Dressed, she poses, not showing her interest in his reaction.
His eyes move just as she desired.
"Good," she thinks, and moves just a bit, noting his flushed response.
Flustered, he stammers a 'good-day', she nods, and he walks out.
A smile she permits herself, noting her carefully cultivated prettiness in the mirror of her dressing table, she stands and begins unbuttoning her dress.
She leaves her pearls about her throat, anticipating the effect over her nude breasts.
They were a gift from him, she wondered if it was too much, the calculus of this overwhelming her, fascinating her, surprisingly arousing to her.
She sees her neck and chest flush about the pearls. She feels she has given something of herself in wearing them for him to see. What would he expect in return?
She notes another smile, for yielding to him, excruciatingly slowly, pleased her in a way she felt was scandalous. Not the yielding, but the pleasure she took in it.
Her dress unbuttoned, she gathered it and pulled it over her head, releasing it once free and holding it before her. It was a pretty thing, purchased quite dearly and fitted over and over until it was precisely the her she wished in her mirror. She walked to the closet, found the hanger made especially for this dress, and hung it carefully. She stooped to spread the train, admired it once more, and exited her closet before she began an extended tour in planning her appearance for the rest of the weekend.
He did not know how he played in her calculations, what reactions she planned for each encounter, the satisfaction she took each time she predicted correctly, the despair she felt when she feared he had not noticed the feature that she wished promoted. What did men see in women? Could it be far simpler than she thought? Not possible, she concluded, they are easy enough to guide, but it cannot be so obvious.
Turning, she found her way to the dressing table, gazing at her form over the multitude of pretty jars and bottles, the endless modalities of color, scent, and texture in the various options for the proper presentation at times of day, days of week, seasons of the year, and infinite web of relationships now here, desired to be there, this bottle to ensure the finest material is saved for her dressmaker, this jar to provide just the right sheen to catch his eye in a room lit with candles and one great fire, this small box precisely right for a chance (is there such a thing? no, she dismissed the possibility) encounter by moonlight. Oh, yes, one's appearance guided the decisions that others made about you that could ensure success or guarantee failure.
She knew all this at an exquisitely young age, practicing on those about her, laughing with her friends at their failures, crying alone and with her closest friend when the best they could do just didn't quite work.
She removed her slip, teasing herself with a strip before the glass, wiggling just so, presenting the curves one by one, realizing she was quite literally practicing for him. There, she thought, he must be the one. Was it his eyes, his shoulders, those absurdly large hands? The pearls, she fingered them, it was definitely the pearls. Of course, in accepting them, she had given herself away. Now he knew the next level of liberty would be permitted, didn't he? Well, we'll see, she thought. She trusted herself to work all the sums when the time came and to react correctly given the situation. He was certainly becoming her man, though she was sure he did not know what that meant, yet, but she intended his education to continue.
She set a determined look, glanced at the mirror, and had to stifle a giggle at herself. She removed her earrings and placed them in her jewelry box.
Standing, she reached behind herself and unclasped her brassiere, throwing it on the bed. She seriously examined her breasts in the mirror, the pretty pearls hanging down just so, above them, the curves in this direction complementing those, the cute pink points growing at her (embarrassment?, or was that what she called her arousal, now?) reaction to seeing her nude torso and knowing she was practicing it's presentation to her future husband. No, he would not see it until after they were wed. Before, and he might not like what he'd seen.
She turned, wiggled, watched herself in the mirror. No, a second thought, he would fall desperately in love with her and become a nuisance, just wanting to see them over and over, or heaven forbid, wanting to touch them.
With those broad hands, the fingertips, touching her so softly, like so, caressing (how did he know?) so softly, then firmly squeezing them (like this...) kneading their complex texture, feeling the sudden rush of warmth beneath his palms, the nipples growing so firm, so hard, he bent to take them in his lips...)
She broke away from herself, fanning herself, was she losing her perspective? Did her charms fall away so easily?
Was she in love?
She imagined him naked, had him pirouette in her imagination as she turned before her mirror, her breasts swinging before him, displaying herself for his pleasure. his hands sliding down her waist to her hips, finding the band of her panties, the lace no challenge to his powerful arms, slipping down, down, baring her
pussy
to his gaze.
She pulled the flimsy fabric back up, naughty imagination! The panties were beautiful, lacy, transparent, the carefully crafted shape of her pubic hair kept trimmed into a heart above her ...
showing through the pastel green flimsy.
Yes, it's there, it's our road to heaven, but first you must...
first, you must,
be worthy, be
you.
This will all be simpler if at the precisely correct moment, you simply take me.
Force me.
Give me no choice but to surrender.
We are the weaker sex, slaves to our emotion, no match for your cold calculating logic, your burning insistent lust, your steel
hard
manhood.
She slides the panties down, they fall to her ankles, she drops her head in the mirror and steps out of them, sodden, and surrenders (she peeks upward to be sure her pose is true, that her future husband will know he has defeated her utterly and can
claim
what
is
his
and
his, alone.
Now she stands, she sees, quite naked, her makeup heavy-day formal, her pearls drawing attention down to the most feminine breasts, signaling her fertility and virginity, the gaze automatically dropping to the quite natural maturity of the hairy middle above the strategically remaining hose and heels.
