Ben Esra telefonda seni boşaltmami ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32
I remember it as though it were yesterday…
Spring is such a wonderful time of year. The trees are a delicate verdant green. The leaves have just come out, still nearly translucent against an intense azure blue sky. Light breezes rustle the leaves producing a gentle ambient sound track . On those first warm, but not yet hot Spring days, some women like to wear very light, yet rich fabrics, fabrics the breeze can play with as she walks, or even as she sits. It’s as though they are celebrating the opportunity to cast off the sweater, coats, pants and boots that come with Winter and celebrate the vernal equinox with a fashion shift.
It was on one of these days last Spring, at a sidewalk cafe in Sacramento, California that I saw her, and she captivated me.
She was a tall, that perfect age for women, in her early forties. Old enough to have a fabulous sense of her own personal style, yet young enough to be beautiful by any standard. Her haircut was short, sassy, rakish, highlighting her high cheek bones and huge, round hazel/green eyes. She was a striking redhead, a natural redhead, as no colorist from Clairol could possibly have created that rich, nearly auburn hue while capturing the brilliant, almost neon highlights that flashed across her smoothed locks at the whim of the sun.
Her dress was of the lightest, whispiest material, the neckline cut in a sharp “V” that met at the midpoint of her breasts, revealing a deep, yet still demure cleavage. It was fitted perfectly over her lithe bodice, then it flowed into a pleated bell that flew like a flag as she walked. It ended just above her knee where two of the most beautiful legs I have ever seen protruded. They were perfectly formed, tight, smooth and very live. She must have been 5’10 or so, and I recall how my gaze followed sariyer escort her lower leg, to her muscular calf that flexed with each step, and finally ended, the tops of her feet disappearing into a pair of bone colored, stiletto heeled leather pumps. The heels, long, sculptured pins rose five inches from the ground.
On her heels, she stood well over six feet tall. I love to see a tall women in very high heels. It gives her power, command, and ashews the conventional wisdom of not wanting to appear too tall. In my own experience, a woman in high heels who is taller than me (and I’m about 6’0) is such a turn on. Besides, once you’re horizontal, relative altitude doesn’t really matter.
She was incredible. She walked by me, then slightly away until she came to the small table about fifteen feet from me. She turned on the balls of her feet, and descended into the the chair in one fluid graceful motion. Her left leg slowly and smoothly covered the other, nearly wrapping back around the other leg. One heel rested on the ground, the other hovered close by, it was like watching jet fighters flying in formation, arching gracefully across the sky.
I caught myself starring and averted my gaze back to the paperwork I was studying for a post lunch meeting. It was no use, my eyes and imagination were drawn back to those perfect legs and fascinating stiletto pumps.
I’ve always (since I was old enough to notice such things) thought of the simple stiletto heeled pump as the jet fighters of shoes. The fastest, most desirable, most maneuverable, and deadliest planes in the world are jet fighters, and so the stiletto heeled pump is to shoes, the top gun. Worn properly, they are fascinating, almost hypnotic, and quite impossible to ignore. Its shape is simple, elegant, unambiguous, eskort the heel is long, sculptured, cut as a fine blade would be, curved in a very suggestive way, tapering to a fine point, creating an arch so long and high, it is nearly impossible to wear with grace, yet for those women who master them, the effect on onlookers is devastating.
The laminated mahogany heel on these shoes were buffed to a high sheen and the shoe on her suspended foot seemed to talk to me, to draw me closer as it reflected shards of light across my eyes as she lightly bounced her leg on her crossed knee.
The skirt portion of her dress caressed her thigh, the material so light that it slid slightly as her unconscious (or was it?) nervous flick of the leg continued until the traveling material had slipped enough to reveal the unmistakable change in color that had to be the top of her stockings, but just barely. I thought, she could be wearing pantyhose, but I thought, no, the curve was consistent with the stretch from an attached garter.
I was brought back to planet Earth by my waitress who had chosen the least opportune moment imaginable to deliver my credit card and bill for lunch for my signature. Only her impish grin and what might have been a wink indicating she had caught me in my uncontrollable gaze at the woman seated at her other table, and that it was perfectly understandable and okay, saved her tip!
By the time the waitress left, it had already happened. “Damn!”, I thought,” I missed it!” She had re-crossed her leg in the other direction while I was distracted. But in doing so, she had shifted in her chair so that she was nearly facing me. Now I was viewing the pointed toes of those shoes, like heat seeking missiles pointed menacingly in my direction. Believe me, at that moment, were beyoglu escort they actually heat sensitive, they’d have found their mark just south my belt buckle!
As she was nearly facing me I was confronted with those gorgeous legs, cantered at an angle, one stacked on the other, the cleavage between her big toe and number 1, barely visible at the apex of the curve of the top of her shoe, teased me, mocked me. I was mesmerized, but watching her with any pretense of desecration or dignity was now nearly impossible.
“She must know I’m watching her, yet she doesn’t seem upset, or perturbed. After all, she turned toward me, not away. She has enhanced my view, not denied it”, I thought to myself.
When her waitress, my waitress arrived with her glass of wine, she leaned over and whispered something to the object of my interest, something that brought the barest hint of a smile. I so wanted super hearing at that moment. Whatever it was, it was brief but when the waitress moved away, I noticed the body language of the woman I was watching, adoring, falling hopelessly in lust with, change, nearly imperceptibly at first, then growing bolder.
She lifted her wine glass and sipped at it, her perfect lips left a crimson imprint at its rim, illuminated clearly by the afternoon sun. She sat more erect, shoulders a but more square, her neck extended. This was no longer a nonchalant a casual moment at a sidewalk cafe, it was a performance, and a damned good one.
Okay. I was watching her. She knew I was watching her. I knew she knew I was watching her. She toyed with me, shifting her legs to give me a quarter view of those stiletto pumps, revealing the full rake of the high arch, all of that slender heel. It was late, my meal had been cleared, the bill paid, the last of my tea and water were gone. There was no more valid reason to remain, to linger even longer was a dead giveaway that I was worshiping this beauty. It was time to act, to make a decision and go with it.
Part two will be posted after I hear your comments.
Ben Esra telefonda seni boşaltmami ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32