Peripheral Visions

(Stef)

It's the same route I take every day, and I'm reading one of the usual journals. Today's fascinating material includes "Cache-coherency for acceleration coprocessors." Stirring stuff. But, at the same time, I glance at the other commuters around me. Maybe I'm biased, but so many seem to be women. And, maybe I'm biased, but so many seem so very appealing. I'm happily married, understand, but I'm male, too, and can't help but look. My wife's OK with that. "Look but don't touch," she says, knowing full well that if I lose interest in women then she has a problem.

So I look, and I imagine. Really, I always know what's real and what exists only in my mind, even if I don't say it very well. So, I read a breathless but impractical research paper, taking in the ladies around me from the corner of my eye.

-----

I've seen this woman quite a few times, when our schedules overlap. A very handsome woman, she conveys a deliciously mixed set of impressions. Her face is built from strong, clear lines, but without the thickness of male features. She draws her hair back severely. Still, that ponytail would brush her shoulders if she let it down, and six or eight earrings glisten on each side. She wears business casual slacks and white blouse, tailored conservatively but not what a man would wear: collar a little too broad, buttons on the woman's side, and fitted to curves a man wouldn't have. Everything about her lies just on the womanly side of androgyny: face, hair, clothes, and figure.

Figure? Did I mention the smallest breasts I've ever seen on a grown woman? That subtle, unusual curve seems impossible not to stare at, but I restrain myself – barely. A swell, a softness, and the clear outlines of a bra under the darted fit of her shirt.

She gets up and leaves a few stops before mine. My eyes track her strong stride, curved hip, and deep thighs as she leaves the bus. I'll see her again in a week or two, or won't. But, once she's gone, an imagined scene unfolds before my mind's eye, one in which all the usual steps of getting to know each other can be dispensed with.

Stef. I imagine her name is Stef. Not Stefanie, too many syllables. Not Steffi, diminutives don't fit the strong, polished image she projects. The consonants lack girliness, but Stef is no way a man's name, not in English. That almost-androgyny again, it has a real appeal.

The fantasy fast-forwards through all the preliminaries, and I find us approaching her apartment. It's a smallish, neatly-kept building in a residential area, with maybe eight apartment units. I follow her full, mobile hips up a flight of stairs and wait while Stef unlocks the door. Sunlight fills the space through a window-wall that opens onto a small porch. Everything's done in whites and light blues, as neat and precise as Stef herself. Couches and low tables define this as a social space; some shelves hold a few books, quite a few CDs, and a stereo. Stef steps in and, before doing anything else, reaches for a control on the table near the entry. Soft jazz creates a comfortable background.

Stef wore sneakers for the walk home, with office shoes in her bag. She kicks them off into a closet near the door, then hangs her blazer and bag. I take the hint and kick my shoes off, too. I watch as she turns toward the galley kitchen: crisp white blouse, pale grey slacks taut across her hip and thigh but looser below, ironed to creases. The low, white socks add a softer touch, not quite at odds with her polished business clothes. She turns when she reaches the kitchen, reaches up to a cabinet, and pulls down two wine glasses. One or two more buttons on her blouse have been undone, so it opens a bit as she reaches – I see a quick flash of toned skin and black bra, which flickers as she pours a large glass for each of us. With one hand, she offers a glass; with the other, she undoes a few more buttons. Her shirt opens and closes itself as she moves, giving more than a glimpse of dark bra and defined abs. That roundness just below her waist is just part of how a woman's abs define her shape.

She picks up her own glass, takes my hand, and leads to the bedroom. Like the other room, this one's bright, spare, and neat. The bed continues the white and sky-blue theme. Shelves off to the side hold a flat TV, small by today's standards, some yoga videos, and an exercise mat. (Come to think of it, the living room lacked a TV. I'm not sure what that means, but I like it.) She sets her wine glass on the night stand, moves to the room's wide central space, and turns to me. She looks directly at me and smiles as she unbuttons her cuffs. I start to unbutton my shirt, too, but she swats my hand gently and says, "No, I want to do that," she says. "If a guy undresses too soon, I don't get a chance to play. Be patient."

I sit on the bed and watch as she undresses. She lifts one foot, balances easily, and slides the sock off. Same on the other side, then she sets them on a chair near the door. Still looking at me, she reaches around to the side of her slacks, undoes a button, then a zipper. A thumb on each side, she pushes them down til they fall the rest of the way by themselves. She steps gracefully out of the heap, then kneels to pick them up. She moves easily, with feline grace. She folds the pants once and drapes them over the chair. The elastic comes off her ponytail, and she shakes her hair loose. Dark waves cover her ear and brush her shoulder.

Stef turns to me again with that sweet smile. The bottom button of her blouse is still done, but it opens widely above that. White shirt-tails skirt her thighs. Black panties match her bra. With the open blouse, I see more of the bra, too. Straps are narrow since they don't need to carry weight, and a band an inch or two long connects the cups. They adorn and conceal, but she really doesn't need them otherwise.

I hadn't realized how petite she is until she steps toward me, silent on the soft carpet – her physical presence casts an aura of someone much more imposing. She reaches for my shirt buttons and tugs me to a standing position. The first few buttons come open under her touch. Once the collar opens a bit, she runs the flat of her hand over my chest. I wonder what she thinks, since I'm not the buffest around. A questioning look turns to a smile and she goes back to the buttons. She untucks the front, turns me, untucks the back, then slides it off my shoulders. After a moment to fold it, she turns me again, to face her, and warm firm hands go back to exploring my chest and shoulders.

A gentle push seats me on the bed again. She kneels in a smooth motion and peels my socks off. Firm touch examines my feet briefly, then she's up on the bed next to me. Another gentle push and I lie back.

Small, strong hands examine my thighs through my jeans, working up toward my pounding erection. She cradles that, too, through the jeans, smiles, and coos. Belt and zipper open, and she caresses again through my underwear. A damp spot already appears at the top of my erection. She rubs that with a finger, then lifts it to her nose. A sniff at the fingertip and her eyes close dreamily, a touch at the pink tip of tongue, then she returns to her task.

I take the hint when she tugs at my pants, and I lift my hips. The jeans slide off easily. Stef stands up, folds them, and kneels again next to me. She traces the shape of my erection through the underwear, and cups my balls in her hand. I twitch in reflex as she holds each testicle, but that just heightens my awareness of her. Another tug at my underwear. I lift my hips again, cooperate as they pass my knees and ankles, and they're off. For the first time, she drops them to the floor – her own excitement in my body overcomes her tidy precision.

I'm already streaming clear, slick pre-come by that point. Stef's fingers find it and spread it around the red crown of my erection. Another quick touch of fingers to tongue, then back to me. Small, strong hands grasp my erection, tug gently at the soft skin below, and caress my testicles as though she were sculpting them herself. She catches the next drop of pre-come before it falls, and returns it to my erection. If she wanted me to, I'd pop in her hand in just a minute.

She seems to know that, too, so leaves the bed. Back to the center of the room, she twirls so the shirt-tails flare, and says, "Undress me. Make me feel special." She closes her eyes and stands with her feet slightly apart, arms a little away from her sides, a posture of trust and expectation.

God, I've been holding myself back. I stand too, and take her hand as soon as I can reach it. I lift it to my lips and kiss each finger. Eyes still closed, she smiles. I keep holding her hand as I move around behind her. Once I can touch her shoulder, I let go of her hand. Standing behind her, I detect an herbal scent in her hair. Still holding her shoulders, I nuzzle one side of her neck, kiss through her hair, then nuzzle the other. A little higher, my lips find her earrings. I grasp one in my lips. Her frame trembles in my hand when I do, just once. I nibble one or two others in that ear, and and feel a tremor each time. The other ear proves just as sensitive, a conduit to something deep inside her.

I slide my hands up her shoulders to the wide, white collar of her blouse, then around to the lapels. I open the blouse wider, baring her shoulders. I kiss each inch as it appears, one side then the other. My lips brush the narrow strap of her bra, then work outward to the curve of her shoulder. Her shirt comes off her shoulders by inches, almost to her elbows, restraining gently.

I reach around to the wide plane between her breasts. Her breath catches and shoulder tenses under my hand – is she self-conscious about her small breasts? I stand closer behind her, my chest against her back and sway a little. I whisper in her ear about beauty and softness as my hand edges over the bra cup. After a moment, she relaxes and sways with me, slowly, barely moving.

Her bra's panel feels stiffer than I expected, as if she'd never want to be seen popping a nipple in the office. Still, I feel a bump under the bra, a nipple aroused under that armored lingerie. I slide my hand again, to move under under her bra. My clammy palms and her steamy skin create friction where there's no extra room, so I can only caress the edge of her breast. As I play, I keep murmuring about her perfect shape and how it feels in my hand.

She's relaxed against me, though, leaning more weight against my chest. I shift my hand from her breast downward, tracing the edge of her underwear. I reach around to that bone at the front of her hip and pull her hips against me. Her blouse still pinions her arms behind her, so her hands press against my erection. Once touch recognizes touch, she grasps my erection, caresses my balls, touches what she can. I push her shoulders forward, and her rear presses into my lap.

My goal, though, is to unclasp her bra. I fumble a bit – I always do – and the thin straps fall away from each other. I slide my hand up under the loose back-straps, across her shoulder blades, and up over her shoulders. My lips on her neck, my hips against hers, her wrists still snarled in her blouse, I slide her bra down those sleek shoulders. Down her muscled chest, onto the soft pads of her breasts, I push the bra away.

The straps fall down her arms to where her shirt binds them, well below her breasts. I slide my hands down her chest, feeling her breasts' swell and softness, until I reach under them. Even her slim bust has a curve underneath, and I cup that in my hands. Holding her close against me, one hand slides up until thumb and finger grasp a tightening nipple. My other hand slides down and to the side, under her arm, where I feel the first of that swell.

The whole of her breast is finely and fully formed, however slender it might be. Her curves appear in all the right places, filling my hands and mind. By now, her bra hangs toward her waist, the bra straps snagged where her blouse holds her elbows back against me. I pull her hip toward mine again, and she wriggles when I do. The result, her goal, presses my erection into the crease between her cheeks, separated from her skin only by black cotton.

I turn Stef to face me and hold her close. Arms immobile, she tilts her lips upward. I reach down to her rear, to the crease at the top of her thigh. I hold her close. I realize again how small she is as I pull her hip against my thigh. Holding her, I push the tangle of blouse and bra down and off her arms. She steps back, and they drop to the floor. Her eyes hold mine, and she waits. I approach again, hold her, and pull those deep, round hips against me again. Pressing my fingertips deep into her haunch, she melts against me. Deep massage in that deepest of muscles works some profound change in her. A tangle of clothing still holds her arms, so she just leans against me, tips her hip back, and accepts my caress.

I press her muscled rear deeply with my thumbs on the downward stroke, then deeply with my fingers as my hands move up. A soft sound, almost a purring, comes from deep in her throat – I'm not sure she even hears it herself. After a while, my massage takes on an even rhythm of deep caress, and her body responds in kind. Just as much as I press into her rounded rear, she presses it back into my hand. That rhythm suggests something deeper building inside her, so I let it build for a while.

I slow, hold her rear firmly in both hands, and let her go. She looks up at me, smiling but not sure about what I want. I push her back from my chest just enough that she supports her own weight. I take her by the shoulders – the roundest part seems so small in my hands – and slide my palms down her arms. I find her shirt and bra just below her elbows, and work them down her arms, kneeling as I do. The clothing drops to the floor around her just as my eyes come level with her black-clad mons. I catch a whiff of her sweet musk, the scent that is uniquely each woman's own, and pull her hips toward me. Her bottom fills my hand again as I press my cheek to her mons. I explore, sliding my fingers under the panty, touching skin to skin in the back. In the front, I kiss her prominent mons through the cotton. It's awkward from this angle; I can barely get down to where her clitoris should be. I feel the pillowy mons against my lips, though, and trace the crevice between them. Snug underwear holds that crevice shut, something neither of us wants by that time.

I grasp the sides of her last remaining piece of clothing and slide it downward. I kiss her low on the tummy as each new inch appears, and shift my hands to her bottom. Instead of pulling the underwear down, I push it, and feel it bunching up. The first of her pubic hair appears, thin, soft, and almost straight. I brush it with my lips, and revel in its feathery feel. Her scent seems richer, too, clean and sweet but warmly animal. In a moment, her panty reaches the floor. I tug it off one foot, then the other, as she steps out of the pile of clothes. Even completely though she's undressed, stepping away from the clothing marks her as fully, gloriously nude.

What a goddess! Sleek, graceful, gently powerful, and gorgeous beyond words. Once nude, she takes the active role again. She lifts me from my knees, takes my hand, and leads me to her bed. She sits first, lies down, and scoots away from the edge. Still holding my hand, she pulls me after her. My arm works its way around her and hugs. That pulls our bodies together, from shoulders to knees, and my mind briefly notes each point of contact: cheek against mine, breast on my chest, tummies touching, thigh to thigh, her legs grasping mine, my erection pressed between us. I roll her onto her back, trying not to put my full weight on her. (I know her look of fragility belies her strength, but not all my actions come from my conscious mind.)

Once on her back, my hand moves from breast, to waist, to hip, to thigh. Her legs open away from each other, inviting intimate caress. I explore tha soft, dark tuft between them, the swells of her labia, and the fold between them that opens for me. My finger starts low between her legs and finds slickness at the edge of her vagina. Using two fingers, I probe inward just a little, extract some of her slippery essence, and spread it upward. Touch isn't certain, but I think I feel the rounded bud of clitoris emerging from its cowl. She trembles as I spread her own balm across it. Higher, where the shaft of her clit rises under its hood, I press and hold.

The rhythm of her hips begins again, and I match its pace with light touches against her clit. I feel her shoulders lift a little at each wave, her chest arch, a ridge of muscle rise along her abdomen. Abruptly, she stops, opens her eyes, and pushes me back an inch or two. She rolls to the nightstand, pulls out a condom and offers it to me wordlessly – then asks, "Or should I?"

I take it from her and put in on while she watches, her hand idly toying with her genitals. Once it's on, she lies back with knees high and wide, tugging at me to come onto her. Once I'm between her legs, she reaches down and grabs my erection. Her other hand holds my hip as she guides it to her body's entrance. She looks up and growls, "Now, big guy, make that thing part of me." I press against her by stages, each movement working more deeply into her. I pass each landmark within her: the soft entrance, guardian ring of muscle at her gateway, soft, open depth within, and something that stops me deep inside.

She gasps when that happens. I ask, "Bottomed out?" Not speaking yet, she nods. Her hips shift under me, adjusting some inner angle, and she whispers, "Just hold – you'll be fine in a moment." Then she starts to move.

Stef's knees have pulled up almost to her chest. One leg then the other, she wraps them around me and holds me close. Her hand pulls on my hip, too – even from below, she plays an active if not controlling part in reaching for her pleasure. The condom slows me down just a bit, but that gives her plenty of time for her body to build towards climax. Soon, she curls and rocks under me. One hand leaves my hip and reaches between us. Her masturbation presses against me, too, and adds to the feeling of her grasping my erection with her inner muscles.

She's been so quiet up to now that the loud gasp and low shriek take me by surprise. She spasms under me, around me, and I pin her down with my full weight. Lying back, her breasts have flattened so much I can barely see them. Their softness reveals them, though. I find one firm nipple and tug. That seems to affect her, so I pinch and tug a little harder. She curls into a ball, me still inside, and mews. My other hand reaches under and cups her rear. A fingertip brushes her anus – her back arches and her cheeks clench, so I move my touch away. Soo,n she seems to wind down. Her voice quiets, her shoulders lift less high, her hips lie back on the mattress. Her hand comes back from between us, and she wraps both arms around my neck. She looks up with a glorious smile and leans up for a kiss.

"Did you come yet? I kind of lost track for a moment there."

"No, I was just enjoying your show. That was pretty amazing."

"It felt that way from here, too. Now you need a turn." Her legs relax but her hands grasp my rear again, pulling me into her. With her legs down, some new inner muscles come into play. I rock against her, into her. My rocking soon turns to hard, sharp bucking, and she smiles hugely. Finally, I grasp her shoulders, tug her whole torso down over my erection, and come into her. She easily absorbs the full strength of my embrace, and coaxes me on, one deep, hard push after another. I finish a few moments later, winding down from my own orgasm, and flopping bonelessly onto her. My erection deflates and penis leaves her on its own. She grasps the base of it to hold the condom in place, then pulls herself off me. She reaches a few kleenex from the nightstand and hands them to me. I take the hint, roll offer her, and pull the condom off. After a quick wipe, I mummify the condom in tissues and discard the wad.