tagFetishRemembrance of Thighs Past Ch. 2

Remembrance of Thighs Past Ch. 2


Dory closed the fat, blue notebook and dropped it on the kitchen table. She sat and stared across the room, her gray eyes clouded in thought. She took the silver spoon out of her coffee and sucked on the end, sliding it over her tongue, in and out of her mouth.

She put the spoon down, opened the notebook flat on the table, and started reading where she had left off. Mouthing the words in silence, she absently twirled a finger through her rumpled blond hair. Her free hand floated down between her thighs.


Mark fought to get a corner seat in the subway car. He wanted the illusion of privacy, needed to be alone with his chaotic thoughts.

Fucking asshole... stupid fucking asshole! He whacked himself in the head with the utterance of each "hole," perfectly on cue.

He was alone in a world of dread as he reflected on how the day had combusted. He arrived at the library, as planned. He settled in his usual nook. He set out his pens, reached into his knapsack to grab...

... no notebook. No fucking notebook in the sack!

Stupid, stupid fucking bastard!

His palms had started to sweat, and his heart felt like it was covered with crushed glass. A glass of water and a cigarette on the steps of the library helped him restore a thin veneer of mental order. Where was the fucking notebook? He hadn't opened the bag on the train, and he distinctly remembered having both book and satchel on the table when he had coffee at home this morn...

... on the table. Oh, Christ! There, out in the open, on the fucking kitchen table!

He had dashed nonstop back to the subway, engaged in a desperate flight to retrieve his notes before Dory woke and found them. It was a bad situation, but Mark hoped he could rely on Dory. Unless she had an audition she was not an early riser, and as a rule was never up before eleven on a Friday.

Mark took a minute to compose himself before entering the apartment. He had run all the way from the subway station and was hopelessly out of breath. The people on the train had thought him a touch deranged, the way he mumbled profanities and smacked himself in the head. He wanted to shed the aura of frenzy before stepping inside.

He swallowed some air, counted to ten, then opened the door. All seemed encouragingly dim and quiet. He slumped against the door and grinned. On the table, right where he had left it, was the thick, blue notebook.

There is a god, he thought.

He walked to the kitchen, put the book in his bag, and decided to celebrate with some coffee. He poured himself a cup from the glass pot, sat down at the broad wooden table, and sighed deeply before taking a sip. He knew he had been utterly, utterly careless. He lit a cigarette and had another, longer sip of scalding coffee.

Then it hit him. The pot was half-empty. He had made a fresh batch before he left this morning. Now half the fucking coffee was gone...

"You back already Mark?" It was Dory, calling from her bedroom.

"Uh, yeah, forgot something," he growled, almost to himself.

"Mark? You there?" Dory again. Pretty fuckin' cheery, he thought, for ten thirty in the A.M.

"Yeah, forgot something," he answered. Loud this time.

"Well, gooood morning! Be out in a sec," Bad sign. Way too chipper for Dory in the morning.

Mark felt the panic crawling up his spine, but knew he had to stay focused. For Christ's sake, he thought, calm the fuck down... you're acting like Oliver Stone or James Woods. A conspiracy behind every bush. Highly agitated, he lit another smoke and weighed the situation. So she was up, and had been in the kitchen. She probably hadn't even noticed the book on the table. And, even if she had, she wouldn't have read it. She wouldn't pry into his business, read his personal journal. But then, he wondered, does it count as prying if it's right there in front of you on the fucking table?

Dory appeared in the doorway. She was wearing a white t-shirt, a red plaid skirt that covered only a few inches of her creamy, savory thighs, and a matching pair of red wool knee socks. Her wide smile and hazy eyes were alive with fire.

A short plaid skirt... knee socks.

Mark knew he was a dead man.

"You sound so grumpy this morning. Whatever you forgot must be pretty important, for you to come all the way back to get it," Dory offered, as she drifted over to the sink.

"Not important, I mean... it's just, I needed it for an article I'm working on," he replied, while inside his head a voice shouted DENY EVERYTHING!

"Which article? The one about the poet you've been going on about, what's his name... Hinkler, Hunkler... want some more coffee?" Dory leaned across the counter for the pot. Her skirt hiked up another inch or so. Mark, determined to be stalwart, looked at his empty coffee cup instead.

"Yeah – love some," he answered, deciding to address only the last question.

Dory opened a cabinet and reached way up for a mug, so high she had to stretch and stand, literally, on the tip of her toes. Both shirt and skirt marched up her body, exposing more skin and the back of her white panties. Mark couldn't help but notice that the cheeks of her ass were spectacular, and the way her limber muscles tightened when she stretched...

Mark was drowning, drowning in the shallow end of an empty swimming pool.

Dory filled her mug and ambled, pot in hand, toward Mark's cup on the table. He didn't want to pick it up or hold it out. He had no faith in the steadiness of his hands. He tried valiantly not to note how her thighs rolled, or how her tits bounced. It was all just one murderous wave of jiggling flesh to him. She bent over his suffocating corpse to fill him... rather, to fill his cup. Both breasts loomed inches from Mark's nose.

"Want some milk?" She asked, a hint of tease in her voice.

"Noo... uh, ye... no, black this time... thanks," he stammered in reply, fixing his eyes on a watermark in the ceiling. Christ!! How fucking hard was it to just say no. No eye contact, no eye contact... Mark knew he could hold out if he didn't look directly into those foggy eyes.

"Marrrk? Still with me, hon?" she asked, sticking her face in his line of sight. Her eyes glowed the way charcoal smolders right before it blazes. "You look so far, far way. And you never answered my question. Which article?"

"The one about the poet," he said slowly, hoping the words rang truer than they tasted.

"What'd you forget?" She was reeling him in.

"Just some notes." He couldn't stand the sureness of her gaze. He noticed the letters on her shirt, initials of some college...

"Oh, you mean the notebook?" She asked, dangling him on the line.

"Yeah, that's it," he said, still pondering the red letters.

"Mark, are you staring at my breasts... oops, sorry, are you ogling my 'brimming tits'?" She had decided, at last, to pull him into the boat and gut him.

Mark's inner voice boomed: DENY... DENY... MADE IT ALL UP! Dory sat on the edge of the table, directly in front of him, spreading wide that vast prairie of legs and thighs. She pulled the shirt up over her head and dropped it to the floor. Her nipples pointed accusingly in his direction.

"I mean, c'mon, 'brimming tits'? Who talks like that?" She asked, "Do you think maybe you can come up with something better, or am I making things too hard for you?" Dory leaned back, revealing the front of the white panties this time. She raised her left leg, placed her foot on Mark's crotch, and wriggled her toes.

"Yep, I would say I'm making some things pretty hard," she said.

"Dory, it's not you, not about you... they're only stories, ideas, dreams..." DENY, DENY, DENY!

"You mean you don't think I have 'tasty' thighs? You wouldn't like to come all over them?" She asked, her tone as smoky as her eyes. "Would you rather come on my tits instead?"

Dory stood and slipped out of the tiny, tartan skirt. She tugged her panties to one side.

"Or my pussy?"

"No, I mean I... they're... just dreams," he stammered, wishing he could disappear like a magician. He felt more exposed - more naked - than Dory. Still, mortified or not, he was unspeakably aroused.

"Sorry again, Mark. I should have asked if you'd like to 'rip a hot string of cum' over my 'glistening snatch.' Maybe I should just drop to my knees and start blowing you? That's in one of your dreams, right?"

Mark's mouth felt swollen shut, a sympathetic response to a persistent swelling elsewhere.

"How come I never 'cum' in your dreams? Seems selfish. Though, I did whack off after I browsed through your masterpiece. The thought that all this time you've been, well, noticing me that way. Kind of surprising... and exciting. You're so distant most of the time, Mark, and you never look like you're looking..."

This had to end. He had to shut her up.

"... and I don't even have a black silk robe... "

Before she could finish Mark was on his knees, face planted where the panty wasn't. She stopped talking, pinched her thighs around Mark's face and put her hands on his bobbing head.

He kissed the trim patch of pale pubic hair, kissed over and over the inner lines of her thighs. Hands between her legs, Mark gripped and molded that spectacular ass. Slow down, he reminded himself, no rushing now. Dory moaned and writhed as he eased his tongue up and down her moist slit, licked the fleshy lips, poked gently in and out.

Dory rocked her hips against his face and pushed down with her hands. Mark tried to move in rythmn with this double pressure. His tongue flicked over her jutting hood, then underneath to brush her clit. His strokes against her kept time with the contractions of the quivering ass in his hands. He found the pouting bud between her flexing cheeks and slipped in a finger.

"Uuh... uhh... uhhh... "

Mark picked up the tempo as Dory's moans grew louder. He was where he had longed to be for the last six months, buried in her gorgeous thighs, smothered in her musty scent, covered in the sticky juice of her pussy.

Her asshole tightened around the tip of his finger and her gyrations grew more insistent. He rolled his tongue harder on her clit and pressed his mouth against the full folds of her lips.

"Oh... ohhh yess... yesssssss!"

Dory's hands were like a vice on Mark's head, and her hips jerked in quick spasms against his face. He knew she was ready when her soft ass tensed and tightened. He parked his lips on her clit, nipped and sucked, and wiggled the finger inside her.


She bucked so hard she moved the bulky wooden table, and they almost toppled over. He braced himself and held her firm in his hands, slowing the motion but loitering in her gash with his heavy tongue.

Dory shuddered and groaned, "Okay... okay... enough."

Mark straightened himself on his knees, rolling his head to relieve the kinks in his back and neck. Dory's death grip had restyled his hair. He resembled a cartoon character who has just had a bad shock. He sat back on his calves to relish the smell which lingered on his face. He was bathed in Dory.

"Whoa... that was something," Dory muttered, leaning on the table. Her legs were still at sea. She looked at Mark sitting on the floor and smiled. "Put that in your book, pal. Something for the ladies."

"We may have to do it again, to make sure I get it right," he said, licking his bruised lips.

"I'll need a little time before that, or anything else we might do together," she said, finger on her chin, thinking...

Her smile broadened. "But I know something we CAN do right now. If I remember correctly, you have a thing for these... " she said, crossing her knee-socked legs. "Now I get to play with you!"

She bent over and guided Mark into a chair. He saw the bright blush all over her body, the metrical sway of her breasts, the frisky glint in her eyes, and realized what an idiot he was. He had wasted the past six months only dreaming of this.

"Now let's see what we can do here," she said, unzipping his fly and releasing his cock from its painful confinement. "What a hearty shade of purple... wet and hearty!" She rubbed a finger on Mark's throbbing head and spread the pre-cum down the length of his erection. "That'll give me some traction..."

She turned and pulled the table closer to the chair. "That should be about right," she said, sitting and stretching her legs towards his lap. Mark watched, transfixed by both the bunching of the muscles in her thighs and the sight of those red socks coming at him. Her feet were very warm, and very nimble, as they massaged and tugged at his cock. She squeezed, kneaded, and gently pressed her heels on his balls. He felt the telling tingle in his groin.

"Mmmmmmm... oh God! Dory... "


"Sir... SIR!"

Mark jerked his head up off the table. One of the librarians was jostling his shoulder, and frowning.

"You're disturbing the other patrons," she said in a stern whisper.

"Wha... oh, sorry," Mark replied, wiping a drip of saliva from the edge of his mouth. "Sorry, I must have dozed off."

"Sleep all you want, sir. But your groaning was becoming quite... animated."

"I said I'm sorry. Would you like it in writing?"

She snorted and walked away.

Mark went outside to have a cigarette. As he inhaled the first billowing puff of smoke he smiled, and wondered whether Dory was awake yet. He'd left the notebook smack in the middle of the kitchen table. Now it was up to her. Mark hoped he could rely on Dory. Rely on her burning curiosity about what he was always scribbling.

Well, he reflected, I can always dream...

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