"You don't look anything like I expected you to," she says, walking slowly out of the bathroom. "I pictured you as....darker. More Italian." She runs her finger along her bare arm, looking down almost as if ashamed.
"If it helps, you look just as I imagined you would," I say mock-gallantly. "You certainly lived up to your billing."
"What, you mean these?" she says, suddenly brash, cupping her generous breasts and lifting them up and towards me. "These .... puppies?"
"Those "puppies", yes. They are magnificent," I tell her. In fact, they're all I've been able to think about for the last two hours. Not even the pale buzz from the three or four cocktails we've had has been able to distract my fevered mind from the shade of her cleavage and the promise of her nipples, subtly dampened by the cloth of her bra.
"You don't like my legs, then?" she asks teasingly. "Or my hips?"
Inside I'm feeling just like the archetypal man, raddled by lust and not sure how I came to be here. I'd loosen my tie and pull on my collar if I were wearing one. I can almost feel the sweat pooled beneath my skin, ready to ooze through my pores as the temperature rises.
But outside, I'm still calm. "Your legs..." I muse out loud. "Hmmmm."
I get up from the sofa and walk around her, looking at each and every part of her body. Now that she's no longer dressed, now that she's no longer elegantly informal, she looks less worldly, but her pride in her body is unmistakable.
"Your feet are so small," I tell her. "They're like a child's."
"You know what that means, don't you?" she murmurs. She has one arm folded across her chest, while the other runs over her gently curved stomach.
"No," I say. "What does it mean?"
"It means," she says, her eyes alight, savouring the moment and the thought she's having, "it means that I'm very small inside, and I'm sure you're going to fill me right up." She looks meaningfully at my crotch as she says it, almost willing me to grow, to swell as if to prove her theory right.
And, truth be told, my cock does react to her gaze, the heat in her pupils that focuses just behind my zipper. I feel a gentle strain on my boxers and then on my trousers. And she smiles, a little curve of pure mischief.
I glance down to the bottom of her stomach. Her mound, a small hillock that nestles at the top of the shaded valley between her thighs, is clean-shaven. For a moment I can see myself parting those thighs, gently running my hand along her cleft, searching out her dampness.
I return my mind to the matter at hand. "Your thighs look very smooth," I tell her. "I'm sure you rub lots of moisturising cream into them every night." They look strong, too, those thighs, with just enough muscle to hold the flesh in check. "I'm sure they'd feel fantastic against my hips."
She bends forward a little and looks down. Her breasts spill a little over her arm, like a generous stomach straining against a belt. "So you want me to straddle you, do you?" she asks, looking up again. "You want me on top?"
Somewhere in the distant back of my mind, restraint is cast gently loose.
"Oh certainly you're going to spend some time on top," I assure her. "We're going to find out just how firmly we can lock together. How tightly you can grip me inside, and how long you can resist not moving, for example."
Her eyes widen, half in amusement, half in something else. I walk around to look at her from behind. Her hips sway gently as she resists turning to watch my progress, concentrating instead on seduction. My hand reaches out instinctively, but I hold back. Touching will come.
"Put your arms behind your head," I tell her gently. "I want to see the shape of your breasts from behind." As her hands reach up to gather her glossy hair, the outside of those marvelous breasts move into view. It's my favourite view of a well-endowed woman, the swell of the breasts echoing the arch of her hips below.
"You like?" she asks in a low voice. Once again I'm gripped by the need to run my hands along her skin, to follow those curves, to acquaint myself with the texture and the warmth.
Instead I walk round in front of her again, and as I pass her, I lean towards her ear and softly murmur "I think you're.....ripe. I think you're ready," and I smile as she squirms slightly.
"What am I ready for?" she asks, half uncertain yet half defiant. Her arms drop to her sides.
"I think you're ready to undress me."
At this, she seems to grow in stature. She raises her head, her stance is a little more assured. "Where would you like me to start?" she asks mock-politely.
"Wherever you wish," I say, and I move to stand where she is, in the middle of the bedroom.
With one hand on her hip, she surveys me. All sense of her own nudity has gone, now she is all business.
"Let's have that shirt off to start with," she says, and reaches out to unbutton it.
Her hands are steady, steadier than mine were when I unzipped her skirt. Her fingers are warm and dry, flirting with my skin as they pass gracefully from button to button. Each touch is a little flash of lightning passing between us, but she ignores it.
As the last button comes loose, she gathers the tails of the shirt and tugs them apart, revealing my stomach. I can feel her eyes running slowly back up, from the wisps of hair at my belt to the small flourish on my chest. Her hand rises, as if to touch my sternum, to run her fingers through the hair just above.
"You're not finished yet," I tease her. But I too am gripped by yet another impulse to reach out and lay my hands on her magnificent breasts, to run my fingers across her gently undulating stomach. Either of us could so easily bring this to an end, break the spell.
She reaches down and tugs on my belt. As it comes loose, she draws her arm back to pull it out of the loops, and the action draws one breast away from the other. Her cleavage, the dusky valley, comes into the light for a moment.
As if in response that that sight, my hands move towards the button of my trousers, suddenly betraying my impatience. At this she clucks her tongue, and taps my wrist. "We'll have none of that," she chides me. "You'll show yourself to me when I'm good and ready and not before." And my hands fall back to my side.
She reaches up to pull the shirt off my shoulders, standing on tiptoe as she does, and I feel her breasts against me for a moment. They're warm, hot even, and her nipples are standing out slightly, with the promise of more to come. I catch my breath.
"Did you like that?" she asks. "Did the touch of my breasts make you a little harder? Shall we check?"
And for a moment she glances at me, and a truth passes between us, as if we are both agreeing that "Yes, this game is enjoyable, and stimulating. And it's wafer-thin, this veneer of civilised seduction. We're a cigarette-paper away from dropping to the floor and rutting like animals."
I understand, and so does she.
