I'm going to play dress-the-dolly tonight, because that's what I like to do.
This particular dolly is – let's see – diminutive, with pale, oriental skin. Absolutely flawless and smooth. Her hair is straight, reaches down below her shoulder-blades, and is as black as midnight, as black as my unlit bedroom, although I can see every detail of her as if it was broad daylight. A neat fringe almost reaches her eyebrows, and her hair is so fine that when she moves, the edges of her ears peek through, like a nymph emerging from a waterfall. Her face is elfin, slender, and delicate, with a pointed chin. Her eyes are almond-shaped, balanced on high cheekbones, and she looks at me shyly, from under long, dark lashes. Her nose is slightly retrousse, above a dimpled filtrum and a pale pink, cupid-bow mouth just made for kissing.
She stands before me, pale and naked, slim-hipped as a boy, with coltish grace. I dare not look at her body yet, because I am saving that unimaginable pleasure until after I dress her. Because then I will undress her.
A blue Alice-band should draw her hair back, and expose those lovely ears. A matching blue frock, modest, summery, fresh. Simple sandals. Stand back and look at her – yes, oh yes! She is smiling at me, and I say her name. Three syllables, round-mouthed and cherry-like in their sweetness. I don't even know whether they represent a real name. "Mo-mo-ko. Momoko. Momoko, my darling." She looks up.
"Marie-chan," she says, and it is almost a question.
Her frock has buttons down the front. I motion to her to walk over to me, and she does so. She stands there demurely, eyes down, while I trace the line of buttons down the front of her frock with one fingernail. Click, click, click, click... Then I take her hands, and kiss her fingertips one by one. She smiles and giggles. I can smell soap with the hint of rose petals on her hands, and the freshly-washed smell of her frock. Her breath is a barely-detectable, warm breeze – I am not yet close enough to her to feel it as a caress. I stand up, and instantly notice how much taller then her I am. I can nuzzle the top of her head, and here there is an intimate, warm aroma. She tilts her head up to look at me, and then she closes her eyes.
I bend to her and taste the cherry-petals of her lips, with three, ever-so-little kisses. Mo. Mo. Ko. Just like that. She puts her face up for more, and I nuzzle all around its contours, tracing every line with the tip of my nose, before settling my lips against hers with only the gentlest pressure that I dare. She slips her arms round my waist and, to my surprise, pulls herself towards me. She is warm against my belly, slender and flat against my roundness. Her mouth yields to mine, and her lips part, to admit the tongue that I cannot stop myself slipping between them. It meets the tip of hers, which flickers against it, and then gently replies with hesitant, tentative probing of its own. Her breathing is slow and deep, and now I do feel it warm, but cooling, against my cheek. My arms are around her shoulders, and I cup one hand behind her head so that she will not escape my kisses, my fingers running through her fine-stranded hair.
Eventually, by some wily trick, her mouth does escape mine; but she has only broken away so that she can open her eyes and look up at me. She speaks, and her voice is quiet, a soft soprano, saying words which sound delightful in that accent of the far East.
"I love you, Marie-chan!"
A wave of emotion crashes over and through me. This little flower, this lovely creature – she loves me! What have I ever done to deserve this? What did I ever do that the goddess of mercy has sent her loveliest daughter to me? How can I ever express what is going through my mind and my heart at the moment – gratitude, excitement, overwhelming love, peace, intense arousal, a thousand other thoughts and feelings – how can I express all that?
"Oh Momoko, my little love. Never leave me!"
"Oh no, Marie-chan, how could I ever leave you. I love you so much. I will be yours for ever!"
What a promise. As it is made, I know that she means it, but that it will never be kept, and a premature pang of loss overcomes all the other emotions. I clasp her to me, and she gasps at the force of my embrace!
I sit down again, and catch hold of the top button of her dress. I slip it through the buttonhole. Then I move on to the next, and the next, until so many are undone that the dress simply slips off her shoulders, and falls around her feet. She stands there, as if on a little, pale blue island. Now I see the other things I have dressed her in, without either of us guessing it. Her brassiere and her panties are both pure, virginal white, simple, minimal, with only a hint of a lacy fringe. Poised mid-way between them, on an otherwise flat stomach, is a tiny, dimple-like navel. I plant little kisses around it, and then gentle flick my tongue into it. Momoko shivers and sighs. I run my hands round behind her, and stroke the cheeks of her bottom. Then I bring my hands round to the front again, and cup them underneath her breasts. Oh, there is only a bare handful for each of my hands. She gasps at my first touch. I stand up, still fondling them.
"Have you ever been touched by a woman before?" I ask.
"No, Marie-chan," she replies. "I'm a virgin."
We kiss again, and with all the deftness I can bring to bear, I slacken the straps of her brassiere, and pull them over her shoulders. With a movement like a little shrug, she presses her upper arms against her sides, almost as if she is shrinking away, but in reality she is allowing me to slide the straps over them and fold down the cups of her brassiere to expose her breasts. Again she shivers – always these little shivers as if she is cold – and looks down as I make circles around her nipples with my index fingers. She closes her eyes again, and makes little "Mmm...mmm" noises, that are almost whimpers. Her nipples are perfect. They stand erect, each in the middle of a tiny, pink roundel. I have never, ever, seen such a beautiful pair of strawberry-tipped hillocks. They deserve to be stroked, teased upwards, gently stimulated. And I am the woman to do it. I bend down and suck one of them into my mouth, feeling its tender roughness against my tongue, as I lick and lick at it. I feel one of Momoko's hands stroke the back of my head, and I hear her moan with pleasure. I move from breast to breast, and back again, circling those ripe berries with my tongue, until they glisten with my saliva. Momoko reaches behind her back, there is a faint snick, and her brassiere falls away to land on one shore of the blue island. Then she clasps my head again, and draws my face into her breasts – I can do nothing but suckle like a hungry baby!
