the black lace caftan




I look at her every time I’m working, hanging there on that tall rod, right as you walk into the store—the black lace caftan. His bitch in black—that’s what he would say.

She spoke to me today, “Go ahead, try me on. You know you want to. Come on, taste me, baby, try me on.” I took her into the dressing room and locked the door. I striped to panties and with no other movement she was suddenly on me, as if she could dress me, as if she were a magic coat, a magic caftan. There were shadows on my skin, black flourishes placed to tease. I felt the fabric lift from the heat rising from between my legs, almost breathing, almost heaving, fabric lift, fabric down. My man was suddenly behind me, pulling me close to him with his arm around my waist, his fingers slowly pulling the lace upwards to better show beneath, his hand moving to my thigh, massaging the folds of fabric and letting them fall to do it again. My urgency and my moisture were building. He turned me and rubbed my nipples through the gown with his palms. The lace, his hands, were rough on my tender pointed flesh and I began to shake as his hands moved down my body and he fell to his knees before me. He pulled open the bottom half of the caftan and inhaled my sex, his hands now holding my ankles as his head moved under the fabric and his face moved to my join. I moaned deeply, I closed my eyes and then opened them to find myself alone before the mirror in the dressing room. Alone—except for a thin, black, cloud spinning around the tiny space, a spirit circling me, a perfumed presence that made me dizzy, weak. The mirror blurred. Touch me, make me yours, whispered the spirit.


photo credit: / caftan pictured is not the caftan of my fantasy


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