Rome wasn’t completely sure she had anything suitable for a wedding, or at least not for a wedding that was supposedly a pretty traditional one. She liked wearing her well-tailored pants and something that showed off her toned arms. There were some dresses in her wardrobe but those were sexy dresses, short and low-cut and most likely unsuitable for a wedding.
She could have said no. She was being invited as a plus one and if she canceled, Mike would have no trouble finding someone else to go with. But she was intrigued – she had never had the chance of attending the wedding of a fifty year old woman to someone who is fifteen years younger. She hadn't attended many weddings. She had seen hundreds, if not thousands, of brides-to-be come through her establishment and hopefully they had gone into their marriages knowing their worth.
Finally settling on a rose pink sheath dress she had forgotten she owned, Rome surveyed herself in the mirror. She wasn’t looking much like herself, more like an alternative universe version of herself. Maybe the version of herself who would have settled down with someone nice and dependable. Perhaps, if she and Mike hadn’t just been hooking up back in the day, and had more of a relationship, they would have gotten married young and left the business. Even back then she could sense that Mike was the sort of guy who fantasized about settling down. But then again, she most certainly wasn’t that sort of person.
Mike had called her a couple of weeks ago, telling her that he would be going to Richie’s wedding but Zoe couldn’t come with him because she had a job, doing a fashion shoot on the West Coast. At least they were still together. Rome wasn’t entirely convinced that Zoe really was the settling type either. Maybe Mike was simply happy making his furniture and spending what little time he could get with Zoe between her projects.
“Thank you, you clean up nice yourself,” she said. For a guy with his build, Mike looked pretty suave in a tuxedo. “So how come you’re not one of the groomsmen?”
“Oh, apparently Richie has a family, so two of his brothers are groomsmen along with Tito, and Ken is his best man. Also, I wasn’t entirely sure I could make it to the wedding in the first place. I was kind of waiting to see if Zoe could make it so I wasn’t able to show up for the tuxedo fitting, they’re all wearing Armani, those shits.”
“Aww,” she said, patting Mike’s shoulder. “And they get to keep the tuxedos?”
“Yeah.” Mike’s voice was a little petulant.
“You just need to find yourself a good sugarmama,” she said laughing.
Just as she was surveying Richie, Mike gestured at her to scoot a bit over. Someone tall was sitting down next to Mike who was smiling at this person. It was Tarzan but he wasn’t alone. He had a plus one and his plus one was Paris.
She was looking stunning in a red-orange bodycon dress and her blond tresses pulled back more than usual. And she hadn’t noticed Rome sitting there.
When they sat down, Tarzan’s general grandness completely hid Paris from view. The narrow pews made it impossible for Rome to try to lean over to greet her friend.
Now there was a word laden with meaning.
Officially they had never been anything more than friends. But then again nothing had been official back then.
Back then Rome had just enough curves on her body for her to able to take her clothes off for money. Back then Mike had just up and left. He hadn’t left her brokenhearted or anything. It had felt like waking up, like being with Mike had been a strange dream. Back then, a tall blonde had walking into the club, looking for a job. Most girls who came into the club wore their life story on them. You could see abuse and drug addiction and poverty written all over them. There was a reason why they were seeking a job at a strip club and it wasn’t because they thought it was cool.
Paris was different.
Her name, when she walked through the doors, wearing denim cutoffs and a tiny t-shirt, wasn’t Paris. It was Dorlea. Blonde, beautiful Dorlea with her long legs and her perky tits. She didn’t wear any life story on her. She was just breathtaking.
When she’d been told that she’d have to pick a stage name for herself, she'd looked around at the other girls and asked them their stage names. There was a Crystal, a Brandi, a Candy, a Scarlet, a Belle and then there was Rome.
“Rome?” she had exclaimed. “Then I’m Paris.”
That there described her. Maybe someone might have thought she was a snob or full of herself. But it was confidence. She had confidence on stage, she had confidence when she refused the advantages of the customers, she just was sure of herself.
Nothing ever had felt sexier to Rome than that.
She had noticed women before in that way. What turned her on wasn’t determined by a set of chromosomes or an expression of gender identity. People were sexy and sometimes sexy enough for her to want to get it on with them.
Paris was more than sexy enough.
Every night when Paris came in she would walk past Rome and touch her lightly as she looked at her, saying “Hey” and smiling.
It felt like there was something physical connecting them. This tether between them that had Rome so acutely aware of Paris whenever she was in the room.
She either had to pull or cut the cord.
Obviously Paris had been waiting for her.
Rome didn’t remember if they actually said anything to each other then. What she remembered was the kissing. It felt like pieces that had been waiting to be fitted together were sliding into place. Paris was soft and demanding and Rome gave her all she got.
There up against the wall next to the club’s backdoor and the cord got pulled all the way.
As Rome’s hands had started running over the curves on Paris’ body and Paris’ hands were getting twisted in Rome’s jacket, the beam from a car’s headlight pulling out of the car park shone on them and made them a little more aware of where they were.
“We should…” Rome said, her voice rough.
“Yeah…” Paris breathed.
The car ride to Paris’ place was another thing Rome had hard time recollecting. She remembered a brief view of a girly bedroom as she shed her clothes and got into bed with Paris. It hadn’t be an occasion for a slow, seductive undressing. Tops had been pulled off and pants kicked off and then they were gloriously naked in the bed.
The curves of Paris’ body were beckoning her, the slopes of her breasts, the firmness of her derriere with its expanse of soft, soft skin. And Paris’ hands in return mapping Rome’s body, caressing every line and every arch.
It was if they were reading each other minds, bodies turning and slotting together.
The sensations were forever imprinted on Rome’s mind. How Paris’ mouth had felt around her nipples and how her hands had parted her thighs.
Even before Paris’ fingers slid down between Rome’s legs, she felt herself getting wet and her breath was hitching.
“Come on, touch me,” Paris whispered as she moved her hand over Rome’s mound.
Rome had been so lost in the sensations she was experiencing. Turning to her side, pushing Paris with her and throwing her leg over Paris’ leg. That left her open to touch but she was no closer to touching Paris. Instead she hiked herself higher up so her top leg was now at Paris’ waist and then claimed her lips as Paris dragged her fingers between her labia, touching and teasing really. Rome didn’t need that teasing, she was so turned on already.
“Can you, please?” she said, her voice muffled.
Paris chuckled, smoothing her free hand over Rome’s head.
“Please,” Rome begged again.
There was a reason why Paris had been teasing her and not touching her where it mattered the most. As her middle finger found her clit, Rome realized how close she was. It was like a pressure had being building up and now she felt it, it felt so good but she wanted it to be eased. Her breath was now hitching with every inhale. Paris knew exactly how to touch her.
It was as if something burst open inside her when she came, breathing out a drawn moan. The aftershocks lasting a good few moments.
Paris turned her onto her back, kissing her and then lifting her head to look at her. There was a grin on her face, she knew she’d done good.
Rome lay there, looking up at Paris, her body sated and boneless. Still, she wanted to return the favor.
Paris didn’t seem to be very impatient, propped up on her elbow and playing with Rome’s hair, whispering to her how gorgeous she thought she was.
When Rome could muster the strength, she rose to move so Paris would be one on her back.
There was such a sweet smile on Paris’ face when Rome crawled over her that she had to kiss her and keep on kissing her. First her lips, then her neck, collarbone, chest, both her beautiful breasts, her nipples, right down that line of her abs down the middle of her stomach, the soft curve of belly underneath her bellybutton, down, down until Paris parted her legs so Rome could have the back of her thighs touch her shoulders.
Paris had a nice pussy, the lips glistening with her wetness and crowned by her light pubic hair. And Rome couldn’t stop herself from putting her mouth on her.
Now it was Rome’s turn to tease. Paris’ breathy moans were so lovely in her ears and everything felt so soft and luscious underneath her tongue.
She wasn’t cruel though, so with her tongue and lips she found the clitoris, sealing her lips over it so she could make Paris’ nerve endings spark with the tip of her tongue.
When Paris came, it was with a long “fuuuuck” before she completely collapsed into the mattress.
Rome spent the night, they two of them cuddling and giggling themselves to sleep over the amazing sex they had just had.
Then Paris had left because she found something better to do than being an exotic dancer. Some guy who was running tours with dancers got Paris to manage for him and she jumped at the chance. They kind of promised to keep in touch but had a hard time keeping it. Paris was busy with whatever she was doing and Rome got busy with establishing and running Domina.
But Paris wasn’t someone you’d ever forget and now she was sitting on the same pew as her in a church, attending a wedding neither of them had been invited to. That wedding was beautiful though. The groom was so obviously in love with the bride who radiated with the happiness that only a person who had a second chance at it, could experience.
As the Wedding March started playing and the newly-weds made their way down the aisle, and the guests rose from their seats, Mike turned to her.
“You were so lost in thought,” he said.
“Yeah,” she said, looking past him. Tarzan moved closer to the aisle to cheer his friend on. Paris stood behind him and then looked back, catching Rome’s eyes. A longing smile appeared on Paris’ face, reaching her sparkling eyes.
Mike would be leaving the wedding party alone. She would be leaving it with her Queen.