And extra-long, thigh-high tube socks. Which I brought the first night as part of her sleepwear ensemble. Apparently she doesn’t sleep naked. Because she put this stuff on without comment. All the pajamas were long nightshirts with cartoon characters on them.
Right now she’s staring at me from the top of the stairs, snapping her gum, and her long, blonde hair has been pulled up into two pigtails that are each curled into a loose spiral.
No wonder her stepfather treats her like a child. She certainly dresses, eats, and acts like one. Because right now, this image of her in this moment, was all her choice.
“What?” she snarls, bratty teenage princess on full display.
“You need to try on your wedding dress,” I say.
She huffs, but begins to descend the stairs. I step aside to let her pass and get a whiff of perfume. Something overly sweet. Like baby powder.
“Which room?” she asks, swinging her hips as she walks down the hall. I catch a glimpse of her ass cheeks, because yes. They are hanging out. There’s the tell-tale remnants of a yellow-green bruise from where I smacked her with the belt that first day across the bottom where her ass meets her thigh.
“The one with the open door,” I reply.
She saunters in, still enticing me with her hips, and I follow her.
The dress is hanging on the back of the open closet door, sealed up in a white bag.
“Take it out and put it on,” I say. “The seamstress needs to know if it fits.”
She pulls the zipper down on the bag, takes the dress out, and lays it across the bed.
“It’s pretty,” I say, trying to be helpful and break her out of this mood. I’m sick of it. Really had enough. Her wedding day can’t come fast enough if you ask me. I think back on that first day we spent here and how I thought I liked her, but it had to have been the sex. Or the spankings. Or something. Because right now she’s nothing but high-maintenance and tiresome. And that criminal record. I should not have snooped. I liked her a lot more before I learned she was this drugged-up exhibitionist who likes to sell herself and other women.
“Pretty?” she says, lifting one eyebrow at me. “I guess. If you like cascading organza ruffles in pink and a sweetheart neckline. Who the hell wears pink on their wedding day, anyway?”
Yeah, she’s got a point there. It’s fugly. Fugly as fuck. Like Cinderella’s fairy godmother threw up a ruffled pink pumpkin and this is what came out. “So I take it you didn’t choose this dress?” I ask.
“Do you think I chose this?” she says, panning her hands down her body to indicate her present outfit.
“Actually, you did. I didn’t bring that ensemble to you.”
“Right.” She snorts. Then lifts her shirt over her head and throws it on the floor.
I know I should turn away, but she instantly goes from bratty teenager to seductive grown-up. And her tits are just as beautiful as I remember. So I look at them.
She places one foot on the bed, right on top of the wedding dress, and begins rolling down her thigh-high knee sock.
I watch, unapologetically, as she repeats that process with the other leg.
Then she turns to face me, smiles, and twirls around as she slides her shorty-shorts over her hips, wiggling her ass like a stripper doing a tease.
“Lyssa,” I say.
She kicks the shorts off one foot without comment and reaches for the dress. Unzipping the back and stepping into it. Once it’s on she walks over to me and says, “Zip me, please,” then lifts her pigtails up, even though they’re not in the way of the zipper. She did that so I’d notice how her breasts rise up.
“Turn around,” I say, twirling my finger.
She does, and even though I’m trying my best not to touch her bare skin—because I am totally hard right now and I don’t need any more encouragement. I’m not going to mess with this girl again. Not gonna do it—my fingertips brush along her back when I reach for the zipper and my cock jumps a little.
She sucks in a breath and part of me knows she did that so I could zip her up, but some other part of me wishes it was because of my touch.
When the zipper’s up she drops her pigtails and lowers her arms. Turns to look in the mirror on the back of the closet door, and our eyes meet in the reflection.
“It’s gross,” she says, smoothing down the huge ruffles of her long skirt.
“It’s nice,” I say. And it is. I mean, OK. The dress is fugly, but on her it actually looks good.
“Yeah, if this were my sweet sixteen and I had no taste. Sure, I guess.”