I step out of my bath, drying myself in a large, soft towel. It is wrapped around my shoulders, my hands clasping the top corners as I dry myself; my cheeks, my neck, down the swell of my breasts and under them, my armpits and then sides. I run my hands down my torso, holding the plush white cotton to my skin as my long, thin fingers slide across my flat belly, my belly button, down my tummy.
I slip the towel down my shoulders, cradling it with my cheeks as I dry my hips, the soft fibers of the cloth mingling with the soft chestnut curls of my pubic mound. My mons is puffy, white, unblemished. A nearly invisible slit begins right in the middle, running perfectly square between my milky white thighs. I slip the ends of the towel between my legs, drying my hairless taint, my cheeks, and the cleft between them. I dry my thighs and my knees, alternately lifting a leg, perching on one leg like a Herron as I dry my toes.
I mindlessly drop the towel to the floor, standing before a full-length mirror. I run my fingers, with their perfectly manicured pink fingernails, down my sides, resting my thin hands on my hips. I cock my head back and forth, making kissing faces at myself in the mirror. I like myself. I love myself. I am grateful for my life, and it shows. I am radiant. I am She and, in the morning light, dancing through the panes behind me and the lace sheer, I am young and lovely.
A few turns of the cap and the room fills with the scent of lavender. Creamy lotion, generously worked into my skin, from neck to toes. I work it in with my palms and fingertips. It is one of those decadent feelings… It is impossible to describe what it feels to gently, firmly, gently work the lotion into my pores. I take my time. There is no rush, paying particular attention to my elbows, wrists, knees, and ankles. Soft… Men love the softness of these areas, for it is all they ever get to see or touch.
A “tease” you say? No… And, yes… A huntress. My prey? The perfect man, perfectly Man, so very perfectly manly. He is an elusive prey, and he needs to be coaxed into the open. My bait? Well, She, of course.
I run my fingernails down the swell of my breasts, around my areolas, and down the undersides to my tummy. My palms just barely graze the tips of my nipples. I let out a little gasp, then the sensation is gone. They travel further down, down past my belly button to my hips and then between them, my fingers entwining as they cross my mons. My left index finger travels in one straight line down my sex and, when I reach the bottom, travel back up, pushing delightfully between my lips, and stopping at my clit.
My eyes are closed, my lips slightly apart, I know what I want, what I need but I haven’t that much time. Delayed gratification is supposed to be character-building. I laugh, a musical laugh, gentle, playful, happy.
My panties are cotton. I know many girls think they need to impress others with their panties; lace, satin, silk… But there is nothing quite so charming, quite so disarming, as the confidence that comes with feeling beautiful. Cotton, clean, white, cotton. My bra is satin, with delicate lace atop and a front clasp. Over all? An off-white satin slip. I smooth it down my torso, noting with approval the way it hugs my hips and chest.
When I step out into the street, perched atop three-inch white heels and wearing a button-down, pale-yellow dress, with discreet white flowers, I embody Spring itself. I could dance a waltz in such heels and the swish of my skirt with every step is like watching feathered clouds race across a crystal blue sky.
It is the most perfect of days.
The walk to the bed-and-breakfast is short and the morning delightful. Across the street, men noisily unloading cases of beer, in front a seedy bar pause to watch me. I can feel their eyes on me, devouring me, ravishing me, stripping off my thin dress.
I pretend that I don’t see you, my little darlings. You are not my prey today. You could be one day. I’m not above feasting on that wonderful class of men who roll up their sleeves to get done what must be done but today, you are safe.
I stop and lean as far over the short fence as I can to breathe in the gardenias, my lean frame stretched out almost painfully in an arch that simultaneously presses out my breasts and my hips. I’m steadied by my right hand on the picket as I pull a flower close to my nose with my left. My eyes are closed and the silence tells me that your work has ceased. Your eyes are fully upon me and upon nothing else.
A moment of bliss where the world is mine… then a release as I stand again and deliberately walk on.
You open the door and hold it open for me, far longer than is seemly. Your wife notices. I feel her eyes too, burning holes in my me, though, or perhaps because, I pretend to be oblivious.
I am greeted in the hall by my family. It is pandemonium but it is Oma’s attention which I crave. It is her opinion that matters. Beside her, I am small. She rises, a broad smile playing upon her lovely, worn cheeks. Her hazel eyes twinkle inside a spider’s web of living displayed beneath her brow.
Oma embraces me and I am little again. From huntress to kitten in an instant.
She moves me to the seat beside her, just now vacated by Peter. Poor little Peter, such a lovely boy, so quiet, meek, strong, more like Daddy than any of us. You know your place, Peter and you know it isn’t beside Oma, not now, not today, not here.
It is loud, joyous intoxicating but I am oblivious. Oma is behind me; her strong, rough fingers smoothing my collar. I close my eyes. I can see as well without them. Her deft fingers smooth the crisp white cotton, sliding down across my collar bones, her fingertips pulling apart the triangles which hold my top button and its buttonhole.
My heart skips a beat. For a moment, I am in doubt, uncertain, frightened; but her fingers do not linger. Oma’s pleased with that choice, and that of the second unbuttoned button. The tension fades until I feel her fingertips rest upon my third, buttoned button. She leans in close, her soft, musical voice no more than a whisper… “I think the third button as well, my dear.” All I can or need do is nod as she pulls the button free and smooths the fabric open, revealing more cleavage than I had thought I should.
Oma kisses the back of my head, her hands gently kneading my shoulders before she sits.
Oma’s pleased and my confidence and strength rebound, doubled. I am her when she was me. I have seen pictures and heard all my life how much we are alike, how similar we are. No alterations are needed when she dresses me in her clothes. Oma knows this dress. She retrieved it, carefully mended and starched its collar, and fitted it to me like lovely Lucy dresses up her dolls.
I don’t mind. I crave Oma’s attention. Standing there in her bedroom, preparing to slip her silk slip over my cotton underclothes. “No, my dear, a modern bra like that just won’t do for a dress like this. The art is in the wrist, the ankle, the elbow, the neck.” I know well what she means. My Oma has been teaching me the thrill and skill of the hunt since before that magical movement from girl to woman.