What a Wonderful Day we had Yesterday!

Dear Sweet Katelyn,

What a wonderful day we had yesterday ...

First that hot steaming shower together (the water was pretty warm too), lathering each other up, taking turns sitting on the shower bench while we scrubbed and massaged each others feet, with a delicate kiss at each toe to seal the deal, washing our hair, then drying and brushing it, playing with different ways we would wear each other's hair, picking out what to wear for the day.Then we quickly did our faces, dressed for a day of shopping, and jumped in the car for a ride to downtown Carmel. 

First, when we got there, I surprised you with an appointment I had sneakily made while you were in the other room, at the "Signature Day Spa":

http://www.signaturedayspa.com/

We spent a couple of delicious hours together being massaged, rubbed with herbal scrubs, pampering every inch of skin all over our bodies, then they did our hair and nails and makeup and - girl - did we walk out of there looking and feeling like a million bucks or what? And in case you hadn't noticed, walking with just a bit more bounce in our steps, and every hot-blooded heterosexual male in Northern California was having a hard time not looking as we walked by! Okay, that's not a huge population, but we might have even given a few gay guys second thoughts about their choices <giggle>. With our big gaudy dark sunglasses, the boys couldn't tell whether we were noticing them or not, but honey, I was noticing, and it made me feel SOOOO good.

Then we hit the clothing boutiques, and tried on every single pretty thing that caught our eyes. depending on one another's impeccable taste to help us decide which things hit the "HOT" button. The hot pink halter dress, that lavender evening gown, my coral red gauze sun dress that laced up the plunging bare back, that white eyelet ruffled peasant dress we both liked, that very sexy grey knit dress with the silver lame accents you looked so slinky in, I also love those beautiful black thigh-high stockings I found with the climbing roses on the sides. We also found some very sexy bathing suits with completely see-through gauze sun dresses to wear over the top, And then we did the shoe stores: the black peep-toe pumps with red soles that say "I'm even hot underneath!", the sensible ballet-slipper-style flats with dainty straps across the top with tiny red roses at the buckles, some summer sandals, and then you and your spring-floral print sky-high platforms with the six inch stiletto heels and the ribbon ties up the ankle (have you no mercy for the poor boys my dear? Of course you don't! - giggle). A few ear rings, and bracelets, and hair pins for good measure, and that luscious perfume you tried on and we both loved, and, and ... oh it was just a fabulous shop-till-we-dropped!

So we finally "dropped" into a couple chairs to get off our feet, for a late lunch, almost dinner, in that very charming little sidewalk cafe with the wrought iron and flowers everywhere, shopping bags and boxes piled all around us, and that gay waiter that was so jealous of how good we looked. two or three mimosas each, a light shrimp salad, finished off with a few bites each of that sinful Marionberry-chocolate-mousse cake, oh my gosh, did that just make you weak in the knees or what? 

Then we made a quick run to the beach house to drop off our things and get dressed for an evening on the town. 

I took you to my favorite nightspot, A tiny place called Ricky's Garage. It actually was a garage once with all kinds of 30s 40s and 50s posters and vintage memorabilia all over the walls, but that was ages ago. The owner used to run a small recording studio. He built a stage and a small dance floor, a great big old saloon bar, and a fantastic sound system. It has little intimate booths, big open tables for larger groups, and a bunch of little two-tables for dates. The waitresses all dress in cute clothes that remind you of 40s and 50s styles. They somehow manage to book some of the best performers from all over the world, I guess because it's a fun gig to play. This night was a super-tight six-piece group doing jazz, blues, and Cubana salsa (my absolute favorite when I'm feeling sexy); a couple of horns, some excellent guitar, bass, and drums, a pretty girl singer / guitar player in a skin tight red dress, and a couple of the guys sang too. We had a few drinks, a couple of chicken tamales for a light dinner, and talked some more about the years that had passed since we'd seen each other last. Once, when no one was looking, I felt compelled to reach over, run my fingers through your hair and down your bare shoulder, take your hand in mine, and kissed your hand very softly, as a warm blush came over both our faces, which also seemed to warm both of us deep inside. 

After a while, we noticed a couple of very good looking guys sitting at the bar, and decided we would like to be asked to dance. It didn't take much, we both knew exactly what to do. First I laughed just a little bit too loud to get them looking our direction, and blushed with a quick darting glance in their direction, then you swiveled your head a few degrees toward them, swept your hair over your left shoulder delicately, and stole a quick glance with that delightful Mona Lisa half-smile of yours. Each gesture was so subtle they couldn't be sure if they saw what they thought they did or not. Then we proceeded to completely ignore them for the next five minutes while they screwed up their courage to ask the hottest two girls in the place for a dance. We giggled and laughed, talking a mile a minute, played with our hair as we talked, and had a tremendous time all by ourselves. I reached over and touched your bare shoulder again as we talked, and your hand came up and touched mine. All the while we both were sitting with our legs crossed under the table, one foot raised, making little flicking gestures with our pretty stiletto-heeled feet under the table to emphasize each point of the conversation. We both know that calls attention to two great pairs of legs in a fashion that - well - hardly seems fair to the male of the species. 

Sure enough, a few minutes later those very same guys sauntered over to our table, trying to look very cool, and asked if we would like to dance, we winked at each other with the eyes on the other side of the our profiles, where they can't see, and we said "Oh, ( hesitating just a second, looking at each other for mock approval), sure! We'd love to!", as if the delightful thought had never crossed our minds. 

They were both pretty good dancers, but I do think you had the better of the two. Honey, I saw what he was doing with your body on the dance floor, and it made me pretty hot to watch the two of you, in the snippets of glances I managed to steal while my partner and I salsa'd our way around the floor. I'm afraid I was at least an inch taller than my partner, even with just three inch heels, but he wasn't spending much time looking at how tall I was, He could not take his eyes off my legs and my ass; I don't know when my cleavage has felt so neglected! <giggle> It was so fun throwing my long curls around when he would twirl me. I so love that feeling, my skirt twists all the way around hugging my legs, as my hair flows all the way over one shoulder, my earrings tickling delicately at my neck, I flash a big smile to my partner to let him know the fun I'm having, and then he unwinds that twirl with another in the opposite direction and the whole feeling happens all over again the other way. As he twirls me around, his hand glides around my waist softly. I could feel his strength as he tossed me around the dance floor with style and confidence, I watched his cute struts and swaggers, and sneaked a peek at his tight little ass every chance I got. There is just nothing like dancing with a great guy to make you feel like a VERY sexy girl. 

We danced three numbers back to back, and then the boys joined us at our table for a round of drinks to cool down. We kept the conversation fairly light, about the music, the beach, what they do for work. My partner was pretty funny and sort of charming. Your partner said he was an IP attorney in Silicon Valley, and mine was an investment banker or something. 

I lost count, but I think we must have danced, I don't know, maybe twelve dances together with them? I was actually pretty impressed, even during a slow dance he held me very firmly, and very close, and it felt really good, but he was quite the gentleman the whole time. As it began to get late, you and I gave each other cues that it had been fun, but we thought we should go home alone. We told them we were kind of tired after a long day and we needed to get home. Then we said that we were going to be in town all week, and maybe we'd see them here another night this week? They looked just encouraged enough to not be crest-fallen. They walked out with us, told us good night as we got into our car, and we took off for the beach. 

The cool night air felt so refreshing after all that dancing. We drove home with all the windows open and let it wash over our faces and shoulders, not caring that it blew our hair all over. I reached over as we drove down the coast highway and our hands met in laced fingers, you squeezed my hand, and we just held hands all the way home without talking. When we got to the house, we padded up the front walk barefoot, silently, with our heels in one hand, and holding hands with the other. At the house, we found a few left over bites of that delicious creamy fruit salad, another few bites of the berry mousse cake from lunch, a cup of hot tea, and relaxed at the kitchen counter bar stools for a few minutes, sharing a few quiet whispers about the evening. In a bit, we drifted into the bedroom, arm-in-arm, unzipped each other, got out of our clothes, completely naked, and crawled under the soft covers in that giant feather bed. We both knew, that we were both thinking "Let's just see what the boys missed out on..." and spent the next hour or so, before drifting off to sleep, just relishing in the soft, tender, sensual pleasure it is to be delicately female, after an evening of raging pheromones. 

Katey Lyn, I am intensely heterosexual, but, somehow these times with you are different. It's like you've become, or maybe always were, an extension of me. It's like you know where every last nerve ending lives in my entire body, you know every thought and feeling before they come to me, and sometimes I think I know yours just as thoroughly. 

I love you so much Katelyn! I wish we had more than just this week together! 

Your ever-devoted, 

- Heather 

xoxoxoxxxxxxxx --- ohhhhhhh yessssss!!!

The Wedding and the Beach House

It was a balmy June Saturday in Napa valley, California. The winery Heather’s cousin Rosalind had chosen for the wedding was beautifully placed amidst rolling California hills with row after row of carefully manicured vines. An old white Victorian mansion crowned the property, filled with antiques, amidst rich ancient hardwood floors; the ceremony and reception were held in the lush green lawn which poured out against the hillside behind the house.

Heather always loved weddings, and this was no exception. Her spirit this day felt so light and airy, she imagined she might float away across the hillside if a strong breeze came along. She was so happy for her cousin Rosalind; she and her groom were positively giddy in love, doting on each other so attentively they never noticed how some of the guests blushed just to watch them. Her soon-to-be-husband was a striking figure of a young man, tall and thin – till you got to his chest and shoulders (the physique of his water-polo days), light brown hair, and gentle hazel eyes. His strong hands and broad shoulders seemed to caress and shelter Rosalind like a delicate flower might thrive in the shade of a mighty oak. His vintage-styled double-breasted tux with tails seemed the perfect accent for the occasion.

Heather had been unable to be a bridesmaid, only able to fly in at the last minute for the wedding from a swimsuit modeling job in New Zealand. But she was here now after the long flight, sipping from a delicious glass of champagne that someone had put in her hand; the long plane flight already forgotten. She was wearing a pink-champagne colored hand-brocade dress with one inch shoulder straps and covered in a pattern of small brocaded flowers. The soft pink hue popped with the crown of Heather’s deep wine-red hair in luscious curls spilling softly around her bare shoulders. The dress was gathered gently to the left at the waist with a small mock sash and sequined pin, embracing all her feminine curves in flattery, and fell to an elegant length three inches below the knee, with a side slit to just above the knee. Capping the end of Heather’s long legs with back-seamed stockings, were her favorite pair of tall pink leather peep-toe pumps which flashed deep magenta undersoles as she walked. Her toe nails, finger nails, and lips were all painted blood red, which Heather thought complimented her hair nicely.

A fleeting moment of regret whisked through her happiness as she caught sight of the lovely bridesmaids. Oh … they were so delicately feminine and beautiful; dressed in gauzy cream-colored bridesmaid dresses with the look of ballet costumes, delicate thin spaghetti straps over the shoulder, a slight curved plunge at the neckline revealing the barest hint of cleavage, a gathered empire waist flowing down to a delicate ruffle of fabric at the hem of a loose skirt, about four inches above the knees, which floated delicately as they walked in white low heeled sandals (more practical shoes for a lawn wedding than Heather’s). Completing the feminine vision was a handmade, delicate wreath of spring wild-flowers perched atop each maid’s beautiful long hair, each head a different hair color, sun-bleached blonde, several shades of auburn, brown, and black, worn loose about their shoulders. The entire visual effect could only work for pretty young girls like Rosalind’s lovely seven bridesmaids.

The bride’s gown was a vision of what the dainty bridesmaids dresses would become, when they grew up and became women. Still the thin straps caressing her shoulders, but now layers of Austrian lace, a shower of tiny lace roses across the bodice, figure-flattering ruching below the bust and gathering at the waist, which yet had no work of figure-flattery to do, with Rosalind’s size four waist and five foot nine frame. The long full skirt and train was made of layer upon layer of gauze so sheer you could see through the first three layers, and her veil was of the same airy gauze with another shower of tiny lace roses. Under the veil was a bouquet of Rosalind’s auburn hair in loose curls fluttering softly about her shoulders; her grandmother’s diamond hair pin gathering some of her hair from the sides in a sweep up to the pin in back, exposing matching diamond chandelier ear rings which announced every gesture of the bride with brilliant sparkles. It was difficult to say which was prettier, the dress or the bride; both blended into a floating vision from which no male on the planet could easily avert his eyes (not to mention the many envious females who secretly wished to be her). The long train was so light it floated across the trail of rose petals in her path, hardly seeming to disturb their lay. She was a vision of elegant, innocent, womanhood “floating” through her wedding day.

The wedding ceremony went off perfectly, romantic passion-filled vows, beautifully selected music, every toast on cue, each requisite dance of parents, children, and grandchildren performed with grace and dignity. The photographer captured each moment for posterity while hardly calling attention to herself. The newly married couple laughed so hard when they smooshed wedding cake into each other’s mouths that they fell into an embrace just to keep from falling over, forgetting the guests in the kiss that followed. When they danced their first waltz as husband and wife, no prince and princess ever more dazzling appeared.

Soon a large white Bentley whisked the blessed bliss-filled couple off to their secret newlywed tryst, leaving the guests to bask in the romantic afterglow of the wonderful event. As the reception party wore on, the music grew quieter, the guests began to relax and talk. Old friendships were renewed, distant relatives remarked at how big all the children had become, Aunt Rose – showing a bit of the bubbly in her – entertained with marvelous stories of growing up in the Scottish Highlands where she met and courted her husband Ian, sharing more details of the affair than Ian could bear without blushing.

Heather didn’t know as many of the guests as she thought she might, but that was okay, it gave her more time to catch up with her old friend Katelyn who had been the third – and Heather thought – prettiest bridesmaid. Neither Heather nor Katelyn were seeing anyone at the time, so their time was entirely their own, and they gifted that time to each other for almost the whole reception, beginning with a long overdue hug as soon as Katelyn was done with her ceremonial maid’s duties.

Katelyn had been slogging through school, a challenging pre-med program, hoping to become a pediatrician. But she thought Heather’s modeling career terribly exciting. Heather reminded her that a career in medicine would last a lot longer than any modeling career. Heather and Katelyn had been best girlfriends in grammar school in Saratoga, California until Heather’s family had moved to up-state New York. They had tried to keep in touch with letters and email, but they both lived too-busy lives. Being together again was like picking right up from some unfinished sixth-grade conspiracy. They whispered secrets, giggled, and laughed so hard once their heads bumped each other a bit painfully, straightening up with a start, looking at the surprise in each others faces, they fell into another basket of giggles. They even danced wildly with each other, in a twirling embrace, when all the good looking guys had wuss’d-out, sitting around drinking and talking sports, or business, or cars. Heather and Katelyn both had to deal with daily stress in their lives and this glorious romantic day together was a tonic both had needed for a very long time.

After a wonderful meal and almost too many glasses of delicious ice wine – a sweet fruity dessert wine with just a hint of roses – it began to be time to go, but the girlfriends could not bear to part after such short time to catch up. Heather suddenly jumped out of her chair beaming “I know! It’s only Saturday, and you said finals are over, you don’t have anything that has to get done for days! I’m staying at the beach house of a friend in Carmel. You’re coming with me for the whole week and I won’t take ‘no’ for an answer!” Katelyn, ever the responsible one, gazed in the distance, feigned a weak protest that she had errands to do, realizing even as she spoke the words, she had not the will power to decline; it was a delightful proposal, the errands would have to do themselves.

Katelyn smiled at Heather, blinked her eyes cat-like, and proceeded to collect her things, saying some hasty goodbye’s, and they both piled into Heather’s rental car. They never even thought to turn on the radio for the three hour drive to Carmel; they had rediscovered their old knack for carrying on one and a half conversations at the same time, anticipating each other's words, answering before the other had finished a sentence. They were each thrilling that they could still be best girlfriends after all these years, and so much time apart.

The beachfront property in Carmel was the home of a publishing executive that Heather had become good friends with. She had to work in New York, but came to Carmel as often as she could, and rented the place out to a short list of good friends, just enough that you had to request it several months in advance to be sure you could get it. It was an older home built decades before, but it had been completely updated and remodeled just two summers ago. It was all granite counters, stainless kitchen, a huge stone wood-burning fireplace, a neat stack of clean oak firewood set into the stonework, with an eclectic assortment of colorful comfortable furniture as if they had been there for years, but each piece was like new, carefully selected by the owner. On what seemed to be every wall in the home, were stunningly beautiful photographs, some black and white, others in lavish color, some of fashion models draped across scenes all over the world, and some were just majestic landscapes or striking architecture. The housekeeper (a local resident hired by the owner to look after the place when she was not there), had thoughtfully provided a bowl full of fresh fruit, and filled the fridge with just enough basics to make breakfasts, and a few simple meals. There was a small assortment of wine on the racks of a glass-fronted wine chiller, and fragrant fresh-cut flowers in three rooms.

At the back of the house was an enormous redwood deck that cascaded into steps down to the beach. There were cypress trees dotted all through the area swaying gracefully in the breeze, and the steady constant roar of the ocean, like an accompanying instrumental to the music that was this beautiful landscape.

Heather and Katelyn unpacked, took a quick tour to explore the house, changed into bathing suits and beach wraps they found in the massive bedroom, and went out to the deck, barely interrupting their conversation since they first hugged at the reception. Now they poured some nice Pinot Noir wine they found in the kitchen, and sat on the deck in the first silence they’d known in hours, except for the throbbing roar of the ocean which they were each now listening to, smiling, finally able to relax. After a long while, Katelyn looked at Heather with a tiny nod toward the beach, enough that Heather rose to her feet and they each walked off down the beach wine glasses in one hand, arms over each other’s shoulders, tiptoeing through the deep soft warm sand that scrunched between their toes, and massaged their feet as they walked. The sun was setting now and the sky was certainly not sky and clouds, but a lush watercolor by God himself.

They walked a while down the beach darting in and out of the surf, holding hands, prancing like two does, swinging their hands, hardly speaking a word now, in stark contrast to just an hour before. As they returned up the beach to the house, the evening air began to get cool, but they suddenly both decided to drop their wraps and now-empty wine glasses in the sand and sprint into the surf. Heather’s long legs leapt across the small wavelets like a gazelle till it was deep enough that she dove under a larger wave and popped up behind the wave curl, her mane of wet hair flinging an arc of water which was chased by her squeal of delight at the refreshing cool ocean. She looked over her shoulder to find Katelyn in a strong breast stroke a few yards away. In a few more moments they were in deep enough to catch a small curling wave and body-surfed back to the shallow frothy beached waves. Gathering their wine glasses and wraps, they dried each other’s hair a bit with the wraps, and pranced off for the warmth of the house.

They poured another small splash of wine each, got out of their wet things and into luxurious soft pink and purple terry robes they found. Heather found a DVD of “The Devil Wears Prada” and they cuddled up together in a glove-soft magenta leather couch to watch the movie in the home’s surround-sound living room theater. It had been the most perfect day either could remember, but now the girls realized how exhausted they were. After the movie, they put some soft blues guitar music on a timer, and got ready for bed. There was only one huge master bedroom in the house, with an enormous four-post feather bed and a gas fireplace, but it wouldn’t be the first time Heather and Katelyn had a slumber party together, though that seemed like – almost was – a lifetime ago. They snuggled under a huge handmade quilt on the bed which Heather noted had the kind of perfect hand-stitching most people would think to be machine-stitched. The girls talked a bit more, sharing intimate things about broken hearts, guys they’d been serious about, family and friends they missed, intimate details of their secret lives which they never told another living soul on earth. The talk finally ran out, and in another moment each lovely head drifted off to a deep, restful, dreaming slumber.

As the sun drifted in through a large skylight at about ten the next morning, the girls slowly began to awake. Katelyn’s eyes squinted open first, and a sleepy smile bloomed on her face as she saw Heather’s face, covered in a few beautiful curls of red hair, just inches from her face. Katelyn reached up and brushed the strands away from Heather’s face, softly, not wanting to wake her, but Heather’s piercing blue eyes opened, followed by a sweet smile to see her best friend still close to her the next morning. Heather reached over and caressed Katelyn’s smooth silky soft dark hair. They just looked at each other for a what seemed like minutes, but was probably only seconds, and finally each said “Good morning girlfriend!” Their other hands reached up and clasped fingers, and in the same moment each kissed the clasped hands a long slow soft kiss. They looked at each other with the special love neither had ever known for any other. It was the love of a deep shared bond of friendship, spanning years of their lives, and yet there was … something more now. When last they had been this close they were young girls just beginning puberty, now they were grown women of great passion, and suddenly they each became aware of a delicious warmth growing deep inside, their hearts beating louder as if to compete with the still roaring ocean. Four lovely arms and legs slowly entwined in embrace as they closed their eyes and drowned in a deep passionate kiss, which seemed not to end. There was no hurry, no goal, each moment was enough in itself. They kissed, gazed into each other’s eyes, and kissed again, even longer this time. Very slowly, Heather rolled Katelyn back on her back and slid a hand smoothly from Katelyn’s lips, down her chin, caressing her neck, three delicate slender fingers caressing right between Katelyn’s breasts, and slid her palm slowly all the way down, letting her fingers just curl around and cup the warm space while she began to kiss and gently suck at Katelyn’s nipples, causing a small deep moan from someone in the bed, Heather wasn’t sure who. Katelyn reached over and pulled Heather on top of her, now each pressed against the other with slow small writhing motions as they kissed again. They just lay like this for a long time, not quite motionless, holding each other tenderly. This friendship which had been born many years ago of perfect innocence, had now grown into a perfectly safe sanctuary of passionate pleasure. Each knew everything of the other, trusted each other more than themselves, and they loved each other now more deeply than they had ever imagined they could. They would have been frightened at this passion, but it felt much too safe in this embrace to feel fear.

Each took brief turns with tongue and lips to explore wet quivering musky private places, still salty from the previous evening’s swim, glistening with passion, accompanied by soft female sounds. But they found more pleasure face to face, holding each other, kissing, caressing soft plump breasts with eager nipples. Each girl used two fingers to stroke the sensitive private places of the other. They kissed and gazed at each other until slowly they began to see an ecstatic moment dawning in the eyes of the other, the pleasure in each other's eyes multiplying their own into ever greater passion. The girls were happy to make this last as long as they could, but mutual elation eventually got away from them and they suddenly each burst into squeals of agonizing ecstasy such that the ocean roar must have blushed at its weakness. They were still not finished, continuing to writhe in wave after wave of delight. It may have only lasted seconds, but when time stands still seconds can almost last forever. Finally they collapsed in each others arms, each caressing the other’s hair and shoulders, short soft kisses, moans of satisfaction, and recognition.

After a long while, they got out of bed, buck-naked, and tip-toed into the kitchen holding hands. They sat quietly on the kitchen bar stools, shared an orange and an apple, smiling so hard their smiles might break but for the occasional playful giggle. They started some coffee, embraced with one more deep soft kiss, and headed off to the shower together.

Each knew that the other was thinking about all the wonderful time they would have for the next whole week they would now spend together at the beach house. There was plenty of time, no goal, no rush, each moment was enough in itself. They would just bask in the pleasures of being with their best girlfriend again after so many years apart.

(Not the end, but the rest is left to the reader as an exercise in sensual fantasy)

The Red Ferrari and the Grey Business Suit:

A beautiful red Ferrari cruises, with restraint, through the suburban landscape. Straight dull roads laid out in rectangular grids, punctuated frequently with stop signs and traffic signals. The Ferrari whines through the first few of its gears giving just a hint of what lies beneath the surface, barely able to contain herself to avoid undue attraction from the local gendarme. Thus restrained she evokes a beautiful leggy woman wearing a conservative grey business suit, practical shoes, the understated quality of simple diamond studs in her ears, her hair arranged up, neatly pinned in place. There is the bare hint of what lies beneath as she gracefully swivels out of an office chair to stand and glide through the room, a quiet symphony of muted, graceful, swiveling curves, discreet glancing eyes following her every motion through the town. 

The woman yearns for the hour when she takes off her conservative jacket and suit, kicks off the practical shoes, unpins her hair and shakes it out in a shower of deep red curls that come to rest nestled like a bed of roses caressing her bare shoulders. She slides into a bright red evening gown that she wears like a coat of paint, revealing and magnifying each sensuous curve. She slips on a pair of tall sling-back strappy heels, gently pins on earrings that dangle and dance, shooting out sparkling flashes of light with her every move, each stride in her heels accompanied by sparks from the earrings at the delicate nape of her neck and another soft shower of curls caressing her. She redefines her eyes with a bit more color, her cheeks with a soft bloom of color, and her lips with a luscious, wet, brighter shade of lipstick, enjoying their softness as she smacks them together. She takes one long last approving look in the mirror at the new vision of allure she has unleashed. She steps out her front door, full of anticipation for the twirling embrace of dance moves her lover will lead her through, smiling demurely at a growing secret warmth beginning deep inside her.

The red Ferrari yearns to turn left into the canyon cutoff, open up the throttle from a sweet purr to round-noted thrilling squeals of delight, relishing her power, embracing her speed and handling. She defines the curves, a vision of grace and beauty unleashed. No one can capture her that she doesn’t willingly attract, yield to, and embrace; she is ultimately in control. Her delicate throttle responds to each caress. She has the legs to wind up the straight ground in a blur of color, and when the lay of the road needs to be finessed she can brake firmly, downshifting with deep throaty sounds, a delicate twitch of the wheels left or right, her suspension gracefully handling each rise and fall of the road beneath her. She defines confident, understated control of the ride all the way home, with one last delighted squeal of the throttle to punctuate the end of the ride. She looks just as fast sitting in the driveway as any ordinary ride at the peak of their performance. 

She takes a deep breath – and closing her eyes – lets it out slowly, settling back to relax and cool down, feeling the heat slowly radiate out of her, a lingering state of ecstasy at the sweet memory of their dance. A soft smile blooms on her lips; she loves being a woman. 

Stop Staring Clothing: Oh my!

I have to share with you girls my favorite clothing web site. I confess I am an absolute sucker for the 40's and 50's fashions, and this is the place. Some of these dresses are just to die for! These are worth a near-starvation diet all year to get the figure to go with, but they also have larger sizes, and whatever size you are these will make the most of your assets. The designers definitely understand the female form. Way more motivating to me than getting into a bikini. If you can get into one of these, the men won't be able to take their eyes off you. Promise!

Yummy!

http://www.stopstaringclothing.com/




Tell me what you think?