Monday, August 1, 2011

Dear Perfect Girl - #1 ... in her mirror

You know the way a woman can enter my thoughts with a confident sidelong glance as she makes her way across the crosswalk in front of my car on a spring day. How I take her in. Her stride, the way her pants ride her hips. This undercurrent of voyeurism has tuned my attention. I only need a few seconds. Her posture, the small upturned corner of her mouth in a fem-cocky smirk. I take it all in. Psychologically licking her, like an ice cream cone. Appreciating the sweet taste while maintaining control over the way she melts into my brain.

And I revel in the decisions she has made. Her short haircut accentuating the simple, feminine strength of her face. And I notice what she notices in the mirror when she is feeling good, and happy. The curve and nape of her neck. Is there any more private place on a woman typically laid bare for everyone to see? The makeup she applies sparingly, knowing that glow is far more seductive than sparkle. I feel like I am there with her as she pulls her pants up over her thong, and turns to check out her ass. No panty lines. She wonders what her ass looks like to others. How they see it. I love that she cares. And so on. I take it all in, and when she is past, and I drive on, I feel heightened. Alive.

My fantasy girl knows who I am and understands this about me. And she drinks in this kind of attention. She will call me, and tell me that she has bought new clothes. For a date, or for an event. Or sometimes, simply because she enjoys the unspoken power it gives her over people like me. I will go to her. In her dressing room she will stand in front of the long mirrors, and get dressed for me. For her. She is nervous, because like me, this is exciting for her. This perversion of an everyday occurrence.

She has a natural body that many would consider doing unnatural things to achieve. She is young and in her prime. She hasn't always been this way, so she appreciates it even more than I do. She is naked. Running her hands over her body, she confirms the visual evidence with the tactile. A gentle squeeze of her breasts reasserts the firmness she sees in front of her. A slight cupping lift in her hands demonstrates an appropriate heft for their perfect shape. She smiles coyly, and it is the perfect mixture of modesty and naughtiness. Her new shirt is thin, and is meant to fit close to her. Not tight or clingy. But in a way that mimics the taper of her torso. The new shirt spills gracefully onto her hips. The shirt is thin enough to make her choice of bra a concern. She tries on a number of them. I watch. And we both comment on what we see. This one holds her too high. That one pushes in and up, in a way that takes away from the round fullness of her natural shape. She tries it without a bra. She moves in and out of the light trying to see her nipples through the material. She looks at herself from the side. Arches her back. Holds her hands behind her back. Leans forward. She wants to know how she looks doing each of these things. She is loading her gun. And finally, she decides. No bra. Her tits sit perfectly and spread sideways ever so slightly. The only place on her entire torso that the material stretches is across her tits. The stretch lines are not extreme, but they are obvious. Perfect. She looks me in the eyes, and as she does this, she pinches hard on her nipples. And twists. They are hard and obvious. And there is one more stretch line across her shirt, directly linking her nipples. She smiles. More naughty this time.

She tries on several pairs of panties, assessing each one for its visible panty line or lack thereof. She sits in a chair, and stands again. Crosses and uncrosses her legs. As panties creep into her ass she turns and stretches and looks in the mirror. She pulls them out and rearranges them. I notice, in the mirror, that her nipples are still hard. This has an electric effect on me. She playfully hikes them up between the cheeks of her ass. She tells me that she likes how that feels. It is building for both of us. And she is feeding off the obvious effect this all has on me. She lets a fingernail drag over her clit as she puts on the high cut panties she has chosen. Her skirt is modest, but flirtatious. Not tight, but of a light material that will cling to her legs as she walks in the wind. She tests how this looks by pulling it from behind. It is delicious. She asks me to pull on it so she can see what she looks like with her arms in a normal position. She asks me to pull it tighter.

Her sandals are obvious, but she puts them on for full effect. Her calves look amazing as she twists in the mirror and stands up on the balls of her feet. And then, when she is all dressed, she poses. She looks amazing, and she knows it. This drives me insane, and she knows it. And she loves it. And she touches herself. And so do I. And we feed off each other's excitement. And this all is a fantasy. Or is it?