Green Fairy DreambyMichaelWest©
My fingers were round the bowl of my glass before me on the table. Michael's right hand continued the seductive grope of my knee. The crisp stiff white cuff of his shirt opened as he reached for an apple slice and I saw the glint of light at his silver watch. My golden jewelry glittered too, a tennis bracelet at my wrist and rings at my fingers, the diamond on my ring finger sparkled for just a moment.
More words were said by everyone including something passing from me as we all seemed to talk together. Yet I was in my very own private bubble, the only intrusion being Michael's hand at my leg. My husband and Christine now openly touched; the flirtatious thoughtless caresses of hands to hands, the brush of an arm and the mock pushing away as they sank deeper into their own intimate focus.
It seemed to me that Michael and I were both pretending nothing was happening, but wondering what would come next. To be honest, that was certainly what I was doing. Then I heard the sharp crisp snap as he bit the slice of apple.
But the only thing truly engrossing me right then was his hand now travelling higher up my left leg with the fingertips caressing the inside curve of my thigh. Something in me said that the hand would wander up my leg just a discrete bit, perhaps get the feel of the pattern in my stocking top but refrain from going further. To my relief his hand paused and indeed felt my stocking top, pressing back my dress I felt it hike a little higher yet knew no one could see what he did.
Forgive me in that I simply didn't know how to properly stop him. I imagined reaching down and catching his hand, or wrist, or forearm, saying something in protest or insult, and pulling him away. I could picture us in a tasteless wrestling match as he insisted to molest my sex and I defended my honor.
In my little fantasy I spill his drink. My husband is angered that I spilt the drink. He is not particularly concerned about how Michael's hand still reaches between my thighs. We fight. How is this simple caressing a matter of such importance that it prompts me to ruin the evening? But I did nothing of the sort. As the momentary daydream of that faded from my imagination, the guilty notion that I didn't want it to be pulled away crept into my thoughts.
Perhaps it was my fault after all? Displaying as much leg as displayed tonight, my decision on such a short dress and my choice of sheer hosiery to make my legs appear more desirable. Why shouldn't he be tempted to feel my stocking? So I did nothing to stop his fingers between my legs, toying with the silk and the softness beneath.
Sipping my absinthe I continued the charade that nothing was happening. As I feared his hand pressed higher to feel how soft the skin was above the top of my stocking. Again I deluded myself with the illusion that he would accept this naughty discovery was satisfaction of my willingness to be indiscrete for the sake of my husband's business.
He spoke to me, only me, in a low voice directed at my ear nearest him, a gentleman's compliment of my beauty and how fortunate my husband was to have such a beautiful spouse. And I watched as my husband and Christine audibly clink their glasses in a private toast.
Michael's hand felt my bare skin there, his fingers exploring my inner thigh, reaching to the lower curve where the seat met my leg. I prayed he would soon return his hand to himself mission accomplished. But then I felt the fingers on the sensitive skin near the inside of the top of my leg and realized that my already imprudently high hem must be at least another inch or more towards my waist.
Looking down I saw his hand over the almost mocha toned skin of my bare thigh between the glowing white pattern of my stocking and the ruffled bright white hem of my hiked dress. He was slightly darker like a genuine Latin man, not as dark as my own sun-bronzed color, and his hands looked so big and powerful on my lithe limb. He had a masculine hint of hairiness to the back of his hand with a tuft above each knuckle. I confess how I adore a strong pair of masculine hands, even hairier than these, so very frightening in how they seem to look so ready to defile a woman.
It was then that my illusion of his discretion began to evaporate. The caress at my bared thigh became too engaging. His fingers dipped further down my leg until I felt the tips of his fingers pressing into the softness of my inner thigh as if he were confirming if the lower curve of my leg was as round and smooth as the curve at the top.
The muscle tensed on its own and he would feel how toned my thigh was yet still supple and very smooth. I had freshly shaved my legs just this morning in anticipation of the big night out. It was so very important my husband kept telling me. Michael is too important of a client not to impress he had said over and over. And now I thought of his desire for offer me my first real commission too.
I had modeled my dress with and without panties, with and without bra, with and without garters to see what turned him on most of all. The thinking being, as he explained, cupping my aroused sex and causing me squirm in the mirror of our bedroom after we had settled on my dress as we were getting ready for this evening in our bedroom, that if it turned him on, then it would please Michael too.
The words filtered into my oddly lucid mind. "Michael loves hot Spanish women," he had whispered in my ear as his grope of my sex wetted me. How would my husband know such a thing?
Simultaneously I wondered what thought formed in Michael's mind as he fondled my thigh just then. His seductively gentle squeeze confirmed that I remained shamefully acquiescent. His hand drew deeper back up my thigh until the side of his little finger now touched my panties. I blushed knowing he could feel the heat in my crotch. Would he feel the dampness too?
Perhaps my very conservative upbringing or lingering commitment to my faith held me hostage just then. That contradictory compulsion to acquiesce to a fatherly figure and the deep revulsion at being obviously touched sexually by a man; part of me wanted to pull that hand off my thigh in revulsion, and part of me yearned to part my thighs and welcome his violation further.
Of course I should have stopped him right there. Even as an important client he had taken more than the perhaps acceptable leeway he might feel entitled to. No other man would be permitted such a lingering and intimate grope. Just how long should I permit his hand to remain on my leg without objection?
The side of his hand pressed to my crotch and pushed the sheer fabric of my panties to my sex more closely. I knew that my trimmed and shaped bush was still visible through the sheer top of my panties, and I imagined those shortened barely curled hairs now roughly formed a certain obvious texture too. As he rubbed to that furry sensation my own body felt the tickle of every hair communicating into my sex and arousing further the already stiff point that stirred
Michael spoke and my husband and Christine laughed. They all spoke now, my husband and Christine almost in an embrace. They sipped at their drinks and Michael made me another.
"No," I meekly refused. My thoughts floated as I knew I had to refuse another of those milky white concoctions.
My legs moved to close and trap his hand. A foolish impulse as the back of his hand now was felt by my other thigh. He gripped my flesh lightly and pulled my thigh back towards him. I knew he desired me to acquiesce once again.
The pull at my thigh was light and delicate. I had hoped he would have been a brute. I felt his hand on my bare skin and understood that he wanted my active acquiescence. As the muscles in my belly relaxed I felt my thighs go limp and my knees parted for him.
Why did I let my legs slip open?
The question became rather moot as I felt his hand easing my leg over his own. My leg cooperated and I consented to having one leg apart from its pair, angled up and over his knee, my right leg still demurely on carpet.
Legs parted, my intimate place proffered, my sex willing and wanting, his right hand move to my crotch itself. His palm at my mound, his fingers curling against my labia, the middle one pressing at the moist slit between them.
A well brought-up lady, married, should not have to refuse such a touch. Why should I draw that obvious line? But the sensation was simply amazing. A virtual stranger's touch, the most intimate caress from another man, a man other than my husband, such a touch had not been felt since before my marriage. It was that touch that I wanted. My body proved what my mind still struggled to pretend was not so.
"Please," I said softly.
III. Things as They Are
Did my mind intend to draw the line? Did it want another?
"Do you enjoy your absinthe," Michael said softly to me.
Suddenly I remembered my now empty glass and my hand toyed with it. My freshly manicured nails scratched at the bowl of the glass seductively.
"Did you really just win the lottery," I said absent-mindedly.
Michael had already begun my third Absinthe. The deep verdant green liquid filled the bowl and then the cube of sugar on the spoon resting over the glass as a steady pour of ice water mixed into the absinthe as the sugar cube dissolved. Once more the cloudy white filled my glass.
"Yes," he grinned deviously.
And then I took the glass for a sip. The bitter opalescent mix soothed my tongue and filled my mouth. It seemed to burn as it cleared my throat and my belly warmed suddenly as if on fire.
Slowly I felt a surprisingly clear-headed feeling of inebriation, a lucid drunkenness, my mind awake as my body felt languid. Yet my mind also seemed to swim slowly through a sort of fog where my thoughts crowded in and my body felt alive. Everything felt like a waking dream.
As I took my sips, his fingers made a light pass over my panties at the concealing web over the most private of part of my sex. He felt the soft flesh of my sex beneath the thin fabric, pressing at the warm damp fabric and exploring my obvious arousal.
Michael's middle finger made another deep press into my slit.
My breath drew in as his finger pulled up from my opening to the sensitive flesh at the very top. My muted inhale paused as I waited to exhale. The soft exhale sounded like a quiet moan of delight as the caress awakened me to just how much I adore a man's hand there.
His fingertips now danced over the sheer fabric at the top of my panties, he purposefully felt my groomed bush, pressing the tender flesh and feeling my soft mons.
My husband had suggested I go without underwear at all tonight. "No," I had said flatly. My husband did not argue with me but he gave me a disappointed look as I told him I would never go "commando," such a crass thing for a lady to do.
Yet all that was between Michael and my naked sex was a thin sheath of fabric, more a cloud than a wall, it transmitted his every touch and every detail of my feminine geography. And without even a single protest from my good conscience I can confess I wanted his hand beneath my panties and to touch my naked sex.
Another longer sip of my drink and his hand moved to my belly, his fingertips at the elastic, and with a very delicate motion he slipped his fingertips beneath it.
Now I moaned in delight.
His fingertips brushed through my short curled hairs and felt the softness, the center fingertip grazed the sensitive tip and moved that fleshy cover; his other fingers touched my shaven lips and parted them slightly as the middle finger dipped into my open folds until it touched the soaking entrance that wanted him to fondle everything.
Absent-mindedly I sipped at my drink until I tasted that it was empty. His fingers had travelled the length and breadth of my labia in those many minutes that had slowed to a pause between the tick and the tock of the clock.
Another moan and instinctively my teeth took the corner of my lip and started to gnaw it in sympathy to his every touch.
He pressed my panties aside and uncovered my sex. Confidently his fingers reached to the opening between my lips and played around with the flesh that no longer concealed the entrance that freely rained with my slick lust. He dipped a finger into that open hole and drew out the wet nectar, pressing back and touching the edges where it is more sensitive. He moistened my flesh until his fingers had wetted it clear up to the delicate hood protecting my clitoris.
I would no longer object at all. My lips kissed and my tongue wetted them as I moaned quietly. Feeling my panties stretch against his hand and into the crease between my buttocks, his fingers slipped over and into the dripping wet flesh, toying with my added bits that hung from within and between my outer lips he settled in to touch me just as I might masturbate myself. His fingers had found my clitoris and uncovered it, the sensitive tip wet with my own juices taken from my own vagina.
The moans of my acceptance and pleasure became audible. Alarmingly, I felt the sensation in my core of a pulsing, a tightness that wound like a spring into a very tense coil poised for release. Outwardly I still imagined my expression betrayed nothing of the storm rising inside of me.
My eyes had shut. When? I cannot recall. I slipped into my twilight of pleasure enjoyed and welcomed the vibrations in my muscles as I wanted my orgasm to finally come. Why deny it? Why conceal the beautiful emphatic cry that I always emitted just as that final straw fell to break free the convulsion of my orgasm raced up my spine and out to my limbs.
Quivering and basking in the release I felt how Michael had moved a hand to my breast, small and sensitive, I felt his grasp through my dress and the brassiere too. He held me in place as a loose-limbed shudder swept through me.
Opening my eyes I saw how my husband and Christine had seemingly not witnessed my willing mauling under Michael's hand. Could my cry just then been masked by their polite laughter?
"Another," Michael whispered to me.
"Another," my mind asked. "Absinthe or orgasm," my mind groped for clarity.
Perhaps I was that inebriated. Perhaps that mystical drug in the absinthe had dulled every inhibition. Perhaps it had unlocked some deep dark fantasy I myself was unaware of?