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There's a freedom in the knowledge that she would like to be left, and like to encourage me.There's a familiar pressure of cock against underpants, the entrapment of the willing. A memory prods me, of when I was younger. Before women, before sex, but after the discovery of pleasure. I remember the motion and the feeling; the pure wanton release of youth, and the unbelievable frequency of it. I blush, remembering the stiff stained sheets; proof of the act, or sometimes just the dream.I lie on my back, calm and sure in the warmth, and slide my hands down my skin. There's a certain inevitability in the movement, despite the fact that I'm convinced I could stop.Fingertips slide gently over the cloth at first, proud of the bulge, and the subtle leak from its tip. There's a sensitivity that's almost feminine at this point, where every touch produces a mental gasp, despite the almost complete lack of movement. The very tip of one finger, the very tip of one cock.I tease myself from the. Essentially, the nicest outfit she owned, but nothing compared to Melissa’s clothes, especially the priceless dress she had… ruined. Sarah checked herself in the mirror a dozen times, turning and bending this way and that, continuously fussing with her hair, ‘I hope she approves.’ Now in the kitchen Melissa was gawking at the glossy 8×10 prints. ‘Wow, NICE pictures…DAMN!’ She was fanning herself with the envelope, ‘…um, did it hurt?’ ‘Yes! It fucking hurt!’ Melissa put her hand over her mouth and laughed – they both started laughing like crazy. ‘Aw, you poor thing…’ And then she remembered, ‘Oh yeah, I’ve got something for you. Come with me.’ With a big smile on her face she grabbed Sarah’s clammy hand and pulled her around the corner into the bedroom. Melissa’s dress – the dress in question you might say – was hanging from a hook covered in sheer plastic. It was beautiful: long, elegant, wrap around style, with intricate hand stitching reminiscent of a Japanese Kimono. Sarah’s.
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