Tryst Six Venom by Penelope Douglas

The simple hoop skirt wraps around me, thin and absent of bows and
ruffles and lace, while the strapless white bustier hugs my breasts almost too
tightly and covers my stomach, leaving an inch of skin between that and my
skirt.
If it weren’t obvious that they were undergarments, they might be kind of
hot.
“I could make it for you,” she says. “But better.”
She moves in, placing a hand on my tummy, and I ignore the skip in my
heart.
“Maybe a little see-through here with some embroidery,” she explains,
“piece them together, and add some layering to give it dimension. Tighten up
the bodice with some light and subtle gold and pink accents to complement
the shoes…”
I envision it in my head as we look at me in the mirror.
For some reason, I have no doubt she’ll pull it off if I let her, and I’d even
love it.
If I let her.
She turns her eyes on me again, standing in front of me and looking up
and down my attire. “We can keep it this same shade of white. It’s a perfect
color, really.” She meets my eyes, looking at me dead-on. “You won’t even
see the cum stain when he drunk-ejacs all over you in the back seat of the car
after the ball,” she says.
The ever-present knot in my stomach pulls tighter, and I hold her gaze,
unfaltering. Excuse me?
“Because ladies in your world don’t talk about those things.” A smile
curls the corner of her mouth as she inches in, whispering, “You just go home
in tears and do things with a pulsating showerhead that God didn’t intend for
sweet, little southern girls to do, right?”
My blood runs ice cold, and I grit my teeth, the heat of her breath an inch
away, falling across my lips as I curl my fingers into fists.
“Try it tonight,” she says, staring at my mouth. “You might like it.”
She snatches the dress out of my hand, and I suck in a breath as I watch
her not miss a beat as she steps backward off the riser and leaves.
God, I hate her. I watch her disappear, no comeback or witty response
spilling out of my mouth before she’s gone, and I’m left standing there and
feeling stupid.
Drunk-ejacs... Is she serious? I don’t even have a detachable showerhead.