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undressed me and stroked and squeezed me. When Michael tied me
spread-eagled on the bed, my legs open wide, my body ready to be entered, I
looked to the corner, and Gibson stepped out of the shadows and into a shaft of
light coming from the hallway.
    He wore the same suit he was wearing the first time I saw
him, complete with open collar and no tie. His eyes swept down my naked body
and I noted his tense jaw, the intensity of his eyes.
    Then Michael shoved his dick into me, and at that moment,
Gibson met my eyes. I held his gaze while Michael fucked me.
    Gibson asked, “Is that what you want? To be fucked?”
    I said, “Yes, Sir.”
    “Would you like it harder?” he asked.
    “Yes, please, Sir.”
    And Gibson nodded, and Michael pumped into me harder and
faster.
    “Is that what you want?” Gibson asked, never taking his eyes
from mine.
    “Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir.”
    He said, “Tell me how you like being fucked.”
    “I love it, Sir.” I was panting.
    He smiled just the tiniest bit, a slight lifting of one side
of his mouth. He said, “Good.”
    And with that word, the word that when Gibson said it, set
off the good-girl tingle in my belly, I began to come.
    The first time I had this fantasy, after my release, I
wondered what the hell it was about. It was hot, this scene in my head. More
erotic than any other fantasy I’d ever had.
    I used similar scenarios at other times, varying up the
location, the things Michael did, and what Gibson said. I felt drenched in sex,
ready for more. I’d even gone beyond Michael’s original order that I masturbate
the morning of our date; I locked my office door twice that day at work, giving
myself a quickie during my lunch hour and another one in the late afternoon.
    That little pocket vibrator had gotten quite the workout in
little time.
    I wondered if this is what the expression “sexed up” meant.
If it had been Michael’s plan to have me hot and ready for our date that night,
it had worked and then some. I was more than ready for whatever he wanted to do
with me.
    I admired the pretty wrappings of Michael’s gift for a few
moments, then I tore off the paper. I opened the box and pulled out a beautiful
pale blue dress.
    The fabric was a wonder. It was silk, I imagined, but finer
than any silk I’d ever seen or touched. The material shimmered in the light,
and was fine, thin and smooth, flowing over my hands and between my fingers
like an enchanted, fluid thing.
    I took the dress and headed off to the bedroom where I
stripped off my clothes and slipped on the dress. It felt wonderful, so cool,
the fabric caressing my skin.
    I stood in front of the full length mirror on my closet
door. The light blue color complimented my skin tone. The dress was short,
falling a few inches above my knees. The hem along the bottom created a fluted
petal effect. Flirty. The skirt fell straight from the waist, fitting loosely,
but the fabric itself, due to its clinging nature, hugged the curves of my hips
and the flat of my belly.
    It was the top of the dress where the magic happened. It
kind of reminded me of a toga, except it wasn’t one-shouldered. The fabric was
gathered at both shoulders, in tiny pleats, and wrapped around in a fine gold
thread. When adjusted properly at the shoulders, the dress fell in folds over
my chest with a scoop neck shape. This might have been bulky with a heavier
fabric, but the gossamer quality of the fabric was perfect for the style.
    The arm holes were cut very long underneath, about half-way
down my upper arms. I’d have to be careful not to expose myself from the side,
I thought.
    The back of the dress was as dramatic as the front, the
folds of the dress falling all the way to the bottom of my spine, resting just
above my ass, leaving my back entirely bare. Even if I wanted to ignore
Michael’s rules of no under-clothes, I couldn’t have worn them with this dress,
perhaps not even a g-string.
    In all, it was spectacular, sexy, and completely