A Size Affair

Not yet at least.

My hand continues round the lovely girl. Around the skin of girl inside the silk. And as it does my fingers, ever bolder, slip further into her costume. And as they rise they ease the silk of costume from the skin, of breast of girl. The feel of costume over breast replaced by the feel of my hand. And as my fingers curl past girlish nipple, stopping to circle and briefly tweak, I expect an objection to be raised. But none is ...

Not yet.

My arm is right around the girl. My hand inside her costume. Her naked breast within my hand. A nipple, hardening, in my palm. I stare from fluffy hair of head of girl to mirror beyond and observe, to my unspoken astonishment, the view of her upper body, enmeshed in glowing silver, with the moving contour of a hand within where girlish mound of breast should be. What am I doing? I cannot stand to look. But nor can I bear to relinquish my prize. I gently handle what is inside the bodice of silver, like a precious orb, or a fledgling bird ... or the softest, warmest, most sensuous part of any other human being, I have ever handled. Ever! It is in a word, Divine.

"Sorry?" I say to the phone, suddenly remembering it there, against my ear, pressed so hard the whorls have gone to sleep.

"No, it was me," says Cindy.

"What did you say?" I ask.

"I didn't."

"I see," I say, though don't, unable to stop myself fondling the girl's warmly accessible breast.

"It was a reaction," she whispered.

"To what?" I ask, as my other hand, unbidden, slithers round her youthful form -- smooth stretch of tummy -- the flat of pelvic plain -- then over pubic mound -- which when it reaches, jumps and thrusts. A 'snip' as fastener opens. A second 'snip'. I pull her close against me as I squeeze a luscious breasts with nipple hard, assertive, thrusting into palm. The fingers of my other hand find heat, and running honey. Her shoulders climb around her ears. Her hands are over mine and press them close as if to encourage their grossly improper endeavours. She lets out a groan.

"Are you a virgin?" I ask. I whisper the question in her ear. Her head is back, laid on my shoulder. Mouth open. Eyes closed. Back arched. Her bright young breast thrust hard into a hand. Her pelvis flares and jumps, like an excited puppy, into the other. I fondle and roll and pinch and start to squeeze.

"Are you? " I repeat. For I have to know.

"Do you want me to be?" she groans.