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!"
