Bad Dog - Too Bad It's Fake

I had just managed to slither into the thing, barely getting the zipper up by myself, when a knock came at the door. Trying to adjust to walking with my thighs tightly bound by the skirt of the dress, I made my way from the bathroom to the living room.

“Joining a convent, are we?” Sharon asked when I opened the door, looking me up and down.

“Going on a date, actually,” I said, blushing a bit.

“You look like ye’re goin’ to church,” Sharon said.

“Oh,” I said.

“Plannin’ on getting laid at some point?” she asked.

My cheeks flamed and I didn’t even have to answer for her to feel my frustration.

“Come with me,” Sharon said, taking me by the hand before I could object.

Leading me over to her place, Sharon sat me down on her bed and started rummaging through her closet. I was shocked, not only by the amount of clothes she owned, but also by how nice they were. I’d pretty much only ever seen her wear tracksuits, with various interesting, and usually clashing, colors and patterns.

She had apparently been something of a party girl when she worked as a publicist and maintained at least five different versions of the standard “little black dress,” in both strapped and strapless options. It was one of the former that she pulled out for this occasion.

“This should work for ye. It’s a bit short but ye’ve got good legs and yer tits are gonna look amazin’.”

With Sharon’s assistance managing zippers, I shucked out of the nun-like dress, as well as my bra, and into her selection, the front of the dress as well as the straps doing a surprisingly good job of holding my tits up in a very enticing way, while also being pretty comfortable.

“There,” Sharon said, looking me over, “now there’s just something to do about this whole situation.”

By “this whole situation,” Sharon had apparently meant my face and hair. Not that there was anything particularly wrong with them in principle, she was quick to add. They could just be even better.

Setting up the small shelf around the sink in her bathroom like a make up counter, Sharon set to work. I sat obediently on the closed toilet seat, following her directions as to where to move my head.

Finally, she was finished.

“Perfect,” she said, stepping back to examine her handiwork.

I looked in the mirror to see what she had done, nearly being bowled over by the results. The most surprising thing was honestly how subtle it all was. I knew how much she had put on because I had sat through the whole thing. The overall effect successfully accentuated my best features like my lips and my eyes, while also improving areas that weren’t so strong, like my cheekbones, which were nothing to write home about.

“Wow,” I said, trying by damndest not to cry and ruin her hard work.

“And now the hair,” Sharon said.

As I kept as still as I could, Sharon wove a crown of intricate braids into my hair, leaving the rest flowing free, making me look like some kind of elven princess.

“Thank you!” I squealed, hugging Sharon tight.

“Watch the make-up, love,” Sharon teased, but despite her normally brusque tone, I could see how pleased she was about my reaction.

Kissing Sharon on the cheek, I still had plenty of time to go home and get my shoes and coat. Punctuality had always been something of a Stamp family trait. What I hadn’t expected was to see Sam already at my door, a white rose in hand.

“Someone’s a romantic,” Sharon quipped.

“Yeah,” was all I could think to say, a little too dazed to cobble together anything more coherent.

Sharon winked at me and then slipped back into her own house to leave us alone.

“You look amazing,” Sam said, ambling across the street to meet me.

“Thanks,” I said.

He didn’t look so bad himself, in his dove gray suit and crisp white shirt. He looked like he belonged on a movie screen, the leading man alongside some stunning starlet. But instead, he was with me. It was all I could do to keep from squealing like a schoolgirl.

He extended the hand not holding onto the rose.

“Shall we?” he asked cordially.

Without a word, my vocabulary entirely escaping me with the unlikelihood of it all, I slipped my hand into his and let him escort me to his car, neither of us letting go. My pulse raced and my pussy tightened at the contact. I wanted him so bad I could taste it.

“For you,” he said, handing me the rose, and then we walked hand in hand to his Jeep.

He opened the door for me as though it were a royal carriage, escorting me up into the passenger seat.

I could feel a bit of a draft on my ass as I got in, the dress not giving much in terms of coverage. I wondered if Sam had noticed. If he did, he hadn’t let on, like the gentleman I knew that he was.