The Dress

"A dress makes no sense unless it inspires men to want to take it off of you"

Francoise Sagan

She stared into the mirror, head leaning to one side like a perplexed bird. She looked herself up and down, trying to be neutral. Trying to see clearly.
She turned and peered back over her shoulder, frowned, turned to look over the opposite shoulder as though somehow, from a different viewpoint, she would find what she hadn't seen.
She raised her arms above her head, lifting her hair from her shoulders, turning to face herself again her head tilting the opposite way, still frowning.
She lowered her arms and sighed, her hair tumbling down, her shoulders dropping slightly. Then she walked across to the wardrobe.
She pulled out the dress. She had bought it at a charity shop; a good label, well cut, but bought on a whim for only a few pounds.
She slipped the dress over her head feeling the fabric slip over her body like cool water on a hot day. The under-slip found her feminine curves and clung to them. The translucent dress fabric rustled gently as it slipped jealously over the top, unable to reach skin, swishing and moving against her as she wriggled her body to shake it down. Tying bows in the thin shoestring straps over the shoulders she enjoyed her pink bra strap, the colour bright against the black of the dress.
The under-slip was a few inches shorter than the dress, revealing her thighs just a bit further above the knee than modesty might dictate. Both fabrics were so thin that when the light was behind her it was possible to see every line and curve of her silhouette, to guess at her thigh muscles, the shadow where her pink g-string crossed over her hips and the indent of her tummy button. The fullness of her breasts fitted perfectly into the bodice of the dress, her cleavage nestled in silky folds.
She padded over to her shoe cupboard and chose the black satin peep-toe slingbacks. Five inch heels and shimmery silver under-soles. Slipping her toes into the shoes she carried herself differently, her back arching just slightly, her tummy instinctively pulling in as she walked from the hips, her shoulders straight, chin up.
She turned back to the mirror and smiled. She turned about and looked at her reflection from all angles, sashayed her hips and danced to imaginary music in her head.
She had never worn the dress outside this room. It somehow felt like a dress a different kind of woman would wear. A woman more self-assured, more worldly perhaps. She looked at herself in the mirror and wondered. Not today perhaps, but one day soon, she might dare to wear this dress out into the world and own it and the body it revealed.
Then she slipped the dress back over her head, placed it onto a coat hanger and returned it to the wardrobe. She slipped out of the beautiful shoes, wrapped them in tissue and carefully placed them into their shoe box.
Smiling still she pulled on jeans, warm socks and a baggy sweater and left the room to greet her everyday.

The manicure.

 She smiled as she walked into the nail parlour. She loved to have a manicure. She loved sitting quietly watching the woman concentrate. They rarely talked. It had taken years to find a nail artist who did not incessantly talk tripe. This woman didn't. She seemed as grateful for the quiet herself; a pause in her day of small talk. But even she exclaimed surprise.
"But your beautiful nails; so long, so elegant! Surely not?"
The girl smiled. She enjoyed her hands. They were petite, delicate. She was fortunate never to have to pay for plastic nails. Always her nails had grown long and strong.
She never had them painted. Only shaped, buffed and polished. The cuticles perfectly trimmed. She wanted them to look healthy and have a natural sheen. The cosmetic side of a manicure had never much interested her. She had occasionally painted her nails. But then she didn't recognise her own hands so the garish paint was quickly removed.
And today she was having a particular manicure. All the nails to be trimmed. Completely. They were an obstacle in her mind. They were a physical barrier. After today she would feel her hands in a different way. Her fingertips would become more sensitive. Her touch more direct. No nail tips tapping or scratching surfaces. Only soft skin; sensation and reaction heightened.
As she left the store her hands felt tiny. She felt her nerves heighten at what she had done, the pleasure she anticipated.
And that night, when they were in bed together curled around each other, his mouth on her, his cock in her mouth, both enjoying the pure pleasure of holding and tasting with no destination to reach other than just this, she finally dared. Soaking her fingers in his juices and her spit she caressed his balls, ran her fingers between his arse cheeks and gently, carefully, shyly, she slipped one finger inside...

A tale to tell.

 She disliked the local town library. She found it's bland architecture offensive and the insensitive acoustics delivered a constant interruption of coughing and inane chatter. Instead, to her incredulity, she discovered the mobile library service.

Each fortnight she would stand by a junction between fields and trees and wait. Each time the great bus full of books would trundle up the hill and stop purely for her convenience. She could only guess that somewhere on it's rounds there were queues of enthusiastic readers eagerly waiting to collect their books. But never once did anyone else join her to wait here.

The librarian was always courteous and astonishingly well read. On her third visit he had placed her reservation tickets in the folds of the book's pages. She watched his hands. Their precise movements, deftly flicking through the pages, writing something in bold marker pen, she assumed a date reminder or some such.

At home, looking for her reservation tickets, she found them and noticed the words on the page, garishly highlighted with the pen:

"The Peculiar Memories of Thoman Penman" by Bruce Robinson
"She was a beautiful girl with naked legs and red toe nails... clearly she wanted kisses, but he couldn't prevent his mouth waffling about the wretched fucking book. "

Two weeks. 

.....

As the doors opened she stepped aboard, pressing the doors closed again behind her. He was beside her immediately. His hands sliding to her hips and lifting her dress over her head. She stood, quietly, watching him as he dropped the dress to the floor never taking his eyes from her nakedness. And he began to kiss.

He knelt first and kissed the tops of her feet, her ankles. No touch except his mouth. Only those lips that spoke so many words from so many books. Now they spoke to her body. As they brushed past her knees his tongue told her of desire. As he knelt up to kiss her thighs he reached up to her body and laid her down on the floor. And she lay. Listening. Quietly

He kissed her slowly, sometimes gently, sometimes more insistently, sometimes his tongue would taste her, sometimes a gentle blow of breath would make her shiver. Always watching her, reading her. Still his lips the only touch. They told her how beautiful was her skin, how smooth, how soft. They showed how he had imagined her form beneath her clothes. How he knew the line of her shoulders, her jaw, the curve of her breasts, the trim of her waist, the feminine dip of her stomach.

When his lips found her sex still she was silent. Her eyes closed. They were both listening to the tale her body would share. His mouth exploring, his tongue finding a way. Licking gently at first and, as her hips joined in the story, moving more quickly. His tongue circling, spreading her wide. No other touch. Only the story his mouth would reveal. Her legs spread to allow him inside, turning a page, her hips raising to another chapter. Silence, only her breathing and his tongue lapping her hungrily now, pressing inside her then flicking across her clit as her back arched and her whole body joined the story, words spinning, pages flying as he sucked and tasted to discover her ending.

They lay, surrounded by books, a story told, not a word spoken.

Touch

Stroking a cheek, fingers briefly touching lips.

Softly brushing down a neck,

across collar bones. 

A palm cupping a full breast.

A finger and thumb pinching a nipple.

The back of a hand skimming the soft skin across a stomach.

Caressing a hip bone.

Fingertips tapping a rhythm over thigh muscles.

Feeling the quiver of silken skin inside thighs

to wetness waiting.

Fingers teasing circles.

Slipping inside one, two, three.

A hand exploring, only this.

A body on edge.

Urgent hands grasping hips.

Moulding, turning a body about.

A flat hand pressed into a back.

A strong hand restricting breath.

Two hands holding a moment.

A body taken.

e[Lust] 38

Photo courtesy of Lucy and Alex of A Couple of Wankers

Enjoy. Muse. x

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Kink & Fetish
Anticipation
Bondage Blowjob
Filling you up
Learn the rope of knots: Square knot
Public tease
Swinging in Paris
Switch: Between Dom & sub – A BDSM Interlude
Thoughts & Advice on Sex & Relationships
A Porn and Masturbation Trifecta
Cathartic
Deal breakers
Deborah Sundahl’s Class & Female Ejaculation
How my pussy has changed
On Rejection
Outgrowing One-Nighters (At Least in Part)
The Good, the Bad, but Never the Ugly
Erotic Writing
4 O'clock in the Morning
At the Campsite
Brutal Passion
Cold Hot Cold
Empty
I want to spoil you
I'm a Bootlicker, and That's Okay
I'll Take Two Please!
In the Soft Morning Light
Lolita Twenty-Twelve
My orgasm
Parked (Curious Muse)
Preparation
Peter and Sophie on Holiday
Slow tease
Sodden Sheets
The Guide
The First Time Again
Week Night Sex

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