The Stories Your Mother Never Told You — Part 7.

In a tattered journal given to me by one of my clients, I came across the following account which you may find of special interest. It was clearly written describing a time when my client was little more than an infant. You will see that we’ve named him Billy junior, to help keep things straight. I would guess that the diary entries are from the late 1950’s, judging by the content and condition of the journal.

August 7th

I did the most terrible thing today. After I had run my bath I sat shaving my legs. It was lovely feeling how soft they are. That’s when I got the idea.

I decided to shave myself a little more thoroughly tonight. I gently stripped away about a third of my pubic hair. It feels so smooth and lovely, I might even take more off tomorrow!

That, though, is nothing compared to what happened yesterday. I had to run across to Meg Richardson’s place across town to help her do some adjustments to the wedding dress she’s making for someone who is the same size as I am. I model it and she adjusts it. I like to be helpful to her. After all, I see her at church every Sunday and she always takes the time to talk.

“It’s so fortunate you’re the same size and shape as her,” said Meg, down on all fours trying to adjust the hem of the flowing white skirts. I stood there, in a pair of shoes that were just ludicrously uncomfortable, but just the right heel height.

We chatted quietly as she worked her way around the hem. Her husband came home and sat watching us, in a manner I can only call ‘familiar’.

“Nice to see you, Alice,” he said pouring himself a beer. His eyes were on me, rolling over the shape of my body, while Meg kneeled in front of me. It struck me that it might look a little exciting to him.

Once finished she got to her feet, hands on hips and gathered up my clothes and motioned for me to follow her to the spare room, where I could change back into my clothes in private. I shrugged off the dress and stepped out of the shoes.

“Those things were killing me,” I said.

“Oh, I’m sorry. I just needed the right height,” said Meg. “Why don’t you sit down a moment, I can make your feet feel better.”

With that she ducked out of the room, only to return a moment later. I was seated in an armchair, and she deftly took my foot and started massaging it with a delightful orange smelling cream. I must say I was surprised as she rubbed it how good it felt. It seemed to penetrate into me as she rubbed the soles with firm even strokes curling around my foot. It was so very sensual I could feel myself melting.

“That’s very nice, Meg,” I moaned as she rubbed. I think my voice was perhaps a little too seductive as even I felt it was just a little too sensual and breathy.

All too soon she moved to my other foot and rubbed it, her eyes never moving from my feet. I watched her. It was almost as though she couldn’t look at me. She was staring so intently, I realised she was getting off on it. As I watched her I allowed my legs to part, and sitting there in just my brassiere and panties I felt the most shameless of whores. Well, maybe not quite, but this was very unfamiliar to me. To react like that to the touch of another woman.

Just as I was beginning to feel my breath quicken at these thoughts Meg stopped and got to her feet.

“We should get finished,” she said nervously, handing me my clothes.

I took them and as I did so my hand rested on hers for a moment. That moment was electric. After a second or two she tried to pull away, but I took her hand instead, and held it. Her eyes met mine with a look of confusion.

“What is it?” I asked quietly.

“I shouldn’t,” she said and her voice sank to a whisper.

I pulled her hand gently toward my belly, warm and soft. She resisted a little but then yielded. I then began pushing her hand down slowly. I watched her face as at first she looked shocked, and then as I pressed her small hand into the waistband of my panties I saw her exhale in surrender and then press her fingers to my body. I moved closer as she found her fingers touching my pubic hair and then slipped over the most intimate and moist parts of my body. I pressed her hand against me, but there was no resistance there.

I moved my hips against her willing fingers, and she instinctively touched me how only another woman can. I pressed my lips to hers, and then pushing myself against her body felt the joyful feeling of flesh on flesh.

I whispered in her ear, “Your massage is perfect, Meg. Won’t you?”

She began rubbing me and I buried my face in her curls. Standing on tip toes her fingers played over me skillfully having practiced a thousand times in the silent hours of the night in preparation for a moment like this.

When we both returned to the living room I felt quite breathless, and as Meg poured me a glass of wine I looked at the damp fingerprint on the glass and smiled to myself. Her idiot of a husband was babbling on about something, and I watched as Meg brought some treats from the kitchen. Our eyes met across the room. She smiled so very innocently.

I’d be coming by more often, I decided.

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