The Gift - Turning Pages Ch. 02

Deep in her belly, she felt an ache, hot and low. She cupped the cloth covered lips of her cunt in the palm of her hand, pressing the heel of her hand hard below her clit, wanting a pressure there. Ahh, yes, if there was a man's hand between her legs she would grind against it, and then clench her thighs, trapping his hand against her heat.

Ahh fuck, she didn't have a man's hand between her legs, just the idea of the man sending her gifts. She ran her fingers inside the soft cloth of the knickers, sliding them along the wet slip of her lips. With one long finger slowly teasing her nub, she pulled on the tied string on the lid of the box with her other hand, then flipped the lid of the box onto the table.

Inside the box, there was a crisp fold of tissue paper hiding the garment. Oh my, he went straight to the point. The skirt was a lush, deep red, a shimmering silk. If the colour had a scent, it would have been dark and exotic, an earthy musk like the body wash she had opened earlier. She was discovering something of his taste as she uncovered the garments he had chosen for her. She must be an image in his head, surely, as real there as the reflection she could see of herself in her mirror. A darkening woman to be sheathed in contrasting colours, this deep red to cover the creamy white of her stockings and underwear, which in turn covered the pale flesh of her long legs. Her long fall of darkest brown, nearly black hair would be a part of the contrasting play of light and dark, red and black, blood and moonlight.

She pulled the skirt from the box and stepped into it, pulling the dark material tight over her hips. She turned, and the skirt rose in a swirl, its pleats spreading as she spun. Lovely. She would need a blouse. But first, a pose for the camera, to keep the first vision of the dress in one of the photographs, all in a row. On a whim, she unclipped her bra. She wanted to feel the sway of her breasts, the shift of her flesh as she turned, and to look at the tightness of her nipples reflected in the mirror. She wondered for a moment if she was being disloyal to her gift bringer by discarding the bra, but then she thought a long curving sweep of bare flesh down her torso to her belly, or a bare back, would equally entice. Besides, this was her body being dressed, not his.

Parcel Five.

The fifth parcel, like the fourth, was a box, but smaller, lighter. The tied ribbon came undone with the same sinuous slide as the earlier packages, and the paper sighed and crackled as it fell away to the table. Lifting the lid she again saw fine tissue paper, carefully folded and semi transparent. I must keep the wrappings, she thought, they will keep the clothes pristine. They were precious, these clothes with their lace and silk and softness; beautifully made garments artfully cut. She could imagine the patient fingers of seamstresses and dress makers, turning the cloth carefully in their hands, following some magical pattern. Their fit was perfect, but how could that be? How did they know? Of course, they were for her, just for her. That's how they knew.

Inside the fifth box lay a blouse, silken soft, a pale silvery white. The material was cool against her fingers, like a clear stream on a late summer's day. She quickly put it on, and her nipples were hot and hard against the cool flow of the cloth. At her wrists the sleeves were tightly buttoned, a row of small pearl droplets, six on each sleeve. In her mind's eye she saw a man's fingers undoing those buttons, his lips upon her wrists, his finger tracing the delicate blue trace of veins beneath her skin. Would her pulse be a hidden beat, faster than her breath? Would he hold two fingers to her neck, to feel her pulse there?

Behind her nipples, her breasts ached and tightened, and she imagined him standing behind her, his right hand sliding inside the cloth, cupping her left breast, his breath hot on her neck. She arched her neck and pulled her hair away, tilting her head for his lips. He would pull her head to his shoulder, and tighten his palm against her breast. Christ, her nipples were tight and hard, her breath faster. Her pulse, faster still. She closed her eyes.

Darkened, she swayed in her room, feeling the gentle swirl of cloth around her legs, over her breasts. She danced with herself, arms hugging around her torso, her feet sliding on the wooden floor. She was sensuous and alone, enjoying the movement of her body within the flowing clothes, fluid as a stream flowing through a meadow.

Her feet turned slowly on the wooden floor. In her mind's eye she imagined him sitting in the chair, there by the window, watching her movement, spell-bound by the slow swing of her hips, the slide and glide of her long limbs. She wanted to be caught by his eyes, captured by his gaze, swept off her feet by his tight embrace. Dressed in her red swirling skirt, she danced for this man who had dressed her, imagined her, who wanted her to make images of herself.

Opening her eyes, she took the camera and held it at arms length, its black optic looking back at her. It was close, and she knew the flash would be bright, so she closed her eyes then pressed the shutter button. She saw red as the flash went off, glowing through her eye lids like a sunset low over the sea. The film slid from its chrome lined slot and she placed it with the others.

She was getting aroused now, and wanted someone.

Parcel Six.

The next parcel was clearly a shoe box. R opened up the box to find a pair of black high heels with scarlet red soles, heels that would tighten her slender calves and soles to flash red as she walked. She slipped them on and looked at herself in the mirror, tall and sexy, and took three speculative steps. I'm hot, she thought, I'd want to fuck me. And then a new idea instantly came into her head, what if it's a woman who has sent me these gifts, not a man?

A woman with a perfect sense of style, an instinctive sense of what another woman would like to see on her body, to feel soft and cool against her flesh, these perfect clothes. Intrigued that the thought had jumped into her head, R closed her eyes and yes, saw an imagined vision of long slender fingers, nails painted a deep red matching her skirt, long fingers delicately touching her hand. Another woman's gentle fingers, softer than a man's, more knowing, with a touch that would bring wonder to her skin, a blush to her throat.

Fingers that would pull on her nipples and press her breasts, coaxing a slower heat from her body. She imagined a tall slender body against hers, small breasts and a narrow waist, their heights well matched and a strong thigh pressing between her legs. Or a shorter, curvier girl who would look up at her, with a heart shaped face and a long fall of red hair. She couldn't decide. Short of breath with the sudden change in her vision of the mystery gift bringer, she speculated once more. Who is this person who has dressed me in such a way that all I want to do is fall on a bed, spread my legs and be taken?

The idea of another woman's wet cunt in front of her, she could picture those lips already, small petals she would spread apart with her fingers, a heat to dip into. She wanted this, and was dressed perfectly for a seduction. But where, who?

She sat in her chair by the window, and took the camera in her hand. Crossing her legs and swinging one foot, she photographed the shoes, and the film cranked from the camera body. Fully dressed now, she glanced to the table. A final wrapped packet. So, nearly at the end of this dressing; and yes, she looked good, felt wonderful.

Behind the table, her elegant reflection was like a framed portrait in the long mirror. She gazed at herself for a short while, looking at herself with new eyes. Experimentally, she spread her thighs apart and pulled the hem of her skirt up high, and watched the fall of cloth as it fell between her legs. Under the deep, rich red, the pale white of her stockings were a vivid contrast, and the skin of her thigh a darker band.

She imagined herself in a booth in a bar or a restaurant, sitting alone reading, an idle finger toying with a fall of her hair close to her neck, twisting it, twisting it. She might even pull it to her mouth. Anyone watching would surely notice that movement and be drawn to her. She would open the last parcel and then, yes, she would go out.

She definitely wanted someone, and imagined softness, gentleness. Someone's hands who would gently fold the clothes as they were taken from her body, revealing her. Just as her gift bringer had unrevealed her with these garments, hidden her away with these coverings; she wanted another to reveal her, unravel her and uncover her. Who would she be, this time? But wait, the last parcel.

Parcel Seven.

The last parcel was about ten inches by twelve, an inch thick. A book then, or at least book sized. R undid the tied bow and again saw the strangeness of the paper as it unwrapped, almost as if it were unwrapping itself. A barely perceptible sigh, or was that her breath?

Inside the package she found an album, bare pages ready to have images placed upon them. Of course, she would need a place to keep the photographs she had made, so it was an obvious thing to give.

Something to give, now that was a thought; and look, it's been thought of already. Folded crisply, she found a ream of brown paper. Unfolded, there was enough paper to wrap the album. And there, there was a pre-paid post bag.

So, she was to forward the book with the images of herself to someone. Someone who would delight in opening pages and seeing the photographs she had taken, someone who would delight in her. She could curate her own short exhibition, decide the order of the images in the book. Her eyes creased with a smile as she imagined her voyeur turning the pages, undressing her. Because, surely, she would place the pictures in the book in the reverse order in which they were taken, so she would become naked as the pages turned.

Goodness, the thrill of that thought, a revelation of herself as pages turned. She didn't know, yet, who she would send the book to, but she would think of someone. She would address the parcel with the same care as he who had sent her the leather bound book, with the same care as the man or the woman (she couldn't get that idea out of her head now) who had sent her these clothes.

Something else, too, an extra pack of film for the camera. She thought about the implications of that, an extra pack of film. Surely the intent, with the loaded camera, was for her to take the images she had naturally taken, as each item of clothing covered her body. But a whole extra pack of film, what could that show? The possibilities were endless, a whole different set of images, this time of her own design.

Of course, she had made a set of images already, but their sequence was pre-determined by the numbered parcels. Another pack of film though, all hers. The theme could be anything, anything at all, but something to complement the collection spread on the table before her. Then to send the album to someone, for them to gaze on. Her portraits.

Still, she had some time to think what to do, what to see, what images to take. It was Friday evening, the post wouldn't go until Sunday evening, even Monday morning.

She thought about the words, 'take a picture'. There was possession in the language; images of her a taken thing. Once taken, caught, and captured. Taken. Once again, unbidden, she sensed a flash of herself upon the bed, legs wide, open, waiting to be taken. Fuck, wanting to be taken.

The last image she took, for now, was of her confident walk as she stepped through her front door, looking back over her shoulder at the camera. The timer was set for ten seconds, and the flash illuminated her first steps into the night. Stunningly dressed, she knew men and women would look, and want her, and would want to undress her.

---ooo OOO ooo ---

The club was small, secluded. R went down a set of steps and along a short corridor, stopping before a table where a curvy, curly haired woman took a ten dollar entry fee.

"The door goes to the band tonight, and we're filling up, so that's good."

"Have they played their first set yet?"

"No, they should come on stage just after ten, something like that."

Just small talk, but friendly with it, no judgement of a woman coming to the club by herself. R went further into the bar, her dark skirt a midnight red, the lights were so low. She ordered a glass of red wine, and it too was dark. The taste was smooth, blackberry on her tongue, a touch of licorice on her lips. She touched a tiny dab of the wine to her wrist, where her pulse would heat it and lift a tiny fragrance there.

R found a small nook with a single table and only two chairs. She wasn't expecting company, but wouldn't turn someone away if they asked to sit by her. Music was always a good introduction, giving a stranger something in common, a conversation starter. Looking around, R saw that the club was half full already, couples, some tables with groups, singles scattered through the place. All different ages, a mix of people, a mix of styles. The room was relaxed, the mood mellow.

R shifted in her seat and crossed her legs, one foot gently swinging, flickering the hem of her skirt. A subtle movement, but movement always catches an eye. She sat back, comfortable in the room, a quiet display, nothing loud.

She saw activity on the stage, the band making their last preparations before playing. The drummer adjusted his stool, pulling cymbals closer; the guitarist knelt to his board to adjust some foot switches, plugging in leads. The upright bass player took the neck of his full bodied instrument and held it close to his own cheek, as if he was holding a full bodied woman close to himself, the full curves of her body against his own body in a caress. R wondered what music a man like that might make with her own body, his long fingers coaxing a rising scale from her throat, a glissando between the bud of her ass and the hooded rise of her clit.

God, she was aroused, that a thought like that would come upon her unbidden. She clenched her thighs together to keep the thought between them, her lips moistened and her tongue tipped between them, wetting the dryness there. She looked about; had any one spotted the subtle shift, the slight roll of her hips as she pressed her ass down onto the hard seat of the chair?

The weight of her naked breasts was heavier in her blouse, her nipples edging to a hardness. The room was a slowly circling sway of people, and she was turning herself on in a tiny space within it, all of her focus on the wet heat between her legs and the tight ache behind her breasts. A long thread twisted between a nipple and her clit. She gripped the stem of her wine glass, wanting that tension in her fingers to be a slide around her bud. She licked her lips again, and sipped from the glass to disguise her movements.

The stage lights dimmed and the band started a slow rhythm, a slide of cymbals and a deep beat low from the double bass. R watched the players, and saw how each musician found their collective place in the music. She saw the drummer watch the bass player's fingers, and saw the slight tilt of his head as if listening both to his bass drum and the strings. Fully in time now, in synch, she saw the drummer's eyes close and the only movement now was in his hands and his sticks. What did they call it, in the pocket, in the groove? Whatever it was, it was in her muscles too, she could not help herself, her foot started its own beat.

For several bars the band found its place in time, and she took the opportunity in the dark to re-arrange her poise on the chair, looking for the right angles where the geometry of her movement would join together in the base of her belly. Her foot tapping, she found one taut thread of muscle tightening high in her thigh, a pleasing, insistent beat. Under her dark dress she knew her panties would be darker too, and felt the warmth there.

It was the right thing to do, to come to this place in her beautiful clothes. She moved again on the chair, the pressure still not quite right. Under the table her thighs shifted apart, and the steady pound of the kick drum found a place to rest, just inside her cunt. Her heart beat echoed the steady pulse of the song and she was caught up in the music.

A vocalist came on to the stage, a slinky, slender girl, a husky voice at odds with her looks, but oh, what a voice. She hid behind a fall of long, blonde hair obscuring her face. All R could see of the girl, really, were her hands clutching the microphone, her face so close to it that her hair fell around the metal. As she sang, and it was a torch song, a broken voice singing of a broken heart, the girl's hands caressed the microphone like R would caress a cock, slowly.

R smiled, was she going to see everything as a sexual thing tonight? It seemed that way. The lights in the club were low, small candles spreading little pools of light on each table and along the wall, a single flickering flame in each alcove. The combined effect was a shadow cast by R's head onto the table, and a soft glow on her face. Her eyes were dark, and her lips were dark too. Beneath the table, her legs were hidden in darkness, with just a flicker of her white stocking as her foot swayed with the beat.

The movement was enough, someone was gazing from across the room at R as she sat at her table, alone. R looked up, her finger idly stroking the stem of her glass, and she looked about the room, slowly. Sensing the gaze, perhaps, she looked down as if flustered, unable to trace the look that fell on her cheek, and on her mane of hair twisted in a coil, falling down over her breast.

There it was again, a gaze from across the room arriving with such a tangible force, that R knew she was being observed. She looked around again. The direction was different now, a prickle on the back of her neck, but from a different place in the room, closer now. She felt as a gazelle might, when a lioness stalked. Her sex tightened, then bloomed, her wetness opening.

There it was again, some sense of a feminine gaze, or was it just a reflection of some unspoken want, tonight? Even closer. Her nipples were hard. A shadow fell across her table, and R looked up. Beside her, looking down at her, was a slender woman, dressed in a figure hugging dress, so tight, so black, it was like a coil of smoke spiralling upwards in the room.

"May I?"

The woman's voice was soft and low, a caress of the air.

"Yes, please, join me. This seat is free."

"I saw. But first, may I buy you another glass of wine?" The stranger signalled a passing waiter, his tray held high in the air.

"Thank you, yes, that would be lovely."

The woman moved to the other side of the table and sat, reaching out to touch R's arm as she did so. Under the table, R's legs opened slightly and she felt a sudden heat in her belly. Her mind flashed back to her own fingers pressed against her lips in the shower, earlier that evening, and she looked down at the woman's fingers and wondered. The other woman's hands were slender, finger nails cut short. Her wrists were delicate, her forearms showing a faint trace of dark hair. She was slighter than R, older by some years, if her short, silvering hair was anything to go by.

Strikingly beautiful, with high cheek bones and, even in the darkness of the room, black, black eyes. R looked into those eyes, and wondered what it would be like to roll over in the morning and see them, looking back at her. R didn't even know the stranger's name, but already wanted to lie next to her in the morning, listening to the gentle sigh of her breath. Or the louder sound of her moan.

Would this be an easy seduction, she wondered, or would they play and tease, each knowing what the other wanted? Teasing would be an exquisite delight, she thought, it would fit the mood caused by her gift bringer, and it would be delicious to be undressed as she had dressed, slowly. And the idea of undressing the svelte figure seated beside her, slowly (but wanting to rip the gown from the woman's body savagely - god, she wanted to do both), the idea set itself in her mind.