Last winter I became completely enamored of a friend of a friend. This woman, the friend of the friend, was, and is, about 5'3", with a face like a poem, and an exquisitely shaped figure, in an excellently fleshy way - large bulbous tits, though always concealed under weird sweaters, and great legs and an incredible, large and shapely ass, always covered by frumpy, odd, old-fashioned skirts and dresses and sometimes badly-fitting men's jeans. In other words, she was gorgeous, but no one knew it. No one had ever known how exquisite she was, including she herself, whose name is Daphne. . . . . I knew it, though. I've always had a radar-eye for this sort of thing. And, in the couple of times I'd met her, when she'd talked in a vibrant, intellectual, casual way, I'd fallen completely in love. But I was too paralyzed to do anything about it. She was just too much.
Then, my friend helped me out. I needed to do a cross-country road-trip, and my friend informed me that Daphne was also planning a similar trip. It was the kind of fluke circumstance that one can only thank the Gods for having caused to occur.
So. . . I called Daphne and explained the situation, asking if she might be up for doing the road trip as a joint thing - even though this might be weird or awkward, since she and I didn't know each other very well, etc. etc. She said yes over the phone in an enthusiastic and also slightly curt way that could've melted the hearts of Hellenic warriors.
On the journey, somewhere in western Idaho (having started in Portland), a horrible snowstorm came in. By a miracle, the storm started to abate just when we'd thought we were doomed in white-out conditions, in Missoula, Montana. I wasn't sure what was going to happen, but Daphne said that we needed to find a department store in Missoula.
I didn't know why we needed to find a department store; I was just mesmerized by the adventure of the whole thing. . . . It turned out that all stores were closed due to the snowstorm. We kept driving, and eventually I got Daphne to fess up to why she'd wanted to stop and make a purchase: She'd forgotten to bring extra underwear. I was in heaven over the fact that she'd told me this. . . . She also told me that she sometimes had trouble even finding underwear in her size, because her butt was so big. (It was big, yes, but in a great way.) She told me this in a matter-of-fact way, without seeming to have any awareness whatsoever of how this declaration would impact my overall psychology and, more to the point, my penis. Again, I almost died.
The storm then picked up again east of Missoula, and pretty soon it was almost impossible to see. But, amazingly, it turned out that Daphne's uncle had a seldom-used cabin right near this exact location. The Gods, again, seemed to be taking care of everything.
We got into the cabin with a key hidden under a rock, but inside there was no heat; the storm had caused a power outage, and the cabin relied on electric heat. The place was just as cold as the air outside, which was about 15 degrees Fahrenheit.
We started the sleeping situation with her in the bed and me on the floor, but then she said she was still cold (as I was too), and, so, I summoned the courage to ask if she might consider the concept of me getting into her bed with her, to share body heat.
She agreed, causing me almost to die for about the third or fourth time in the last sixteen hours. Then, there ensued an incredible few seconds during which I climbed into bed with her and felt and breathed in the heat and scent, the very pheromones, of her. I could smell her hair, her skin, her breath, her vagina.
We sort of spooned, with Daphne behind me at a slight, delicate, mannered distance of a couple of inches.
"I'm still cold," she said.
I was still cold as well. "You're welcome to press yourself against me," I said.
