Bedroom Bliss: Night Five: Old Hollywood Glamour – Starring Them
Share
Night Five: Old Hollywood Glamour – Starring Them
The moment she slipped into the Adore Leia Corselette with Garters, she felt transformed. The delicate black mesh, the satin boning, the lace-trimmed cups — it wasn’t just lingerie. It was a costume. A role. A script she’d longed to play but never dared to audition for. Tonight, she was the femme fatale, and the spotlight was hers.
She looked at herself in the mirror, adjusting the straps and smoothing the fabric against her hips. The garters clicked into place with an audible snap as she secured her thigh-highs. Glossy black heels finished the look. Her lips were painted crimson. Her eyes were lined with precision, lashes fluttering like secrets.
In the next room, he was setting the stage.
A jazz record crackled to life on the player — something old, smooth, and smoky. The bedroom was bathed in golden candlelight, shadows dancing along the walls like backup performers in their private scene. He’d swapped his usual T-shirt for a crisp white dress shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, the top buttons undone. His hair slicked back just slightly, giving him that Clark Gable swagger. He looked like trouble. The kind you invite in and regret nothing about.
She stepped into the room slowly, letting her heel taps announce her entrance.
He turned — and froze.
“Holy hell,” he whispered. “You’re a movie star.”
“No,” she purred, “I’m your co-star tonight.”
They danced slowly, rhythm guided more by each other than the music. Her fingers found the back of his neck, his hand settled just above the curve of her rear. Each step drew them closer. Each sway unraveled a little more tension.
“You look like trouble,” she whispered.
“I am,” he replied, brushing a kiss across her cheek, “but the kind you write home about.”
She giggled — breathy, soft, in-character.
They collapsed onto the bed in a tangle of laughter and flirtation. The scene didn’t need a director — just a spark, and that had already ignited. He reached for the garter strap, slowly unfastening it while watching her reaction.
“I always wondered how these things worked,” he mused, running his fingers along the silk strap.
“They come off like this,” she said, lifting one leg, presenting it to him like a gift.
The clip popped free with a click, and he kissed his way down her thigh, taking his time. He undid the second, third, fourth — each one a slow, ceremonial act of unwrapping something too exquisite to rush.
The corset itself became a puzzle, every clasp a point of tension, every loosened hook a shared breath. Her body arched beneath him, hips shifting as he teased and tasted, fingertips exploring the artful lines the lingerie left behind.
“I feel like I should light a cigarette and deliver a dramatic monologue,” she murmured, chest rising and falling, lipstick slightly smudged.
“You already delivered the best performance of the night,” he said, voice rough with reverence.
She rolled him beneath her, straddling his hips, dragging her nails along his chest through the fabric. His shirt came off with one fluid motion, buttons popping, exposing toned skin beneath. She leaned down, tongue tracing a path to his navel, her hair brushing his ribs.
“I think we’re heading into the second act,” she said.
He grabbed her wrists playfully, flipping her back onto the bed.
“Oh no,” he growled. “Now it’s my turn to direct.”
She laughed, a throaty sound that could’ve melted celluloid. The sheets twisted, wrapping around limbs, hips bucked, lips met in rushed passion. Their rhythm was unscripted but masterful — passionate, tender, daring.
They made love like seasoned actors, improvising emotion, vulnerability, and raw heat. Every motion was amplified by the thrill of the performance, by the game they were playing. Every moan was a line delivered with conviction. Every orgasm a curtain call.
Afterward, the room smelled of wax, sex, and satisfaction.
She lay in his arms, corset discarded beside the bed like a forgotten prop. The jazz still played, low and sultry. She traced invisible shapes on his chest.
“We should win an Oscar for that,” she whispered.
“Definitely Best Chemistry,” he replied, kissing her temple.
“Or Best Costume,” she added, glancing at the corset with a satisfied smirk.
They drifted off like that — tangled in each other, tangled in a fantasy they’d made real. Night Five had been a different kind of seduction. Not just about bodies or pleasure, but about escape. About slipping into characters to find more of themselves.