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Granny or g? It had been a while since I’d entertained this debate, and in the end, onset by sudden sanity, my harlot side lost out. I tucked the G-string back to the bottom of my panty drawer, where it would sleep for years to come. Today would be as straight as the lace on the granny panties that I pulled, resolutely, up and around the contours of my thighs.
Modesty becomes me. Not. From the bedroom’s full-length mirror my reflection smiled triumphantly at me. Elizabethan undies can’t contain me. Or (I’m told) the mesmerizing hold of my peachy arse. I turned my back to the mirror, taking in the creamy cotton that cradled it. My man magnet. It had drawn the many a guy’s gloopy gaze, including, countless hot summers ago, Enn’s.
His letter sprawled across my bedsheets. Defiantly I stared it down as I reached for modest clothing. A cotton summer dress, hovering at the knee. A panty-matching bra to hide from horny eyes my fluctuating nipple-flex. Heeled sandals, pastel-painted toes apeeping. A cursory gaze at the clock. I swept the plaintiff pages into my handbag and set out.
Not for the first time, though first in a long time, I find myself waiting for Enn. These are the small vices that undo potential magic. And where would we have been but for it? On a Thursday mid-morning the hotel lobby is quiet and cool. I sink languid in a comfy chair, a double espresso on its way. Walking hand-in-hand across the beach a young couple strolls across my view. I reach into my handbag and puzzle, for the Ennth time, over the letter.
My Dearest Darling Hache
Time has cleaved us apart. And yet, persistent thoughts and yearning cleave you ever to my chest. While I accept we’ve weaved lives apart, there is one final boon I have to beg of you. All those years ago, I took to writing a bedtime tale, and it was my wish to read it to you. And watch you drift to dreams. We parted before I reached its end. You had your reasons. Decades on, I’ve found the courage to finish what I’d started. I’d love the opportunity to hand it to you. Not, alas, as sleepers, but former lovers bidding a gentler goodbye.
The waiter interrupted my reading with the coffee. Her mind was elsewhere, as were her manners. bağcılar escort She flexed her superpower, dropping the cup distractedly without making a spill, her eye on some looming emergency in the kitchen. I darted a gaze across the lobby, to scan the clock. What I found was a familiar form, lanking purposefully toward me.
“Hache! How nice to see you.” He was polite as ever, hugging me with platonic affection as he draped those arms warmly around my frame, his instant erection nuzzling hungrily into my belly. I pressed appreciatively against him. It had been too long. My cheek lifted off the mess of sweat and pheromones on his chest, and we smiled reminiscently as our eyes met. “Nice to see you too.”
To be noticed, she had to effect a slight cough. Enn was transfixed, and hadn’t noticed the waitress, who fruitlessly pressed her youthful tits deeper into the perishpere of his gaze. It was only when I smiled exaggeratedly up at her that his head turned. His was a virgin mojito. He thanked her, but left it unsipped, as that would involve taking his eyes off me.
The chatter proceeded more smoothly than I’d thought. In spite of years of intervening silence — and the intimacy-crushing boundaries our present circumstances imposed — our conversation was oiled by a fuzzy familiarity. And it flowed. His childless dadbod leaned engagingly forward as he listened to me. Perhaps my ophthalmic expertise oversensitises me to the elements of gaze, and I read more into its subtle variations than I should. Yet I felt a feint gratitude that I’d dressed with some modestly, as the forty-some minutes of our chat exposed me to the most thorough eye-fuck I’d endured in years. He took in every inch of me, roaming with nostalgic appreciation across the curves he once commanded. His chest micro-expanded as he savoured the caramel skin on my calves.
“I thought we could do it right here.” For a moment I was stunned by shock, disbelief, and a surprising jolt of excited anticipation. He couldn’t possibly… though again, surprise always had loose limits with him. It was only when he’d settled in the chair by my side, overlooking the same sea view, and bahçelievler escort opened the small notebook he’d been cradling since he came, that I grasped his true meaning. “You want to read your story to me here?” “Your story,” he corrected shifting slightly closer, as he turned the first page.
We forget, in time, the small things. His voice has a somnambulant droop, and five minutes into his reading, I felt it tugging me, gently, out of wakefulness. I felt the embarrassment of being read to, like a child, on the public patio of a beachfront hotel. I felt it compounded by the awkwardness of near nodding off. I felt also the autonomy of our animal instincts. Through the fog of time, my body remembers his body. It readies for his embrace, and the peaceful pleasure of falling asleep in its lingering hold. It proprioceives the pressure of the touchpoints, his belly soft against my spine, arms around my ribcage, open hands cupping pert breasts. It readies, presumptively for what cannot and will not be, my panties absorbing the first emissions. It tingles, deeply.
“Let’s make a deal,” I began, snapping out of the looming reverie. “We’re at an hotel — there may be more comfortable ways of doing this. Promise you’ll keep your dick to yourself, and perhaps we can live out your bedtime fantasy in a suitably boundaried way.” “Pinkie promise,” he replied, proffering a finger that wrapped indulgently around my own, in what should have been an omen we both blinded ourselves to.
Hugs are platonic. Nothing wrong with that. An embrace is just a time-frozen hug. What is acceptable standing up may, without compunction, play out horizontally. We spooned on the bed in a room that he booked. The staff here are efficient. Ours overlooked the sea; at five storeys we had a sweeping view of its vastness. I’d kicked off my shoes and kept the rest. He did the same. After all we’ve been through, and the time apart, I still could trust him to stick to his word.
I don’t remember when he started reading. If he kicked off from where we left it at the patio, or if he started afresh. What I do know is that the precautionary coffee was underbrewed, and şirinevler escort did nothing to arrest the sleep that followed inevitably from the sedative drone of his narration. His arm, draped around my mid, would feel the steady, elongated heaving of my chest, as I slipped away.
Fragments of the dream are clear. I walked a tightrope high above the spellbound crowd. Vulnerable, and exposed, in an undersized leotard that added to the mesmerizing hold I had. With each step forward, the ground and the crowd drifted further away, as I felt a growing giddiness, my legs clamped by a mysterious lethargy, and butterflies dancing on the surface of my skin.
Waking unfolds in stages. First, the sudden absence of the circus. An unfamiliar wall, then queer curtains, as the hotel room impresses itself in bits. Crumpled on an unknown floor, I recognise my bunched bloomers. How did they travel? Then on my thighs, now truly exposed, I still feel the dancing of butterflies. It is Enn. He has bunched my dress around my hips and now, stooping inverted over me, plants indulgent kisses over my legs. He always loved my legs. He grasps one in each of his vice-like arms, as his mouth moves up the back of my thighs.
I’m aware of the moisture, and the clear feeling of a violation. But I catch sight of his pants and they’re done. It strikes me that I’ve never seen him flaccid, as my mere presence has always sent a rush of blood all along the length and girth of him. And there it is. Near bursting through his pants, his tethered tentpole.
In the final layer of waking, it is clear. The wet aftermath is not due to a betrayal of his promise. I should have known Enn, always a literalist. While his cock remains reluctantly tethered, he had never promised to keep his tongue to himself. Indeed, how would the reading have been possible without it? I take a deep breath as he continues his studied rimming, sending electric pulses through my chest, with each loving probe of his tongue. Quietly I calm my jilted vagina, assuring her that her time is mere moments away. Her response is Pavlovian.
Involuntarily I reach out. Old habits die hard, even after years of neglect. His zip and button were undone by the time I consciously realised what I was doing. I paused to retreat, when I recalled — the pinkie twisting bound only one of us. As his tongue lashed across my wettest, hottest parts, I felt in my clutch the earnest hunger of his man-meat. Bursting with years of longing. Twitching hungrily for me. I held it like a guardrail, as his kisses sent me over the edge.
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