Short Stories
Perfect
I look down on her and my breath quickens. I've never done this before.
A shiver rises up my spine...is it nerves? Anxiety? Panic? Pleasure?
She has beautiful skin. Pale, delicate and almost flawless. Almost.
A scar runs down her chest, between her small yet ample breasts. At some point in her life she had major surgery for something. Somehow it doesn't detract from her looks. Her face is dusted with freckles and her high cheek bones and soft jawline give her the appearance of a china-doll. The silky red dress she's wearing is short, but tastefully so, revealing just enough well-defined leg to entice, not so much as to be slutty. Her tight bum and hour-glass figure suggests that she takes good care of her body, exercising and eating right. Her eyes are a gorgeous shade of green that instantly draws your attention - a man could drown in those big round orbs.
I stare at her for what seems an age, too afraid to move in case I ruin this magical moment. My legs have other ideas and start to complain loudly. I shake them to stave off the cramp and turn my attention to the black leather bag at the foot of the bed. I close it with a snap of the metal clasp and turn the brass key in its lock. I take one final look around. Perfect. Everything is perfect.
As I head out the door of the small apartment I sneak one last glance back at the bed, at my first. You are the first, my love. The first of many. But you, you alone shall hold a special place in my heart. I close the door as gently as I can, and replace the 'do not disturb' sign on the handle.
I am alone. It is raining harder than ever and I am alone. I loathe this feeling. Every fibre of my being longs to be back in that room, back with my first. To experience those feelings again, the heights of passion and yes, even the fear. The fear is good too. It reminds you that you're still alive. But I must keep moving. I cannot stop. Even as I turn the corner and enter the park I know my second is already out there, waiting for me. Begging me to come to her. To make her….perfect.
A shiver rises up my spine...is it nerves? Anxiety? Panic? Pleasure?
She has beautiful skin. Pale, delicate and almost flawless. Almost.
A scar runs down her chest, between her small yet ample breasts. At some point in her life she had major surgery for something. Somehow it doesn't detract from her looks. Her face is dusted with freckles and her high cheek bones and soft jawline give her the appearance of a china-doll. The silky red dress she's wearing is short, but tastefully so, revealing just enough well-defined leg to entice, not so much as to be slutty. Her tight bum and hour-glass figure suggests that she takes good care of her body, exercising and eating right. Her eyes are a gorgeous shade of green that instantly draws your attention - a man could drown in those big round orbs.
I stare at her for what seems an age, too afraid to move in case I ruin this magical moment. My legs have other ideas and start to complain loudly. I shake them to stave off the cramp and turn my attention to the black leather bag at the foot of the bed. I close it with a snap of the metal clasp and turn the brass key in its lock. I take one final look around. Perfect. Everything is perfect.
As I head out the door of the small apartment I sneak one last glance back at the bed, at my first. You are the first, my love. The first of many. But you, you alone shall hold a special place in my heart. I close the door as gently as I can, and replace the 'do not disturb' sign on the handle.
I am alone. It is raining harder than ever and I am alone. I loathe this feeling. Every fibre of my being longs to be back in that room, back with my first. To experience those feelings again, the heights of passion and yes, even the fear. The fear is good too. It reminds you that you're still alive. But I must keep moving. I cannot stop. Even as I turn the corner and enter the park I know my second is already out there, waiting for me. Begging me to come to her. To make her….perfect.