True sensuality is free from external accesories. “Erotic” complements, “sexy” garments and the like, are meant for those who lack a natural lewdness. Real prurience rises spontaneously from our entrails, driving our behaviour; it doesn’t need to be–no: it can’t be triggered by an imagination artificially excited.
Kneeling on the carpet, she’s studying some notes that lay scattered on the bed; her knees jointed, buttocks up, belly and elbows resting on the mattress. She is wearing a dress – the same purple one she’s been using for the last four days – that covers her body and comes down to her thigs; but nevertheless she’s naked; she always is: wearing no knickers ever except when needed; no brassiere required by her childish tiny breasts.
I’m sitting at the desktop, computing.
She starts humming to call my attention. I turn my head and see her: apparently focused on her reading, bent over some notes; but one of her hands is slowly pulling up her thigs the brim of her dress, showing inch by inch more of the white flesh until, at last, utterly exposing her round, firm and turgid rump, which she starts waving at me like a bullfighter would his cape at the bull.
But she doesn’t look in my direction me nor stops reading. One would say her anatomy is divided in two independent halves: the upper one, a diligent student preparing her thesis; the lower one a salacious beast, an unsatiable libertine craving for inmediate sensual gratification.
Irremissibly aroused, I jump from my chair and take her. She keeps studying.
A few minutes later she pulls down the brim of her dress, putting it in place. No sign of her lechery is left but for the two creases in the bedspread, where her hands gripped, and a blot of saliva blurring one of her notes.