Blacout Molestation

Stretched out upon the sofa, her head resting securely in my lap, she sleeps peacefully. Necessitating the dim candlelight, the blackout has actually resulted in a romantic setting, the gentle flickering of the candles seeming to cause her face to glow with the innocence of a newborn child.

She sleeps, yet a soft smile gently tugs at the corners of her dainty little mouth. I am certain that she can feel my fingers gently toying with her thick red strands, or feel my opposite hand gently caressing her pale warm cheek. Yet does she present that Mona Lisa smile because of my loving actions, or because of something in her mind? Does she dream, and if so, does she dream of me, of us?

My eyes focus on her eyelashes. Long and thick and painted in darkest black, they flicker slightly in her sleep, tempting me, beckoning me, demanding my attention. When we had first met while waiting for a computer programming class to begin, it was those very same eyelashes which had caught my attention, even moreso than her thick red hair.

Her lips part slightly, the movement attracting my eyes. The red paint almost exactly matches her lengthy hair. Applied heavily, she still bears some lipstick upon those very lips, despite having covered my face and neck with the imprint of those lips earlier, when she had been in a very playful mood, just prior to the electricity suddenly cutting out.

I can feel the slight rouge upon her cheek. It is still strange to me that she prefers to add a little rouge, given that she is such a shockingly-evident redhead. Yet that is one of the things which has endeared her to me: She likes to do the unexpected, just to surprise people.

She takes a deep breath, inherently causing her feminine swells to rise even more upon her chest, the additional altitude drawing the attention of my eyes. While they are fully covered and thus socially presentable at the moment, her blouse has been unbuttoned just enough to reveal an ample amount of cleavage. From my vantage point, I can see well down the top of her thin white blouse to see the upper edge of each cup of her lacy white low-cut bra – any lower and her succulent breasts would spill out with any slight movement.

I so desperately want to slip a hand down her neck and inside her blouse. I want to feel a breast slowly rising from her ribcage, and allow my fingers to slip inside her bra to lovingly tease a nipple, never stopping until she involuntarily gives me a soft mew of delight.

But, I am good. Despite myself, I continue to caress her cheek and finger her lengthy red strands. She sleeps peacefully, her face glowing with the innocence of a newborn child. Her hands resting upon her stomach with her piano-lengthened fingers intertwined like a woven rug, she is clearly at peace, with nary a care in the world to mar her slumber.

Yet, she continues to smile. As I glance once again down the top of her blouse and think naughty thoughts, I wonder if she smiles due to similar naughty thoughts. Does she imagine herself stretched out in the grass, staked to the ground, kissed by the moonlight as I adore her wonderful womanhood with my lips and my fingers and my tongue? Does she imagine us cuddling together by a small fire, trading fantasies that we both know will never be explored in reality? Does she picture herself performing a striptease for me while I take picture after picture after picture for her modeling portfolio? Does she imagine I sit behind her in a hot bubble bath, one hand lovingly kneading a breast as the other hand masturbates her slowly and reverently? Or does she perhaps picture herself kneeling before me once again, as secure in her nudity as the steel collar is securely padlocked to her neck?

My desire takes control of my hand. I may as well be someone else, watching helplessly as my own hand lifts from her rouged cheek. My fingers alight at the center of her collarbone, then slowly trail down her pale chest, veering a little to the left, starting to ascend the gentle slope of a breast.

A strange sound, somewhere between a happy mew and a contented sigh, escapes her slightly-parted lips. Her black-stockinged legs shift, her thighs sliding together underneath her blood-red skirt and producing a soft sound. My mind drifts to the previous evening, when I had been perched between those well-toned thighs, savoring the flavor of her liquid love and slowly causing her passion to spiral skyward repeatedly as she tugged at her secure bonds and cried sweetly into the darkness.

Her eyes flutter open, the smoky gray colors focusing upon my face. "Do you enjoy molesting beautiful young women as they sleep?" she challenges quietly, her lips and her eyes both smiling at me.

"Only those very few I have been privileged to love," I reply softly, squeezing her breast, my hand inside her bra. And I continue to molest this beautiful young woman well into the night, with neither of us having anything else to do because of the blackout.