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This work is copyrighted to the author © 2004.  Please
don't remove the author information or make any changes
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My Favorite Color
by Marcia R. Hooper (marciar26@aol.com)

***

Darlene accepts an invitation to dinner with a very 
wealthy man. It becomes apparent right away, however, 
that the invitation comes at a steep price, including 
her sense of self-respect. Will she bear up under the 
challenge, or bear all and let him have his way. (MF, 
reluc)

***

Based upon the short story:
SHOWING OFF
by Allene Baker

I was at my job at Blockbuster Video, asking, "Would 
you like a second, free rental with that?" or "Have you 
heard about our new Movie Pass program?" when a man 
dressed in an expensive white suit walked up to the 
counter-side and leaned over. 

"Excuse me? Where are your foreign films?"

Normally, I would let someone interrupting me know just 
how I felt at being interrupted. Not this man. "Foreign 
films?" I asked stupidly.

"Yes. You have foreign films, don't you?"

I nodded dumbly.

He asked quietly, "Shall I start over, Darlene?" 

The man was in his mid-thirties, tall and athletically 
built, graceful in his movements. His eyes were a 
beautiful brown and he had Brad Pitt's lips. His chin 
and cheekbones belonged to George Clooney. A rich and 
powerful man, I thought, perfect in his dress. I was 
making a fool of myself.

"Uh, no," I muttered, feeling my face redden. I pointed 
to the back of the store, where the foreign films were 
shelved. "They're back there," I said, making my 
embarrassment worse.

"Thank you, Darlene," he said and headed in the 
pointed-to direction. Like a moron, I looked down at my 
name tag on my chest. My mouth was open. I closed it.

I finished waiting on my now-irritated customer, 
checked out the next man in line, all the while eying 
the rear of the store. I couldn't see the man, wasn't 
sure that was a bad thing. When things grew difficult 
with a lady with two small kids and four overdue films, 
I temporarily forgot him. When I looked up again, Mr. 
Perfect was next in line. My heart stuttered. 

"Hi," I said, trying not to choke. "Find everything you 
wanted?"

"Actually no," he said. "But this will do." He held out 
a movie called Red.

"I read that," I said, hoping to recapture my wit. Then 
I said, "It was like, a sequel or something," 
flattening myself again.

Mr. Perfect grinned. "Part three of a trilogy, 
actually. Did you enjoy it?"

"Of course," I lied. Even with subtitles, I hadn't 
understood a word. 

I scanned his card into the computer and read his name: 
David Chaguris. He lived in the Hills.

"As far as I'm concerned," he said, "it's the best 
thing Kieslowski's done. Certainly of the three. Don't 
you agree?"

"Of course," I chirped again. Inside, I wanted to cry. 

For a time, the man held my eyes, and then he 
unexpectedly said: "I see you're not married."

I stared stupidly at my hand. I nodded.

"Is that a no?" he asked.

I nodded again.

"It's okay to speak," he said. "We're not in a 
library."

My face could have ignited a forest fire. Then he 
floored me completely. "Would you like to have dinner 
with me tonight, Darlene?"

"Dinner?"

Behind the man, the next customer in line looked quite 
amused. You are so unprepared for this, I thought, 
looking at my fingernails. "I would love dinner," I 
said softly. "When were you thinking of?"

"What time do you get off?"

I stammered, "S-six o'clock. But I'd have to go home. I 
wore this to work."

He shook his head. "You don't have to go anywhere. My 
treat. Ever been to Reynoldo's?"

I looked at the floor, making sure I hadn't fallen 
down. Reynoldo's is the most exclusive boutique in Los 
Angeles. I've looked in the windows once or twice, but 
had never been in. I didn't know anyone who had been 
in. 

Suddenly, I asked: "This is a joke, right? My Uncle 
Henry put you up to this."

My folks had died when I was fifteen years old. I lived 
with my Uncle Henry in West Hollywood. West Hollywood 
is the mobile home park of L.A. 

The man (it was a while before I could consider him Mr. 
Chaguris, much less David) only smiled at me. "I'll be 
in the parking lot at six o'clock. A white Mercedes-
Benz. Will you be there, Darlene?"

I nodded and said, "Of course."

"If you leave me hanging, I'll be really upset."

"I'll be there," I promised.

"Six o'clock then, sharp." 

His smooth manner, his off-putting smile, his absolute 
confidence in that smile meant this man demanded 
something like obedience from a women. I understood 
that. I also understood that he would get it from me. 

At six o'clock, I hurried out of the building--I 
practically ran--and amongst the chunks of gravel that 
were Fords, Chevy's and Dodge pick-up trucks, his 
Mercedes stood out like a white diamond. I crossed the 
parking lot thinking, It's not him. No way it's him, 
until he got out of the car.

"Right on time," He said. "Very good." He opened the 
passenger-side door for me. I felt like a fairy 
princess. 

"Thank you," I said.

After having me belt in, and then shutting the door, he 
came around to his side of the car and got in. As he 
drove off the lot, he said: "In answer to your 
question, Darlene, no, I was not setting you up. I just 
stopped by for a movie. The Blockbuster I frequent was 
too far away, it was late and traffic was jammed. You 
were convenient, and there you were. End of story."

"I still don't believe it," I said, mentally pinching 
my cheek. "What possibly could you see in me?" 

He smiled. "You're perfectly built and perfectly 
beautiful. Is that enough?"

Laughing, I said, "I am not beautiful, and I'm not even 
that pretty. And as for built--" I looked down at my 
unflattering blue uniform. When I looked up again, his 
eyes were surprisingly playful. 

"Do I detect false modesty here?"

I laughed. "Nothing false here at all."

"Then grant me my opinion. I can call anyone beautiful 
that I wish."

I grinned, wondering if I should be stung. 

After pulling into Reynoldo's parking lot, David got 
out and opened my door. I looked at the expensive 
marble fascia of the store; I looked at the expensive 
clothes in the windows. I looked at the expensive women 
going in and out. "I can't go in there," I said.

"Why not?"

I exploded in frustration. "Look at how I'm dressed, 
David!"

He said, "Would you rather wear your skin?"

I blinked, unsure what he meant. 

He repeated himself: "Would you rather wear your skin?"

I gulped. My face grew very hot. "Are those my 
options?" I asked.

"They are."

I said, "I don't even know you."

He took my right hand and placed it palm-in against his 
crotch. "You'll know me very well before the evening is 
over, Darlene. Now please, let's go in."

I accompanied him into the store.

*

People stared at me. I felt like a white woman in 
Harlem. A white woman in a Cadillac. 

A blonde in her late twenties broke away from a small 
group of staff and headed toward us. She wore a white 
skirt and white blazer, with a white silk blouse 
underneath. Her bearing said money. 

"Good afternoon, Mr. Chaguris. How good to see you 
again. What may I help you find today?" 

I stood there, feeling twelve years old. David said, 
"Hello, Elizabeth. We need a cocktail dress: Cordell, 
Fiorelli or maybe a Verchelli. Whatever you think."

"Certainly, Mr. Chaguris." She motioned us forward. The 
way they communicated with their eyes, I knew they had 
fucked. 

Touching her lips in thought, Elizabeth looked me up 
and down, then beckoned one of the other attendants. 
She was a pretty girl in her early twenties, not much 
older than I; she threw me a look of condescension, but 
also one of regard. She was, I believed, another David 
Chaguris conquest. Her name was Renee. After sending 
her off in search of a dress, Elizabeth led us into the 
fitting room.

Fitting room--more like a suite at the Ritz-Carleton. 
In addition to expensive seating and chrome and glass 
tables, there was a wide-screen TV, a stainless steel 
and glass bar and more mirrors than I could stand. An 
alcove in the rear wall lead off to private dressing 
rooms.

I was taken to the center of the room where, without 
permission and without a word, in front of David and 
three other women in attendance, Elizabeth lifted my 
uniform top over my head. She then unzipped my pants 
and removed them as well, leaving me standing in my bra 
and panties. I felt thoroughly cowed. 

"We'll need something more appropriate," she said, 
looking at my Wal-Mart bra. She took it off, leaving me 
in my panties. No one paid attention except David, who 
stared at me, nonplused. I wished desperately for 
bigger breasts.

"The panties too, of course," said Elizabeth. "We 
wouldn't want panty lines."

"Of course not," I said, taking off my panties and 
handing them over. "Can't have any panty lines."

How red was my face now?

*

In eleventh grade at Hollywood High, three girls shoved 
me out of the locker room in just my panties. They did 
it on a bet, and let me back in right away, but not 
before at least a dozen boys saw me topless. Being 
stripped naked before David Chaguris was not as bad, 
but I had that same feeling of helplessness.

Holding out a cloth tape measure, Elizabeth said: "I 
need to measure you. Lift your arms, please." She 
brought the ends together across my breasts, then 
measured my inseam, pressing the back of her hand 
against my crotch. It was my first time being touched 
there by another woman. Why she measured me like that, 
I don't know. Unless, of course, she just wanted to 
touch me.

"You can put your arms down now," she said. 

I lowered my arms to my sides. I didn't cover up. Renee 
came hurrying in, carrying four lovely gowns, each of 
which must have cost a fortune. 

"We'll try the blue one first," Elizabeth said. 

The gown had sequined panels front and back, and was 
made of silk. Elizabeth instructed me to raise my arms, 
then she and Renee slipped the dress over my head; they 
smoothed it nicely into place. I felt wrapped in gold.

"How much is this?" I whispered to Renee.

The answer was more than my entire wardrobe had cost--
over the past five years. Probably my uncle's as well.

The neckline cut straight across my buxom, showing 
cleavage I didn't possess. A Miracle Bra wouldn't help 
me much.

"What do you think?" Elizabeth asked.

"The black one," David suggested.

At that moment, two more women entered the room, 
accompanied by two of the staff. Two gentlemen entered 
with them. After exchanging glances, the men made 
conversation with David and Elizabeth, pointedly 
ignoring me. I reddened, then reddened more when the 
women retired to their own personal fitting rooms. 

"I kept that damned stock until this afternoon, David," 
one of the men complained. He wore khaki shorts, a 
white shirt and sandals. "On your advice, I might add."

David said: "Check your voice mail, Frank. I called you 
twice this morning. I also told you to dump that stock 
last week, just like I told Ed, here." 

Ed, more casually dressed than his friend, had on gray 
slacks and a button down white shirt. He was my uncle's 
age with thinning gray hair and a ruddy face. A 
drinker, I thought.

Frank screwed up his mouth. He mumbled something too 
low to hear, then indicated the private fitting rooms 
with his head. "Enid'. She just had to make that  
charity luncheon this afternoon. I never got the chance 
to check my voice mail. Damn!"

All three laughed. Then David said: "Elizabeth, please. 
We don't have all night," and my heart began to gallop. 
He couldn't mean . . . 

Elizabeth and Renee slid the gown over my head and I 
was naked again.

Okay, I thought. Big deal. Three strange men and you're 
naked before them. I kept my arms at my sides and my 
gaze neutral. Every nerve ending screamed but somehow, 
it was also funny. Looking at David, I said, "You could 
introduce me to your friends, David."

He looked simultaneously startled and pleased. A glint 
in his eyes said: Tough little girl, Darlene. One point 
for you.

"Ed, Frank, this is Darlene."

"Hello," I said to them both. I shook both of their 
hands. They worked hard not to look at my breasts. 

"You must be new," Frank said. "In town I mean. I 
haven't seen you before."

David said, "I met her just today."

"Really!" Ed exclaimed, sounding truly amazed. 
"Wherever at?" Then he apologized, saying: "I should 
talk to you, my dear, not about you. Where are my 
manners?"

I gave him my most indulgent smile. "I'm used to being 
talked about," I said. "I--"

"Darlene hosts in an establishment downtown," David 
said. A bit of a stretch, but I said, "That's right," 
to avoid further embarrassment.

Frank said, "You are quite lovely, and David very 
fortunate. Perhaps you would join us for dinner?"

David shook his head. "Reservations already made, but 
thank you anyway."

"Some other time."

"We'd be delighted."

Growing impatient, Elizabeth interrupted. "May we have 
her back now, please? As you said, David, it's growing 
late." They put me into another dress. As Elizabeth 
fiddled with the front, she leaned close and whispered, 
"You are one cool little cucumber. Congratulations." 

I whispered back, "My heart is palpitating. I feel like 
the Titanic heading for the bottom. Is this really 
happening to me?" She met my eyes and smiled. For a 
moment, I thought she meant to kiss me. Then she 
straightened and stood back.

"What do you think, David?"

David and the others turned to look. The dress plunged 
to my navel both front and back, leaving nothing for 
the imagination. But it fit me like a glove. 

"Perfect," David said. 

"Extraordinary," agreed Frank. 

"She needs more lift," said Elizabeth, fingering the 
bodice. Renee immediately ran off. "What about her 
hair, David? Do we have time for that?"  

David checked his watch. He planned to say no, but 
Elizabeth insisted. "She's perfect otherwise. Twenty 
minutes, no more."

I couldn't wash my hair and dry it in twenty minutes.

Renee came hurrying back with breasts supports and they 
rendered me naked again. They adhered the flesh-colored 
supports to the undersides of my breasts, then wrapped 
me in a robe. Elizabeth hustled me away to the salon. 

"Sometime before midnight?" David called after us.

"Twenty minutes, I promise."

In the salon, Elizabeth plunked me down before Antoine, 
Reynaldo's head stylist; he looked at my hair and 
laughed. 

"She's with David Chaguris, Antoine. And we have twenty 
minutes."

Antoine shut up. He instructed one of the girls to 
shampoo me, another to condition me, a third to towel-
dry my hair. Feeling caught in a washing machine, I 
churned from Chair One to Chair Two to Chair One again. 
Elizabeth looked at her watch.

"I must have time!" Antoine protested.

"You tell Mr. Chaguris that."

He started nipping furiously at my hair. He whined like 
a Chihuahua. I looked at Elizabeth, pleading with my 
eyes.

It'll be all right, she smiled back.

What had I gotten myself into?

*

Twenty minutes later, Elizabeth announced: "She's 
ready, David." 

I stood there, sheathed in black, valued in the 
millions of dollars. I thought Frank and Ed would 
applaud.

"You look quite stunning," said Frank. 

"Really quite spectacular," chimed Ed.

David smiled, magnanimously. I thought to myself, 
Consider what payment will be extracted for this, 
Darlene.

"You're sure, this time?" David queried.

"Absolutely," Elizabeth answered. 

"Underwear?" I whispered.

Elizabeth shook her head.

While David signed the bill, Elizabeth placed my things 
in a bag and accompanied me to the entrance. When we 
reached the doors, I asked: "How much was this dress, 
Elizabeth?"

"You don't want to know. Where you work? It might be 
two years salary," she said. Her voice held no 
contempt, only fact. "You're a lucky girl, Darlene."

"Am I?" I asked. Suddenly, "You and he were lovers, 
weren't you?"

She nodded. She fiddled with her left hand.

"You were married at the time?"

She smiled again, sadly. Then her smile broadened. "I 
think I know why I like you," she said.

"For my wit?" 

"You're smart. An adapter. You handled a bad situation 
very well. I would have been thoroughly cowed by what 
we did. If anyone can stand up to David Chaguris, I 
think it's you."

David walked up, saving me further embarrassment. He 
looked at Elizabeth, then at me. "Ready?" he asked.

"I am," I said, holding out my arm. "Fly me away, 
Monsieur."

We left Elizabeth, smiling at the door.

*

The restaurant was high atop Coldwater Canyon Drive, 
overlooking the city. David pulled into the valet lane 
and we got out. He took the receipt and put it in his 
pocket, then led me up the front steps. I had 
difficulty walking in the heels.

"I feel like Cinderella one minute before midnight," I 
said. 

He patted my hand. "Think rich and everyone will think 
you are."

How do you think rich? I wondered.

The maitre d' glided up to David and shook his hand, 
then kissed mine. His name was Jacques. He exchanged 
words with David in French, then led us to our table. 
He pointed out the view. Spread out below us, the city 
went on forever. Lights reflected in the Stone Canyon 
Reservoir; Santa Monica glittered. I saw the ocean and 
all the way to Thousand Oaks. David pulled out my 
chair, bidding me to sit down and I crossed my ankles 
and my hands and I sat there. I trusted myself not to 
speak.

Standing off at a respectable distance, our waiter 
waited to be summoned, then glided up to the table as 
Jacques bowed and backed away. Jacques had enjoyed my 
dress.

"Good evening, Mr. Chaguris," the waiter said, laying 
out the menus. 

"Good evening, Charles," David said, pronouncing as you 
would Charles DeGaulle. 

"Good evening, miss." 

"Good evening," I said. The menus were in French. 

When I didn't immediately ask for help, David asked: 
"You speak the language?"  

"Some," I admitted. "My real name is Gabriel."

He blinked, raised his eyebrows. I had surprised him 
twice. "Tell me," he invited. 

Struggling with the selection on the menu, I said, "My 
mother loved romance novels. Anything French. Anything 
doing with the French. She also loved noir. She picked 
my name from the novel Julius, by Daphne DuMaurier. 
When I was bad she used to tell me I would be the 
downfall of everyone around me, including my dad. 
Evidently she was right, because they both died in an 
auto accident when I was fifteen. I took French in high 
school, just to spite her memory. We never get along." 

What I didn't tell him was that Gabriel was also the 
name of a famous Parisienne madam around the turn of 
the century. After my parents died I found a book about 
her secreted away in a trunk in the attic. Her name was 
underlined time and again throughout the book, in red 
ink, with various notations scribbled in the margins. 
None of notations were complimentary. I burned the book 
and never told anyone about it.

The waiter kept our wine glasses filled and as the meal 
progressed, I became progressively drunker. Each course 
was served on dainty little plates, the size of tea-
saucers, with odd little garnishments on the side. For 
desert we had Baked Alaska, which seemed very unFrench-
like to me. Then we had coffee.

"Excuse my asking," David said. "How old are you, 
Darlene?" 

I sipped from my cup. "Old enough to fuck. Legally. And 
you?"

He smiled patiently. He took a sip of his coffee.

"Do I at least get to keep the dress?" I asked. 

This made him laugh. "No matter what," he assured me, 
"You get to keep the dress."

"Then," I said, leaning across the table so that only 
he would hear, "you can fuck me all you want."

*

He left a one hundred dollar tip. Jacques kissed my 
hand going out, and spoke to me in French. I answered 
in a bad American accent. He asked if I would return 
and I told him only David could tell him that. He 
smiled. "David will grace us again with your presence. 
I can assure you of that." 

Waiting for the valet, I told David, "He doesn't know 
you half as well as he thinks he does, David."

He raised an eyebrow. "And why is that?"

I felt a sudden chill and crossed my arms beneath my 
breasts. "I read Pygmalion, David, and saw the Rex 
Harrison movie. Blockbuster, remember? Occasionally 
I'll even turn off the captions and really challenge my 
mind. You brought me here to see if your sophistication 
could make a silk purse out of a sow's ear, didn't 
you?"

As the valet arrived with the car, he opened my door 
and put me inside. He was careful not to touch me. He 
slipped the valet a tip, got behind the wheel and 
looked straight ahead. He had lost some of his color. I 
wondered if he would hit me.

"Where would you like to go?" he asked. 

"Excuse me?"

He put the Mercedes in gear and drove off the lot. 
"Would you like to dance?" he asked.

"I'm too drunk to dance," I said. "I'd just fall off my 
heels." I had nearly fallen coming down the steps. 
"Besides, don't you want to fuck me?"

I really thought he would hit me then. Instead, he 
said, "To my place, then. I'll make you some coffee."

"Better make a lot," I said, laughing at him. 

At Coldwater Canyon Road, he turned left, heading for 
Mullholland Drive. "Like these leather seats?"

"The seats?" I put my right hand on the warm, rich 
leather. It felt like skin. 

"Pull up your dress and see how good it feels on your 
bare bottom."

"My bare bottom feels fine where it is," I said. "Is 
that what your other girls do? Take off their clothes 
at your bidding?" I pantomimed slipping my dress over 
my head. 

"I just thought you might like it, is all."

"I did it already tonight," I said. "Twice."

He turned right on Mullholland Drive, drove half a mile 
further on, then stopped before an immense, wrought 
iron gate. I could not see a house. 

"Home?" I asked.

"Yes."

"Where's the house, David. On Mars?"

He thumbed a remote, and silently as a moving finger, 
the huge gate swung inward. Beyond a line of 
intervening trees, lights came on.

"Hmm," I said, trying not to sound impressed. As he 
drove through the gate, I turned in my seat and asked, 
"Just how rich are you, David Chaguris?"

"Very," he said. 

"Rich like an Arab? A Russian Mafioso?"

"Like a broker who deals in oil."

"An oilman," I said. "My daddy was an oil man." My dad 
was a roughneck, not quite the same thing. "He never 
owned an oil well, though. Do you own any oil wells, 
David?"

We drove between curving brick walls, onto a loop of 
asphalt before an immense white house. I could see no 
other houses in the near distance. Beverly Hills is 
supposed to packed back-to-back. Here, if I screamed at 
the top of my lungs, no one would hear me. 

I was informed that the house had two swimming pools: 
one out back, the other in the basement. It had a 
tennis court, a court for squash, a six-car garage, a 
twenty-seat theater, twenty-five rooms on the first 
floor alone and three separate kitchens. The furniture, 
depending upon where you were in the house, was chrome 
and glass, leather and lace, fourteenth century French 
or twentieth-century English. In the living room (don't 
ask which one), he suddenly pulled me to him and kissed 
me hard on the mouth. I kissed him back. He took off my 
dress. 

"You're very sure of yourself," I said, watching him 
drop the expensive gown onto an equally expensive 
chair. I stood there in my heels. I removed the flesh-
colored breast supports and rubbed where the adhesive 
had been. 

"I am. And you are an angel."

"What I am," I muttered. "Is completely nude."

"And very drunk," he said.

"That too," I acknowledged.

"And ready to fuck?"

"I guess I am."

He kissed my eyelids and my ears, the back of my neck, 
both of my shoulders, and the tips of my breasts. I 
shuddered convulsively.

He lay me down on the sofa and kissed my navel, put his 
tongue in my navel, kissed my stomach above and below 
my navel, kissed the thin stripe of public hair leading 
up from my clitoris, then kissed my clitoris and 
everything around it. I began to moan loudly. 

"Does Gabriel like this?" he whispered.

Gabriel liked it very much. So did Darlene, who 
wouldn't admit it. 

His tongue parted me and probed me inside and my 
eyelids closed and I held his head in place. His tongue 
danced between my legs and excitement overwhelmed me 
and I began to tremble.

Standing up, he took me in his arms and carried me 
upstairs and put me on his bed. I got up and helped him 
undress. I dropped to my knees and began to suck until 
he moaned loudly. I made him moan even louder and when 
it was time I took him inside me on the bed and fucked 
him to an incredible orgasm. I wrapped my arms around 
his neck and my legs around his waist and bit my lower 
lip as I climaxed. I moaned his name over and over and 
told him that I loved him. He told me he didn't mind. I 
told him he was a goddamned bastard. He told me I was 
right. He fucked me all night long and in the morning 
drove me home and I never saw him again.

They say every story should have a moral, or at least a 
happy ending. If this story has either, it's lost on 
me. But I didn't get AIDS and I didn't get pregnant and 
I did get to keep the dress. 

The next day I brought home the three Color movies by 
Krzysztof Kieslowski. 

I liked Red the best. 

Red is my color. 

THE END

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
It's okay to *READ* stories about unprotected sex with
others outside a monogamous relationship. But it isn't
okay to *HAVE* unprotected sex with people other than
a trusted partner. You only have one body per lifetime,
so take good care of it!
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Kristen's collection - Directory 32