Tiny Dance

I sit and watch, trying to get a hold of feelings I didn't know existed any longer. She is my tiny dancer; the name just seems to fit.

I feel fierce around her, wanting to protect her and to be the only one to totally possess her body and soul. I want to worship her, lose myself in her. I want to drive her out of her mind with desire and then satisfy these wants.

She is so beautiful, with fiery red hair, smoky gray eyes, and skin so white and fair it glows like alabaster. Breasts large and still remarkably firm with thick nipples of rosy pink. She is all that as well as sweet and kind, loving and trusting.

Avid readers, of which I am one, count reading as their main hobby. I didn't use to. What type of person counts such a passive activity as one of their favorite things to do? But as I aged, I realized how much I truly loved to read and stopped trying to justify it. It gives me pleasure, that's all that matters.

Bookshops and libraries are dangerous places for us. One is looking for diversion from the world and retreat into one more amiable for the reader.

We find friends on the shelves. Some are short term while the good ones last a lifetime. Good places can keep us occupied for hours as we wander up one shelf and down another, picking up and examining a volume, replacing the majority which doesn't make the cut.

So it was one day at a local used bookstore. And then I turned the corner, nose buried in a book to which I was giving serious consideration when she ran into me. The book went flying, I staggered back a few feet, and she gave a startled exclamation as her books fell down.

Bending over, I picked up her books and started to hand them to her. I couldn't help smiling inwardly at the titles. Interesting selections, I thought, not cheap romances but definitely ones where the physical side of relationships played a strong part.

I stole a glance at her. Remarkably unremarkable. A scarf covered most of her head, a stray escaping lock of that fiery red hair the only clue to the buried treasure. Long and shapeless overcoat in a nondescript color cloaking her body. A pair of large round glasses hiding most of her face. If she was trying to hide in plain sight, she was a master.

Our hands touched as I handed over the books and I pulled mine back, startled. She gave a small yip of surprise. Some type of spark had passed when our hands touched. I reached out again, softly took her hand entirely in mine. It was quite small enough to fit. She didn't pull back.

We talked softly while standing in the aisle. It was like trying to tame a wild doe. One false move, one wrong word, and she would have bolted forever.

I steered her to the coffee bar inside the bookstore. After getting her a Lady Grey and me a British Breakfast tea, I made my way back to the table.

She was sitting there still in scarf and overcoat. I took off my coat, moved behind her chair and asked if I could help her here off with hers. After a brief hesitation she leaned forward and I slipped her jacket off while she removed the scarf.

I turned back from the table after hanging the coats on a rack and tried to not be caught staring as I was staring at the transformation before me. She was as I described above (except that the nipples were, of course, not a part of the viewing yet). She barely reached to my shoulders as we had walked. Altogether a tiny delicate package.

We talked about books, we talked about ourselves, we talked about our lives. Talk came easily.

I was happy over the ways things were going so far but I did have concerns over our differences in age. She, apparently, didn't seem to care, which meant she had no interest beyond a casual conversation in a bookstore or she just didn't care.

It turns out the latter was the case. She didn't hesitate too long when I asked her out. She didn't hesitate overly long when I asked her to dinner at my place on the 3rd date, which led to me offering one of my world famous massages with after-dinner wine which led to slow and satisfying love-making. And I discovered those wonderful nipples, so pink and large and so tender.

She wasn't a virgin but hadn't done much in the dating arena for a long time. She hadn't found a man with whom she felt comfortable.

The next time we ended up in bed, I held her wrists in one hand over her head while I used the other along with teeth, tongue, and lips to tease and titillate her until she begged for me to be inside her.

The aprez-sex talk certainly took some interesting turns as she opened up to my questions. She admitted that she had fantasized about being tied up and helpless, totally at the mercy of another.

I'm nothing if not a gentleman so I started teaching her the ropes, so to speak. She wasn't into pain as much as being dominated and denied her climax, which I was certainly glad to subject her to. You might say having an active imagination and a lot of patience left her well-pleased.

Tonight her hair is pulled back in a ponytail, which I'll make use of another time. Her wrists are securely bound behind her as well as elbows and upper arms, causing her breasts to stick out very nicely.

I don't have a dungeon with rings everywhere so I've secured her ankles to a spreader. Her pussy, nicely topped by a neatly trimmed fire engine red patch, will be a helpless prisoner to the tortures I'll be visiting on her. Tonight she wears a blindfold and gag to heighten the senses and let her know she won't be talking her way out of anything, although she hadn't been successful in this so far.

She quivers helplessly, waiting for she knows not what will come. I gently stroke her eager clit a single time and watch little tremors run up and down her body. I'm thinking of the reaction I'll get when I put on nipple clamps, she should go through the roof.

Tonight will be a long one. When I have her bubbling over, moaning for release, I intend to screw her until her knees collapse.

My la petite fille à son papa and I are wrapped up in our world, happily dancing to the music of our souls.