I can assure you that 12 months ago millie - who recently found himself impaled on the horns of a dilemma or two - would not have considered responding to her new name. What a difference a year makes! I'm quite delighted to say that she stopped in recently and was able to model her new lingerie for moi, and fetching is just the word for it. Our conversation, hers and mine, on the subject gave rise to an observation. Or two.
Let's talk fabric and flesh, shall we? The fabric was black sheer mesh, quite fine, if I do say so, and sweetly clingy. Stretchy, a bit. Like skin, you know? Surely you've had occasion to grasp a nipple between a thumb and a forefinger and pull out from your body and noticed that flesh can stretch. That it's malleable. Just like the mind, really, when one thinks about it. No? Yes, of course yes. Just consider Milton and millie. Stretched beyond recognition, really, at times.
It's interesting how giving voice to things changes one's perceptions. millie modeled the slip. That sweet rustle as it came down over her head, the cool fabric warming as it encased her chest. her bosom. Truly. she's a bit developed there. But that's beside the point, isn't it. My conversations with millie often turn on questions of self, of her helpless need to please, of sensations that would be jarring if it weren't for the bath of natural, self-produced drugs that flow through her like menses from an overly ripe egg at that time of month that drain down the smooth walls of a woman's womb. And ripe she is, that millie, when that internal cocktail of substances is released during that serene state when she becomes herself. Open. Willing. Pliable.
The mesh, it is fine, as I mentioned. What was extraordinary was how sensitive she becomes as she gains awareness. At once smooth and textured, she began to melt as I had her graze her fingertips across those budding mounds of femininity. she could feel the material grabbing her and holding on, not letting go, and it provided another skin that created a whole new set of sensations Talk about the, I told her. Tell Me.
Quite remarkable. Even the faint stir of warm breath provoked an outpouring of poetry from her, as if she were weightless, caught in a cloud crackling with gentle electricity that penetrated her skin and tissue.
The skin. It's the largest organ, you know. As her breath and fingertips and palms danced lightly across her body, she was transported. she knew she'd have to return to the soft itch of flannel trousers the next day, but she also knew that it would just be a temporary condition, an aberration. her reality, or should I say her reality now, ensheathes her body and clings to her like the dream you can't quite shake off. No matter how hard you try.