The dress

He comes back in and, on closing the door, shows me a glossy purple neckerchief that he produces from his pocket, and a small parcel wrapped in the paper of the same shop whose numbered perfume he likes me to use before going to sleep.
I feel curious and advance towards him, extending my hands to both objects; but he checks me with a motion of his, and with a mischievous smile in his eyes, leads me to the center of the living room. Then he blindfolds me with the neckerchief and bids me to get undressed. I feel a concoction of shyness and suspicion, but already a little ember of excitement has started lighting within my stomach.
I obey, and start stripping. I can’t see him, but he’s observing me, scrutinizing all and any of my movements, watching my hands, and the garments that I drop on the floor one by one until, finally, my naked flesh gets all exposed before his eyes.
Now I hear him coming to me. I perceive his breath on my navel and the tip of his fingers drawing a circle around it. He smells my crotch to check how I am, and then, for all dress, he fastens a cold dense chain around my waist. I can’t help an intense flow of heat expanding from the core of my being, trough all my body to the tip of my limbs; but the mixtured feeling of the metallic coolness and the warm touch of his finger, outlining alongside my skin the contour of this only garment, makes me soon experience a strong shiver from nape to toes that I inmediately recognize: it’s the familiar lash of lust.
And I know that he has also noticed it, when I feel his erect shaft trying to push its way between my buttocks. Unleashed, eager for grabbing its thickness between my hands, I open my legs so as to make room for his burning virility. He releases a groan of pleasure on my neck, and his fingers crawl to my pubis, avidly searching some spot between my wet and turgid labia. His tongue, hotter than ever, ignites an uncontrollable bonfire inside me.  Everything collapses.
Only the chain dress remains unaltered.

(This idea is taken from text in Spanish by a friend of mine nicknamed Bankart.)

This entry was posted in Fiction. Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *