Vignette 02

Flawless skin. Creamy but not quite pale, smooth except for a few tiny laugh lines, minor crinkles at the edges of her eyes that will one day be full on wrinkles, and no less charming for it. As she examines me I wonder if her skin is similarly unblemished all over her body. Her shape is similarly flawless, long and lean, strong and curvy, delicate where need be. I can smell her dark, shimmery hair at this slight distance, something floral or fruity or a combination of the two. The scent, her presence and this entire line of thinking are beginning to turn me on.

"Does it hurt here?" she asks, pressing her thumb into the outer edge of my pained foot.

"Yes."

"And here?" Her voice is robust but controlled, a musical instrument played by a master musician. Harmonious. Listening to her talk I'm enveloped by the richness and tone, the rise and fall of each syllable as if they were carefully constructed musical phrases.

She shifts slightly, crouching literally at my feet.

"And here?"

I look down to see her slide her manicured hands further up my foot, again pressing with significant force.

"No."

Still looking down at her hands, those petite, strong fingers gliding over the skin and bones of my foot, prodding and measuring, seeking the source of the pain, I see her shift again, leaning forward, and her blouse balloons open to my view.

Her breasts are, naturally, perfect. Full and round, creamy white in a way that provokes the obvious thought of milk, of life, of the pleasure of taste, which leads inexorably back to scent. Her soap or perfume is very mild, present mostly as a wash of cleanliness in the air. As her hands continue to work my foot my eyes take in the sight of those breasts, hanging away from her chest but contained in a lace edged black bra. They shift slightly as her arms move with the travel of her hands. In this way her breasts and my body are somehow connected. The motion of them so delighting my eyes is caused by the exploration of her hands, which is translated to my senses as the repetitive sliding, pressing, grabbing and touching of my foot.

I want to return the favor her hands do my feet, exploring and touching her in every way. This roundabout connection between her breasts and my body prompts me to ponder how those perfect breasts would feel in my hands. Her entire bra is now visible, an accident of her modest scoop necked blouse having enough play to part from the contours of her delicious body, coupled with a perfect angle of view afforded by our relative positions. This could be described as some sort of confluence, the melding of a small series of events into a moment of perfection culminating in an extended, uninterrupted view of her breasts.

I am certain they would fill my hands, warm, simultaneously soft and firm in the way only a woman's breasts can be.

"And there?" The pressure is more intense this time. She is close to ascertaining all of the points of pain that have hobbled me this past week, and wants to be sure.

"Definitely."

My eyes slide unwillingly from those lovely mounds to watch her hands at work. Her head remains down. Had she glanced up in the last few moments she would have caught me. As my eyes leap back to enjoy the considerable cleavage inside her blouse I cannot avoid thinking about her reaction should she discover me. Would she be angry? Amused? Bemused? Wary? Indifferent? I suspect her excellent health and obvious care for her appearance rules out indifference.

I grunt at the sudden flash of pain, almost nauseating in its intensity.

"There." This time a statement, not a question.

"Damn," I mutter, as she lets up the pressure.

She makes a half chuckling sound in the back of her throat, low pitched and spine tingling.

"Sorry about that."

Her eyes meet mine as she turns my foot in her soft hands, moving to the heel to seek out more pain. Her gaze is as direct as her manner, one of the many things I admire about her. She shifts again, head declining to follow the track of her hands over my sensitive appendage. In this position the scoop has narrowed but deepened, and I can see past her breasts and down along her stomach to a vanishing point somewhere near where the blouse disappears into the waist of her pants. The skin there looks every bit as smooth and unblemished as what she chooses to make visible. I want very much to slide my hands over her warm, firm stomach, to indulge the nerves in my fingers and palms with the heat and silkiness of that expanse. In a way I don't immediately understand seeing her stomach exposed when it is so clearly intended to be hidden is somehow both more intimate and more erotic than drinking in her sublime breasts.

That flat expanse of stomach, her exposed rib cage, the belly button I cannot make out for lack of light – those are, in this environment, in this specific moment, much more private, much more off limits, intended to be invisible to an interloper like me. That realization, the recognition of how privileged I am to contemplate that part of her magnificent body, all of the thoughts and suppositions about how she might feel to my hands there, taste to my lips there, move rhythmically beneath me finally trigger the inevitable reaction. I become rapidly erect, and know that some time in the next few moments she will come eye to eye with that fact. I am mildly anxious, potentially embarrassed, and profoundly aroused.