Six months ago
George crossed the road with an annoyed and puzzled air. Two long female legs, and the tall brunette to which they belonged, occupied the window of his favorite bookstore. The brunette's legs weren't bad. Her feet may be a little on the big side. Her derriere filled the entire skirt, but didn't look quite round enough.
To get a look at the new arrivals in the store, he will have to wait for the intruder to go away. He tried some menacing and intimidating looks which were reflected back in the window.
The brunette did not look scared, but rather taken by the books on display. Indeed, she did not move from the window. Instead, she ran her forefinger doubtfully over her lips and slightly bent a leg. She had strong, almost athletic calves, but her legs as a whole could be called elegant. The checkered jacket tightened her shoulders. She could be an amateur swimmer.
On the whole her silhouette was pleasant, with no excess fat.
Surprisingly, the brunette turned to him and parted her plump lips. Then she opened her eyes wide, dropped her head to one side and smiled at him questioningly, showing a row of coral teeth.
If you think you're playing the shark with me, you will have a hard time, George told himself.
She went on smiling, half pitifully and half ironically.
Now the brunette moved on with an imperceptible swaying and George thought he could finally enjoy his showbooks, but the brunette was full of surprises. Before stepping off the sidewalk to cross the road, she gave him one more look. George knew when one had to change one’s mind. Something told him that in recent times he had given too much space to books in his life.
The brunette went from one sidewalk to the next, skipping up the kerb with a small hop like a child who plays and pays no attention to the rest of the world. Walking past a fashion shop window, she stopped to look at a white lace blouse. Caught off guard, George quickly turned around with indifference and stopped some distance away. She ran a thoughtful forefinger over her lips. Her long tapered fingers had nails coated in bright red polish. George decided that he could forgive this quirk of her finger over her lips.
The brunette moved wistfully from the blouse. George knew when a decision must be taken. He entered the shop and came out with a small rectangular box. Damn, he did not imagine that a lace blouse would cost so much. That's why women are always so nervous and dissatisfied. A restless George scanned the horizon. The brunette was in sight. She stopped and turned to George, throwing a long look to him. Then she entered the front door of a building.
What is your game, doll? Maybe now she will ask me for money to buy the medicine for her poor sick aunt, a disgusted George thought.
What was her game?
The brunette opened the wrought-iron gate of the elevator and waited for George to enter.
"Where are we going?" George was now ready for anything he would be asked.
"To the top floor, of course."
George had a drum in his stomach.
The top floor was under the roof of the building. There were no doors and no apartments on the top floor.
They looked each other in the eye, wondering who was the hawk and who was the dove between them.
The brunette decided to take the rectangular box.
"Why do my fingers tremble?" George asked himself as the box slipped out of his hands.
"Miss, I don't know if it's the right size."
"We are here to try it."
The brunette took off her checkered jacket and handed it to him. Then she took off her shirt and put it over George's arm on top of the jacket. George noticed the pink hippo painted on the shirt.
Her bosom was high and tense and her black bra had no particular problems to deal with. Her shoulders were broad, there were no straps inside the jacket. Her shoulder blades were prominent.
Her elbows were a little rough. Perhaps she liked to keep them on the desk. Her hands, that promised gardens of delight, were white on the backs, while the palms were pink, shaded by long soft fingers.
She opened the box, wearing the new blouse, and put her old shirt in the box. She threw George the box, which he grabbed in flight with some uncertainty, as he was attempting to watch both her and the box at the same time.
The brunette stopped stripping, leaving George a little disappointed but overall happy with the way things were going. She reopened the elevator door. As soon as they were inside, the unbelievable happened. The brunette turned her back to George and raised her skirt, showing her long embroidered green pants, in the style of a Mayflower Pilgrim. Then she bent over and lowered her pants.
"Look but do not touch" she said firmly.
George was an enchanted prey. He realized that the tight skirt unjustly flattened her bottom, which reflected the sun's rays through a window. My God, her bum is round and shining like the sun, George thought. As for the thighs, George could not remember a chick who had better thighs than hers.
"My name is Gloria" she said.
The two were now down the street. The brunette ordered George to stay where he was with a threatening forefinger.
17 marzo 2017 ore 06:45 segnala
Six months ago George crossed the road with an annoyed and puzzled air. Two long female legs, and the tall brunette to which they belonged, occupied the window of his favorite bookstore. The brunette's legs weren't bad. Her feet may be a little on the big side. Her derriere filled the entire skirt,...
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