I’m waiting for him in the swing on my patio, short dress, no bra or panties. His instructions on the bra, my own initiative on the panties. It’s warm, but I have a sunshade and there is the hint of a breeze tugging at my skirt, flirting with my warm, bared skin. Teasing me.
I fall alseep, anticipating.
Then he’s there, and we chat, and I am waiting, wondering when he will discover that I am bare beneath the dress. I stand next to him where he sits in one of the patio chairs. His hand slides up under my skirt and he looks up at me, grinning. I feel flustered suddenly.
Some temptress am I!
We go inside and Ad is there and we are talking and making salad and doing all the mundane things we do, and the whole time I am thinking about his hand sliding up, stroking the skin of my thigh, my ass, my hip. And I just want to be alone with him for a minute. “Come upstairs,” I say, tugging at his hand.
He follows, and I imagine his hands on me, under my dress, encircling my waist, pulling me close to him. He’s giving me this look he has…intent, focused, promising…something. I’m nervous now, more flustered. “Turn around,” he says, “Bend over the bed.”
I do, unsure what that intent look means. He has used implements on me now, has teased and provoked me sexually with hands and toys and words and mouth – this could be either. Or something new entirely.
He leans over me and flips my skirt up, exposing my bare ass to him. Suddenly exposed, I am absurdly shy and want to pull my skirt back down, and I can feel the heat traveling up my neck into my face. He places one hand on my back, stilling me. I go quiet under his hand, as I always do, settling down into the space between words, between moments. His breath is warm on the nape of my neck as I feel the barest caress of his fingertips tracing over my labia. Barely, barely touching; teasing. My breath comes short and quickens.
I don’t recall now what he says to me – it’s hazy and fluid like the feel of his fingertips brushing me ever so gently, tantalizing, building anticipation until the room is charged with it and I ache to feel his fingers inside of me. When I think I might go mad with it, he finally parts my lips and pushes a finger inside of me. “There,” he says, “right there,” and yes, he has found that spot inside and is rubbing it and I moan and push back against him —
Only to have him draw away, chuckling as he pulls me to my feet and sets my dress aright and says we should go back downstairs.
And I am left to anticipate what might come next for the rest of the evening.