She had always hated the dress. Which was a shame, because, god damn did she look good in it. It was a great little thing. Silver sequins, a plunging neckline, and a hem that was too short for a nice restaurant, but just the right short for going to a club with the girls or her man. Flirty sexy, but not dirty.
She admired herself in the mirror, it matched her blond hair nicely, hugged her slim frame in just the right ways to show off her curves. But fuck, she hated this dress.
It wasn’t the dresses fault of course. It wasn’t a dirty slutty dress, but wearing it made her feel dirty. Feel used. Feel worthless. Made her think of him, the asshole. The day he had bought it for her, despite her protests, despite how much it cost and how little they could afford it.
She didn’t understand then, but she does now, that he hadn’t bought it for her. He hadn’t wanted her to feel pretty, like he had said. He had bought it for him, to have something to look at, to have something to show off. But the something was her. A thing. A trophy. A maid. A whore. That was all he had ever seen in her.
Sometimes it was hard to know if she was more mad at him or her younger self. For not understanding that wanting a man to dominate her wasn’t the same thing as wanting a man to abuse her. For not understanding that wanting rough sex wasn’t the same thing as wanting a man to be rough with her.
She had cleaned him from her life. Divorce. Burning his shit. Restraining orders. She had thought him expunged. Barely even thought of him any more. Then she had found this dress.
It had been years since she had felt so small, so disgusted with herself, so slutty in a bad way. Years since she had felt that way, until she found the dress in an old trunk.
Not like she was now. Slutty in a good way. Slutty for a man who saw her for her, who didn’t see her as a thing, who didn’t see her as only something to show off. Even if he did sometimes show her off, but with pride in her, not pride in himself for winning her. And even if he did sometimes treat her as a thing, but in a way that made her swoon, in a way that made her understand how much he cared for her.
This fucking dress. It represented all of the worst parts of the asshole. Of how he treated her. Of how she had seen herself when she was with him. Making her wear it when his friends were over. Making her wear it when it wasn’t appropriate. Grabbing up it at her ass.
Tonight this dress was going to get destroyed. Because fuck him and fuck this dress.
The club, the dirty naughty club, the refuge she had found, the friends she had made, the lover who had swept her off her feet with his empathy, his compassion, his mind, his primal power over her.
She entered the club in the dress, hating how it felt on her skin. Hating how the sequins flashed in the lights. But then her friends where hugging her and her lover was their, embracing her, kissing her. What a small difference it made, the empathy, between a man believing he owned her and a man who found it sexy to pretend he owned her.
Her friends cheered her as she entered. Hugged her. Goosed her ass. laughed with her. The round of shots came out. They all knew why they were there. Another round. Then dancing as the music blared, as the lights flashed.
She danced with her lover. Surrounded by her friends. They all danced, some not being timid, this was not the sort of club where things stayed chaste. He kissed her. He squeezed her ass, he whispered into her ear how great she was. She enjoyed her lovers body against hers, his thigh pushing between her legs. His erection pressing into her stomach. Her friends hands, arms, bodies brushing into hers.
It would only be a matter of time. Fuck this dress. Tear this dress. Destroy the last reminder of that woman, that life, that man.
Then she felt he dress snagging for the first time as one of her friends, wearing a shorter dress than she, tore the first chunk of cloth off of her. The sequins popping and spraying off. Silver flashing in the lights.
She didn’t stop dancing. She didn’t stop spinning. She didn’t stop enjoying her lovers body against her, the heat of his thigh pushing up against her cunt, her bare cunt. She had worn nothing under the dress. Tonight would be a rebirth of sorts and we are born naked after all.
She looked around as she danced. Saw friends eying her. Some further into their lust than she and her lover. Kissing, grinding, and in one case, fondling. This was that sort of club, and that sort of people, that many would be fucking openly before the night was through.
Her lover turned her head back towards him and bent down to kiss her deeply as they shook to the music and she felt another snag as someone tore at her dress, felt it give, felt it tear. As they spun she felt another moment of her dress catching as a man gripped the hem of the skirt and tore a small chunk off. She saw, for a moment, the sequins flipping through the air.
Then it was a frenzy as everyone wanted a chance. To tear her dress. To strip her nude. To clean her of this vile dress, of these vile thoughts, of the woman she once was, of the man who had made her life hell.
They spun past, grabbing here, grabbing there. Chunk by chunk her dress slowly disintegrated around her. First bearing her ass, then her lower back, then finally, as the last strip was turn away, her entire body, nude for all to see, he stood back and held one hand, having her spin for all to see. So they could see every inch of her cleaned.
Nude other than her shoes. Cleaned of the filth. Cleaned of the awful memories. New born into the world. Clean and fresh and new.
There were cheers. There was clapping. Then he was lifting her, carrying her into the back area, the basically-beds booths with the curtains for privacy. It was delicious to feel his suit against her naked body. Delicious to feel so clean, so wanted, so respected, so cherished.
As her back hit the soft cushions, she threw back her arms, luxuriating in her nudity, in the public display of her rebirth, of her finding herself and her people. And then his head was between her legs, his tongue and fingers finding all of the right spots.
To be loved by a man that cared about her. To be pleasured by a man who wanted her to feel good. To be eaten by a man who she could, and would, submit too, be a slut for, while still feeling respected and cherished. A man who understood that her affection was earned, not taken.
He stayed between her legs until she screamed in finish and then he was at her mouth, kissing her with his mouse smeared with her pleasure. And his cock was pushing against her, seeking her entrance, while she heard her friends cheering and laughing and loving past the curtain.
This is who she was meant to be, she thought, as he found his way inside her. As he began to fuck her. A woman who deserved pleasure. A woman who deserved a man that respected her. A woman who was free of self doubt and fear.
Fuck that dress. Fuck that old version of herself. Fuck that man for making her doubt herself. Fuck it all. She wanted to laugh hysterically at it all. At the universe. To scream fuck it all while she was being fucked. But she was too overwhelmed with the pleasure of his cock, his mouth on her lips, his passion for her, to do so.
This was who she was now. A woman who did things because she wanted too. And she wanted to finished getting fucked and go out, nude, and dance with people that actually saw her for who she was. Then maybe get fucked again.
But most of all, she never wanted to think about the asshole or his dress again. And she wouldn’t.
Source: reddit.com/r/eroticliterature/comments/op74ma/tearing_the_dress