up to get in. Before I could get in line, I ran into a producer-director duo who wanted to bend my ear for a couple of minutes. I didn't feel like talking business, but they were interested in putting me in their next project, so I had to hear them out. Timing of their shoot was a big issue, and we were in the middle of negotiating that point when someone walked past me from behind and brushed their hand over my ass. Fucking hell! I wanted to spin around and tell them off, but I was in the middle of agreeing to a start date, so I just ignored it and kept talking. Eventually I broke away and started toward the back of the line. An actor I sort of knew approached me like we were old friends and forced a hug on me. He held it a little too long, and his hands were moving around a little too much. Yeah, it was gonna be like that. I pushed away from him, not too gently, and opened my mouth to say something, when my ear pods clicked, letting me know I had a phone call. I just turned away from Mr. Hugs and moved into a spot where I could talk. "Hey babe," said Georges. "You inside already?" "Baby!" Once again, my face did that smile spasm that made my cheeks hurt. "Just outside, in the courtyard. Where are you?" "Just pulling up," he said. "Be there in a couple of minutes." "I'll wait for you in the courtyard," I said. "Nah babe, go inside, it's freezing, I'll find you in the lobby. Fuck, I cannot WAIT to see you." I stood there for moment after he hung up, smiling and glowing and melting despite the cold. My Man was back! ***** And despite the cold, my legs overruled my brain and decided I couldn't just stand around in the lobby waiting for him. I strode back to the stairs and started clattering down, this time much faster. I wasn't even thinking about falling, I just needed to get to my... ...boyfriend... Wow. That kind of hit me. Was he my boyfriend, like the rumors were saying? It sure felt like it. And I had a strong feeling that after tonight, the poorly kept secret would be out in the open. I reached the landing, which provided an unobstructed view of the red-carpet obstacle course. I spotted Georges, who had made fast work of the spectators' gallery and was already stepping into the photo zone. He must have felt my eyes on him because he suddenly looked up, right at me. It felt like I was hot by a laser beam. It felt like Cupid had just fired a point-blank through-and-through into my heart. My body went hot-cold-hot, and I felt warm liquid moving around somewhere deep in my reproductive organs. My vagina quivered. Even from thirty or forty yards away, those eyes just mesmerized me. His face was a mask of rugged intensity, hiding his emotions. Well, okay, it was probably lust. "Leaving already?" chuckled Corinne, standing next to me. She'd seen my rapid descent of the upper stairs, just minutes after I'd passed her going the other way. She probably thought I'd left my tampons in the limo or something. But then she followed my gaze... "Oh," she said. "Oh my god. Oh." I tore my eyes away from Georges and glanced at her. She had a wicked, lusty smile on her face. "Go get him, girl," she said. Then she slapped my ass like I'd just scored a touchdown. Which I sort of had done. I glanced back down at Georges; he had cleared the photo zone and looked like he was just finishing with Rob from Catwalk. That was a lightning-fast interview, but then again, Georges had kept his word and was wearing an immaculately cut, but perfectly ordinary, tuxedo. I imagine the interview went something like... "Nice tux, Georges." "Thanks, bro." By the time I reached the foot of the staircase, he was already talking to Nina. But their body language showed a reversal from the situation I'd endured. He looked relaxed, even bored, and was giving her an I'm-cooler-than-you-smirk, and she looked stiff and nervous. Sexiest Man Alive mojo, I guess. I stopped back in the shadows at the edge of the brightly lit interview area. Georges was thirty feet away and I was desperately yearning for him. He was answering one of Nina's questions, when he glanced toward the landing where I'd been standing a moment earlier. His brow wrinkled slightly, and he started scanning the immediate area. There. He spotted me. "Excuse me," he said, cutting Nina off mid-question and striding briskly toward me. The Shark looked like she was going to object, but she shut up when she saw me. Once again, my long, lovely legs overruled my better judgement and I stepped forward to meet him. I realized my mistake right away. Two steps, and I was out in the bright light, visible to everyone, inside the interview area. I was fair game, and I was naked and exposed. There was a hiss in the air as the spectators and the photographers saw my movement and spun toward me. Both video cameramen, Catwalk and CelebNet, swung my way. Georges was only a couple of steps away and his face was feral intense. Was he angry because I'd blown the secret and put our private relationship out there for the world to see? I prepared myself to clatter off beside him if he just stormed past me, or, if he stopped, give him a quick friend-hug, and then drag him out of there... The wind whistled out of my lungs as he slammed into me and crushed my body in a powerfully enthusiastic bearhug. He lifted me off my feet and spun me around 360 degrees as I dangled from his brutal grasp. By the time he set me back on my feet, I was breathless and dizzy, and I couldn't stand, so I just hung from him with my arms wrapped behind his neck and my body (especially my breasts) jammed hard up against him. Our faces were close, and he lowered his head to kiss me, but I turned away at the last instant...feeling electric sparks shoot down my spine as our lips barely brushed. "Lipstick," I whispered. The glossy shade I was wearing was the perfect color and the perfect texture, but it tended to smear, and I couldn't bear causing the Sexiest Man Alive to spend the rest of the evening with a Clown Mouth. So instead of a kiss, I twisted my head away, exposing my neck to him. Exposing my Spot to him. Half an inch behind and below my ear, exquisitely sensitive, he knew that Spot very well. His lips gently caressed me there for a moment, and I even felt a warm wet hint of tongue. I was already simmering with the passion and emotion of the night, but that took me a step closer to boiling. But he only gave me a tease. Then he was smelling my hair and whispering how beautiful I was, how sexy I looked, how much he missed me...how much he loved me... You get the picture. And so did the photogs; camera flashes flickered all around me, and the crowd around us was oohing and aahing and buzzing. I don't know if there had been time for Georges to get a good look at The Dress, but he was certainly getting a good feel of it. His huge, strong, warm hands started at the bare skin of my back, but drifted quickly to my waist, where he encountered The Dress's rings for the first time. He explored leisurely, clearly enjoying the juxtaposition of cold, hard metal and warm, yielding skin. Lower, then, down my hips, down to my ass where he gave me a bit of a squeeze that I knew would make headlines tomorrow. Back up to mid-derriere, where his fingers settled, eight fingers inside eight rings, spread out in a line across my firm booty. His palms curved around the flares of my pelvis, and his thumbs slid through two more rings, touching down on the very lowest reaches of my tummy. They slid even lower and touched my fur where it poked out above my panty line. He growled, a low rumbling that I felt more than heard. His thumbs ventured deeper into my jungle, reaching their maximum extension just underneath the elastic band of my G-string. Then his powerful hands squeezed, and he moved his thumbs upward as they pressed into my sensitive flesh. I felt them digging down through skin, muscle, connective tissue, pressing at the exterior of the walls of my vagina. It felt like I was being fucked from the outside. I wondered if anyone in the crowd could see this happening...and I sort of didn't care. As his thumbs continued to press inward and move upward, I felt my skin stretch, down lower, and then I felt pressure and movement on my...my... ...on my clit... Oh, dear lord, my hard nipples were digging into his chest and a frigid wind was torturing my naked ass, and his thumbs were fucking my vajayjay from the outside, and he'd found a way to manipulate my clit while the entire planet watched... His thumbs stroked down, the up, and then his position shifted slightly, and the highest part of his thigh slid into my groin. That caused my skirt to ride up slightly, exposing a couple more inches of hip and ass, and then he stroked down again. His grip on my hips was hard and unyielding. He pushed down with his thumbs and forward with his leg, and a metal ring from the skirt got caught in between us and it got pressed up against my panties and jammed up against my clit. My needle on my pleasure meter spiked way up into the red. This was beyond pleasure, beyond bliss, this was absolute ecstasy, and lightning bolts of pleasure were rushing from my clit all through my body. My tummy was quaking, my tits were on fire, my fingers and toes were tingling. And suddenly I realized I was dangerously close to orgasming, right out there on the Red Carpet in front of everyone. A beast of a climax was rolling up on me like a giant bowling ball. I had maybe a two-second grace period to hit the brakes, to push away from him and gather myself, grab his arm, and get the fuck out of there. But I didn't. Let's just leave it at that. I stayed put while he rocked me once more, twice more... ...and I came. I came hard. A massive orgasm that had been building for over three weeks. Yeah, that's right, I waited all that time for him to come home to me, and now I wasn't waiting anymore. So... having failed at the task of Not Having an Orgasm in Public, I was now trying for the silver medal, Don't Let It Show. And I was doing a surprisingly decent job at first, tightening up my core muscles and willing myself to become a rigid, impermeable Orgasm Containment Cylinder where my ecstasy could bounce around inside me while I kept my little secret. But it just kept going and going, and building and building, and it was like a downhill freight train, and it was just too much, and it just fucking overwhelmed me... ...and for a moment I slipped away from my universe into another one, and it was pretty, pink, lacey, and quivery, and there were just the three of us there: myself, my man, and my orgasm. And I don't think I was there very long (but I might have been), and I don't think I moaned or screamed or shrieked (but I might have), and I don't think I humped his leg or bit his neck or shredded his tux with my claws (again, might have), but the point is I had lost myself in my orgasm while the entire planet could have been watching. I returned to my universe of origin as I came down from the orgasm. I became aware again of my surroundings, and the crowd seemed pretty quiet. Maybe they were just smiling and happy for Georges and me, coming out as a couple for the first time, or maybe they were just stunned by the obscene show I'd put on for them. My eyes were closed, and I kept them that way for a while, reluctant to face the aftermath. Then I heard a nervous cough that sounded uncomfortably close. My eyes snapped open, and there was Nina's video cameraman, no more than five feet away, his camera aimed right at me. Fucking hell. Now the entire world knew that Georges and I were a couple. And they knew what my O-face looked like. ***** Paul Bechler was probably one of the ten most powerful people in Hollywood... After fleeing the interview area, we rushed up the stairs ("Did you just..." he asked, and "Yeah," I gasped, and he told me again that he loved me). Then we crossed the courtyard. Georges didn't stand in the queue to get inside the building, he just dragged me to the front of the line and bulled his way through. Nobody said anything. There was a big crowd milling around in the center of the lobby, with smaller groups around the edges. Georges and I ducked to the side just to get out of the wind, which was howling in through the open glass doors. We found a quiet spot backed up against a partition, and we people watched. Georges, emboldened because no one was behind us, poked his fingers through the rings of my dress and started tugging at the strap of my G-string just above where it dipped down between my buttocks. I found that somewhat distracting because a) I didn't want anyone with a front view to see my panties disappearing up into my pussy, and b) it was tickling my most sensitive areas. But I let him keep doing it because b) it was tickling my most sensitive areas. Then Paul Bechler and his crew rolled up on us... Did I mention Paul was one of the ten most powerful people in Hollywood? Paul wasn't a movie producer; he was a Movie Producer. Everything he touched was gold. Every project he did was big. Huge budgets, superstar casts, massive box office revenues. Hollywood was his sandbox. Paul was mid- to late-50's, short and stocky but looked like he got to the gym occasionally. He was flanked by two younger men, not big or scary enough to be bodyguards, so probably a lawyer and a personal assistant. Although I was quite partial toward Georges' arm candy (namely, me), Paul had nice arm candy as well. She was a stunning blonde, several inches taller than him and a good three decades younger. He didn't bother to introduce her, which was kind of rude. She seemed overwhelmed, like this was her first Red Carpet. I might have said something to make her feel welcome, but she was staring at Georges and ignoring me. Besides, my brain cells were still recovering from the earlier excitement, so I'm not sure I could have managed anything more profound than "Hi, I just had an orgasm, how are you?" Paul eyeballed my dress and gave me a quick nod, suggesting he might actually know who I was, even if he didn't know my name. Well, that's fine, he was clearly there to talk business with the Sexiest Man Alive. "We'll start shooting late first quarter or early second," he was saying. "The timing works for me," Georges replied. "I'm definitely interested." "Good, I'll send the script over." "Awesome! Who are you thinking for the director?" "Maybe Michael, if he's done with the other thing," said Paul. "How about Henri?" asked Georges. Paul chuckled. "Your loyalty to Henri is touching. But after 'Queen of the Vikings,' he's not gonna have trouble finding projects." His eyes flickered to me briefly. "Excellent work, Sonya, by the way." Wow. Yeah, Paul Bechler knew who I was, and even threw a compliment my way. "Thanks," I beamed, my body blushing a pretty pink for him. That got a nice smile. "But you'll talk to Henri," said Georges. "Of course," Paul replied. Just then, a security guy decided to open a glass door behind Paul's entourage, and we were blasted with arctic hurricane-force winds. "Jesus Christ!" shouted Paul, and someone else quickly closed it, but the damage was done. I wasn't yet fully thawed out from being outside earlier, and the frigid blast hit me head on, flash-freezing my tits, nipples, tummy, crotch, and thighs. I shivered hard, and it kept going for a bit. But the weird thing was, the vibration of the shivering was on a wavelength that seemed to harmonize with the wavelength of my earlier orgasm. Inside the shivering, I quivered. That turned the shivering into shuddering, then shaking. And something broke loose inside me and I had a hard aftershock, which really was another orgasm. My pussy clenched and unclenched, and my nipples stiffened, and my legs turned to jelly, and I clung to Georges for dear life. "We'll probably shoot the city scenes in Vancouver," Paul was saying. "And I, ah, umm, uh..." His voice trailed off as my eyes closed and my tummy spasmed and I went "Ahhh" a fair bit louder than I should have. Most men have an intense, spiritual relationship with female orgasms. Don't get me wrong, I can appreciate the beauty of a woman as she climaxes, but for men it's a religious experience. The assistant and the attorney were staring at me wide-eyed, and One of the Ten Most Powerful Men in Hollywood looked like an 18-year-old virgin seeing porn for the first time. "You okay, baby?" asked Georges, a concerned look on his face. The way I was trembling, he probably thought I was having a seizure. "Just...c-c-cold," I answered. "Sorry to barge in on you," said Paul, still looking like he'd just met Jesus. "We'll talk next week, Georges. And nice to see you too, Sonya." Yeah, Paul Bechler would sure as hell remember who I was now. ***** Paul's posse went one way, Georges and I went the other. He led me deeper into the crowd, where I was sheltered from the cold drafts in the room and surrounded by warm bodies. I was feeling wrung out and exhausted. My panties were filled with my nectar. They were too tiny to absorb two orgasms, and I felt a droplet rolling down my leg. I'd pulled a muscle in my tummy, so it was difficult to stand up straight, and my legs felt wobbly in my stiletto heels. We weren't even inside the auditorium yet, and we still had two hours of speeches and presentations to endure. God, I just wanted to go home. "Wanna split?" asked Georges, apparently now able to read my mind. "We can't...can we?" "Hell yes, we can," he said. "We did the red-carpet thing, that's why we're here. Nobody cares if we stay now." "But..." He was talking again but mumbling and not looking at me. I realized he was blue toothing, most likely calling his driver. "Let's go," he said, grabbing my hand. He pulled me through the crowd, toward the rear of the lobby. We approached a "Restrooms" sign with an arrow pointing right, but we went left. A short hallway led to a door that opened onto a long hallway. The carpet in the long hallway was thicker, and I mis-planted my heel and nearly stumbled. Georges slid his arm around me and held me up while I slipped my shoes off. Barefoot in a naked dress, one of his hands dangling my high heels, the other grabbing my ass. The "just friends" thing wasn't going to fly anymore. Especially when five giggling early-20s youngsters stumbled around a corner. I recognized them as The OverEasies, a hot new boy band. Even from a little way away, they reeked of alcohol and marijuana. I guess I could hope they were too fucked up to remember what they saw. But they probably would. I was looking pretty memorable. They came to a stop and stared at me. "Fuckin' hell," said one of them. "Now that is a motherfuckin' dress." "Come party with us, baby!" said another. "Keep walking, boys," rumbled Georges. "Fuck you, Tarzan," said the kid who was staggering and needing help from his friends to stay vertical. A couple of his bandmates shushed him and hung onto him, making sure he wouldn't make a sudden move toward Georges, who was looking positively scary now. "Relax, mate," said the one who seemed to have the most common sense and the lowest level of intoxicants in his system. "Just havin' some fun, don't mean nothin' by it." Georges was still glaring at them, but they edged by us without further comment. "Have a nice night, Tarzan," yelled the drunk kid after they were further down the hall, and the others laughed. Georges slowed and I felt his body weight shift like he was about to turn and go after them. I tugged firmly on his arm to keep him moving forward. "Keep marching, soldier," I said. "You have your orders." Another turn, another hallway, and we found ourselves in another lobby, but much smaller than the main one. Georges pushed through a set of doors, and we stepped out onto a landing at the top of a wide stairway that would take us down into an underground parking structure. Right at the foot of the stairs was a valet station staffed by four or five attendants. To our left was an arched entry where the street entered, with a similar exit to the right, so were in kind of a tunnel. Wind was howling through, and it seemed colder here than it had been out in front where we arrived. In addition to the valets, there was a small crowd of a couple dozen bored-looking people behind velvet ropes, but none of the security guys we'd seen out front. Okay, so this looked like the place where most attendees would be catching their limos and leaving after the event concluded. There would be a bigger crowd of celebrities (and celebrity watchers, and security) later, but no one was expecting to see anyone like Sexiest Man Alive or Viking Queen leaving this early. I stepped from the carpet onto the concrete landing and let out a yelp when my bare feet went from warm carpet to frozen concrete. Sensing that my feet were freezing but I wouldn't want to put my shoes back on to negotiate the steps, Georges simply bent down, put his hand behind my knees, and scooped me up into his arms, then started marching down the stairs. This movement caught someone's attention, because... "SONYA SHANE!" someone shouted (yes, it was cool they shouted my name first instead of Georges'), and suddenly the sleepy crowd was awake and loud and seeming a lot scarier. Georges switched from a march to a jog down the stairs. The only problem was, there was still no car there to pick us up. Someone tried to step over the velvet rope but stopped when a valet blocked his way. But then a second guy stepped over, and he wasn't as easily discouraged. Then a woman almost got through. The valets tried to form a line between us and the small crowd, but they were outnumbered and untrained in crowd control. Reinforcements showed up...well, just reinforcement because it was only one more valet attendant, sprinting toward us from up the tunnel. Meanwhile, a man broke through the valet line and ran toward Georges and me, trying to block our way and holding something in front of him. At first, I thought it was a knife or a gun, but it was just a microphone. "Sonya Shane!" he yelled. "Tell us what's --" and then Georges lowered his shoulder and bumped the guy, not hard enough to knock him down, but hard enough to get past him. Georges was running now, and the crowd was surging past the valet line and closing in on us. But then everything fell into place: Georges' car pulled up and screeched to a stop; the sprinting valet guy arrived just before we did and pulled the door open for us; and George half-dove, half-stumbled into the car, and did something between setting me down gently and throwing me wildly into the car. I landed awkwardly but unharmed on the seat. Georges staggered into the car, and the valet guy tried to close the door, but microphone guy was back, and he was trying to climb into the car, for fuck's sake. Another attendant yanked him back, the door closed, and the car accelerated away from the curb. Georges fell forward into my lap, and we were trying to get ourselves settled when the car slammed to a stop as it reached the tunnel's exit. Georges started to roll forward toward the front of the car, but then the driver (who was apparently overdosing on adrenaline) hit the gas and we made a hard, tire-screeching, rear-end-fishtailing right turn out of the parking garage. Georges rolled back over me toward the rear of the car, and I rolled with him. He ended up on his back with me straddling him and my panties grinding on his groin, so it worked out okay. We were grinding hard, and I could feel his thick cock through his pants and that long shaft was pressing up into me, and I was drenched. I could've kept that going for a while, but suddenly he sat up and started squirming out of his tuxedo jacket. I couldn't really help with that, so I took off his bowtie and started unbuttoning his shirt. With the jacket removed, he started trying to work on his pants, but I was sitting on them. So, I scooted up his body, resting my wet panties on his tummy, shoving my boobs in his face, and hanging onto his head. I heard a thump as he kicked off one his shoes and sent it flying, then the rustle of fabric on skin and the clank of a belt buckle as he pushed the trousers down his legs. I slid back down his body, ready to do a nastier panty grind with my G-string slip sliding on his boxer briefs or whatever he was wearing, but oops, I got stabbed in the thigh with a wooden pole or a steel pipe or something. No, that hard cylinder that was assaulting my tender thigh was his cock; his man-panties were gone so I guess we were done with the panty grind. I lifted myself up and pulled the G-string off to the side, and he had gotten a grip on his beast and was aiming it up toward my slippery opening. I intended to lower myself slowly and carefully, because I hadn't had a cock, a toy or even a finger inside of me since he'd flown off to Africa three-and-a-half weeks ago. But the car must have hit a pothole the size of Lake Michigan, because there was a violent bump, and I lost my balance and fell forward onto him. "Oh my god fucking hell Jesus Christ motherfucker," I screamed, or something to that effect. The big, thick, rock-hard mushroom head of his cock ripped me open and sank a couple of inches into my slippery pussy. FUCK it hurt. It didn't seem fair; we hadn't fucked in nearly a month, and during that time his cock seemed to have grown to twice its previous size, while my poor vagina had shrunk by 50%. After the initial stab of pain, though, it felt pretty awesome to have something massive stretching me and filling me and oh my god YES, I was feeling that man's cock. I anchored my body by putting my hands on the window behind his head, and I began lifting and lowering and winding and grinding. Oh, sweet Jesus, I could feel that battering ram working its way into me. I felt like my slippery walls were stretched to the breaking point, and I could feel every vein and every three-dimensional feature of his pole as he slowly, inexorably penetrated me. Somewhere a little past halfway in, we hit a barrier where he was just too big and I was just too tight, and he wasn't breaking through. I lifted his hands to my breasts and squeezed them, and he got the hint and his hard cruel grip tightened and I was still wearing the Naked Dress, so cold unyielding metal bit down into my tender, delicate boob skin. "Harder!" I shouted, and he followed my orders and oh fuck my breasts were in such delightful agony. I needed that agony to distract me from the other pain I was about to experience as I lifted my hips and JAMMED down hard on his cock so we could just bust through the blockage. Except it only yielded a tiny bit, and the pain was a burning, aching roar, so I lifted and JAMMED again, and it still didn't go through, and that fucking HURT like a motherfucker, and I must have been screaming because he looked worried, and he put a hand over my mouth. Well, the funny thing about me and pain is we have kind of a love-hate relationship, so maybe that means I'm kind of kinky and maybe even a little bit of a pain slut. That pain deep inside me was throbbing and pulsing and kind of teetering and then slowly tipped over and crashed down into pleasure, and then it just felt so fucking good... I came. Hard, with little warning, out of nowhere, with his cock dead-ended two thirds of the way up my tunnel. My pussy clamped down on him, then suddenly opened wide and dumped a whole load of slippery pussy juice on him. My gate opened wide, and he crashed into me until his cock was ramming my cervix and his swollen testicles were resting against my ass. Balls deep, just like that. We were both shocked, and trying to adjust ourselves to the sudden penetration, so we just held that position for a bit. We were each sweaty and gasping for breath: him, because he was still recovering from his wild stairway sprint to the car while carrying a not-insubstantial Viking Queen; me, because I'd just had my third orgasm of the night while being violently impaled on the Sexiest Dick Alive. Oh yes, that was sweet, just resting there, completely filled, my pussy quivering with pleasure while Georges was actually whimpering with delight. It was a wonderful little interlude, and for the first time that evening, I felt no sense of urgency. We were going to be doing a LOT of fucking, but we had the whole night to do it, so for the moment we could just sit still and enjoy each other. Well, not completely still. I leaned in and we finally had that kiss we both wanted so desperately. It was a deep, sexy, romantic kiss; my lips forced his lips open, and our tongues found each other. He moaned into my mouth as my hips started teasing him: circles, figure eights, and spirals that made him shiver with pleasure. Gradually, I shifted to a slow up and down motion, and he started rising up to meet me on each of my downstrokes, and then were just flat-out fucking, finding a smooth but vigorous rhythm. Eventually his hands left my breasts. One hand reached back, grabbed my hair, and twisted my locks to get a good grip. Then he pulled my head back, with enough authority to make me arch prettily for him, just as I knew I liked. I thought he might use his other hand to grip my throat or spank my naughty little ass, but instead he was fumbling around on the instrument console, searching for something... There was a click, a hum, and then the moon roof started to slide open. And this was no ordinary moon roof, not just a little hatch you could barely get your head and shoulders through. It was the width of the entire car. The whole roof was sliding forward, and it just kept going. When it finally stopped, most of the passenger cabin was open to the night-time sky. Wind and sound and light rushed back into our lives. We weren't driving too fast, but my hair (after he released it) was swirling wildly. Besides the roar of the rushing wind, there were the sounds of cars nearby, honking horns, and music. Moonlight, streetlights, and neon signs made our space as bright as if it were mid-day. We were in a canyon of high-rise buildings, with dozens, hundreds, thousands of lit or unlit windows rushing by. It was absolutely exhilarating. My heart pounded, I gasped for breath. We were in the heart of Manhattan, one of the most densely populated, brightly lit places on the continent...and were fucking outdoors! My body reacted, and I began smashing my pussy down onto to him roughly, violently. It only took a few moments to reach my fourth (and biggest) orgasm of the night, a beastly, rowdy, ravenous motherfucker of a climax that shook me and tore wild screams from my throat. I was still cumming, and still screaming, when the limo came to a stop. I don't know if it was a traffic jam or just a red light, but we were surrounded by cars...and people. Yes, pedestrians were taking advantage of the stopped traffic to dart across the road, just as I was peaking. "FUCK YES I'M CUMMING!" I wailed, completely out of control at this point. The pedestrians closest to us hesitated and looked around. They couldn't have missed my scream, and once they spotted the limo, which would be the obvious source. I looked out the window and two men seemed to be staring right at me from no more than six feet away. After a moment of panic, I remembered that the windows were privacy tinted, so there was no way they could see me...could they? Okay, maybe not the windows, but we were terribly exposed with the moon roof wide open...well, I didn't think anyone could see us that way, unless they walked right up to the car, stood on tiptoes, and looked over the edge. Didn't seem likely. As for all those windows in the buildings around us, now that might be a different story. Someone at the right height and the right angle might be able to spot us, but they were pretty far away. Maybe they could get a good look if they had binoculars or a telescope handy, but what were the odds of that? Low enough that I felt more or less safe, although deliciously naughty, as I rode through that fourth orgasm and just kept on going, sliding up and down on Georges' big, slippery cock, soaring toward that fifth orgasm with our car open to the Manhattan skies, with all those cars and people and windows surrounding us. I climaxed just as our limo finally started to move forward again, and Georges finally closed the sunroof when my screams started getting loud. And then we were alone in the darkness, alone in our private little world as the big car carried us off into the night.