And she looked TERRIFIC!
Her round face was framed in a halo of curls slightly redder than they had been when we came in. Not a huge change, but noticeable to me. In the same way, her makeup was subtle and truly excellent. A light touch highlighted cheekbones, gave eyes a slightly exotic look, and made lips slightly fuller and very VERY red.
“You are worth every dime,” I said to Mei Li, handing Mom’s credit card over. When the ticket came back I added a healthy tip. I expected to be back and wanted good service.
Back home she was funny. “God,” she said, “I feel like I’m in Junior High School going on my first date.”
I grinned as I took things out of their boxes and hung the outer garments while I took the new undies into the laundry room, carefully set the washing machine to “Delicate” and started it. Later, when the buzzer went off I transferred them to the dryer, and set it to “Fluff.”
She looked so nervous it was actually kind of funny. I kissed her hand, not wanting to mess up Mei Li’s handiwork, and said, “You’re beautiful and I cannot WAIT to show you off.”
We killed time, just watching the news and talking. She was nervous and I tried to put her at ease.
At seven I said, “Come on, Cinderella, time for the ball.”
“David,” she said, “I’m not sure,” but I cut her off with a kiss.
“Nuh-uh,” I said, grinning, “I’m showing you off tonight.”
“Oh, God,” she sort of moaned, but she stood and followed me to the bedroom.
“Oh, God,” she moaned again when she saw what I had laid out for her.
I picked out the green, thinking it would highlight her newly reddened hair.
“Oh, God,” she said for the third time and I chuckled.
“That’s getting monotonous,” I said.
“Davey,” she said but, again, I hushed her with a kiss and started dressing her.
It was fun.
I started from the bottom, working first the nylons, simple Suntan color, size Q4, working them up from toes across heels and then calves and up thighs. Next, I worked to make sure the seams were ruler-straight before getting her into the garter belt and then the French-cut panties. She stood, looked at me, and then without a word went to the bedroom door where she swung it shut and looked at herself in the full-length mirror.
“Nice, huh,” I said, chuckling and moving up behind her to kiss the back of her neck.
“Davey, I,” she started and kind of wound down, but she was smiling.
“You’re beautiful,” I said, walking her back and having her stand beside the bed while I got her WonderBra hooked and her breasts adjusted. The WonderBra, as advertised, did wonders and she showed a delightful expanse of blue-veined cleavage.
“Arms up,” I said, and when she did as I asked I threaded the bright green sundress through her arms and over her head before I let it drop.
Damn, she looked good. The bright green color showed her hair and pale skin to good advantage. The way it was cut, with broad straps across her shoulders, those big, soft arms were displayed. Open panels for her belly and back put her on display. The skirt was short enough that the darker bands at the tops of her nylons were showing and I’m not sure I ever saw anything sexier than those little rubber-tipped snap closures that held the nylons to her garter belt, as they peeked out.
The last step was to hold the pumps, not a full six-inch stiletto heel, but the three-inch pumps still did good things for her legs, as she stepped into them.
“God DAMN!” I said, “I could eat you up.”
“Okay,” she said, giggling, “we can stay home and do that.”
“Nuh-uh,” I said, “I’m showing you off tonight.”
And she moaned.
As I watched I saw her accept that I was serious.
“Okay, buster,” she said, “let’s go put my fat ass on display and see how many run screaming from the room.”
I grinned and said, “Go ahead, keep putting yourself down. See how hard the spanking that fat ass earns if you do.”
Her eyes got big at that.
“Yes,” I said, smiling and brushing her cheek with the lightest kiss, not wanting to mess up her perfect makeup, “I mean it.”
“Tell me I’m beautiful,” she said.
I grinned and said, “You are absolutely gorgeous.”
She took a deep breath, huffed it out, and said, “Okay, take me to my debut.”
We took an Uber since I planned to do some drinking.
At Bolshoi i Tolstoyy we were escorted right in and offered a table near the dance floor. I was kind of surprised when the hostess, this one a stunning blonde butterball with Bambi showing on her plastic name tag, seated us, not across the table but on the two sides of the right triangle of a corner. As I looked around I realized why. Most of the couples involved one feeding the other.
When I pointed this out to Mom she said she had noticed and then, with a sly little smile, added, “I understand.”
We sat quietly for a few minutes, just taking the place in. And there was a lot to take in. The place was pretty much at capacity. At any time there would be no more than a few tables open. The diners were mostly couples, like Mom and me, sitting side by side at their two-top tables. And all of them were “mixed” couples in terms of one being big and one small, again like Mom and me. Mostly it was a big woman with a smaller man although there were a few fat men being attended to by smaller women.
The four-top tables offered the most opportunity for people watching and commenting. We discussed the probably incestuous relationship among one foursome with an enormous man and woman, both looking to be in their 60s at least being attended to by a much younger and slender couple, I thought a brother and sister, who might not yet be in their 20s.
“Gramma and grandpa have the grandkids well trained,” I said and Mom said, “Mmmmmmm, yummy, do I have any grandsons I don’t know about.”
I laughed, and told the waitress, a poor thing so skinny she had to be anorexic, dressed only in a leather harness arrangement, and a nametag identifying her as Jezebel, to bring a pitcher of beer and one mug.
“No grandkids,” I said, standing, “Now let’s dance.”
She looked up at me with one of those deer-in-the-headlights looks but then smiled, accepted my hand, and stood with a grunt.
There was no live music yet, but a good sound system was playing a mix of soft rock and there were a few other couples dancing.
We danced well together. We should, of course. She had taught me when I was getting ready for my first eighth-grade dance, and although we didn’t put on a ballroom dance exhibition we did a passable box step.
As we danced I realized that the restaurant’s thermostat was set a little warm. Don’t get me wrong, it wasn’t hot but it was warm. And for a woman like Mom, warm was enough to induce sweat. I liked the feeling of dampness under my hand as it lay on her back.
Now that I was aware of it, I couldn’t help but notice the effect it had on the plus-size patrons.
As we walked back to the table I noticed a stunning blonde, still in her 20s and already well north of 300 pounds, who had sweated through the blouse she wore while her attendant, a septuagenarian who could not have weighed 150 pounds blotted her forehead with a white napkin while popping another bite of what was left of a Porterhouse steak the size of a pot roast into her mouth.
The minor exercise of our slow dance was enough to have beads of sweat popping out on Mom’s forehead too.
I couldn’t resist when I saw a “Cajun” section on the menu. I ordered Jambalaya and Etouffee, and blackened shrimp.
Mom was looking at me in that lips-pursed-and-pulled-to-the-side way no one with a Y chromosome can ever really pull off.
“You know,” she said, smiling, “if you want to see me sweat you don’t need to order this spicy stuff. You can just take me out on the dance floor for a quick twist when the music speeds up.”
“This way is more fun,” I said, tipping the beer mug up to her lips.
But I couldn’t resist when the PA system started with Twist and Shout and she was right, she was sweating heavily when I walked her back to the table. I did NOT wipe her forehead this time. Honestly, I kind of liked the oversized Tina Turner look.
Dinner came then, and it was delicious. I took about one bite for every three or four I fed to Mom and by the time the plate was empty she was stuffed and I was full. I couldn’t resist the chocolate lava cake dessert and she had to struggle to get that all in.
Another dance and she had sweated through, staining the dress’s green several shades darker. I thought she looked wonderful.
“Tell me I’m beautiful,” she said, smiling at me and holding my hand in hers as we walked back to the table.
“You’re beautiful,” I said dutifully.
“Now tell me,” she said, “is it my imagination or is every eye on the place on me.”
I chuckled and said, “A little of both I imagine. But those that are looking,” and I stopped, taking my time and deliberately looking around the room, “are looking with admiration.”
“God help me,” she said, “I can believe you right now. So take me home, buster, and make love to me. Take your time and tonight you do all the work.”
I laughed at that and said, “Please, please Br’er Fox, not the briar patch.”
We sat long enough to get the check which I paid using Mom’s credit card. I left a good tip. It had been a good meal with good service.
“Soooooooo,” I said after a couple of minutes of silence on the ride home, “here’s the deal. I am going to do anything you want tonight, but you have to ask for it.”
She gave me that sidelong, one-eyebrow-raised look only the genetically enabled can pull off, and said, “Anything?”
I grinned.
“Anything,” I said.
She smiled, sighed theatrically, and leaned back in the car seat, rubbing her chin between her thumb and forefinger, the universal symbol for “I’m thinking.”
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