Blue Sundress, Bare Truth

The potato salad was warm and the beer was cold and I was sitting next to you at Janelle's backyard barbecue like I was furniture. That's how it felt, anyway. Like I was the extra folding chair nobody really needed but nobody had bothered to put away.

I'd worn my favorite blue sundress for you. The one with the thin straps and the hem that hit mid-thigh. The one I'd bought specifically because you'd said blue was your favorite color three months ago when we'd started whatever this was. I wasn't wearing anything underneath it — not because I was trying to be provocative, but because the dress clung wrong with underwear lines and I'd wanted to look good for you. I'd wanted you to notice.

You hadn't noticed.

You were leaning back in that white plastic lawn chair, one arm draped over the back of mine, your attention fixed entirely on Marcus and Derek and the two women I didn't recognize who'd shown up with them. You were in the middle of a story about some bar you'd gone to last weekend — a weekend you'd said you were busy with work, by the way — and your voice carried that confident, performative energy you got when you knew people were listening.

"So then this girl just walks right up to me," you were saying, grinning at the brunette standing behind Marcus's chair, "and she goes, 'You look like trouble.' And I said, 'Honey, I am trouble.'"

The brunette laughed. She touched your shoulder.

I picked at the label on my beer bottle and said nothing.

You didn't introduce me. You didn't glance over. You didn't so much as shift your weight toward me. I could've been a stranger at the next table over. I could've been invisible.

Janelle caught my eye from across the yard where she was working the grill. She raised an eyebrow — you okay? — and I gave her a tight smile that said no, but I'm handling it. Karen was sitting two chairs down, pretending to be absorbed in her phone, but I could tell she was listening to everything. She'd been the one who'd told me last week that you'd been on three dating apps since we started seeing each other. "I'm not trying to start drama," she'd said. "But you deserve to know."

I'd texted you that night. Hey, can we talk? You'd replied four hours later with: About what?

That was the last message you'd sent me until Janelle invited us both to this barbecue and you'd shown up acting like nothing had happened. Like the silence between us was just weather, something that existed without anyone being responsible for it.

"So what's your name?" the brunette asked you, leaning down slightly.

"Tyler," you said, flashing her that wide, easy smile I used to think was just for me. "What's yours?"

"Alyssa."

"Alyssa. That's beautiful. You want a drink? There's a cooler right there."

She said sure, and you actually stood up to get her one. You walked right past me to the cooler, grabbed two bottles, and walked right past me again to hand her one. You sat back down. You didn't look at me once.

My chest felt tight. That hot, prickling sensation was crawling up my neck — the one I used to get before a volleyball game in college when I knew the other team was going to try to intimidate us. My coach used to call it my "competitive fire." My teammates called it "Megan going nuclear." Either way, it meant the same thing: I was done being quiet.

I shifted in my chair. The sundress rode up my thigh as I crossed my legs, and I felt the warm summer air against bare skin. I tugged the hem down, a reflex, even though no one was looking at me anyway.

You were telling another story now. Something about a road trip with Derek. The two of you were doing that back-and-forth banter thing where you'd each correct the other's version of events, and the group was laughing, and Alyssa was standing close enough to you that her hip almost touched your shoulder.

"Tell them about the cop," Derek said, grinning.

"Oh, dude, okay. So we're doing like ninety on the freeway—"

I set my beer down on the table beside me. The glass made a sharp sound against the wood, and Karen looked up from her phone. I could feel her watching me. I could feel Janelle watching me from the grill.

You didn't notice that either.

"—and this cop comes out of nowhere, lights blazing, and Derek's in the passenger seat losing his mind—"

"I was not losing my mind."

"You were literally saying the Lord's Prayer, bro."

More laughter. Alyssa leaned down and said something in your ear that made you grin. You tilted your head toward her and said something back that I couldn't hear.

My fingers curled around the edge of my chair. I took a breath. Then another one.

You leaned back further in your plastic chair, stretching your legs out, so relaxed, so comfortable, so completely oblivious to the woman sitting two feet to your left who had spent forty-five minutes being ignored. The chair legs lifted slightly off the ground — that precarious tilt that plastic chairs do when someone pushes their luck with leverage.

And then it went.

The chair tipped backward with a sharp crack, your legs flew up, and you went down hard onto the grass with a thud and a surprised yelp. Your beer flew out of your hand and splattered across the lawn. For one second, you were flat on your back, arms splayed, mouth open, looking like a turtle that had flipped over and couldn't figure out what planet it was on.

I was on you before you could recover.

I don't even remember deciding to move. My body just did it — six feet of former Division I volleyball player launching out of her chair and landing squarely on your chest. My knees hit the grass on either side of your ribcage, my hands slammed down on your wrists, pinning them to the ground above your head. The sundress billowed out around us, a blue curtain that covered us both from the waist down.

"Get off me," you said, your face flushed red, more from shock than anger.

"No," I said.

"What the hell, Megan—"

"No."

Your wrists twisted under my hands. I leaned harder. I could feel your pulse hammering under my palm, fast and startled. You weighed maybe thirty pounds more than me, but you were on your back with no leverage, and I had position and adrenaline and six years of collegiate athletics on my side. You weren't going anywhere.

"What is wrong with you?" you hissed, trying to buck me off. Your hips jerked upward and I rode it out, squeezing my thighs tighter around your torso. Under the dress, I could feel the warmth of your body against my bare skin, and the sensation sent a sharp, electric jolt through my stomach that I hadn't expected.

"What's wrong with me?" I said, looking straight down into your face. "You've been ignoring me for forty-five minutes. You flirted with another woman right in front of me. You didn't introduce me, you didn't look at me, you didn't even get me a second beer when you got one for Alyssa. And before that, you ghosted me for a week after I asked if we could talk."

"I didn't ghost you—"

"You asked me 'about what' and then never responded. That's ghosting, Tyler."

Your eyes darted sideways. I could see the group standing around us in a loose semicircle — Marcus, Derek, Alyssa, Karen, Janelle who'd stepped away from the grill. Nobody was moving. Nobody was talking. The backyard had gone completely silent except for the distant hum of the neighbor's lawnmower and the low hiss of the propane tank.

"Let me up," you said, quieter now, trying for dignity. "We can talk about this inside."

"We can talk about this right here," I said. "Apologize."

"Megan—"

"Apologize. Say you're sorry for ignoring me. Say you're sorry for flirting with another woman in front of me. Say you're sorry for ghosting me. Three sentences. That's all I want."

Your jaw tightened. I could see the calculation behind your eyes — the part of you that wanted to apologize just to end this, fighting with the part of you that refused to give in. I knew that look. I'd seen it before. You'd rather choke than say you were wrong.

"No," you said.

"Okay," I said.

I let go of your right wrist with one hand, reached down, grabbed the hem of my sundress, and pulled it up and over your head. The blue fabric draped over your face like a hood, blocking your vision. I could feel your breath hot and fast against my inner thigh through the thin cotton. My bare pussy was inches from your chin, separated only by the bunched fabric of the dress and the angle of my body straddling your chest.

"What the fuck—" you started, your voice muffled under the dress.

"Since you won't apologize," I said, my voice low and steady, "you're going to do something else instead."

The silence around us was absolute. I didn't look up, but I could feel every person in that backyard watching. The air itself seemed to hold its breath.

"You're going to lick my cunt."

Your body went rigid under me. I felt your hands twitch against the grass where I still pinned your left wrist, your right arm free now but frozen, like you couldn't decide whether to push me off or grab me.

"You're insane," you said from under the dress, but your voice had changed. It was rougher. Lower.

"Maybe," I said. "But you're going to do it anyway."

I shifted my weight forward, just slightly. Just enough. I pulled the dress tighter over your head so that your face was pressed up between my thighs, the fabric stretched thin enough that I could feel the heat of your breath soaking through to my skin. I was already wet — had been getting wet since the moment I pinned you down, if I was honest, since the moment I felt your body underneath mine and realized how badly I'd wanted you to pay attention to me all day.

"Apologize," I said again, "or open your mouth."

His body tensed beneath me, a tremor I felt through my thighs. He bucked once, trying to shift me, but I locked my knees against the chair and held him down. My dress pooled around his face, and I leaned forward, dragging my bare cunt closer to his mouth. He twisted his head, breath hitching, and I felt the strain in his shoulders as he fought my grip. I pressed harder, my pulse hammering, and let the wet heat of me hover just above his lips.

You opened your mouth.

I felt your tongue first — a tentative, hot stroke through the thin fabric of the dress, and the sensation made my breath catch. It was barely anything, just the wet press of your tongue against cotton, but my body responded like you'd touched a live wire. I gasped, and my grip on your wrist tightened.

"Keep going," I breathed, and I ground myself down harder against your mouth.

You pulled the dress into your mouth and pushed it aside, and then your tongue was on me — bare, direct, a long slow lick from the bottom of my slit up to my clit that made my whole body shudder. I ground down against your face without meaning to, my hips rolling forward, and you responded by pressing deeper, your tongue flattening against me, hot and slick and deliberate.

"Oh fuck," I breathed.

Your free hand clamped onto my thigh, fingers digging into the muscle, and you dragged me down harder against your mouth. Your tongue found my clit and circled it — slow, then fast, then slow again — and the wet, obscene sounds of it echoed in the silent backyard. I was dripping onto your chin and you didn’t seem to care. You were licking me like you were trying to prove something, like my punishment had become your mission.

I let go of your other wrist. Both your hands came up to grip my hips, steadying me, controlling my rhythm as I rode your face. The sundress was bunched around your head, a blue tent that hid everything, but I could feel every detail — the stubble on your jaw scraping my inner thighs, the sharp press of your nose against my clit when you pushed your tongue inside me, the low groan vibrating through your throat and into my body.

"That's it," I said, my voice shaking. "Right there. Don't stop."

You didn't stop. Your tongue fucked into me in steady, deep strokes, and your thumb found my clit and rubbed in tight circles that made my vision blur. I was close — I could feel it building, that tight coil low in my stomach, pulling everything tighter with each stroke of your tongue.

I opened my eyes and looked up. The backyard was still silent. Marcus was standing with his mouth literally open. Derek had his hand on the back of his neck, staring. Alyssa was gripping her beer bottle so hard I thought it might shatter. Karen was watching with a slight smile on her face, and Janelle — Janelle gave me a small nod from beside the grill, like she was approving a serve that had just landed inside the lines.

I locked his wrists above his head and ground them into the dirt. He bucked once, hard, but I rode it out—my weight dropping forward, my knees biting into his sides. The sundress was still tented over his face, and I could feel his desperate, ragged breaths through the cotton, his ribs straining under my thighs. He wrenched at my grip, but I squeezed tighter, my fingers digging into the bones of his wrists, and bore down with everything I had. to. It rang across the silent yard. "I'm going to come on your face, Tyler."

You made a sound under the dress — a muffled, desperate groan — and your tongue moved harder, faster, sloppier, and your thumb pressed down on my clit and I shattered.

The climax tore through me like a lightning strike, raw and blinding. My thighs locked around your skull with a force that could have cracked bone, and my spine arched back so violently I nearly wrenched my own shoulders from their sockets. I came with a guttural cry that ripped up from my belly, my vision dissolving into a white-hot static as every muscle in my body convulsed. I could feel myself flooding your mouth, pulsing and clenching in relentless waves, so wet and exposed and utterly unspooled that the world outside the two of us ceased to exist. You kept at me through the whole brutal cascade—slower now, deliberate, your tongue dragging through my over-sensitized folds with a tenderness that bordered on cruel, coaxing every last shudder from my spent nerves until I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, couldn’t do anything but shove your head back into the dirt with a trembling hand.

I sat there for a moment, straddling your chest, trying to catch my breath. The sundress was still draped over your face. Your hands had fallen back to the grass, palms up, fingers twitching. I could feel your chest heaving under me.

And then I looked up. The entire backyard was frozen — a tableau of stunned, hungry silence. Marcus stood with his jaw slack, a half-eaten rib forgotten in his grease-shiny fingers, his eyes wide and locked on the slick gleam coating my inner thighs. Derek’s beer bottle had stopped halfway to his lips, his knuckles white on the glass, his throat bobbing in a dry, involuntary swallow. Alyssa had gone pale, her mouth a small, perfect O of disbelief, her nipples visibly peaked through her thin tank top from the sheer electric charge in the air. Karen clutched her husband’s arm with both hands, her breath coming in shallow, audible hitches, her gaze flicking between my face and the shape of your skull still shrouded under my dress. Every single person was staring, utterly mesmerized, their bodies betraying them — parted lips, dilated pupils, the subtle shift of weight as thighs pressed together. The silence was a living thing, thick with arousal and awe, and I could feel their collective want pressing against my skin like a physical weight.

Then I lifted the dress off your head.

Your face was flushed and wet, your hair was pressed flat against the grass, and your eyes were glassy and unfocused. You blinked up at me like someone waking up from a dream. Your jaw was shining with my slick.

"Apologize," I said.

You stared at me. Your throat worked. Your tongue came out and touched your lower lip — tasting me, maybe, or just trying to form words.

"I'm sorry," you said. Your voice was raw. "I'm sorry I ignored you. I'm sorry I flirted with Alyssa. I'm sorry I ghosted you."

I looked down at you for a long moment. The backyard was still quiet. Someone — I think it was Karen — let out a low whistle.

"Good," I said. I swung my leg off you and stood up, straightening my sundress with one sharp tug. I reached for my beer on the table and took a long drink, feeling the warm liquid slide down my throat while you lay there on the grass, chest still heaving.

You pushed yourself upright by inches, blades of grass clinging to your tangled hair, your shirt twisted and damp, your face still slick and gleaming. You scanned the silent ring of onlookers — Marcus frozen mid-chew, Derek gripping his beer like a lifeline, Alyssa retreating toward the house with her mouth slightly open, Janelle turning patties with the serene expertise of someone who’d witnessed far stranger things.

Your eyes found mine — dazed, hollowed out, something in you finally cracked open. I grabbed your wrist and hauled you upright, feeling your weight shift against my grip like you weren't sure your legs still worked. We started walking, and I didn't look back at the crowd, didn't check to see who was still watching. I leaned in close, my voice low and steady. "I need a boyfriend who actually wants me," I said. "Can you be that?"

"Can I get you another beer?" you asked.

I almost laughed. Almost. Instead, I looked at you over the rim of my bottle and said, "Get me two. And introduce me to Alyssa this time. I want to make sure she knows who you're going home with tonight."

You staggered upright, dragged your wrist across your slick cheek, and stumbled toward the cooler. When you came back you were gripping two beers like lifelines, your face cracked open — something wrecked and worshipful and hollowed out with wanting.

You handed me both bottles. You leaned close to my ear.

"I'm sorry," you said again, quieter. "For everything. Can we go somewhere and talk after this?"

I clicked my beer bottle against yours. "We can talk in the car. You're driving."

Janelle caught my eye one more time from the grill and mouthed: *damn, girl.*

Karen texted me later that night: *So did he apologize?*

I sent back: *Thoroughly.*

And then I put my phone on the nightstand, rolled over, and let you show me just how sorry you really were.