After our communal laugh, with its mixture of relief, embarrassment, and flirtation (well that last one was less in the laugh itself and more in the confused and bashful exchange of eyes between Fed and me as the laugh subsided), I didn't know what to do or say; so I turned my head against my window with my elbow up on the door and my fingers in my bangs, and tried to spy the roadway ahead. It was a natural sort of position that just came to me, given how I was slumped back in my corner of the seat. Nonetheless, I could not possibly have been oblivious to how it was spreading my chest, particularly on the right side, prying the deep V of my satin slip apart and showcasing the inside round of my right breast for Fed. Ordinarily, it wouldn't have been a big deal; just a sexy pose. But after the whole ride with her -- from my accidental but sluttishly suggestive ogle of her boobs before we even got in the car to my premeditated, pseudo-clandestine tit flash (oh my god!) just a few minutes ago -- the situation was anything but ordinary. Hell, what could she have been thinking but that I was ready, was practically begging to be converted. I mean, for heaven's sake, after everything else, I'd just felt up her boob, and my only defence was that I was only trying to get to her nipple so I could give it a good pinch.
And so I found myself asking myself: "Why am I not putting my arm down? She's looking at me, right at me, and why am I not moving?" I could feel my slow breaths heaving my sternum. I stared out the window like my life depended on it, because as long as she didn't know I knew she was looking, I wasn't doing anything. I wasn't TRYING to be sexy for the older, lesbian woman.
But it was impossible not to look at her, after enough seconds of contrived innocence. Yes, she was looking straight at my breast, and she let herself keep doing it even as I watched her -- even as I, evidently, permitted her. After enjoying the view for more than long enough to incriminate us both, she started to raise her eyes, gently, up to mine. I grew rapidly unsettled as they climbed. There was nothing to do but make a quip before they got to me.
"Planning a second strike?" I said, twinkling. Ha ha, that was it. I was smug, bemused. Tolerant of her eccentricity, but hardly given over to the (rumored) sapphic delights myself.
"Ah, no," she responded, and her demure lidding of the eyes disarmed me. It was such an adorable expression, really somehow innocent, and delicate. I felt coarse. I took my elbow down and faced her.
"Good," I teased, "because...because you're a much easier target now."
She looked to where I was looking and saw her right nipple, still plucky, assaulting her blouse. She smiled. "Look what you did to me." Then she shifted herself up out of her slump, brought her right knee up onto the seat, and squared her chest to me. She looked from one plump boob to the other. "I'm all uneven."
True enough, her left nipple was barely visible, although I reckoned it had done a little growing of its own.
Now I've said before that the car wasn't very large, and at this moment, Fedora's breasts were little more than a foot away from me. I was looking slightly down on the uneven nipples, taking in a decent helping of shady cleavage unavoidably. Moreover, because I was still slouching back on something of an angle, the silky shin she had brought up onto the seat was pressed against my thigh. I was run through by the feel -- the heat and the tender adhesion -- of her skin on mine, even as my eyes were filled with the sight of the cool, creamy pelt between her breasts. In a flash, like a revelation, I was conceiving of Fedora in the nude. I don't mean I was mentally undressing her, or daydreaming, or something; I mean her clothes suddenly became the weightless extras they were, draped over her but no more part of my notion of her than the car we were in. I was washed over with the awareness that she was actually all skin, from the hollow at the base of her neck down under her blouse and her bra and her panties and her skirt, all the way to her shiny knees and athletic calves. That sounds obvious enough, I guess, but it's really a rare way to perceive someone, even if you've seen them unclothed. For a second, I felt like I'd really walked in on Fed changing; I felt guilty. And then, of course, I felt a tad giddy, stoked by my discovery.
"What?" asked Fedora, spotting my face.
"Oh -- nothing." I paused, then looked away. "No." I shook my head. "Nothing."
"What?" she pressed inquisitively.
"Never mind."
"Oh come on."
I looked back to her, and she was made of clothes again. I had to focus to break their spell and see Fed as she naturally was. Thirty-four years old, and what a body! Those great big melons, hanging only slightly lower than their size demanded; the slender midriff; the flared hips and powerful thighs; the voluptuous calves and svelte ankles. Her arms, smooth and elegant. Her weighty, black curls tickling her collar bones, and her tinted Greek complexion.
Well, anyway, I had to say something, something believable, to get her to stop asking. "No," I began, "I just thought that you...have nice skin."
Fed gave me a puzzled look, and took a gander down at her cleavage, which was the only patch of skin anywhere near the uneven nipples that I had supposedly been inspecting. To get a better view, she pulled her little scarf from around her neck. Great. It seemed that in my attempt to be innocuous, I had managed to compliment Fed on the "nice skin" of her breasts.
"What, on my boobs?" she asked me incredulously.
"Naw, I mean everywhere."
She seemed to think about that, but then I realized that she was just gazing at all the skin on display where her shin met my thigh, which was still bare owing to the bunching of my already short "dress" at my groin. And then she let her eyes roam all over my young, shapely legs. "So do you," she said. The roaming didn't stop, but went on up my delicate arms to the exposed margins of my breasts and the long V of my chest.
And now, in a characteristic crazed moment, my brain struck on a lame pretext for doing something I wasn't supposed to do. And that was enough. Without warning, I pulled the wings of my slip completely off my breasts and bared them to her. I knew they were magnificent: full but only slightly large; tender, pert, and taut; with pale, triangular tan lines from my bikini and bright pink nipples ready to shoot off across the car. I figured they were her best fantasy come true. Certainly the look on her face was, as they say, priceless. Even before, with my little surreptitious flash, she hadn't seen them like this. It was like I'd injected her with something. But it was time for the pretext:
