Vivienne stood still in front of the full-length mirror, 15 floors above Sydney’s Hyde Park. Lights of boats on the Harbour twinkled in the distance. The city looked cold and distant from up here on a dark autumn night. She couldn't help thinking that cold and distant was exactly how she had trained herself to be professionally.
She looked again in the mirror. The black sheer dress was, she thought, pure sin. It clung to her like nothing she had ever worn. It was a second skin made of ink-black temptation. The fine mesh covered her, but in practice, revealed everything: the flat, tight plane of her stomach, the curved underside of her breasts, the very long, powerful lines of her thighs. The outrageously expensive sheer black stockings encased her legs, disappearing into the impossibly high, black patent Louboutin pumps with those infamous red soles. There was a flash of danger with every move of her foot.
She had bought this outfit three days ago in a moment of quiet, seething rebellion. It had been another soul-destroying fourteen-hour day spent carving up opponents in the merger negotiations. She was over it, frustrated and angry, with them and also with herself for playing all the pointless games. She was even angrier with herself because she played them so very well.
She had walked into the exclusive boutique still wearing her anger, frustration and ice-cold demeanour. Her suit was severe and charcoal, her hair the perfect tight French plait, her expression distant and aloof. The saleswoman kept away. She had then raised a very arched eyebrow when Vivienne pointed at the scandalously sheer dress.
“I’ll take it,” Vivienne had said, her voice ice-cold. “And those shoes in seven and a half," She wandered, ignoring the shocked saleswoman, "And these stockings."
"The change rooms are just..."
"Unnecessary," Vivienne interrupted.
She hadn’t even really planned to wear it. It was meant to stay hidden in the back of her wardrobe like a guilty secret, some kind of middle finger to the version of herself that had spent twelve years becoming untouchable. The woman who made senior partners nervous and opponent negotiators anxious. The woman who never let anyone see her sweat, let alone almost naked.
But tonight, something inside her had finally cracked. She was so fucking tired. Not just physically, though the six weeks of hundred-hour weeks had left her body aching and hollow. It was a much deeper exhaustion. The kind that came from years of performative perfection. Years of being the sharpest mind in every room she entered. Years of pretending she didn’t have feelings. Years of letting men underestimate her, then destroying them for it, only to go home alone and feel… nothing.
Vivienne ran her hands slowly down her sides, feeling the delicate mesh stretch and yield beneath her palms. Her nipples tightened instantly against the sheer fabric, displaying themselves wantonly. She cupped her breasts, squeezing just hard enough to make herself gasp softly.
Is this who I really am when no one is watching? The question sent a dark thrill through her.
She had spent so long becoming the ice queen with her perfect suits, perfect hair and perfect control. She was respected, feared and desired, but from a very safe distance. No one, no one, ever got close enough to see the woman beneath the performance, the woman who sometimes lay awake at night aching to be touched like something filthy and precious at the same time.
Tonight, she needed to meet that version of herself again. Vivienne lifted one leg, resting her stiletto on the edge of the pink velvet chaise. The simple movement pulled the already scandalously short dress even higher. Could you even call it a dress? she thought for a moment. She exposed the delicate lace tops of her stockings and the soft, sensitive skin of her inner thigh.
She stared at her reflection. The way the sheer fabric clung to the curve of her ass, the way her breasts pressed against the mesh, her nipples clearly visible, the way the thin spaghetti straps displayed her collar bones and shoulders was only for her to see.
She slid one hand between her thighs and pressed two fingers against her core through the thin lace of her thong. She was soaked. She hadn't quite understood the strength and speed of her arousal. A low, surprised moan slipped from her throat. The sound shocked her. She almost never made a noise when she touched herself. She had trained even that part of her to be quiet and efficient.
But tonight, she decided right then, she didn’t want to be efficient or professional or angry or icy. She pushed the thong aside and sank two fingers inside herself, gasping at how easily they slid in. Her other hand braced against the mirror as she began to fuck herself slowly and deliberately. Her eyes locked on her reflection. The red soles of her heels flashed with every thrust of her hips. The fringe of her dark hair had fallen messily over her face. Her lips were parted and cheeks flushed. She added a third finger, stretching herself, and moaned louder.
The wet sounds of her fingers moving filled the quiet room. She rubbed her swollen clit with her thumb in tight, urgent circles, her breath coming faster. The woman in the mirror looked powerful, filthy and completely free to be herself.
Vivienne’s thighs began to tremble. She was quickly, dangerously close, but she forced herself to slow down. She pulled her fingers out and rubbed her slickness over her clit in slow, teasing strokes, edging herself mercilessly.
Not yet, she thought. Not until I can’t stand it anymore.
She watched herself in the mirror with dark eyes. This was the version of Vivienne she had buried for years. This was the Vivienne who wanted to be seen. Who wanted to be wanted. Who wanted to use and be used. The Vivienne who needed to be worshipped.
She was tired of being in control every single second of her life. She plunged her fingers back inside, harder this time, curling them against that spot while her thumb worked her clit faster. Her hips rocked shamelessly against her hand. Her breathing turned into broken whimpers.
“Come on,” she whispered desperately to her reflection. “Let go. Just fucking let go.”
The orgasm hit her suddenly like an explosion. Her back arched violently. A raw, guttural cry tore from her throat as pleasure ripped through her in violent, shuddering waves. Her walls clenched hard around her fingers, pulsing again and again. Her legs shook so badly she had to grip the edge of the chaise to stay upright. She kept fucking herself through it, drawing out every last pulse until she was gasping, trembling, and finally spent.
For a long moment, she just leaned against the mirror, trying to catch her breath. Her reflection stared back, all flushed and dishevelled, her dress scrunched up around her waist, her fingers glistening with her own arousal and release.
Vivienne Warren, corporate predator and ice queen, had just fucked herself senseless in six-inch Louboutins and a sheer dress no one else was ever supposed to see, and she had never felt more powerful in her life. She slowly brought her fingers to her lips, tasting herself while maintaining eye contact with her reflection. A playful, satisfied smile curved her mouth.
As the aftershocks faded, a new thought slid into her mind. It was sudden. It was sharp, thrilling, and dangerously tempting.
What if someone else saw me like this?
