It's warm in here. The water in the bath felt scalding at first, but now that you're both in it, it's not so bad at all. You take a sip of wine, red with enough time to breathe. He told you he didn't know much about wine, but he did okay with this one. Of course the internet printout from some wine information site he thinks you didn't notice might have helped there. It's good though.
(Red wine and steamy water smoke in my head is this a good idea?)
You lean back against him in the bath, peripherally aware of his naked body, strangely familiar, behind you, and the pleasantly firm pressure between his legs as you scoot back against him, setting your wine glass down in time for the pipe to come to you. Your turn again? A deep breath, and that honey smoke fills your head and your lungs, as you close your eyes and savor it, the ringing in your ears, the hands on your sides, stroking your soapy slick skin. As you exhale, you feel it hit you. Three hits off this glass octopus in a row, and you felt nothing, but now, oh fuck. Now it's hard to think of where the wine glass went all of a sudden, and you laugh with him as you feel around for it.
Oh that cheeky bastard. He hid it, and he knew you'd have a hard time with it, it's behind him now! You turn in the bath, splashing water as you slither up his torso to get your glass back, amazed at the pink and purple glow off the walls as they seem to expand with you breathing, blowing steam at you, filling your head with more clouds, more heat.
(Oh the walls breathe with me and he moves under me we are all together how real does this feel)
And now you're surprised to find yourself practically mounted on him, your breasts hanging ripe in his face, and you're sitting on his cock, just about. You've slid down him again, with your wine glass empty now, and he's tucked nicely in between your legs, like the world's pinkest (and hottest) hobby horse stick. You have a hard time deciding what to do next, and you look down at him as he exhales his turn gently towards your breast as he mouths you hungrily. You can feel his pulse. Throbbing in his mouth on your nipple. Pulsing between your legs in his cock. He's not in you, but he's at you, and the rapture on his face as he suckles at you helplessly makes you want to let him do it forever, listening to the sounds of sucking echoing off the wet walls of the shower stall.
(Ooh I feel it pulling that suction on my nipple tugs like string into my sex oh suck it you bastard)
But the whole point of this bath was to get ready. A fun night in after work, and get to pretend to be a little younger than you are. A little, like about 10 years younger, but who's counting anyway? And with a woozy shake of the head, you manage to climb off him, and compose yourself a bit. You stand up, your back to him, the curves of your cream white ass staring him in the face, inviting, tempting. You can feel his gaze on you, and you know what he's looking at. You can see the fat pink cock he's pointing at you, and you can tell where it wants to go, whether he even knows it or not. And judging from the color of his eyes, you think he might be as far gone as you, and barely know why he wants, he just does.
Somehow you manage to get dried and dressed, in the clothes you'd picked out, while he showered off the soap and got ready himself, whatever that meant.
This part is always fun, the dressing up. First, the socks, sheer and white, and you pull them slowly up your leg, snug against you. For a moment you savor the view in the mirror: fiery hair spilling over milky shoulders, bare body all but for those silky sheer socks. You sigh and feel the room spin as your eyes focus on the glistening coral pink between your legs, and you're almost surprised to find a hand there, teasing yourself with the very act of getting dressed, knowing the intent is to end up undressed again. The air throbs with every stroke, and you barely manage to pull yourself away from that tingling singing edge that nearly tears you ragged with the joy of it.
(Its pretty he saw me and he said pretty I think I'm pretty too I like to look at me like a little mouth to heaven)
Now the socks are on, and you shiver as you tug on the undershirt, a tight white cotton halfshirt. It just barely covers the lower slopes of your breasts, highlighting the bullet-hard nipples standing out from your pale curves. You lose yourself for a moment, staring down at your breasts
(Call them tits feel sounds slutty dirty suck my tits I want your hands mouth on my oh god gorgeous tits)
encased in soft cotton, watching your fingers move in slow circles around the buzzing somehow squirmy little nubs while you remember why a shirt
(Little girls don't wear bras yet too young for a bra just a slutty little half shirt like I was a little oh my fucking girl)
instead of a bra.
But he's done in the shower now, have to hurry and get dressed, and on goes the Oxford, white and crisp, buttoned up to just above where the halfshirt stops, and your (oh god my tits suck my feel my) breasts jut out like a saucy little tart, which is just as it should be. You nod to yourself through the violet light in your eyes, buttoning the blazer up, which only serves to lift and scoop together. Ah, yes. Lovely. Again, you look at yourself in the mirror, after buckling your shoes. Perfect little school girl , except for that bare naked (except that hand covering it moving) – well, anyway, time for a skirt, and it clasps snugly around you, the hem hanging just past the curves of your ass, and not a scant inch further, the way you ordered it. Perfect, you think, and feel air on your wet thighs, as you pull on the last garment. Pale green, to contrast with your red hair, your white skin, your pink flesh, the panties he bought for you fit you perfectly. A full back, and a plain satin finish, the front and back connected across your hips by the barest stretch of string, and so low down, you lift up your skirt to look, and the waistband in the front only barely covers your sex in sheeny greeny sateeny...you giggle at yourself again, and stare happily down at your lap as you sit on the edge of the bed (likeagoodgirl) running your hands idly over yourself, feeling that purpley tickly tingle running all over when he comes upstairs, a robe, that's all a robe and what's he got under it, it looks sort of.
But he's talking to you now, and it's hard to hear him through all the pink cotton candy in the room and in your head. You lose track of what he's saying but it sounds oh right he's scolding you. You're in trouble, he says, what are you doing wearing such a short skirt out of the house, what do you think people SAID when they saw you, they said you looked like just what you dressed like, that's what they said.
