The Art of the Heart

A Symphony of Red Lycra

"No. Way. Absolutely not! Awwww, Stevie....NO!" Lindsey watched helplessly as Stevie hitched her fire engine-red lycra micro-mini dress up a little bit further. At best, the dress was mid-thigh, but she had managed to make it even shorter with careful tugging and arranging. He wasn't sure whether he objected most to the fact that it was skin-tight, that it was so short, or the fact that there was a huge diagonal teardrop shaped cut-out across the chest, allowing anyone and everyone to admire her bra-less breasts, almost to the nipples.

He had watched transfixed as Karen and some of the wardrobe ladies had heaved and squashed and taped Stevie's ample bosom into submission and while he couldn't deny that the results were spectacular, he felt queasy at the thought of her being the subject of the orgy of ogling the outfit was going to produce. And that was before he even thought about the fact that she would be 'acting' the part with Greg in order to fool Mick and further their plan. Glancing now at her feet, and finding himself unexpectedly captivated, he couldn't help reprimanding himself. Who the fuck are you now? Quentin Tarantino? Now her SHOES are giving you wood?! Jesus, Buckingham! Since when has a  pair of Christian Louboutins had this effect? Just because they're 100mm patent leather Pigalle Spike pumps doesn't mean you have to get that excited! Ugh. Wait a minute....Why do I even know that? Holy fuck! Maybe I have, actually got a shoe fetish.....I better look at her shoulders and see if that gives me more or less wood. That's the perfect yardstick in this situation. Then I'll know.....Hummmph. It really is hard being this virile at 65. It makes a man tired.

"Come on, Linds! Stop being such a spoil-sport. Besides, you're not the one who has to humiliate yourself by going out there dressed like this! This is our scheme I'm advancing here," Stevie said emphatically, her small hands windmilling around her personage at about shoulder height, as if to emphasize the scale of the torture she was prepared to inflict on herself for the greater good.

"Don't even think about trying that on with me, Stevie," he growled as he closed the small distance between them, clasped her shoulders and wedged his right knee in between her legs, using it to guide her ten feet or so backwards so that the backs of her legs and her buttocks were pressed hard against the dressing table. "You and I both know that there will be no humiliation involved." He dropped into a bend at the knees, bringing his height down enough that they were suddenly eye-to-eye. As they locked eyes once more, he moved his hands up from her shoulders to grasp the sides of her face, catching some of her hair roughly with his right hand as he went. He paused before he spoke again, drinking in appreciatively the tell-tale signs of her arousal: her breathing was noticeably faster and shallower than it had been five minutes ago, a revelatory Baker-Miller pink blush had swept across her cheekbones and her eyes had taken on the alluring, half-hooded aspect that, over many years, had always betrayed her when she claimed not to be attracted to him, or, God forbid, considering sex with him. He felt a combined sense of happiness, relief, triumph and restfulness wash over him as he marvelled at his ability to still have this effect on her. "I think you're playing me, baby," he murmured, not taking his eyes off hers.

The corners of her mouth twitched just a little as she broke their eye contact to look down, then up again at him, batting her eyelashes coquettishly. "Maybe I just like the way the threat of a little competition makes you so sexually aggressive. Let's face it: me getting dressed up like this and flaunting myself is going to have ten times more of an effect on you than it is on Greg, or Mick, or any other man, for that matter," she added decisively, though she looked startled by the loud guffaw that escaped his lips as soon as she had uttered the final statement. 

"You can't seriously mean that! Have you actually taken a look in the mirror? You look...you look...breathtaking. And, I mean, y'know, stylistically it's maybe a little on the young, slutty side of things, but your form is exquisite, and you've gotta remember, most guys' ultimate fantasy is a classy, intelligent, refined woman like you getting a bit down and dirty on it. And when I say 'it' I mean 'it' in the generalized sense, but you can also read that as 'their penises'. Listen, I've been the guy who has to watch you looking incredible and being flirtatious and vivacious and captivating while knowing that I can't touch you. Jesus, have I! I know how this shit is going to go down. Step one: ogling; step two: an excuse to feel the fabric of your dress and, if possible, graze your hair and skin, and if the Gods are really smiling, somehow grasp a little handful of flesh from your chest, hips or butt; step three: retire immediately to the nearest bathroom (or hotel room, if it's close enough) to jack off," he closed his eyes wistfully as if totalling up all the hours he had spent in the aforementioned circumstances. The thwack of Stevie's hand connecting with his left shoulder brought him back to reality.