Inspired from Grey's Tribute, written by 

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Clayton

Grey's Tribute

Fin's Claim

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The dress. If our clothing could speak...

I am being taken off the mannequin again, another potential, another female seeking to be wrapped in my layers. Seeking to be made beautiful by the illusion that I am. 

This one is taller, petite, sun-kissed hair and slight pout to her lips as though she is never quie happy. As she turns to and fro in the three way reflection, I study us. She doesn't have the curves to fill out my form, to give me the proper shape. Giggling, another female encourages her to choose me anyway. I stretch as she pats the fabric this way and that. She wants me, wants the illusion I bring. Coveting what I can not give her...

Sensual beauty, dark lace over nude silk, long sleeves and two dozen dark pearls from the small of the back to the nap of the neck. The modesty essential to what I am but the illusion of being so much less than modest. She buys me anyway, perhaps someday her wiry body will grow into the curves I require. My many days of staring out the clear surface that separates me from the living beings who dwell here are over. Wrapped in smothering plastic and darkness, I leave the boutique. Taken to her home, I hang in the place where others like me wait for our purpose. 

Time passed. I feel forgotten...

She is here, pulling us down, throwing us onto the bed. Most of us she has worn at least once to the world beyond, but not I. Purposeless is how I feel until she takes me out, holding me in front of her body as we look into the reflection. She still does not fit me, fill me, I was not meant for her shape. She piles me with the others and we are carried to a different place. Thrown in a careless heap on another's bed. 

This new female tentatively fingers my sisters and I. Something about her draws her to me, I can feel that she doesn't believe in beauty. She pushes aside my sisters with their exposed shoulders and deep necklines. A thin line purses her lips as she tucks me against her chest and retreats in to the pale room where they bathe. Her skin surprises me, is is puckered in places,discolored, raised, it has texture, just like my lace. She makes herself not look at it as she slides me over her body. I would breathe a sigh of relief if I breathed, I fit her perfectly. She fills out my shape as though I was made just for her. Her skin feels strange against me, not smooth at all, unlike the others. I don't understand, I did not know they came in textures too. 

She smiles at us in the mirror before calling out to the female that purchased me all that time ago. "I just need some help doing the backup."

Her voice has a soft lilt as she rubs my silk under-layer against her surface, it is almost the same color as her skin. I revel in the feeling it gives her. This... this is the female I was made for, made to cover her textured surface with my layers. I was made to cling to her curves. I was made to make her beautiful. Joy blooms as my purpose is fulfilled.

The other female comes in smiling, happy for her friend but her amusement quickly fades and her hands shake as she pops my tiny buttons into place. 

Eyes shine, 

sadness,

horror, 

grief. 

The one who wears me stands calmly, watching the other, whose soul is now heaving in turmoil as she tries to control what she is feeling. There is something very wrong here. Is my female not supposed to be beautiful? Have I failed? I begin to realize something, a cold horrible truth that I don't want to admit to myself, the antithesis of my purpose. Ugliness! How dare she imply my female is such!?! 

Instead of speaking her truth, the false friend offers a compliment. "It fits you perfectly."

Her voice is aching but level, as she snatches her trembling hands away. She mutters something else I don't catch and flees...

We regard ourselves in the mirror, turning back ad forth. Paired with black nylons and heels, her skin is hidden completely. She is so modest under my layers of silk and lace, almost as if she is afraid to show herself for the goddess she is. We fit together perfectly. My female smiles, running her hands over us one last time. I feel complete, covering her, clinging to her shape, giving her the sensual illusion of nothing under my sculpted and scalloped outer layer. This is the purpose that I was made for, the vision I was meant to create; 

Modestly immodest beauty...

Living, breathing sensuality...

A vision...

We revel in how we are together. My curiosity over her skin's strange texture forgotten. I watch my beautiful female putting light touches of their paint on her face, just a bit around her eyes, creating a longer, darker fringe around the honey golden rings of her irises. Hair twisted into a braid. Her lips and cheeks bear a natural tint that needs no enhancement. She is perfection and feels her loveliness as if for the first time in a long time.

Heels clicking against stone, heart beating within. 

Head held high, movements of grace. 

Once upon a time, this was her daily expression but now it feels strangely rare, 

special, 

significant.

 As she walks down the stairs and enters the room, all the males stare at her perfect hourglass clad in my clinging layers. The female from earlier doesn't look at us. This action confuses me. Who would she not want to look at my female? She is beauty. She is sensuality. Our union is perfection.

They travel... They consume food together. The males laughing and happily talking, but she sits quietly, observing. These two identical males with silver eyes, twins I believe they are called, take turns looking at her. Both want her now, I can't help my smugness. The one with facial hair asks her to dance. As she shifts and walks, my lace outer slides and pulls across her shape, drawing appreciative glances from many males, especially the other silver eyed male. Before they dance, his lips brush the bit of exposed skin at her wrist. Her natural grace accenting the sensuality of our illusion. 

Desire radiates like the rumbling of close thunder. These strong twin males both feel it, washing over them like the deluge of a sudden storm. Both desire her as their only but she only wants this one. The one she dances with roams his hands over my layers, caressing them the way he wishes to caress her skin. 

As they sway and turn, she lets him touch her, slowly falling under the spell of the music and the movement. Feeling something euphoric as they move as one, nothing between their bodies except thin layers of my fabric. His fingers untangling her hair as she breathes him in. 

Desired, 

wanted, 

craved in the most intimate, soulful sense...

I feel I was meant to bring them together,  I can serve a greater purpose than beauty... Love. 

The immodest illusion of my layers covering her textured flesh leave nothing for him to imagine but the desire to have what is underneath. He will be hers, he will worship her as he should. Her skin moist with want, clings to my under-layer. My purpose fulfilled or so I believed.

 Again, I don't understand as she whispers a single word. "Stop."

I thought she wanted this. The music ends. Many are covertly watching the sensual display of my female and her chosen male as they danced. His twin looked on unabashedly, eyes filled with lust and envy. 

Such beauty, 

such sensuality, 

such perfection, 

It is not meant for him as he stares at her with such uncompromising vulgarity. It makes me wish I could mock him. Her male easily leads her away, and they are traveling again but not alone,the twin has forced his presence on them. His leg touching us. This male wants my female, feels he is entitled to her, but hers refuses. She refuses. My thin layers become a shield protecting her flesh from his touch.  I am armor of silk and lace he wants to peel from her body... How dare he!

There is a softly spoken tempest raging between the two males. Some ancient feud neither is willing to forget and my female is caught between them. Both know her perfection, both desire her, but only one will be granted passion's release tonight. Only one is worthy, and yet she feels conflicted. As we arrive where we first left, I watch the vulgar male surround himself with two lesser females, confirming he is unworthy of her. My female is magnificent, these two are tawdry. His remark has her disgusted with him, and I am glad to see him go away. 

I ride the sway of her hips as she climbs the stairs, following behind, her male watches her movements intently. He cannot hide what he wants, it presses against his trousers proudly. He watches her as she sits on the bed, rubbing her feet. Gently, he takes one foot and caresses it firmly, confessing he could love her as she says she could never love someone like him. I don't understand. 

Their passion is real. 

Their desire deeply flowing like a river between their souls. 

But she refuses him. Confusion clouds my thoughts. He is a magnificent male, strong, well shaped, attentive, matched to her beauty. Their bodies fit together perfectly. They desired each other only an hour ago. What could stand between them that she hates him in this moment, and despises herself?

She goes into the pale bathing room and stares at herself. 

Loathing, 

disgust, 

horror, 

self-hatred, 

and pain, so much pain. 

These feelings from her have me alarmed. My purpose has become something twisted, she decides to make me a test for him. I am very afraid of what this means. She wants him to feel all the things she feels about herself. I don't understand, to me she is beautiful, we are perfect. The illusion of lace over nothing but her exquisitely curved shape.

How can she feel these things about herself? The nagging reminder that her flesh is not smooth as others's flesh tugs at the corners of my awareness. Is it something to do with the unique texture of her flesh? How is it any different from the texture of my lace? I do not understand how her thoughts and feelings are twisting her beauty into perversion. She calls out to him in a sweetly innocent voice, masking the hatred buried there. As he enters the room, he eyes her in the mirror, sensing the wrongness and I can do nothing to stop it. Nothing but cling to her perfect curves, a veil between their eyes and the thing she loathes but desires for him to see. The texture of her skin. Her scars, as she calls them.

"Can you just unbutton me?"

An innocent question with which she seeks to destroy my purpose, fabric covering flesh. My reason for existence is to create the beauty of our union.

One by one his large fingers push each button through its eye, one by one undone reveals the horrifying texture of my female's quilted flesh. She never looks at me again, only at him. 

His hands shake and he swallows repeatedly. He feels horrified, disgusted, guilty. 

She revels in his suffering. 

Her skin's texture isn't a thing of beauty as my lace's texture is, but a vile thing of ugliness and deepest regret. I realize he did this to her, he took her beauty, and I grieve. I had given it back to her for a few short hours, but it was an illusion. She will wear the abomination of her hated surface forever. I feel his hope ripping away from his heart, as hers was ripped away with her flesh. I do not want to feel this.

No!

Stop!

Fasten up my many buttons again...

Stay clothed in my beauty...

Do not accept this...

PLEASE...

Please...

please...

My whispered plea to this female is lost, "You can still be beautiful, you are beautiful..."

My aching increases with every foot fall away and the soft closing of the door. He is gone. He failed her test.

A single tear falls on my sleeve as she shrugs off my layers, folding me gently, never to be worn again. I have failed because our beauty together was a lie. A delusion of what could never be.

My layered illusion traded for her reality...

Ugly...

Monster...

Unwanted...  

Beauty betrayed...

I can see in her aching soul... She only wanted for him to hold her and tell her she was beautiful in her textured flesh that his rage sculpted with silver and blood. It is a horror I cannot conceive.

She covers herself, hiding her texture habitually, and goes to lay down..

Alone again with her scarred skin constricting her very soul...

~~~~~
Thank you, Queen Rachelle for the inspiration.