jinnysub
Literotica Guru
- Joined
- Nov 15, 2001
- Posts
- 652
I let her pull me down to the floor by the hand; I let her guide me to a position just in front of her, and I sit, mindful that I'm wearing a skirt, almost as if my mother were telling me "Sit like a lady." Wondering if my mother ever wore panties like this that make "sit like a lady" at once a joke as well as a greater necessity.
This woman in front of me is beautiful. Her sweater is just loose enough to make one unsure of the size of her breasts, but tight and sheer enough that each time she moves another point or curve is accentuated.
Her jeans accentuate the curve of her hips, and the seam between her thighs seems to be ever so slightly deeper within the puffy rises on either side. She sits cross-legged, leaning over a bit to me and I see that she, too, is wearing no bra.
She sees me looking and holds her pose a second longer, letting me know that she saw my notice.
The stiff front of my blouse is uncomfortable against my hardening nipples, and I shift imperceptibly to allow space between blouse and skin. Again, she lets me know that she has noticed, and that she knows.
Yes, she knows.
I think she knows more about what is going on in my mind than I do at the moment.
She also knows what is going on outside my mind.
My heart beating faster, more insistently.
My nipples hardening, uncomfortable against the blouse but seeking more discomfort, more contact.
The electricity between nipples and belly, the need to shift my seat as flesh softens, puffs, moistens of its own accord.
She knows that the edges of the panties, the inner edges of the crotchless portion, are making themselves known now. They are no longer forgotten as a ring on a finger, but noticeable as if one has just changed the ring to a different finger. The lace is no longer soft in comparison to the skin as the skin softens, moistens. She knows that at the outer edges, the elastic fits no longer as it did five minutes ago. Just five minutes ago as I pulled them up as I stood up from the toilet. Again I shift my seat, and again she notices. She knows.
She knows, and I realize that her knowledge comes from her being also a woman. These are uncharted waters. For me, at least.
How does one make love to someone who knows one's mysteries? How is one loved by such a one?
This woman in front of me is beautiful. Her sweater is just loose enough to make one unsure of the size of her breasts, but tight and sheer enough that each time she moves another point or curve is accentuated.
Her jeans accentuate the curve of her hips, and the seam between her thighs seems to be ever so slightly deeper within the puffy rises on either side. She sits cross-legged, leaning over a bit to me and I see that she, too, is wearing no bra.
She sees me looking and holds her pose a second longer, letting me know that she saw my notice.
The stiff front of my blouse is uncomfortable against my hardening nipples, and I shift imperceptibly to allow space between blouse and skin. Again, she lets me know that she has noticed, and that she knows.
Yes, she knows.
I think she knows more about what is going on in my mind than I do at the moment.
She also knows what is going on outside my mind.
My heart beating faster, more insistently.
My nipples hardening, uncomfortable against the blouse but seeking more discomfort, more contact.
The electricity between nipples and belly, the need to shift my seat as flesh softens, puffs, moistens of its own accord.
She knows that the edges of the panties, the inner edges of the crotchless portion, are making themselves known now. They are no longer forgotten as a ring on a finger, but noticeable as if one has just changed the ring to a different finger. The lace is no longer soft in comparison to the skin as the skin softens, moistens. She knows that at the outer edges, the elastic fits no longer as it did five minutes ago. Just five minutes ago as I pulled them up as I stood up from the toilet. Again I shift my seat, and again she notices. She knows.
She knows, and I realize that her knowledge comes from her being also a woman. These are uncharted waters. For me, at least.
How does one make love to someone who knows one's mysteries? How is one loved by such a one?
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