I admire her so!
Oh I so admire her!
I admire her for the keen, shining self-knowledge she possesses. And for her fathomless courage. Enabling her not only to deal with the crazy shit of this stupid world in general, but also to be the inspirational accomplished dominating woman she is.
She's twenty-five. Beautiful. Black. Humourless, towards me at least. And completely in charge. I'm a thirty-seven year old white guy and I never had that kind of self-awareness or self-confidence. Before meeting her, that is. But she's inspired me to discover and explore my true self, and given me the space to grow and flourish in submission to her. She's incredible. And it's truly an authentic pleasure, and a profound honour, to be allowed to experience her authority in such direct proximity.
I'm kneeling on the floor beside her as she sits in her armchair concentrating on her phone. She hasn't told me to do anything else yet. I came over as instructed when she texted me about twenty minutes ago. I'd just got back from jogging when her text came through. My heart leapt. I showered, grabbed my favourite jeans and a crisp white t-shirt, gelled back my unruly short brown hair, splashed on some cologne, slid on my sneakers and within a matter of minutes I was out the door and dashing over on my bicycle.
"Kneel there," she'd pointed to the floor as she sat down in the armchair in the lounge.
And now she peruses her phone and taps out quick messages in response to someone or something elsewhere. I kneel and wait, and study her. Achingly pretty face. Beautiful dark brown skin. Her body, robust with rude health, with a hint of chubbiness. Attired in a soft purple bathrobe. Just out the shower. All cosy glowing freshness. No jewellery at the moment. Nor make-up. Short natural afro glistening. Barefoot, seated with her legs crossed. Right leg over her left knee, right foot distractedly bobbing up and down in mid air. I can't help wondering to myself if I might be allowed to kiss those delectable feet today.
She lets me wait here without even a glance in my direction.
"You can put some laundry in," she says finally, still without looking up from her phone. But then she does suddenly look at me, scowling. She waves a firm forefinger in my face as she adds, "No sniffing my panties, mind!"
"Okay," I respond, feeling my whole being instantly energised by the electricity of her gaze meeting mine. And my stomach somersaults at the joy of being targeted by her forceful caution.
"You better not, you filthy perv," she warns me. "And when the laundry's in, I'm going to need my nails doing. And then you can do the dishes and clean the bathroom. By which time that load of laundry should have finished so you can hang it up to dry."
"Certainly," I say.
She passes me an empty little plastic yoghurt pot with a teaspoon in. "Take this and get on with it," she waves her fingers dismissively at me and turns her attention back to her phone.
I take the empty pot and go through to the kitchen and drop it beside the sink with the little pile of washing-up to be done. Then I go and collect the laundry basket from her bedroom, loitering to bask momentarily in the secluded private spirit of her room, the joyous confidential privilege I truly live for. I pick up some garments of underwear from the floor beside the basket and drop them in and take the basket through to the kitchen.
As I'm loading the machine and handling her clothing I succumb to temptation and press a pair of panties to my face, a pair of faded fawn panties with pretty little yellow flowers on. I draw in a deep breath. My nostrils fill with the exhilarating admixture of scents. The natural fragrance of her skin, her sweat, the unmistakable tangy piquancy of the aroma of her cunt, and that earthy, smutty whiff of her bum. All captured in the fabric and blended oh so perfectly into the most exquisite and arousing perfume ever.
My cock throbs and I throw an involuntary guilty glance over my shoulder, even though I know she couldn't spy me being naughty from the front room.
There's no way I can resist. I just have to have this ambrosial keepsake for later. I stuff the panties into one of my jeans pockets. After loading the machine and setting it going, I go and fetch her nail polishes, her set of nail brushes and her toe separators and return to kneel at her feet. I ask which colour she would like.
