Nothing More Fun Than A Little Black Dress

Flash Fiction by Hillary Lyon

This little black number is more of a shirt than a dress, Jacklyn thought as she looked at herself in the hotel mirror. She fluffed her voluminous auburn hair, strapped on her Lucite platform sandals, grabbed her over-sized leopard print bag and she was good to go. No jewelry tonight: she didn’t want to risk accidentally leaving something behind.

On her way down to the casino lobby, she shared the elevator with a gaggle of college boys, who couldn’t stop staring and grinning at her. Obviously partying on Daddy’s money, she smiled at the boys in return, but they were not her quarry. She was after a more mature man.

Jacklyn exited the elevator to a murmuration of sighs and barely audible comments of appreciation. Walking up and down the aisle between the noisy flashing slot machines and the faux bistro cafes that served as restaurants at this casino, she attracted the male—and female—gaze. Not just because she was crazy sexy, but also because all those eyes on her were trying to discern if she was wearing panties or not.

Spoiler alert: she wasn’t.

As she strolled, occasionally a man—or two—would approach her, offer to buy her dinner or a drink. She would politely refuse, and keep moving. She was on the hunt for one particular fella, and she’d know him when she saw him. Mainly because this fella’s wife had supplied her with photos, and a detailed description. Including his preference for playing the slots, and picking up hookers. All while attending a Very Important Business Convention.

Cheating spouses were her specialty, and this guy—Clark—was right up her alley. Jacklyn encountered her target not long after she began her prowl. He was already three sheets to the wind, which would make this all so much easier.

Clark stopped in front of her, to halt her trek and make sure she engaged with him. Real smooth, Jacklyn laughed to herself. Even though he was grossly overweight, the man swayed like a slim palm tree in the wind, and when he leaned forward to proposition her, she was afraid he’d bowl them both over. Good thing smoking was banned in this area of the casino, or somebody might accidentally set his breath on fire.

What he said to her didn’t matter; all these wannabe Lotharios used the same lines. Did they learn this from a book, she wondered. They’re all so predictable. She slipped her arm around his and accompanied him upstairs to his hotel room.

“We’re gonna have us some fun,” he slurred. Clark began pawing at her as soon as the elevator doors closed. “Wait until we get into your room, big boy,” Jacklyn teased. She could only image what a nightmare sex with him would be like: clumsy bordering on rough, smothering under all that fat, and over almost as soon as it began.

Well, that’s not going to happen, she reassured herself. Not that he knows that.

Clark fumbled with his key card, and finally, after several attempts, got the green light and accompanying beep that unlocked the door. He didn’t hold the door for her, but instead stumbled into the room ahead of her. What a gentleman, she scoffed. Jacklyn noted an open suitcase on the unmade bed, a pile of dirty clothes on the floor, and a framed photo of his wife on the nightstand next to the bed.

“She always shoves that in my suitcase when I’m gonna travel,” he muttered. “Stupid bint thinks I’ll forget she’s my ball and chain.” He tossed the photo into the suitcase and shoved it off the bed, where it landed in a heap on the floor.

“Why don’t you fix us a cocktail, big guy,” Jacklyn said as she tossed her over-sized purse on the floor next to the bed, making sure to keep it with reach. She would need her special, sharply serrated toys real soon, if this evening progressed like she expected.

Jacklyn climbed onto the messy hotel bed. She stretched like a cat and settled in on her belly. She knew he was staring at the shadow between her legs, under that short black dress. Trying to see if she was wearing panties, a thong, or nothing at all. She rolled over and propped herself up on her elbows. “C’mon,” she pouted, slinging her hair out of her face. “I’m thirsty.”

With a mind dulled by lust and booze, Clark watched Jacklyn on the bed. His mouth hung open. She grinned and began to raise up her dress.

She had no idea a fat man could undress so quickly.

Glassy eyed, Clark continued to stare at her. She was surprised he wasn’t drooling.  As Jacklyn’s hem rose ever so slowly, his breathing became more labored. When she stopped short of revealing her promised land, the color drained from his face. He made a strangled, gargling sound, grabbed his chest, and tumbled forward onto the bed. Jacklyn barely had time to roll out of his way.

She put the back of her hand on his neck, and could feel no pulse. “Well,” she said aloud to no one, “that was easy.”

Jacklyn reached into her leopard print bag and pulled out a pair of white cotton gloves. She pulled off his wedding ring, a heavy gold chain link bracelet, and his Rolex watch. She rifled through his pants for his wallet, and when she found it, extracted several hundred dollars in cash. She left all his credit cards behind.

The cash and jewelry—that was a just little bonus for her services. She was on good terms with a pawn broker who would take the goods with no questions asked.

Jacklyn dug into her purse again, this time grabbing her burner phone. She pressed a number on speed dial—the only number in the phone’s directory, connecting to another burner phone. The groggy voice of an older woman answered, obviously woken out of her night’s sleep.

“The chain is broken,” Jacklyn said. “Beyond all repair.” She powered off the phone and tossed it back into her bag.

On her way out of the room, she made sure to put the “Please Do Not Disturb” sign on the door knob. Let Clark stew for a day or two; Jacklyn doubted he was the first out-of-town conventioneer to die of a massive heart attack.

She slid into the elevator, and lo and behold, those same college boys were already inside. Now very tipsy but still shy. “Say,” Jacklyn began with a sexy smirk, “who wants to join me for a drink upstairs?” It was her turn to have fun.

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Bio: Hillary Lyon founded and for 20 years acted as senior editor for the independent poetry publisher, Subsynchronous Press. Her horror, speculative fiction, and crime short stories, drabbles, and poems have appeared in more than 150 publications. She’s an SFPA Rhysling Award nominated poet. Hillary is also the art director for Black Petals.

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