Sneak Peek: Christmas Eve (Patreon)
Content
Reading mainstream fiction, it's remarkable how little attention is paid to what character wear, outside of a the occasional detail here or there. For example, Sally Rooney might have a character mention their best dress, or the colour of a skirt; rarely more. Or, as Stephen King puts it:
"I’m not particularly keen on writing which exhaustively describes the physical characteristics of the people in the story and what they’re wearing (I find wardrobe inventory particularly irritating; if I want to read descriptions of clothes, I can always get a J. Crew catalogue). I can’t remember many cases where I felt I had to describe what the people in a story of mine looked like—I’d rather let the reader supply the faces, the builds, and the clothing as well. If I tell you that Carrie White is a high school outcast with a bad complexion and a fashion-victim wardrobe, I think you can do the rest can’t you? I don’t need to give you a pimple-by-pimple, skirt-by-skirt rundown."
And he's right, of course. At the same time, it's an undeniable trope of the genre--of the kind of fiction you'll find on FM, and so on--to really indulge in detailed description of fashion, from underwear to shoes, dresses to skirts and blouses. Fabrics, colours and details; accessories and makeup.
Is this a good thing? Or would it be better, as King suggests above, to leave it to the imagination?
Usually, in dressing characters for a scene I'm drawing on whatever scraps of memory, imagination or fantasy are floating around in the back of my head. Occasionally, I'd dig around online for ideas. For awhile, I used Pinterest, but that kept spamming me with far too many emails. In the sneak peek scene below, I googled for 'little black dress' and found the following:
(https://www.next.co.uk/style/su607466/f16024#f16024)
What do you think? Should all these loving descriptions of clothing in all their fetishistic detail be reined back? Or do you unjoy them as they are?
***
The clock reads 9:40pm. I’m nearly ready. The day’s exhaustion catches up to me. Hunger, too; my stomach growls, and I feel a little weak, especially in the legs. Part of me just wants to crawl into bed, pull the pillow over my head and call it a day. Instead, I’m pouting in front of the mirror. I layer on another coat of gloss, purse my lips and find my smile. I give my tits a little shove, make sure they’re secure in their home for the night, but what I wouldn’t give for a little boob tape—in the rush to pack, I didn’t think to pack any. I’ve got be careful, it wouldn’t do to bobble free coming downstairs, God, how humiliating would that be? A final glance in the mirror, tug at the dress and it’s time for dinner. I’ve kept him waiting too long already.
But the effort’s been worth it. My hair’s brushed out, fresh makeup on, legs smooth and freshly shaved in stockings. Even managed to get the nails done, stripped and repainted a glossy, seasonal silver. I’m nearly glowing by the time I head downstairs with carefully poised steps, pushing hunger and tiredness to one side. Anxiety, too, haunted as I am by what happened in the shower. All in all, it’s taken longer than expected, certainly longer than he likes. Dinner is already served, and the food is cooling. I can tell he’s annoyed. But he’s also amused by the delay. Girls, I see him think, how can it possibly take them so long to get ready?
But any irritation he’s holding back is immediately forgotten when he sees me. I’m wearing the little black dress he picked from the closet. It’s a favourite of mine, which is why I brought it. I think it’s a good match to what he’s wearing. He’s swapped his work suit for a fine pair of grey slacks, and a white, fitted button-down shirt and dinner jacket. Mr Connor looks good. I envy his chunky cuff links and heavy watch, his relaxed pose, the easy comfort of his clothes; but I also like my dress.
The halter-top bares my arms and shoulders, leaves my back open to just above the waist. A bra would ruin the look, so I’ve gone without, trusting to the lined bodice to keep the girls in line. It’s just about up to the job. I just need to be careful, delicate in my movements. A daring style for a girl with a chest as healthy as mine, but I love the way it shows off my slender arms and neck. There’s a long neck sash, too, it drapes down between my shoulder blades and that’s fun, I think it makes me look elegant. A slender silver bracelet completes the look and beneath it all, I’ve slipped back into the seasonal, sparkly red panties and added the matching garter belt and now I’m thinking, maybe somebody will get to see it after all.
“You shouldn’t have,” I say, holding my hand to the dangling chandelier earrings that tug at my lobe. Heavy and beautiful, they sparkle in the candlelight. A gift, waiting for me on the bed after the shower, a little box sitting atop the small pile of clothes. “It’s too generous. It really is.”
“It’s Christmas,” he says.