Finally, I was back in my home city and couldn’t wait to meet the girl I became so fond of playing with. Irritatingly, we couldn’t make it for two more days but at last, agreed to meet. I was slightly nervous and seriously excited–as it turned out, I severely missed our real-life meetings, both the innocent and naughty parts of them.
But when we finally met, I couldn’t recognize her for a few seconds. And if I managed to, it was mostly by reasoning: it was implausible for another beautiful Black girl to be at the Spring and greeting me warmly. But she looked different now.
First, she was dressed in some official dark-blue pantsuit, which looked great on her. But more strikingly, her head was completely shaven! At first, I was lost for words, and only after some deep breaths, gathered myself enough to tell to her–incoherently, excitedly–how great she looked. And I said it wholeheartedly: her black head with impeccable shining skin made her look like some perfect creature from another world. She seemed to be quite pleased with my reaction and relieved, too–apparently, she was never sure I’d like it.
While she changed into a swimming suit, I couldn’t perform our peeping game: numerous girls, maybe some sports team, were crowding around the women’s dressing room. Maybe it was for the best; after several weeks of separation, I was overwhelmed to observe her fully dressed, and even more so in her thin red swimsuit.
While waiting in line for the pool, I complimented her shaving a few more times, and she explained: “Yeah, it is my summer form: I like to have everything shaven.”
“Everything, like… everything?” I caught a hint to play.
“Everything!” she confirmed and, for the briefest moment, tugged the front of her panties from her body so that I could have a glimpse of the same silky smooth black skin on her mound. I responded with more compliments, and she laughed contentedly.
Between two dips in the pool, we chatted for a bit. She said that now, with a few weeks before the conclusion of her diploma, she had to go to the university and consult with various teachers almost daily, which explained her official dressing style, and she wouldn’t have too much time to spend at the spring. Somehow the talk turned back to her shaving, and I asked her permission to touch her head and did so, fondly, tenderly. It felt as good as it looked, and I couldn’t help but joke how good should it feel to touch her other shaven places. She simply took my hand–I briefly wondered whether she became crazy enough to put it into her panties–in a crowd?–and stuck it into her smooth underarm: a gesture both funny and intimate.
Soon it was time to get dressed. The sports team left, so now I could watch her dressing–and she was visibly glad to be observed. She took off her swimsuit bottoms first, standing with her face to me, so I could see everything. After that, she sat on a bench’s edge, so I could still see her, and even pretended she had a splinter in her foot: raised it to her knee, and sat this way, with legs widespread and pussy fully on display. Even from my pretend-to-be-decent distance, I had a great view and took it in for half a minute. I tried to memorize where the black of her skin gave way to the rose color of her inner lips, noticed her clitoral hood is of darker color, observed her opening that looked wet and becoming more open and wetter as I looked. Then, she took off her swimsuit top and started to dress.
Truth to be told, she didn’t overdo that dressing part. Just thin suit pants–over the naked and not even toweled thighs; the pants clung to them immediately; then the matching jacket. No underwear, no blouse under the jacket.
“Are you going to university dressed like that?” I asked hesitantly. It didn’t look indecent but didn’t look quite decent either. Dark material didn’t show any dumpiness, and a long jacket covered her thighs–but the fact that she didn’t have anything under the jacket would have been evident at a closer distance.
But she just smiled mysteriously, and we went through the park, jumping into our usual everything-mixed-together conversation: How was the flight? Was that city I traveled to, nice? Had she had time for watching these new sci-fi series? Was it painful to use the eggplant that big? (“Strangely, it wasn’t at all. Somewhat scary at the start, but easier than I expected, and really intense.”)
Almost near the park exit, she suddenly stopped: “Oh, I need to pee.”
I obediently turned to go to the park’s bathrooms, but she had something else in mind. Pretending–at least I think she pretended–her need was too urgent, she pointed at some nearby bushes: “Can we try this?” and hurried towards them.
I followed a step or two behind. She quickly reached a small clearing, secluded by thick bushes, shoulder-high. I stayed a few steps away, trying to provide privacy, but she called: “I need some help here.”
I was glad to follow her to the clearing. It was surprisingly private for the park; the only narrow entrance was from the side we came from. I quickly understood that if she sat, she will be completely invisible–and me standing at the entrance would protect her from anybody suddenly coming our way.
“Have you done this before?” I guessed.
“No, it didn’t feel safe here alone. But I did plan it.”
Staying with her face towards me, she slowly took off her pants completely and gave them to me to hold. Then she squatted, becoming invisible from outside, and unbuttoned and gave me her jacket too. Fully naked, smoothly shaven, with her knees spread wide, she relaxed and started to pee in a strong, clear stream. She looked into my eyes all the time, but I didn’t always hold her gaze–my eyes wandered towards her breasts, towards her pussy, observed the sunlight dancing in a golden stream of urine. She visibly enjoyed the experience and my attention, and even fondled her breasts and spread her pussy lips for me to see. We were in a small clearing, so she was only a couple of feet from me. I enjoyed the moment too and wasn’t shy to say so, to say how magical she looked, to praise the golden sunshine dance.
She finished, but hadn’t rushed to dress. She took a tissue from her large tote bag and dried herself. Then from the same bag, she took a bra and put it on, then the blouse. Finally, she took a jacket from my hands, threw it on her shoulders, and stood up, buttoning. It was a lovely sight, too–fully dressed businesswomen from shoulders to thighs, naked pussy and sightly spread legs below.
“I need your help with my panties,” she said calmly.
I stepped towards her, assuming she wanted me to hold her to help maintain balance while putting them on, but she said: “They are… there,” and spread her pussy lips with one hand.
I didn’t even understand at first, so she needed to clarify: “But please take them out VERY slowly.”
I was more than happy to comply. I first put a palm on her tummy under the blouse, observing her reaction, reminding myself to remember all the details of this first time of slow touching. Slowly, I moved my fingers to her mound. It was silky, silky skin, unbelievably smooth and totally different from anything I ever touched. Then, my fingers traveled to her hard and trembling clit, then lower, to where she was so wet, so open.
“You are so smooth,” I said. And then just, almost as if trying to calm her: “There, there,” as three of my fingers plunged into her. “There, there,” I repeated, moving them even deeper, till I felt the thin lacy edge of the panties inside her. She exhaled audibly and murmoured, “Slower… slower.”
I started to pull very slowly, making rhythmical motions in and out of her, just for a few millimeters; with every move, the panties were closer to her opening. She fondled my hand that fondled her, and rocked her hips, and moaned sometimes, and then licked fingers of the other hand and put it behind her, and while I moved my fingers outside of her vagina, I started to feel her fingers moving inside her anus.
In a few moments, the edge of her panties and my fingers finally were outside. She stopped my motions with her hand and said almost pleadingly: “Stay like this…” Then she started to stroke her clit with one hand and move another hand behind her back. In half a minute, she exhaled: “Now…” and then, urgently, “…pull them out.” I yanked the panties free, and at that moment, she bent down and started to orgasm. I could see now two fingers of her left hand were entirely inside her anus and even could see–or maybe imagined–her body pulsating around them.
She stood upright and took her panties from my hands (but not before I sniffed them with an emphatic pleasure). She put on her panties and pants, giggling: “Now we need to move fast. I am criminally late already!”
Before we rushed towards the buses, I licked my fingers clean–there was a lot of her thick juices on them, and proclaimed, “You are so sweet!”
“You too,” she giggled again, “in your way!”
And the last thing she said before we parted, in a more serious tone: “I really like playing with you. Thanks.”
***
In a few days, we met again. Again, she was dressed business-like–in the same blue pantsuit. “Do you have panties inside yourself, again?” I playfully asked.
“Why yes,” she confirmed emphatically but then added with a hint of regret: “But you can’t take them out today. Not that I didn’t like it the last time, but I only have half an hour. Let’s just dive, and I’ll need to run to the university.”
“Oh-kay,” I agreed solemnly and then teased her: “No way to confirm they are inside, then.”
She just smiled. As usual, we went to changing rooms–I dressed quickly and took a position to observe her. She made a point of taking off her pants slowly, demonstrating there was nothing underneath; then she sat on a bench, put two fingers inside herself–thankfully there was nobody in the other part of the room–and pulled out a small edge of black cloth, then pushed it back in again and proceeded to put on her swimsuit. When she changed back in a few minutes, the other part of the room was occupied, so she needed to mask her actions. I couldn’t see details, but to observe it was another kind of joy: here, she wrapped her thighs in a towel, then, one hand dived under the towel, and was quickly pulled back again with a closed fist; then she pretended to take the panties out of her bag and put them on. But before that, she sniffed her closed fist, looking in my direction–just like I sniffed her panties last time.