It's only the second time. The second time we've gone out. The second time we've met. I keep trying to rationalize it...
This is sub frenzy. This is infatuation. For you. For me. You'll get bored with me, or realize that I'm really not all that terribly awesome or special. This is part of my grief and needing human contact.
Of course then I counter those thoughts almost as soon as I think them... it's just my impostures syndrome. I need to breathe and just let things be whatever they are. I need to let go and not suffocate myself with logic. I need to live. The only way to know is to try.
I'm trying. I'm trying so hard to not over analyze every single thing. Every word. Every action. Yours. Mine. I'm trying so hard to just feel and exist. I'm trying to embrace the sensations.
But what if the things I feel are wrong? Or fake?
I don't know. I don't know any more. My confidence in my emotions, in trusting them to be right, is fractured at the moment. I don't want them to be fake. I don't think they are. I don't think it's grief, or infatuation.
I like this... I want this... I've wanted this for so long...
I clutch the little black purse closer to my chest, hoping it doesn't look like the death grip it feels like. No jacket again. I'm actually surprised you've never seen me in it. Maybe I should take that as a sign of how much I want this. I don't want to hide. I don't want my "security blanket" when I'm around you because on some level I know I'm secure.
My shoes still feel odd as I walk into the restaurant with you and I give myself a small mental kick for not breaking them in better. They're flats at least. No crazy heels yet. I haven't gone that girly, though I am in a dress for you and I'm sure heels are just a matter of time.
I look down at the dress. Well... really... at the expanse of my cleavage that the dress doesn't cover. The pale skin of my breasts is a stark contrast against the fabric and the purse I'm holding to myself. The colors encasing me are so rich you would think the dress was new.
The truth is I've owned it for years. I fell in love with it when I saw it. The dark, rich purple, almost a tie-dye sort of pattern banding around the fabric, alternating between lighter and darker shades... It's gorgeous and I know the color suites me, though I don't tend to fret over looking nice most of the time.
The fabric is light. Airy. A summer dress to be sure. I loved how soft the fabric was, how light. I loved the way the fabric folded around my body, almost as if it were a form of toga, something which could easily be unwrapped. What I loved most was the skirt portion and how it wrapped around my waist, overlapping in the front rather than at the side so as I walked the cloth parted, displaying my legs. Legs which are currently clad in stockings at your request.
There's a delicious pull inside my body knowing that if I walk too fast, move too quickly, there's the chance of the fabric parting too far, showing the world how you took my panties from me. Showing anyone who's watching just how much of your cum is dripping out of me, running down my thighs, soaking into my stockings.
The thought makes me blush as you request a booth for two. I can feel my flesh burning as my fingers tighten on my purse and I silently hope the lighting is dark enough to allow my thoughts to pass unnoticed.
I feel so different. I love this dress so much, and yet I haven't worn it because shortly after buying it my relationship ended. I bought it and then was without reason to wear it. But now there is. I want to be girly for you. Attractive. Feminine. The purse, the shoes, the stockings... they're all new. So different from everything I'm used to...
And yet I take a moment to smile, knowing my Thunder Cats wallet is still inside my purse, along with my Spyro the Dragon key chain. I may be embracing a too long neglected aspect of myself, but at the core I am still me. I haven't given anything up... except my panties...
My blush deepens and I dip my head a bit further as I bite my bottom lip.
I drag myself out of my head and back to the now as we're shown to our table. The waiter smiles at me, at us, as he stands next to the booth he has picked. It's secluded, in the back, away from the other customers peppered throughout the establishment. I glance around the room as I sit.
In typical fashion there are mostly couples and I take a moment to ponder how I look when I go out alone. You would think enjoying solitude was a sin or an incurable disease with the looks I get sometimes. It would be nice to not receive pity for sitting alone. I can't deny that I'm enjoying having company, though. Especially company who loves to leave me a gooey mess...
I jump slightly as you place your hand on the table in front of me. You place your other arm on the back of the booth as you ease your body towards me, sitting yourself beside me. I hadn't expected this.
