I wore the dress with just enough give to entice,
The kind that makes bartenders drop their measured pour;
The fabric slips between my thighs like melting ice,
While patrons' mouths go slack, their thoughts turning impure.
The silk clings wet-like to my skin with each breath drawn,
As I stride forward, my hips a pendulum of lust.
Men's hands twitch restless, bodies tightening till dawn,
Their crotches strain at what they crave to touch but must not.
My second skin, this garment, reveals what it conceals,
Tight where it counts, nipples pressing through the thread.
The calculated architecture of appeal
Demands attention; fantasies fill every head.
Men's gazes burn my flesh, their pupils growing wide.
With throats gone dry and blood rushing below the waist.
I wield this influence with deliberate intent,
The power to make them hard or weak with just a glance.
I dictate who approaches, whose desire gets spent,
No hands explore my body without my advance.
When wrapped in this fabric weapon, I command
Complete surrender; men forget their wives in bed,
Drawn forward by the primal need to understand
The taste of me, imagining me naked, spread.
This garment grants dominion over those who look
Too long; a shift of weight makes conversations cease.
I press my lips against my glass, and men are shook,
Their groins awakened by my mere release.
I might select a lover for tonight's affair,
Or leave them aching, balls tight with despair.
Scanning the room again, new faces catch my sight,
A man stands distant, watching with an unbroken gaze.
Unlike the others, his presence radiates might;
He sees beyond the flesh that sets the room ablaze.
He doesn't undress me but maintains my eyes,
A silent challenge issued through the throbbing space.
Intrigued by this resistance to my carnal disguise,
I alter course and move toward him with measured grace.
The crowd divides before me like a parting sea
While he remains unmoved by my approaching heat.
"That dress," he says, "quite weaponised, I see,
I've known its kind before—raw hunger as deceit."
His steady voice betrays no desperation's need,
No bulge betraying weakness I've come to expect.
"You think yourself immune?" I ask, sensing defeat
In my familiar strategy, now circumspect.
"Not immune," he answers, "just aware of the game
That unfolds here nightly; the basic urges played."
Something unfamiliar makes my wetness flame,
For once I'm truly seen—the dress cannot persuade.
The fabric on my skin now feels like armour worn
Too long; its power altered by his piercing view.
I signal for two drinks, new hunger freshly born,
A deviation from the script I've held as true.
"The dress works wonders," he observes with a knowing smile.
"No magic," I counter, "just skin and pure intent."
"Like worthy things," he nods, our bodies close meanwhile,
The heat between us is more than I'd prevent.
For hours we converse, the crowded room now blurred,
The dress becoming damp with each exchanged word.
When he suggests we leave, raw instinct makes me pause,
"Just coffee," he clarifies, reading my carnal thought.
"I'd like to know the woman behind the sexual cause,
The mind that chose the dress with so much left untaught."
We exit to the street, heads turning as we pass,
Though their effect on me has noticeably waned.
My seduction served its purpose, breaking from my class,
I've found connection where I never thought obtained.
The night air hardens my nipples as we walk side by side,
My heels click-clicking joined by his confident stride.
Tomorrow, a different teasing I might choose to wear;
Tonight I'll feel what lies beyond the dress I bear.
The choice remains, as always, solely mine to take,
But now with freedom from the patterns I might break.
