(Rated Rg2: For Ladies Only)
Panti Petals, Calif.–7:17 a.m., Pamper-Her-Friday:
“Tell your girlfriends to take a raincheck this weekend. If there’s a problem, see me,” his words roll off his lips like a chieftain laying down the law to a second-in-command with no options except acquiescence–glad acceptance. “I want you to myself tonight . . . no distractions, no interruptions.”
Her hands clutched around the beveled frame of the iPad, she projects eagerly into the touchscreen a surrendered grin, oddly submissive to his directive.
“OK.” Her reply brief, simple, and defenseless. Surrender. Deliberate and willful surrender. Communicating with him via the facetime video app, she scans his face in real time, wanting to reach her hand through the tablet and stroke the five o’ clock shadow adorning his lower jaws, cleanly trimmed to match the temple fade of his short, wave-rippled coif that begs her finger-play. Funny, her palms begin to generate an excited moisture as their tele-interplay plays out.
She rotates the tablet from landscape to portrait to landscape again, to allow the condensation from each hand print to evaporate after each pause. This bodily chemical reaction is foreign to her, though not unfathomable. The man in the electronic portrait is a throbber–several degrees hot. And hotter.
“Tilt the pad,” he requests. “Slow, let it scan you methodically. I want a glimpse of what awaits me in a few hours.
“Slowly,” he reiterates.
No resistance offered, aptly engaging his wile, she begins a provocative self-scan of her bare frontal with the handheld e-device, her bodyscape captured mesmerically by the rectangle optical lens, revealing cleavage and ribprints and navel art and the teasing, triangular-formed, chiffon panty covering that disappears at each hip.
Further the lens drifts, at his urging, to her thighs, further still over her entire leg length–each of his requests greeted with each of her gives, his approvals feel-able through the machine.
The flower bouguet arrived in yesterday’s late afternoon to her total wonder and one of the roses, in particular, begged her playful hand. The petals, aromatic and silk-textured, were the perfect body adornment in anticipation of their tele-chat.
They both revel in the provocative e-moment.
“Well, I’d better go,” he says reluctantly. “I’ve got work to do. We’re each other’s tonight, woman.”
They sign off . . . the room now riddled with both pheromone and anticipation. Working from home today, she’s in no rush to start what would otherwise be a hectic day. She showers and begins prepping her hair. Her doorbell surprises her.
Her arrival at the entrance, strangely, is greeted by no one–a prank. Until she notices a black slate at the doorstep. She recognizes it as his tablet, of all things. More curious than startled, she visually scans the walkway and then the driveway. To no avail.
She retrieves the iPad from the welcome mat. Oddly enough, the device is powered up, the blacked-out screen features nothing but a post-it note. “Swipe,” it reads.
At mid-point of her finger stroke, his portrait lights up the screen, bared, chiseled chest, a bouquet of roses clutched by his left palm.
And then . . .
. . . he appears.
In real time. In real life. At the doorstep.
“I took the afternoon off,” he says, his smile and piercing brown eyes greeted by the amazement of hers as she jumps into his arms.
He closes the door behind them as the late morning sun appears jealous it wasn’t invited in.
And Pamper-Her-Friday, a bit earlier than anticipated, begins.
The Art of Romance. -Rg2
© 2013 Pamper-Her-Friday by Rg2®