May's 18th Birthday

His eyes emphasized: You're literally killing me. I can't even....

They never addressed that topic so directly again until earlier tonight.

So now, with her arms around his neck, her legs around his waist, her breasts pressed into his back, her heart pounding, the scent of his hair filling her breath, she whispers, her voice breaking:

"Okay."

He squats down again and she stands on her own legs. She'd forgotten about the boots, and now she feels like a stork. She'd like to stand prettily, but suddenly she doesn't know how. She pushes her dress back down over her hips, more self-conscious than ever.

As he turns around to look at her, the world seems to recede. It's just him and her, alone in the universe, looking at each other in the candlelight.

"Let's start with your jewelry," he says, stepping behind her. His hands gather her hair together, and she pulls it around for him so he can unclasp her necklaces.

"You know I love your hair."

"Really?" she laughs. She knows he's trying to distract her, to help her relax, and she's eager to play along.

And of course she really is very proud of her hair. All the girls envy it, and she loves to sit while her mom brushes it.

"Yeah. It's beautiful. I really like it."

"Thank you."

He unclasps her choker, and a moment later, the other necklace. Then he lightly brushes his fingers from her ears down her neck, barely touching her, sending shivers through her body. Somehow she already feels as if some of her clothes have actually been taken off.

"And your long neck. So beautiful. Like Nefertiti. You know Nefertiti?"

"Of course."

"Very sexy collarbones," he says, sliding the pads of his fingers across the straps of her dress, "and lovely, soft shoulders."

At that moment she discovers for the first time that she loves having him touch her shoulders. She'd felt shivers before, but now she actually shudders with pleasure.

"Oh, wow," she says, arching her back a little.

She can feel his fingers pointed toward her breasts, but he must have noticed her response, because he slowly, gently strokes her shoulders, sending pulses of pleasure through her body.

She leans back, pressing her hips into him, and he wraps his arms around her, kissing her temple.

She imagines herself already naked, preparing herself. He would embrace her this way, so sweet and loving. She can do it for him.

But her heart is racing, pounding.

Eventually he touches her face, his thumb brushing her eyebrow.

"Your face," he says, as his thumb slowly, very softly, strokes her cheek, "is just dazzling. You have such a beautiful complexion, and such beautiful dark eyes, so rich with mystery and sensuality."

"Thank you, Raoul," she coos. "Your eyes are lovely too."

"Shhh," he tells her, very lightly brushing his thumb over her lips. "It's your turn now. We're not talking about me at all. You have the brightest, most beautiful smile. And I love these dimples too."

She looks up at him as he's looking down at her from behind, and she realizes he's been looking at her breasts, not her smile. But that only makes her feel more beautiful. Again she feels them open to him, welcoming his desire.

"You want to take off the earrings, too?" he asks, eventually.

She nods, and takes them out of her ears, handing them to him along with her bracelets and ring.

He lets go of her to put her jewelry on the counter next to one of the sinks. He puts his watch there too.

When he turns back to her, he looks down her body.

"I guess the boots are next. For practical reasons."

She nods.

He squats, then, and unties the laces and loosens them, his fingers brushing her thighs far more often than necessary, sending electric shivers directly up her legs.

Then, while he pulls them off, he looks up at her, his dark eyes shining. Her body has become a furnace, her vagina has started to ache for him.

"I love your thighs."

"My thighs?"

"Yes," he confirms. Still squatting, he traces one finger from her knee up the inside of her thigh to the of her dress, and then back down.

"It's not just that they're long. Which they are — gloriously, amazingly long — and that's," he laughs, sensing her thoughts, "not something you should feel insecure about at all. But what's so great is their shape. You know these curves?"

He continues to stroke, very softly, the inside of her thigh, a place that women in a few years will be calling "thigh gap."

"Yes," she breathes.

"Amazing," he sighs.

"Really?" she laughs, nervously. "They look bow-legged."

"What?" he looks up at her, surprised. "No, no, no. No, no, no, no, no, no."

Now he takes one leg in both hands, one hand holding her and the other holding her thigh, his thumb on the inside, reaching just a little into her dress, and kisses her leg.

"They're perfect, absolutely perfect. In fact, can I be really explicit for a moment?"

"If you want," she shrugs, affecting indifference.

"I can't look at these curves without wanting to be right here between them, right where these curves are."

She laughs. Her body is growing warmer and warmer.

He kisses her thigh again.

"That's the only thing I can think of every time I see them."

She can't reply, but he slowly slides his hand further up her thigh. He stops when his thumb is so close to her pussy that she can't tell whether it has touched her panties. It must have, it's so close, but if it did, it was so lightly that she can't be sure.

"And these curves here, right at the top of your thighs, where they meet your body...." (This is what the Instagram girls will soon be calling the "Toblerone Tunnel," because nothing is too sexy to be profaned.)

She can barely breathe waiting for him to continue. She's never felt so much hunger in her vagina. It feels, suddenly, somehow hollow, and his thumb is so close, so close, so close....

"I love these curves." His voice is almost a growl. She can hear his hunger too, and now she feels more than hunger, she feels need, an urgent need.

Trying to move him along, she summons her courage to ask, in the sultriest voice she can manage:

"What do they make you want to do?"

"Sex," he growls, perhaps not even noticing how her voice trembled. "Just sex."

He rests his face on her pelvis, and inhales deeply. As her heart pounds, she worries that he can smell the wetness of her pussy, but he interrupts her thoughts:

"And not a particularly gentle kind of sex either," he whispers, touching her thigh a little more firmly. She can almost hear his jaw clench as he explains, "A ferocious, urgent, almost brutal sex. These curves make me want to fuck you, May."

He looks up at her. "Not just to make love. To fuck you."

"Okay," she thinks. "I'm ready. Just do it already." She feels dizzy, as if her desire is so powerful that she can't keep her balance.

He seems short of breath, trying to control himself.

"But tonight I'll be gentle. I promise. I just want to let you know how fucking hot you are, and what your body does to me."

As he stands up, he slides his hands up the outside of her legs, barely touching her, brushing over her hips, to her waist. His hands feel huge around her.

Leaning into her ear, he whispers, "I love your waist."

But that idea startles her, and she flinches.

To understand the following conversation, we all need to remember that no woman, no matter how beautiful, and perhaps especially a very young woman who's experienced the unforgiving cruelty of the fashion industry, can see her body the way others see it.

"My waist?" she exclaims, blinking up at him as if he'd betrayed her.

"Yes," he says.

"But it's sixty-four centimeters!" she whispers fiercely.

In this moment of extreme vulnerability, it's such a painful thought that she could almost cry. She would have let him do anything, but now the mood is ruined, the moment is broken.

He's betrayed her. He's mocked her.

She can't believe he would do that to her, but what other explanation is there?

"Sixty-four? Is that bad? You say it like it's bad."

"It's horrible!"

She actually steps back, out of his hands.

"May, you have the tiniest—" he begins, but she can't hear it.

"No!" she cries. "I think it must be the thickest waist you've seen, maybe ever. In your entire life. Most models, and all of the women I've seen running around naked here, all of them, they all have sixty or less. Sixty-one is like the absolute maximum for being a model. Yzabelle's was fifty-seven when she was my age!"

Secretly she knows he's going to make her feel better about it, and oh does she need that...

"Yzabelle?" he chuckles. "She's a foot shorter than you."

"Seven inches." She speaks coldly, through clenched teeth.

A hardness begins spreading from her elbows up her arms. Though her thighs and vagina still burn, still ache with need, her desire begins to drain away from her shoulders.

She's seven fucking inches taller than Yzabelle. That's all. Seven fucking inches. Not even close to a foot. What, does even he think she's a giant-freak? Is that where this is going? Is he teasing her? Does he think this is funny?

Some part of her is prepared to march back down the stairs and leave him forever.

"Sorry," he laughs, realizing that he'd accidentally touched a very sore spot, "but would you really trade seven inches of height for... what was it? Two centimeters of waist?"

"Are you kidding?" She gasps bitterly.

Worse and fucking worse!

Without even being aware of it, she's taken another step backwards.

"Six centimeters off my waist, and seven inches shorter too? Two birds with one stone!"

She's so angry now, she's almost crying.

Has he brought her to this point just to humiliate her now, at the last possible moment?

If she weren't in love, she would not tolerate this.

He looks at her through the candlelight.

"You should talk to Yzabelle about it because she would definitely make that trade. Instantly. Anyway, the modeling world is weird, and I'm not talking about numbers. I'm talking about looks. Period. Just plain sexiness."

He sounds like he's lecturing her, but there's also a hint of pleading in his voice, an impatience, which comfortingly reminds her of his desire.

He wouldn't have made fun of her.

She will hear him out.

"And I'm talking about it from the point of view of a man. A straight man with very naughty thoughts and fervent desires, and from that point of view you have literally the prettiest, sexiest waist I've ever seen. Much, much prettier and sexier than Yzabelle's."

"Than Yzabelle's?"

"Than anyone's. Ever. Literally."

"No."

She can hardly dare to believe such an idea.

"Yes," he insists. "And I don't know how the world of models and supermodels thinks about these things, but the height might really be part of it. It might be like a ratio or something, so that it looks smaller than the numbers say it is. And maybe that's why models are so tall."

He shrugs. She sees that numbers don't mean anything to him. And what he's saying does make a little sense. She's even dared to hope that very idea — that maybe, being so tall, her waist would not look as large as the terrible number on the measuring tape...

Maybe it's true. At least for him. Maybe he —

She looks at him, sees his sincerity and his desire.

"And anyway, if I wanted Yzabelle," he shrugs, apparently not realizing what an arrogant thing he's saying, "I'd have Yzabelle."

My god, it's true, she realizes. He could have anyone. He knows he could have anyone. He's probably the only man in the world who can just shrug and casually say that if he wanted Yzabelle Oliveira, he'd have Yzabelle Oliveira. Or anyone else. He could have them line up, two at a time. Hell, ten at a time.

No doubt he's had that.

But, strange to think, impossible to understand, May is the one he wants. The only one he wants.

And he even loves her waist!

And suddenly she feels weak again, helpless again. Weaker than ever before. This is the most wonderful thing anyone's ever told her. Why didn't he tell her this earlier? She's needed to hear this her whole life!

She lets her breath out, regretting being so far away from him, but he needs to keep going just a little more. She can't quite return to him.

"Really?" Her tone is nakedly desperate.

"Really. It's literally my favorite thing about your body."

"Your favorite?" Her heart wavers between disbelief and exultation.

"May, I really, really, really like your waist. Please come back and let me touch it again!"

She hears the pleading, the need in his voice more clearly now, and, longing to please him, she obeys. As he rests his hands on her waist she can feel him taking pleasure in touching her.

A kind of triumphant exultation fills her. If he likes her waist, of all things, and likes it this much, he must really, really like her!

After a reassuring little kiss, he rests his forehead against hers, looking down into her eyes.

"I had no idea you're so sensitive about your waist."

Her eyes, looking up at him, beg him to go on.

"To me, the waist is the most powerful feature of a woman's body. People talk about breast-men and leg-men and ass-men. I don't know why no one talks about waist-men, but I'm a waist-man. The waist is what really gets me. And when I say that you're the sexiest woman I've ever seen, about half of what I mean is that you have the sexiest waist I've ever seen."

"Are you serious?" she whimpers. "Because that's my... biggest insecurity."

Then she remembers something even worse: "Other than my height, of course."

"Well, I myself may be a six-ten mutant, but I really like your height and I absolutely love your waist. They're amazing together."

He can feel her body relax as this reassurance hits her — it's true for him, she realizes, he's telling the truth about his feelings.

She's floating away on a cloud of happiness. She doesn't even remember that he was undressing her.

"If you're telling the truth, you're the perfect man," she sighs contentedly.

"I am the perfect man," he affirms, gently teasing her.

"You really are."

She steps forward into his embrace, melting into him again. She feels his arms around her, and his cock erect against her stomach, and again she realizes — this is sex. This is already sex.

He loves her and they are having sex.

"You should never be insecure about your height with me, May. I love your long features. Your neck, your thighs, the long pretty curves of your hips and waist. I know it's not pleasant to be so tall out there in a world of short people, but for me, for selfish reasons, I'm so glad you are."

"I'm glad too, Raoul," she admits, "for you."

It'd be nice to be a few inches shorter. But for him, she'll deal with it.

"It's not just the smallness of your waist, anyway," he says, sliding his hands down her body. "It's also the curves around it. You have such elegant, pretty curves." His hands slide a little further and he squats to kiss her stomach and lay his head on it. Something about the gesture reassures May even more than his words.

She imagines him listening for a baby in her womb.

"And I really like your stomach," he says without looking up.

"I heard you don't care for six-pack abs, so I didn't..."

Yet again she feels foolish, yet again having revealed that she's been having such discussions about him. And changing herself to accommodate him.

"It's true, though. I like a tummy just like yours. Flat, but nice and soft too. Healthy and feminine and," he looks up, winking at her with a happy twinkle in his eyes, "extremely sexy."

He kisses her stomach again and looks up at her with his smirk. While she smiles happily down at him, he slides his hands around to cup her buttcheeks through her dress, squeezing just a little.

"And then your hips. My god. The waist is my first thing, and my second thing is the hips."

"So actually you're an ass-man," she giggles. "You were just trying to hide it when you were talking about the waist."

"You know you have a perfect ass," he squeezes a little harder, sort of caressing her butt.

"I do not know that," she objects. She's happy, of course, to hear that he likes it, but she's not particularly insecure about it. Boys have always liked her butt. They'd tease, it's nice that it's about eye-level for them.

"Well, you do. And it's not just the rear-view, which is so great, but the side-view too. Do you remember that time in the pool?"

"Of course."

He stands up again and moves his hands to the sides of her hips, his thumbs reaching around her pelvic bone. She can feel their path to her vagina, and she presses her stomach into his cock.

"One of the hardest things I've ever done was resisting the temptation to slide my hand from your waist to your hip. And every time we danced, and my hands were on your waist, oh, I wanted so badly to touch your hips. But it was worst in the pool, when I could really feel that curve against the side of my body, could see it so close to my hand. And until tonight, although I know it was right not to, I have kind of hated myself for not taking those opportunities."

"Really?" She cannot completely believe that she has such power over him.

"Sometimes it makes my hand ache. Literally ache. I have to clench my fists to make it go away."

"No way."

"Yeah."

"Wow! Well, from now on you can touch it as much as you want," she encourages. "And anything else you want, too."

She watches him take brazenly sexual pleasure from touching her body, feeling warmth and happiness fill her as he runs his hands over her hips.

"Oh, god, May, oh god," he whispers.

"Does it feel that good?" she asks, surprised.

"Oh, god," he confirms, squeezing a little harder — not hard, but a little harder, and she seems to feel him struggling not to squeeze much harder.

She laughs then, astonished at the power her body apparently has over this man.

He chuckles too, looking down at her and loosening his grip a little. "I am so glad you let me do this."

"You can do anything you want." It wouldn't hurt her if he squeezed a little harder!

"Oh, I'm going to," he promises, his voice so deep with desire that she shivers.

He slides his hand under her butt, between her legs, the tips of his fingers on her vagina.

"Does that feel good for you too?"

"Yes," she answers, swallowing. She feels claimed. He is taking her for himself. The physical sensation of his hands on her body is very nice, but the delight of being intensely desired by him is heavenly. And she can't even think about how good it feels to belong to him.

She feels his hands through her dress, feels his fingers reaching for her sex. His breath shortens, his jaw clenches.

For a moment he seems to lose control, something animalistic comes over him. She surrenders to it, but then she feels him pull back, trying to control himself. She looks up at him trying to show him through her eyes that it's okay, he doesn't have to control himself for her.

Then he slides his hands up, over her waist, and kissing her, he begins to pull her dress up. Instantly her heart pounds again, afraid, eager, helpless.

When he's gathered it up to her waist, he pulls back from the kiss to look in her eyes. His eyes are a question, and she feels her own eyes, huge with fear, looking back at him.

She can't speak, but she nods, closing her eyes.