The Good Doctor and the wicked pantiless girl



The smoke hangs heavy in the small oak panelled room. There's an earthiness to its scent, a slight dankness and it fills my lungs, closes my eyes and seductively entices me to talk.

He sits in his chair, smoking his cigar, listening. He watches, watches the rise and fall of my breasts as I push words from my diaphragm, watches the way the flimsy light material of my much too short skirt teases as it drapes ever just so at the top of my caramel coloured thighs, watches my mouth, glistening wet from nude lip gloss as it forms words that flutter to the floor like autumn leaves.

I tell him about hands and lips and fingers and skin. I tell him about pink slap marks and angry red welts. The whole time his eyes are fixed to my every move, every slight nuance my body makes as I recall and retell past exploits for his pleasure.

He can see my nipples, erect and hard sillhouetted against the sheer fabric of my shirt, he knows that if he can get me to move just so, that much too short skirt will ride up just enough for him to see my naked skin, the pantiless girl on the couch, the wicked pantiless girl on the couch.

He imagines every curve, every scent, every taste as I detail every memory piece by piece.

When I turn to look at him, he sits forward on his chair, clasps his hands together in that Freudian manner that makes me laugh out loud and tells me what a naughty girl I am.

I deliberately drop my keys as I am walking out the door....

2009-04-18 7:47 p.m.