Strange Bonds
Copyright© 2026 by Bad Decisions Kat
Chapter 18: Dan’s Friend
Erotica Sex Story: Chapter 18: Dan’s Friend - Mia has a good thing going: a no-strings arrangement with her ex Dan, a close friendship with Lin, and a sex life that doesn't require promises. But when Dan and Lin grow closer, jealousy isn't what she expected, and neither is her attraction to her best friend. Then she meets Leah, confident, perceptive, and impossible to read. Caught between the people she loves and possibilities she's only beginning to discover, Mia has to ask: what does she actually want?
Caution: This Erotica Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Fa/Fa Consensual Romantic Lesbian BiSexual Heterosexual Fiction Exhibitionism Masturbation Oral Sex Slow Illustrated AI Generated
The girl chat turned into mostly memes after Sunday, Dan seemed to spend more time with us than with Leah, and he mostly said she was a busy woman, and no further digging could get more specifics.
My work week saw more and more work being offloaded from me. Before I was slacking off at work, now I was actually free from most tasks. I still showed up for meetings, but had no action points assigned to me. I was not tasked with any reviews, and all of my syncs and standups had been taken over by Jack.
On wednesday I was playing some clicker game, while I waited for my next meeting to start when I saw my phone light up
Leah:
I have a thing I need to attend on Friday and I need a plus-one.
Leah:
Free food. Free drinks.
Leah:
Be my plus-one, Mia.
I stared at the screen.
Me:
You had me at Free.
The typing bubble appeared almost immediately.
Leah: Do you own an evening gown?
I frowned at the screen.
Me: No. It’s against my religion to eat those.
A pause.
Leah: Get dressed and meet me downstairs in fifteen minutes.
Me:
I am dressed.
Leah:
🤦 I’m sure you think you are. Whatever, it will do. Come downstairs.
I went downstairs after 10 minutes and Leah was already there.
“We are going to Bergdorf,” Leah said.
I waited for the rest.
“Who’s Bergdorf?”
She looked at me. “A department store.”
“You said it like he was expecting us.”
“From a certain perspective, he is.”
An Uber pulled up as she said this, and we headed across the river.
By the time we reached Fifth Avenue, I had decided Bergdorf was probably just a nicer Macy’s.
That was until I saw the building.
It sat across from Central Park looking less like a shop and more like somewhere rich people went to have poor decisions gift-wrapped. Huge windows, pale stone, gold lettering. Even the doorman looked like he had opinions about my credit score.
Leah got out without hesitation.
I stayed in the car half a second longer.
“You coming?” she asked.
“I’m pretty sure this place has a preferred tax bracket.”
“It’s a department store.”
“It has a doorman.”
Inside was worse. Polished floors, perfume in the air, people speaking quietly like loud voices might lower the property value. Leah moved through it like she belonged there.
By the time we reached the fourth floor, the place had softened into thick carpet, low voices and dresses spaced far enough apart that each one looked important. Leah walked straight past two displays and found a woman in black before I had finished wondering whether touching anything would trigger an alarm.
“She needs eveningwear,” Leah said. “Formal gala. Something fitted, not bridal, not sweet. She can carry colour.”
The woman looked me over once. Not rudely. Professionally, which was somehow worse.
“What size are you?” the woman asked.
I opened my mouth.
“Thirty-six, twenty-nine, forty, I think,” Leah said. “But measure her. That’s only my guess.”
The woman in black led us into a quieter section at the back, where the dresses were spaced far enough apart that each one looked important.
Another member of staff appeared with a tape measure and asked me to take off my jacket.
“Arms out, please.”
The woman wrapped the tape around my chest, then my waist and hips.
“Thirty-seven, twenty-nine, forty.”
Leah nodded. “Only an inch out.”
The woman raised an eyebrow. “That was a very good guess.”
“She wears too many baggy tops.
“What sort of event?” the first woman asked.
“Fundraising gala,” Leah said. “Formal, but not conservative.”
“Comfortable budget?”
I looked at Leah.
Leah looked at the woman.
“Let’s find the right dress first.”
Which was a rich-person language for I don’t scare easily.
The woman nodded as if this was perfectly normal.
“Colour preference?”
“No black,” Leah said immediately. “She’ll disappear into it.”
“I look good in black.”
“You look safe in black.”
I lowered my arms. “I like feeling safe...”
Leah did not hear me and stepped closer, lifting a section of my hair between two fingers.
“Red,” she said. “Not bright red. Something deeper. Her hair is dirty blonde, her skin can carry it, and she needs a colour that does some of the work for her.”
“Dirty blonde?”
“That is what it’s called, Mia. I’m not insulting your hygiene.”
The woman gave a small professional smile.
“And silhouette?” she asked.
“Fitted through the waist and hips. Structure through the bodice. Nothing floaty.”
“floaty?”
“Don’t worry, we are not doing floaty.”
Leah turned toward the rails, scanning them.
“Do you have anything with a deep neckline and a high slit? Possibly off the shoulder?”
The woman considered me again.
“We have several options. Satin, crepe, perhaps velvet.”
“No velvet,” Leah said. “Too heavy. Satin or something with a clean drape.”
They were speaking about me like I was a sofa they were trying to fit into a difficult room.
The woman disappeared and returned with an armful of dresses in red, burgundy and one dark green Leah rejected before it reached the fitting room.
“Too respectable,” she said.
“It’s a dress.”
“It looks like something a concerned mother would buy for her daughter’s debutante ball.”
She pulled out another, held it against me for three seconds, then handed it back.
“Too bridal.”
“It’s red.”
“It looks like something you wear to impress your extended family.”
By the time we reached the fitting room, Leah had reduced an entire floor of dresses to five. Deep red, fitted, structured, dangerous in ways I had not agreed to yet.
She pushed the first one into my arms.
“Try this.”
I looked at the price tag.
Then I looked at her.
“Leah.”
“Yes?”
“This dress costs more than my rent.”
“Then try not to spill anything on it.”
The woman handed me the first dress and pointed toward the fitting rooms.
Leah took the remaining four from her.
“Go on,” she said.
I looked at the dress in my arms. Then at the fitting room. Then back at her.
“You’re not coming?”
“I’ll be right outside.”
The curtain closed behind me.
For the first thirty seconds, I was confident.
It was a dress. I had worn dresses before. There was fabric, there was a hole for my head, probably some arrangement involving legs. Humanity had solved this problem centuries ago.
Then I unfolded it.
There were straps where straps had no business being. A zip ran down one side, stopped, then apparently continued somewhere inside the dress. The bodice had cups built into it, except they looked too high to be cups and too low to be shoulder pads. A ribbon dangled from the back like evidence from a murder scene.
I turned it around.
Then I turned it around again.
I found the label, which usually meant back, except that put the zip under my armpit and one of the cups somewhere near my kidney.
I tried stepping into it.
Wrong.
I tried pulling it over my head.
More wrong.
For a brief, humiliating moment I stood trapped inside several thousand dollars of red fabric with one arm above my head and my face pressed into the lining.
“Everything all right?” Leah called.
“Perfect, nothing to worry about.”
I fought my way back out before I tore something expensive enough to ruin my credit score.
The dress pooled at my feet.
I stared at it.
It stared back.
I opened the curtain two inches and stuck my head through.
Leah was sitting in one of the fitting-room chairs, legs crossed, scrolling through her phone.
“Leah.”
She looked up.
“How do I put this on?”
She lowered the phone slowly.
“The dress?”
“No, the fitting room. Yes, the fucking dress.”
Her eyes moved past me toward the red heap on the floor.
“You tried to put it over your head, didn’t you?”
“Only at first! I tried to step into it as well.”
“Was it the right way?”
“I don’t know. Come help please.”
Leah stood.
There was no mockery in her face, which somehow made it worse.
She stepped into the fitting room and closed the curtain behind her.
Leah stepped into the fitting room and closed the curtain behind her.
She looked down at the dress, then at me.
“Okay. Before we go further, take off your T-shirt and bra. Trousers too.”
I stared at her.
“All of it?”
“It’s a fitted gown, Mia. Not a tarp.”
“You could have warned me.”
“I assumed you knew dresses don’t have t-shirts and pants accompanying them”
I started undressing while mumbling “The T-shirt was not the issue.”
Leah waited.
There was barely enough room for both of us as it was. The mirrors covered three walls, which meant there were now at least four Leahs watching me fail to remove a T-shirt normally.
I pulled it over my head and dropped it onto the chair. The bra came next. I kept one arm folded across my chest while I worked my trousers down with the other, which made the whole process slower and much more dignified.
Leah looked at my arm.
“What are you doing?”
“Getting undressed.”
“You’re hiding.”
“I’m not hiding.”
“You’re using your own elbow as a curtain.”
I let my arm fall.
There. Fine. Tits. We had all seen them before. Not Leah, technically, but the general public had been given enough opportunities.
She did not look impressed or embarrassed. She barely looked at me at all. Her attention had already moved to the gown.
“Step into it.”
I lifted one foot.
“No, hold the side seam. You’re going to stand on the lining.”
“I knew that.”
“OK, but let’s not step on the lining going forward.”
I took the fabric from her and stepped carefully into the opening. Leah crouched, gathered the skirt and fed it up over my legs in sections, stopping every few inches to straighten something I could not see.
“Don’t pull.”
“I’m not pulling.”
“You’re pulling.”
“I’m assisting.”
“You are stretching the bias.”
“I don’t know what that means.”
“I’m sorry, I know, just let me do the pulling.”
The dress reached my hips and stopped.
Leah put both hands against the fabric and worked it upward with short, firm movements.
“Tight fit,” she said. “Breathe out.”
“I am breathing out.”
“No, you’re breathing very shallowly”
“I know how to breathe”
She put a hand on my stomach, “take a deep breath, and hold it”
I did, not sure what the point of this was.
She pushed slightly, “And now push all that air out”
I exhaled hard.
The dress slid over my hips, then tightened around my waist.
Oh, that was smart thinking
Leah moved behind me, pulled the bodice into place and started fastening something along my spine.
Her fingers were quick and impersonal. That should have made it less strange.
It did not.
I watched her in the mirror instead of looking at myself. She was close enough that I caught that same clean, woody scent from Saturday, with something faintly like tea underneath. Her breath warmed my shoulder while her expression stayed fixed on the construction of the dress. Hooks. Zip. Seams. Whatever other witchcraft was holding the thing together.
“Arms down,” she said.
I lowered them.
“Shoulders back.”
I moved them back.
“Not like you’re being arrested.”
“I have never been arrested.”
She put her hands on my shoulders and adjusted them to a position where it did not look like I was being arrested, and then adjusted the neckline, pressed the fabric flat against my ribs, then stepped away.
The dress was red, fitted and much too serious for the person inside it.
For a second, neither of us said anything.
Leah tilted her head.
“No.”
I looked at my reflection again.
“What do you mean, no?”
“The waist is good. The neckline closes you off.”
“Closes me off?”
“You have a nice collarbone and shoulders. This hides both.”
She reached for the zip.
“Take it off.”
I smiled while removing it.
The second dress was worse.
It had sleeves that made me look like I had wandered out of a very expensive funeral, and the fabric clung everywhere except the places it was supposed to.
Leah stood behind me, studying the reflection.
“No.”
“You said that about the last one.”
“The last one hid your shoulders. This one makes your whole upper body look heavy.”
I looked at myself again.
“Heavy?”
“The sleeves pull everything downward. You need cleaner lines.”
She unzipped me before I could defend myself.
By the third dress, I had stopped pretending I understood any part of the process. I stood naked except for my panties while Leah sorted through the remaining gowns.
Then she pulled out a deep red one and paused.
“Oh,” she said.
I looked at it.
The neckline dropped low enough that I could already see future problems, and one side of the skirt had been cut open nearly to the hip.
“That looks broken.”
“It isn’t.”
“There’s half a dress missing.”
“It knows what to show.”
Leah held it against me, eyes moving from the colour to my hair, then down the line of my body.
“I have high hopes for this one.”
“Your hopes appear to involve public indecency.”
She gave me a grin, “Oh, you know me too well”
This one was easier to understand, mostly because Leah did everything. She gathered the skirt, guided my legs through, then worked the fitted fabric over my hips and waist. The bodice settled around me more cleanly than the others had. Low, structured, off the shoulders. The satin caught the fitting-room light every time I moved.
Leah fastened the back, adjusted the neckline, then stepped away.
I looked at myself.
Standing still, it almost looked elegant.
Then I shifted my weight and the slit opened along my thigh.
“Jesus.”
Leah smiled slightly.
“Yes.”
She moved closer and examined the side of the dress.
“Take off your panties.”
I looked at her in the mirror.
“What?”
“I want to check something.”
“What are you checking that requires my underwear to leave?”
“The line. Take them off.”
She said it like she had asked me to remove a price tag.
I hooked my thumbs into the waistband and pushed them down, stepping out of them while trying not to think about how many mirrors were involved.
Leah crouched beside me and lifted the edge of the slit slightly where it crossed my hip.
Not far. Just enough to see how the fabric moved without anything underneath it.
“Hm.”
That was not a reassuring sound.
She let the fabric fall back into place.
“You have underwear?”
“Of course I have underwear.”
Leah nodded, still watching the slit.
“Good. This one will need it. Otherwise you’ll most likely be flashing people when you walk around.”
I looked down at the opening.
“You picked it.”
“Yes.”
“You picked a dress that requires emergency underwear.”
“It’s only an emergency if we don’t have underwear, so I picked a dress that requires underwear. I thought you were against public indecency?”
She stood and smoothed the satin over my hip.
“This is the one.”
I looked at myself again.
Then I found the price tag.
“Leah, no.”
Leah was still adjusting the fabric at my waist. “No what?”
“No to all of this.” I held the tag toward her. “I cannot afford this.”
She glanced at the number.
“I know.”
“You know?”
“Yes.”
“Then why am I wearing it?”
“Because it suits you.”
“That does not make money appear in my bank account.”
“I’m paying for it.”
I stared at her.
“You’re doing what?”
“My parents asked me to attend. They gave me money for a new dress.”
“And you’re spending it on me?”
“I already have something.”
She smoothed the satin over my hip, checking the line again.
“Something I’ve been working on. I think I’ll use the event to show it off.”
“You made your dress?”
“Yes.”
“Like, from fabric?”
Leah looked at me in the mirror.
“That is generally what dresses are made from.”
I looked down at the red gown, then back at her.
“So your parents gave you dress money, you made your own, and now you’re using the rest to turn me into your expensive accessory.”
“Exactly.”
She said it without a trace of shame.
I should have objected.
Instead, I looked at myself again.
The dress was still impossibly red. Still cut low enough to require confidence I did not own and high enough at the hip to require underwear selected by committee.
But it fit.
Not in the way my clothes usually fit, meaning they covered the necessary parts and did not fall off. It made my waist look smaller, my legs longer, my tits looked amazing.
“You’re sure?”
“I wouldn’t pay for it if I weren’t.”
I should not have liked hearing that as much as I did.
When we came out of the fitting room, Leah handed the dress back to the woman in black with some instructions I did not catch.
Leah turned back to me and looked down at my shoes.
“Oh. How are you in heels? Proficient?”
“The shoes where you tiptoe, and if you walk wrong you twist your ankle?”
“Yes. Those...”
“I tried them once when I was eleven and decided to opt out for life.”
Leah nodded like I had confirmed a medical condition.
“Okay. Let’s get you some heels with training wheels.”
“I’m not wearing children’s shoes.”
“They’re platform heels with ankle support.”
“You called them training wheels.”
“Because unlike chopsticks, heels do require practice. We don’t have time for that now unfortunately. So we will cheat, until I can teach you.”
She started toward the shoe department.
I followed, because apparently she owned me until the gala was over.
The shoes took less time than the dress.
Leah found a pair of red platform heels with thick ankle straps.
“These.”
“They still look a lot like heels?”
“They match the dress.”
“I don’t think that makes them safer?”
“If I wanted safe, we would have gone with black. I wanted something dangerous, so we went with red.”
A saleswoman brought my size, and Leah sat me down while I fastened the straps. The shoes looked higher once they were on my feet. Much higher.
I stood carefully, waiting for my ankles to fold.
They did not.
I took one step.
Then another.
The platform under the front of the shoe meant I was not actually balanced on my toes the way I expected. The heel was thick enough that I did not feel like I was walking on two nails, and the straps held my ankles in place.
I made it halfway across the room without dying.
“Oh,” I said.
Leah looked up. “What?”
“This is easy.”
“It is easier Mia, don’t try to run in them.”
“No, I mean easy.”
“You’re walking in a straight line across carpet.”
“I was expecting immediate surgery.”
I turned and walked back, faster this time. My steps still felt deliberate, but not unstable. The shoes changed the way I moved without requiring me to know what I was doing.
Then I caught myself in the mirror.
My posture had shifted. My back was straighter, my shoulders pulled slightly behind me, and my hips sat differently. The shoes tilted everything just enough to make my legs look longer.
And my ass looked fantastic.
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