Molly Go Lightly

"How do you like me?"

He stood there, his weight wavering from one foot to the next. Eventually he says, "What does the department say about you?"

I guffawed, long and heartily. He takes his seat sometime while I'm collecting my breath. "How characteristic of you," I say, archly. "The department will have to mind its own goddamn affairs, won't it?"

"I suppose it will," he says quietly.

"Well," I reply, much more throatily, "I'm not one of them. So John, haven't you learned how to compliment a girl? What do you think?"

"It's-- you."

"How sage of you to gather. Yes, John, it is me, it is. Aren't you glad you've lived to see me like this? Did you doubt I had it in me?"

"Are you-- have you got stars around your eyes?"

"Those are stars, John, yes. Say they're pretty!"

"You're not, like-- are you tattooed?"

"Oh John, haven't you heard of an eyeliner pencil before?"

"Yes, well--no, I mean, did you-- who?"

"I do live with a stripper, remember. She's very talented. But you don't approve of my living with her, do you? I suppose you think that's very corrupt of me."

"I-- well, I would hope she's not, she doesn't influence you--"

"Do you want to take that up with 'the department', as you so ominously call it? My living arrangements? Or did you mean the Ed department or were you referring to something out of '1984'?"

"No, I'm-- I'm sure it's fine."

"I am, John, I'm fine. Very fine."

He looked put out, perplexed, and-- flushed? Oh, fetching isn't it? He never seemed to use a top-drawer deodorant but I was appreciative of that fact right now. I was looking intently into the folds of his gray sweatshirt. The knowledge of my staggering new loveliness filled me with an incontestable contentment; I could afford now to just look and look and not care what he did or said or felt. Just as long as he wouldn't run away.

"Don't you think I'm pretty?"

"Yes. Of course you are."

'Of course I am.' Well!

"You want your tea, don't you?" I stood and went, as patiently as I could manage, into the kitchen and poured his cuppa. I brought it in upon a tray, a dessert plate with peanut butter cookies alongside his tea. I stood at his right and bent right across him, sat the tray on the table at his left. My tank top was loose, I had no bra.

I straightened myself and touched his shoulder with the tips of two firm fingers. "You take your time with that. I've left my book upstairs, it's rather a mess in my room and I may have to dig around for it. I'll be down once I find it. Then we can talk."

I walked off. He said, after I was a couple of steps away from him, "Talk?"

I stopped and smiled benignly. "Yes John, talk. That is what I have you over for, silly boy." I looked upon him so and turned on my heels and went serenely up the stairs.

*****

Twenty minutes passed. "Molly?" he finally calls out from below. I haven't' heard him take a step.

A minute later I hear him step off to the bathroom below, where my transformation had been accomplished. He flushes. The bathroom door doesn't open till all the water running has stopped.

A couple of minutes more. He walks to the foot of the stairs. "Molly!" he yells. The dead should hear it.

His steps wander off again. Damn, damn. Back eventually to the stairs-- he steps up the first couple. "Molly?" he cries, pitiful.

Yes, yes, on with it . . . .

He creaks his way up the stairs. My bedroom door is about a third of the way ajar. I'm standing behind, out of immediate sight. I've put on a zip-up fleece jacket.

John stands at the door and reaches out his arm, taps his knuckles gently against the frame. "Molly?" he enquires blankly.

I suddenly yell back, "In here!" like I don't know a thing.

He comes in. "Hey," I say, "sit down. I found something you might want?"

"Uhm, what is it?" He stands there.

"You can sit on the bed," I say. I approach him and he sits down, like some instinctual defensive motion.

"What did you--" he mumbles as I move to the door and close it behind me and stand there. "I've got this old paperback of 'Catch-22'. Do you like that? It's like first or second paperback printing."

"I'm not really a fan or anyth--"

"Well, here," I say, throwing it into his lap. "Catch. John, tell me something as a friend, what do you think of this?" I ask, as I unzip the jacket and haul it off me into the back corner, revealing the black vinyl zip-up bustier from Candy that I'd changed into.

He says nothing, so I just stand there with my hands on hips and flash a big grin at him.

He says nothing at all, so finally I just tell him, "I didn't invite you up here just to have you look at it or anything. I just thought I'd get comfortable and, well, since I am, why don't you tell me what you think?"

Poor thing, he's quite mute. "Scoot," I command him fondly, pushing at his shoulders and he rolls back against the wall, slumping. I reach over him and grab a pillow, and I make him lift his head so I can fit it between his neck and the wall.

"John," I say to him softly, "I invite you over here all the time and I try to look after you and it hurts me that you never tell me you like me."

"It--I'm sorry."

"We're friends, aren't we? Would it kill you to say we're friends? It hurts me we can't be friends."

He sighs plaintively. "We're-- we're friends, Molly." He swallows abruptly. "Of course you're my friend."

"I want us to be friends," I tell him. "Can you tell me honestly, John-- look, do you think I'm pretty?"

"Sure, of course you are."

"Are you saying that or do you mean it? Be scientific, I can handle it."

"Yes. You are pretty."

"Is my new look sexy? Would a guy think I look hot in this top, with my hair like this, with this makeup?"

"Yeah, he would. It's true, they would think you look good-- you know . . . "

"What?" I smile at him. "How?"

"I mean you're-- you look a little-- it's funky."

"Funky's good. Do you like funky? Be honest now."

"It-- it's not too over-rated, I guess."

"What about 'kinky'? Is kinky a good word?"

"It . . . can be," he clarifies softly.

I pat his knee. "Well," I purr peacefully, "I can be that way, just a little kinky. John," I tell him, "you're turned on right now."

"I-- listen, I--"

"Don't deny it. We're friends, John. I look hot right now, you know it and I know it. I would never make you cheat on someone you love, John, you need to understand that. Even though you want me right now, I'm never going to let that happen."

"I-- I'd never cheat on her," he says, voice rising scarily and I reach out and I pat his crotch--hard, yes!-- and I smile and say, "That's right, John. You're never gonna cheat."

I stand up again and I say to him, "I'm your friend and I want to help you, John. You're a great guy and you deserve a little fun, and it's nothing for you to be ashamed of and nothing Heather would have to disapprove of, and she doesn't even have to know. Why don't you jerk yourself off right now, John? Jerk yourself off and just look at me. It's only me and you're only looking. I look hot right now, like a fetish model; Candy the stripper made me up like her little punk doll."-- His hand goes to his crotch, touching the meat inside through his jeans. "--She picked this bustier just for me," I say, running my hands along my slick shiny constricted abdomen. "I know you could look at stuff like this on the net but you've got me here in the flesh and I'm your friend and I'm letting you do this. I want this to happen. You can pull it out, John, pull it free--" He unzips himself and pulls his hard cock out through the hole in his undies-- "'attaboy, you can let me see it, we're just friends and we're just looking. I'm showing for you, so you can show yourself a little for me. You like how my boobs look in this? I like your cock. You wanna see more. Here, you can see them--"

I very slowly unzip the bustier, just a few inches, letting my cleavage spill, yielding the sight of the deep valley between my propped-up boobs. I'm touching them, working them around through the tight synthetic fabric, rolling them in pleasurable discomfort. My eyes blink slowly, my lashes heavy, like sweeping sooty curtains. He starts working his dick, giving in to me. His eyes are fixed on me like telescopes, I'm an extraterrestrial vision. I pull the zipper down, leaving it clasped at the bottom. Gravity pulls at my breasts, the vinyl only partly peeling away. I gently flick my bustier open, leaving my breasts revealed. My fingertips splay across my sweaty mounds, my hard deliberate breaths heaving them hypnotically. I stare into his eyes, his hand stroking furiously at his boner in my periphery.

I smile at him, friendly, using my hands so my breasts are displayed to him, my puffy areoles and the hard little nubs at their core. I stroke soft fingers around the pink borders, leaving the nipples needy and unconcealed, tugging softly at them, pointing them towards him, offering, giving myself, my image, my everything, for his pleasure, at his disposal.

"Your eyes, John, you have . . . Beautiful eyes John." I rasp my nipples with my nails, my face a hard shimmering purple-glossed mask of pleasure boring into his.

He shudders, a whimpering hunching of his prone shoulders, and his free hand hikes up his sweatshirt moments before his face seizes up in a grimace, scared-looking almost, and then his cock shoots his load, up it splatters along his chest, past the deep dent of his bellybutton, up in the valley left heaving and exposed at the base of his ribs.

Softly I zip myself back up to the base of my breasts and then I move in on him. "What's this?" I ask, all scientific and curious, as I kneel at the side of the bed and examine his chest and his exposed member carefully with my eyes, hands down by my side. I bestow him the distant solicitude of a mindful nurse. "Oh," I mumble in a non sequitur and then, before he can protest, I bend in and flash out my tongue and lick up a pool of spunk. Softly I work my lips, lapping like a kitten and I seek after each pool, each rivulet of cum, cleaning up the bitter stringy splotches, smoothing them inside my mouth like clotted cream and gratefully I swallow them all.

I look at him helpfully and he looks back at me blankly, so I push my luck and finally take his softly wilting prick in my hand and pop the head inside my lips and swiftly I lick it all around and pop it back out again. "I'm not a cheater," I tell him dogmatically, "this is just us being friendly."

I seat myself at the side of his knees and let him collect his faculties and finally he wordlessly sits himself up again, disheveled and confused, his face hung and pouty. I tap him pleasantly on his shoulder.

"Hey--" I tell him. "We're friends now. I'm glad I'm finally really your friend." I beam fondly and then stand back up. He gets up too.

"I think you need to rest," I tell him. "You look a little pitiful. Can Heather make you something special? Some soup perhaps?"

"I-- she makes a good soup," he says haltingly, "she's very good, she makes everything very good for me. She--"

I shush him. "I know. That's why I'm so proud of you, both of you. You have a very strong relationship and I'm very happy about that. You're very good for her, I can see that now."

I pick up the "Catch-22" and lead him back down the stairs and to the front door.

"Here, you can give this to Heather if you don't want it. You can share it. Read it in bed together or something, that's always nice to do."

"Yeah, we do that sometimes," he answers, his eyes searching and evasive.

I say to him softly, "I'm happy about that. That's good. You guys make a great couple, I know it. You know you can bring her over to meet me now, don't you?"

In a moment or two he nods his head quietly in agreement. "Yeah, that-- that would be nice, I suppose."

"Well of course it would be. You have to bring her here, it's silly not to." I put my hand out and he takes it and we shake there, his back holding the storm door open. I smile at him in farewell. "I can't wait to see the two of you. After all I'm your biggest friend."