Zitas New Apartment

I'm not conceited, I swear, and it's not like I'm hung up on this at all, but the truth is that I am, undeniably, a babe. Dropping all modesty for the moment, an extreme babe. I would never say that, but it's important that you get the right picture of me so this story makes a bit more sense. If you could see me, I wouldn't have to say it; it's obvious even to me, and has been for a long time. I'd seen enough movies and magazines to know what a beautiful woman was by the age of six, and after puberty struck, I happily discovered one in the bathroom mirror. I never needed all those guys to tell me I was sexy - although those comments, and especially those of my female friends, gave me a more precise sense of just how attractive I am. I'm a ten, as they say. Even on a really conservative, "tens are only for angels" scale, I've learned I'm still a ten. I'm not boasting here - well, okay, not much. I mean, it's not because of anything I did. But just so you get the picture: I've met a number of women who, though completely different, were on par with myself, but I only ever met two in my whole life who were safely MORE attractive than me. When I met the first one, I was only sixteen, and she was about twenty, so I suppose she had an edge. The second I met just last month, and I have no excuse; she was mind-boggling.

I was never promiscuous, although I know now that I could have been as promiscuous as I'd liked. Instead, I had one long-term boyfriend for a few years, and about a dozen other relationships of various lengths before and after. My long-term boyfriend wasn't particularly attractive in the conventional way, but he was great and hilarious, and I loved him. That's supposed to convince you that I'm not superficial, despite everything else I've written so far. Did it work?

These days I keep my hair it's natural dark, dark brown colour, just past my shoulders. It's pretty straight, but stylishly cut, if I may say so. I love my hairdresser. My face is the cute kind of sexy, I'm told, with a softness in the cheeks and an intrinsic friendliness that I'm thankful for. My lips are full but "finely carved" (thanks George), and my nose is straight down the bridge, of an average length. My eyes are bright blue and...big. If I can quote George again, they're "a thousand miles across, each one". That sounded kind of freaky to me, but he meant that as a good thing. He said when I made eye contact with a guy for the first time, even incidentally - across the room at a party, say - it was an EXPERIENCE, giddying and exhilarating, like a quickie for the soul. George was awesome.

Of course, to have the audacity to rate my attractiveness as I have, I had damn well better have a fantastic body, right? Well, I do. Big surprise. I'm only 5'4", but my mother blessed me with all the right proportions. I've got the lithe limbs, slim waist, and amazing bubble butt. I keep my legs toned and buttery smooth. My breasts are full and firm, but not huge. They're like...drops of honey (that one's mine!). Even I like my breasts. I think a lot of women are self-conscious about theirs, and I was too, at first. But by seventeen, I was proud in the showers and the change rooms, walking without a towel. I wouldn't want them bigger, I don't think. Don't get me wrong; I have an appreciation for breasts, and I think some women look wonderful with great big melons (and some look awesome with hardly anything but nipples, for that matter). It just wouldn't work for me. One really shy girl I swam with one year, and who like to hang around with me in the showers, told me I was so lucky, my body was "heavenly". Looking back, I think she was gay, but not just because of that comment. I had lots of other female friends say similar things over the years, and they certainly weren't all gay.

My name is Zita, by the way. A bit strange, I know. It's Italian; my folks told me it means "little girl". I think they were doomed for empty nest syndrome from the start.

I first moved away from home to enter university. In my first year, I lived in residence, but that's a whole other story. This one is about my second year, when I decided to get a room off campus to save money and have a bit of freedom. There were lots of offers, but most of the apartments were horrible, or under the power of weasely landlords. I heard once that there's a rule: there's either a nice place or a nice landlord, but not both. That was definitely true for me. Anyway, September drew ever closer, and I grew more and more desperate, and then I stumbled across this awesome apartment made out of the upper floors of an old house, a short walk from campus. I showed up one Tuesday afternoon for a showing.

The lady who answered the door was definitely Greek or Italian, with black, thick, wavy hair, deeply tanned skin, and those characteristic Mediterranean features. I put her about thirty, which was ancient in my book since I was only 19 at the time. But she was quite attractive for her age, and had a very tender demeanour. It turned out she was Greek after all, and her name was Fedora ("Yes, I'm named after a hat"). We commiserated briefly about our unusual names as she led me up the narrow stairs into the apartment. She wasn't the landlady, I discovered; she was just one of the tenants. She was a postdoctoral researcher in the biology department. The other girl who lived there was Kell, and we were introduced immediately. Fedora had to teach a class, and she said she would leave the interview to Kell, adding that I was okay by her, she was sure. She smiled warmly at me as she left, and I liked her immensely.

The landlady wasn't around at all, and had left it to her two present tenants to interview new candidates. So Kell gave me a standard tour - the place was great! - and then we sat down together in the living room. Kell was probably the strangest girl I had met all year, which meant pretty much ever. She was taller than me, maybe 5'9", and thin and bronzed from the summer. She was rather pretty, but not in my league. Perhaps even Fedora was more classically attractive. But Kell had something about her. Something indescribable, which I'd found in people before (though rarely) and been equally unable to classify. It was something in her looks, to be sure, but also in her mannerisms and the way she moved her body. It was something...sexy. She sweated allure and filled the air with the smell of it. Now I was not a lesbian, or even close, but I should admit that with Kell, I found - probably for the first time - that I actually understood her appeal, instinctively. I mean, for example, I know Catherine Zeta-Jones is sexy, but I know it in a kind of intellectual or dispassionate way. Her beauty is evident, but her sexiness is something I trust more or less on other people's authority. Kell, on the other hand, was not exactly beautiful. Her gaunt features, hard lips and dark eyes were quite aesthetic, quite elegant, but they had something of a wicked, feral character that excluded beauty. And the grace of her movements was almost serpentine. So she was unusually striking, but hardly beautiful. And yet the thing was, I didn't need someone to tell me she was sexy. I knew she was sexy. She had that mysterious carnal desirability that you just can't explain. It was running through her veins. It was even in the way she was not quite smiling at me, and the way she'd just reclined on the couch, with one long, slim, shaven leg perched on the edge of her cushion. She was wearing short jean shorts and a thin, white T-shirt clearly meant for bumming around the house. Her hair was straight and a bit frizzy on its way down to mid-back. It wasn't stylish hair, but I didn't mind it. And I'm afraid I resented her for that.

We started with what must have been a very typical conversation in that situation. Some pleasantries, some information about me, about the apartment. She was definitely in command of the exchanges, not only by her position, but also by her personality. She wasn't bossy, but she was definitely arrogant, or something close to it. As the interview got into swing, I found I didn't like her very much, but what was worse was that I also found her more appealing than before. She was a bitch. Not a mean bitch - a tender bitch. And she was increasingly marvellous. I found myself resenting her and revering her for the very same things. She treated me politely, even sensitively, but the sense developed that she was there to be pleased and I was there to please her. I despised myself for wanting to.

At one point, she was talking about something oddly boring (for she generally had intriguing things to say), and looking off out the window. I discovered during that interlude how entertaining she was to watch. She twirled her fingers here, and slid her leg along the cushion there, and wherever she instigated movement, my eyes were drawn. I have no idea what she said, because I was absorbed in her little ballet. Eventually, her red nails went up to her ear and then down past the side of her tit, which she heaved languidly, so that my eyes were held there. She had cone-shaped tits, a bit droopy. She would have failed the pencil test, I'm sure (that's where you try to put a pencil in the fold under your breast and if your tit grabs on to it, you fail). But, god knows why, even Kell's tits were sexy, especially with her thin white shirt folded under them by the way she was sitting. The thought even flitted through my head that I'd have liked to have tits like hers - but then sanity returned. Anyway, it was in these moments that she chose to look back to me and find me staring at her chest.

I sped my eyes up to hers, but too late. She met my gaze silently. I wondered whether she too had felt like we were soul fucking when she'd first met my eyes by the door. Some guys looked like babies who'd just passed gas when I we made eye contact. Kell had taken a deep breath and smiled.

"Was that a good stare or a bad stare?" she asked.

"What?"

She sent her eyes down to her breasts. "I mean, were you looking because you like them, or because they're ugly?"

"Ugly? No, I like them," I responded, perhaps too enthusiastically in my haste to dispel the suspected insult.

"Do you really?" She looked back up at me from under her brow, with her head bowed still. Her face was long with doubt.

I really felt that this woman was so rare and remarkable in her sex appeal that it would have been tragic for her not to be aware of it. I wondered if it were possible for her not to know. "Sure," I said.

"I've never thought very much of them." Then she straightened up and let down her leg and began to arrange her hair with both hands behind her head, thereby presenting her tits in the most prominent way. It was just for a few seconds, during which she put her eyes up in their corners, away from me, so that I was free to look at her chest again without embarrassment. Well, it would have been impossible not to, for anyone. With her back so straight like that, even arched backward, her breasts had rounded a bit, and no longer appeared to droop. Again, I judged them to be unusually fabulous. I wouldn't have changed them in the smallest way, if they were mine.

When she was done with her hair (though I couldn't detect what she'd actually done to it), she leaned forward on her knees as if we were about to talk of matters most dear. Her T-shirt was oversized and worn, and the neck hung down very low when she bent herself over like that. She was looking right at me, but I couldn't help in those first instants stealing a fleeting glance down into her shirt, between her dangling breasts, to her tummy. It was a reflex of curiosity. I could see the edge of her left nipple.

Kell seemed about to say something, but then reconsidered. Instead she leaned even closer to me and asked if I minded a personal question. I said no. "I'm just wondering," she said, "if you know how beautiful you are?" This had none of the air of flattery - it was a clinical, scientific sort of question, spoken with her infuriatingly charming arrogant authority.

I'm sure I blushed. Which was strange because I ought to have been used to that sort of comment by then. "Well, I guess I do, yeah," I answered.

"It's just weird for me, Zita, to have a girl who is so preposterously beautiful complimenting me on my breasts. Do you know what I mean?" She gestured to my own breasts. "I mean, you-my goodness, you're not even wearing a bra, are you?"

In fact I wasn't. She didn't seem shocked by it like it was indecent or anything; I expected she was shocked at the natural shape of them, and I was right. I was wearing a tight (i.e. stretched) T-shirt with miniscule sleeves and not enough fabric to cover my midriff. Below, I was wearing light, white Capri pants, snug only around the ass, where the attentive observer could see through to my white thong if he wanted. It was pretty standard for a woman of my age and attributes.

Of course, upon Kell's exclamation, I couldn't help looking down at myself, only to find that my nipples had gotten rock hard at some point and were moulded luridly into my T-shirt. Maybe it wasn't the shape she'd been shocked at. I instinctively hunched a little, embarrassed, and probably nearing beet red. Not that it didn't ever happen or anything, but she was right there staring at me!

Kell was nonplussed. "Oh please, don't be shy about those beauties. That's silly. They're incredible. How old are you? Those must be like Indian rubber!" Then she feigned annoyance. "Oh Jesus, girl - yeeessss, I can see your nipples! Who cares? You must have known that would happen, eventually. I can just hardly believe you're so implausibly shaped without a bra."

"I'm nineteen," I said sheepishly. Kell was only twenty-three, but she was starting to make me feel like I deserved my name: "little girl". I felt so juvenile with how she had been dealing with me, and not least because I found a kind of comfort in that.

"Please, sit up again, honey. Don't be ridiculous. You should be so proud of those."

She had just called me ridiculous, but she had also called me honey. Honey, like her little sister. I loved it! I loathed myself.

I straightened up.

Kell shook her head, still in disbelief. "Absolutely beautiful." She perused my whole figure with her eyes now, from my chest down to my naked waist to my bare calves and sandaled feet. Then she went back to her original position on the couch, with her leg up on the cushion. Her jean shorts barely reached down to her thigh. It was hot, and she was looking slightly sweaty, everywhere, now. She was like an artist, a queen of nasty and sexy. I wanted what she had.

"I have to say, Zita, I like you. But you have to tell me, are you seriously interested in the room here? Because we've already seen some other good candidates."

In fact, the room was more than I'd hoped for: large and bright, with wood flooring and a deep closet. The apartment as a whole was just as good, with this open-concept living room, a fine, wide kitchenette behind the sofa where Kell was sitting, a dream bathroom with a tub and a glassed-in shower, and even a backyard patio. I told Kell I was extremely interested, while subconsciously, I straightened myself up further, even a bit unnaturally, so that my shirt rode up the maximum amount, revealing the most of my slender waist, and my breasts were on display front and centre, rather like Kell's had been earlier. At the time, I hadn't much realized the not-so-subtle ways I used my body, a sort of visual prostitution, to ingratiate myself to others. Of course it worked, particularly on men. But even women like something pretty to look at if given the choice. Anyway, I hadn't actually thought about any of this until Kell said:

"Yes, it seems you are," with a suggestive tone and glance down at my body. I was trying to understand what she was getting at when she added pleasantly: "You go girl."

I smiled dumbly. I was starting to fear I understood her suggestion, and my posture began to wilt.

"Oh, now I didn't mean to embarrass you, Zita. It's alright. I don't at all mind a woman making the most of their attributes. Some women like to pretend they don't have bodies during arrangements like this, because they think it shouldn't be relevant, I suppose. But to be honest, I think everyone would rather have a roommate who's nice to look at, all else being equal. And you don't seem to mind being that roommate, now do you?"

I smiled shyly.

"Do you?"

"Well, no - well, I mean, I'd rather be pretty than ugly."

"Of course. And why should you have to deny yourself the advantages you've been given? You're lucky, as we can both see; so BE lucky! And don't feel bad. I certainly have no cause to complain." Suddenly Kell giggled and squinted at me conspiratorially. "Now I'll tell you what," she said, like we were best friends. "Why don't you show me what you've got."

This turn to levity was like water in the desert, and I was helpless to prevent a small release of laughter myself. Emboldened, I pushed my boobs back out with forced confidence, even thought the nipples were still hard and obvious like before. Kell obliged by observing my form intently. As stillness and awkwardness loomed, I gave my breasts a little belly dancer's wiggle, from the shoulders.

"Oooh, nice," Kell cooed. "I can see you aim to please."

I smiled and let my show dwindle back to normality.

"Did I say stop?" she asked. She had to be joking, but it was totally deadpan. I chuckled awkwardly and wagged my breasts for her again. Kell nodded approvingly but she had stuck out one of her slim arms and was swirling the dangling hand about silkily. She was motioning for me to do a turn. I was still sitting in my chair, and I looked at it, hoping to avoid further service. But Kell only raised her eyebrows and left her hypnotic fingers swirling.

Not wanting to seem like a bad sport nor to rebuff Kell's friendliness, especially when I still didn't have the room, I shrugged and stood and smoothed down my Capri pants before raising my arms in the usual manner of my dancing and doing a half-hearted but nonetheless sensual turn. I knew Kell had to be watching my ass as I went around, and noticing my thong. I waited for the comment as I sat back down after.

But there wasn't one. Was I disappointed? Wasn't my ass as sexy as my breasts? The whole point of the thong thing was to look hot.

"They are real, right?" Kell asked as I settled into my chair.

I surveyed my chest again, as if it might have metamorphosized. "Of course," I said, a bit indignant.

"Well, at this point, I just have to see them," Kell declared.

I laughed for several reasons all at once. "Pardon?"

"Oh you don't mind, I'm sure. It's just us here."

"Yeah, but-."

"Zita-." Kell seemed a bit put off. "If you DO end up moving in here, you and I are going to be seeing a lot more of each other, aren't we? I mean, I live with women for a reason. I like to be comfortable in my own home. I'll tell you right now I'm sure as hell not going to start fishing for clothes when I want a midnight snack just because you're out here watching TV. And you know, there's only one bathroom in the apartment, and it gets pretty hectic in the mornings. Fedora and I have decided to leave the door open, so she can brush her teeth while I shower, or whatever. We're going to expect you to be comfortable with us too, if you live here."

"No, I am. I am."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah. Definitely."

"I'm so glad to hear you say that. So?" She gave me an expectant look.

"You want me to take off my shirt?"

"Yes."

What could I do? I reached down across my chest and took up the hem of my T-shirt. With Kell looking me dead in the eyes, I pulled it up off my breasts and over my head. While it was passing my face, I know it's a cliché, but it really seemed like I could feel her stare on my tits, on my nipples. I pulled the top off my arms and held it scrunched up in my lap. This strange woman I hardly knew was now admiring my bare breasts while I sat there and allowed her. She did seem to appreciate them, though. I looked at them myself. I was slouching and it made them look a bit low, so I pulled myself up, brought my shoulders back. Drops of honey.