Bride to Be

       Izzy French

      ‘Tighter,’ Juliette said.

      Sophie pulled, tugged on the ribbon and tied a bow. The stays had created a tiny waist for Juliette and the effect was stunning. They stood next to each other, the two women, the mirror confirming Juliette’s silhouette. It was a true hourglass. The burgundy crushed velvet of the gothic dress fell in waves over her hips. Her breasts were just contained by the bodice. Juliette twisted left then right, smoothing the fabric over her stomach. She gave a tiny smile; knowing, self-aware, pleased with how she looked. She turned to Sophie, who could feel the heat of the other woman’s breath on her cheek.

      ‘Tighter still.’

      Sophie undid the bow and tugged again, pressing her knee into Juliette’s back, unsure how much tinier she could force her waist to be. But Sophie was acquiescent; aware women like Juliette were her customers. They employed her. She remained in the shadows. They came to her because it was their time, their big day ahead. Their expectations were that she could transform them. She had an excellent reputation and her job was to help them feel wonderful. And it was a job she loved. Women were her forte. Some allowed her to caress them, making them feel special, and she felt tantalised by these brides to be, their skin glowing, their eyes shining. Some were naïve, others much more knowing. Rarely did she feel able to take things further. She had to save that for herself, or in the clubs, sweaty and hot. Not the most conducive environment for a woman with her needs.

      This was the final fitting, and also the last appointment of the day. The front door was locked; their outlines would only be faintly visible through the frosted windows. Sophie was jaded, her eyes sore from concentrating on details. Once Juliette left her studio she would never see her again. They would revert to being strangers. She was going to lose her. Sophie felt a dull ache around her heart. And moistness between her thighs. She had been drawn to Juliette from the moment she stepped through the studio door, breathless, all in black.

      ‘I want something dark,’ she’d said, throwing her bag to the floor. ‘Something gothic.’ And Sophie had agreed. It would suit her. She suggested purple first, then they settled on a deep burgundy. The colour and fabric were beautiful. The dress had taken her many hours to create; she’d hand-worked much of it, and she was delighted with the result. She knew Juliette would be too.

      Juliette’s skin was pale under the lights. Sophie gazed at the space where Juliette’s breasts met, pushed together, two semi-circles of delicious-looking flesh. A big jet crucifix nestled there too. She wanted to be as close as the crucifix; she was desperate to touch, to taste and to bury her head right in that spot. Probably not appropriate feelings to have about a bride to be, but not uncommon ones for her either. She wasn’t going to deny them. Her body wouldn’t allow that. It was an instinctive response. She would satisfy herself later, with memories, once Juliette had left. When she was alone.

      Sophie was adept at holding images firmly in place in her mind, able to retrieve them for her own satisfaction. They might be glimpses, of a woman behind a carelessly pulled curtain in her changing room, of a smooth back, a softly rounded belly and pert breasts. A woman excited about her future, quick to bare her body for the designer. Anticipating her special day. All of these days were special for Sophie, and never more so than with Juliette as a customer.

      ‘Perfect,’ Juliette said, touching Sophie’s bare arm.

      ‘Almost done,’ Sophie whispered, holding Juliette’s hand in place, just for a moment. She would have been happy for this task to continue all night. Adjusting Juliette’s wedding dress to ensure a perfect fit. She drew away and sat cross-legged on the floor, checking the hem.

      ‘He will love it,’ Juliette said. ‘Releasing me at the end of the day, thinking I’m his.’

      ‘I have no doubt,’ Sophie replied. ‘The dress is beautiful, and so are you. I hope he’s worth it.’

      Sophie struggled to keep the bitter tone from her voice.

      Juliette momentarily looked surprised, then made a face.

      ‘Maybe, I’m not sure,’ she said. Whether she meant about her beauty or his worth was uncertain. Sophie was always astonished at the doubts women brought to her studio. The imperfections they saw in their bodies, faces, hair. Sophie was blind to most of them, but then she had always been a great lover of the female form, in all its variety. Her job suited her so much. She was successful, could afford to be discerning about the brides she created dresses for.

      ‘And I will never belong to him. I’m my own woman; no one else has done enough to earn me. Not yet.’

      This sounded like a warning shot. Juliette turned to face Sophie.

      ‘What would you think? Would you be pleased?’

      She knows, Sophie thought, but that was no great surprise. Her sexuality was no dark secret. She didn’t answer but lowered her head, not wishing Juliette to see her flush. With embarrassment or desire? Or a mixture of the two.

      ‘Do you think it needs adjusting here?’

      Juliette indicated the bodice. Sophie had embroidered a row of seed-pearls at the edge, entwined with intricate gold thread. Juliette was tucking her fingers between the dress and her body. The bodice was low, encasing her breasts, just, giving a medieval appearance to her overall look. Her dark nipples were just tucked below the edge. On the day she would wear a shawl of gold chiffon, but now her arms, shoulders and cleavage were on show.

      ‘I’ll check for you,’ Sophie said. The stays were as tight as she could pull them. And the dress was snug at the back. It would stay in place.

      ‘It’s here, at the front, look.’

      Juliette turned to face Sophie.

      Sophie smoothed down the front of the bodice, making invisible adjustments, knowing from experience it was perfect. She ran her fingers along the line of pearls, feeling the warmth of Juliette’s body beneath. She ran her hands down her sides. The fit was just right. She left them in place on her waist, unwilling to let go.

      ‘You want me, don’t you?’ Juliette asked her. ‘Like he does. Bitch. Taking advantage of the situation. Touching me.’ She pulled away from Sophie, held her hands across her breasts.

      Sophie looked away, uncertain how to answer, surprised at Juliette’s tone. She had misread this situation, for the first time ever. Of course she wanted her. Had done since she’d entered the studio three months ago. Wanted her every time she came for a fitting, felt like she knew every inch of her body, but desperately desired intimacy with her. And she had felt some reciprocation at times. Some small flirtations – smiles, unnecessary baring of flesh, touches. They had all been signs, almost invitations to Sophie. But she had always remained aware the other woman was about to marry. Over the months Juliette had told her much about Matt. Women tended to. Like a hairdresser, people