Bound and Butterscotch

Contributed by guest author (anonymous)

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In my own mind, I cannot remember a time that I wasn’t in my own skin, aware of myself. I thought that was natural for all women, but the older I get the more I realize that being aware of oneself is a rare gift.

Even first thing in the morning, I am totally in tune with my body. I like the way my skin feels just out of the shower, when I’ve dried my hair but that place at the nape of my neck is still damp and smells fresh like rain. I like the way my legs feel when I smooth cold lotion on them. I am crisp and clean and sexual in a decorated way. I like the line of my skirt and the gentle rustle it makes when I move. I like the feel of a camisole between my skin and my blouse.

It’s very erotic being dressed and prepared, kind of like being bound up or packaged. A gift.

Most days, I feel a certain tension, a sexual energy, like a little electric current. Part of it lies in the fact that I leave that ‘mother’ part of me behind and decorate myself as an offering. That’s what a girl is really doing when she paints and powders, you know: she is preparing herself. I am not distracted by children or dishes or laundry or unpaid bills or telemarketers. I am honed in my mind and all of the fertile thoughts inside. In the rush hour commute to work, there is ample time to let my mind wander.

By the time I hit the elevator to the sixth floor, I’m damp between the legs and my body is alive. I’m aware of my sexual power. I am always aware of my presence in a room. Feeling the response from those I interact with, I wonder if they sense it, too.

The blouse I’m wearing today is unbelievably soft. It is tight at the waist, tucked into my skirt, and my breasts look full and firm beneath the sheer material. The sleeves are pushed up on my forearms exposing all of that tender,  creamy white skin that matches my neck and that hint of cleavage that you might peek through the top two undone buttons if I move just the right way.

The black skirt I’m wearing is cut two inches below the knee. It’s lined, elegant, with a generous slit in the back that to bend over from the waist would be indiscreet, so I’m forced to kind of kneel if I want something from the lower shelf. My legs are bare and I have on my favorite pair of black sling-back shoes. Not running-in-traffic shoes. I am adorned with a simple watch, large silver hoop earrings, and my hair is up in a loose bun. My reddish-brown hair normally falls just past my shoulders, but today the little upswept French twist looks better with this blouse. To see the back of a woman’s neck is reserved yet suggestive.

There are no accidents here… I feel female and sexual and alive. I wonder to myself if he will like what I’m wearing and smile. I’m sure I’d already by half-undressed and bent backwards over this desk in a most unladylike fashion… hands greedily clutching my hips, pressed hard against the desk, his mouth hot against mine, probing, searching out my tongue. The feeling of being devoured, being consumed, one leg on the floor, the other wrapped around his thigh, greedily urging him into me… 

The phone rings. Work again.

I let the eraser of the pencil I am holding rest gently against my lips before making notes on a pad of all the things I need to accomplish before the end of the day. I’m staring out the window at the lake behind the building, watching traffic go by while I roll this and that fantasy around in my mind like a hard candy in my mouth. I feel it click against my teeth and roll it past my tongue from left to right, then back again.

Butterscotch.

My legs are crossed, and I’m bobbing one high-heeled foot up and down, the shoe dangling off the end of my toes. It’s a lazy but charged feeling. Like static electricity. I sweep tendrils of hair from my eyes and click that hard candy against my teeth once more.

And that… is how I am today.