I never expected Dolly Parton to catch me like this. In her mansion, trying on one of her shimmering pink gowns, the fabric hugging my lean frame like a second skin. The zipper was only half-up when she glided in, that big mane of blonde curls a halo, her tits straining against a low-cut top. She grinned wide, eyes roving over my shy form.

"Don't you stop, honey," she purred, her voice dripping honey and heat. "That gown is wasted on a hanger. Let's see how you really fill it."

My heart pounded. I stood there, a wiry twenty-year-old punk with a slim waist and thighs, looking ridiculous. She stepped closer, her perfume thick, ghosting my lips. She ran a manicured nail down the gown's sequined front, pressing it into my stomach, her touch a threat and a promise.

"Playing dress-up's nice," she whispered, "but playing with me is better."

I could only nod, my cock getting hard. It tented the gown's flimsy fabric, a thick, straining outline. Her eyes caught it. She let out a low, approving moan as she sank to her knees. Her fingers hooked into my underwear, freeing me. My hard, throbbing dick sprang out; pre-cum already beading from its head. She didn't flinch. She took me between her glossy lips without warning, an expert, wet tongue circling the tip as if licking a treat.

I gasped, balls drawing tight. The gown bunched at my shoulders; I felt like her living mannequin. Her tongue slid all the way down my shaft