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Eye Candy

i8uslowly

Registered User
Joined
Oct 9, 2002
Messages
31
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She pulled in behind me while I was filling up my car that morning. She drove a tiny silver SUV, a compact Japanese model with a brand new alumni plate from a southern state university.

I glanced over in her direction, just idly looking around. She climbed out.

And something clicked.

I don’t know what it was. I’ve always had a thing for petites, epecially young fit women I their college years. But something definitely got my attention.

She was about five foot two, brunette and looked nineteen, although her alumni plate suggested more like twenty-one or twenty-two. I gave her a quick head to toe.

She had her shoulder-length hair tied back in a ponytail and wore a pair of wrap-around shades in the golden morning glare. Her dark blue tee shirt was a little tight and it hugged her compact, girlish torso, stopping about halfway down her very brief form-fitting shorts. They were a worn and tired used-to-be-black dark gray that ended very abruptly on smooth, acrobat legs that flowed down to a pair of old royal blue running shoes. She had a nice tan.

I looked away as if watching a car pulling out at the intersection beyond and then turned back towards her, trying to do it casually. This time I looked her up from toe to head.

Yummy.

My pump clicked. My tank was full.

My other pump clicked, too. I replaced the gas handle and pressed the button for the receipt, then I knelt down and pretended to check something out on my driver’s side rear wheel.

This hid the bulge that was swelling uncontrollably in my jeans.

I looked over to her. Her blue sneaks were wrapped tightly around her little feet. They looked cheap, thin material with a really flimsy, worn sole, but maybe they were made for a specific sport or something. She wore a pair of bright white cotton booties on each foot, just poking up above the lips of her sneakers. They looked like icing on the smooth, girlish legs that drew my eyes up, slowly, fondling every curve. They weren’t thin, but they didn’t seem to have a bit of fat on them at all, just smooth…very smooth, a fit girl’s legs tanned a delicious caramel. Where they were capped by her worn elastic shorts my eyes swept across the contours and my mind was teased into imagining their continuance beneath the bottom seam of her blue shirt. I thought I could see the flat, toned plane of her perfect, tight belly under the tee before the fabric was lifted up by the pert little peaks of her perfectly shaped fruit-like breasts, not large, but proportioned to her little figure. I looked up to her face.

She was staring right at me.

Normally, I would look away, embarrassed. I see a cute babe, I look, but I don’t go around ogling them. Not normally.

But this wasn’t normal.

I stared back.

Her eyes were hidden behind her shades, but her lips were pressed together hard, and I could see the wheels turning….as if she were about to speak…a sharp word from a sweet tongue.

Instead she turned away, unsure. Somehow, I don’t think she would normally do that, turn away, nervous. Not normally.

She faced out toward the traffic. The morning breeze blew her ponytail gently across the nape of her neck. I imagined its tickling sensation, never before noticed, but her feeling every touch of it now, every caress. The back of her blue tee shirt was emblazoned with a logo, a silhouette of a girl on a balance beam, encircled with the words, Kitzinger Gymnastics Center.

So she was a gymnast, or a former gymnast, or a gymnastics instructor and a gymnast or whatever arrangements gymnasts make for their specialty beyond their early twenties. She looked like a gymnast; petite, cute.

The breeze blew her shirt just enough that I could now trace her lines from torso down her girlish ass and descend her gymnast legs down to the soles of her shoes. She shifted, her weight on one foot now, the other toeing the ground. I stared.

I would have such fun with her. Who had ever touched her correctly? I looked at her shoes. To draw a finger nail gently, firmly, over the thin fabric, she’d feel that, caressing over her foot. To do it in lazy figure eights, diddling down to touch the tops of her toes, tickling them like a keyboard. She’d flinch and giggle and try to pull away.

But what if she couldn’t? What if I held her leg tight and just kept drawing with my finger, caressing, tickling, right through her shoe? What then when I tug gently on the laces? The knot undone, pulling her shoe off, the cool morning air announcing its exposure, helpless to my attentions. She’d pull hard to escape, anticipating the playful, yet inevitable escalation. My fingertips gently gliding over her socks, passing lightly over the top of her foot, skiming over the contours of her sole, a single finger probing ever so softly across the pads of her toes, wriggling in her little sock…what of that? What if I were to hold her down and work my way slowly up her sweet little body from her toes, loving her gently, teasingly, relentlessly?

She slammed the pump handle back into its cradle and began screwing the gas cap back on.

It did nothing to stem the flow of imagery streaming through my mind. What if I tied her down, gently, carefully, but firmly. Then I could attend to her with patience, her body a taughtly stretched canvas upon the easel. Oh, what a picture I would paint!

She opened her door to get in, locking it in the same motion, as if I would at any moment rush her in the car. Hopping in her driver’s seat, she had just slid the key into the ignition when the voice squawked out from her pump’s intercomm speaker.

“Pump five! Pump five!,” announced the station attendant with a thick southeastern drawl, “The system did not take your card, honey! You ain’t paid for that gas. It didn’t take your card.”

She got out, angry.

And slammed the door behind her.

It took about a second for her to realize. Her keys were inside.

She cussed. Quietly, but it was a curse, though I’m not sure what she actually said. I don’t think she cusses normally.

She stood there for a moment, not facing me, frozen, thinking, getting a grip.

Her legs looked like some exotic, smooth dessert. I wondered what they tasted like. Where were they ticklish? My eyes probed slowly over them, sweeping around her calves, considering the backs of her knees, then sliding back down to her ankles before climbing up to her thighs, working my way up to where a light touch across her ass or along the inside of her thighs was sure to bring a quiver.

And a thrill. Right up her spine. Just like the one shooting through me as I continued to watch her, frozen, immobile, her skin feeling every move of my eyes tickling across her. She sensed me, she smelled me, she could feel the heat of my touch, my breath, my lips, my tongue.

She didn’t go inside. If she did, she could use their phone, call the autoclub, a friend, a coworker, room-mate, whoever, take of this and go on her way. She could tell the attendant about the sex-crazed pervert at the next pump feeling her up with his eyes. I certainly couldn’t follow her in there.

But she didn’t go. I think she wanted me to go away first. I think she just wouldn’t let me win. I had to go first. She would wait me out.

I imagined the sounds she would make when tickled up there, around her tight little yummy. I had the most delicious idea. She was a gymnast and quite petite. What if I were to tie her in a full gymnast’s split? I could touch and stroke and tickle across her abs and thighs and down to her little footsies and back again. I could hop and jump my fingers from here to there and elsewhere, flitting about on a whim. If a tickling of her foot drives her to desperation, and the sensual tickling along her tighs tightens her body in a vise of fear, each muscle straining in anticipation of attack, and if her little belly trembles and quakes beneath my fingers and tongue, breaking her laughter and pleas into a delightful staccato of squeals, then imagine her distress at the imminent threat of all three, all the time. Will I do this? Will I do that? This? That? This? That? Her whole body on alert, quivering, electric.

Feel me.

And then there would be her flower. Delicate, sweet, petals folded about it, its little bud hooded and concealed. It would be coated in dew, glistening, waiting. Oh yes, though she would fight it, it would indeed be waiting.

And a bit longer would be that wait. This would be too early. There were parts of her as yet untouched, and it seemed quite unaesthetic not to attend to them before her playing with her there.

She wheeled around and walked quickly over, stopping almost on top of me.

I pivoted toward her in my squat. I had a full-blown 36 on the Richter scale throbbing in my pants and I didn’t want to stand up yet. I rested my right forearm across my knee. My fingers were less than an inch from her leg. I wanted to touch, to caress.

“What do you want?” she demanded.

Her voice was girlish but sharp. She stood there in front of me, tempting, so close. From where I knelt my eye level focused my attention right on her honey patch. I could see the contour of her mound through her skimpy shorts. Oh man, did I want to touch it so. To cut away those shorts and play gently upon her petals, tasting, teasing, touching. I would rub them so very softly between my fingertips, tickling her folds with my tongue, slowly, gently, lovingly…always with patience. And always delighting in her resistance. Teasing her with joy, witholding when she wants it, tickling her with it when she doesn’t, oh I wanted to turn her world upside down and spin it all around and round.

Her arms were crossed and I could hear her breathing hard through her nose, mouth closed tight in anger, her whole delectable body tensed, tight. I could feel her her body heat.

I tried to answer, but my mouth was dry. That was just as well, I didn’t have much of an answer.

She wasn’t going away, though. I looked up at her, her little ears drew my vision to them. They were just made for a nibbling. A caress across her cheek, progressing to a tickling, that was the way, with a gliding sweep of soft pecking kisses down her neck, tickling where her ponytail tickled. To see her loll about helpless as I would make her do and then punctuate it with probing along her arms, down to her sides, finding that electric spot that tickles more than any other. The arms are the most intense place to tickle of all, though you have to dig to do it right. Man I could make her scream in joy, unyielding, unmerciful, unbearable joy.

I stood up.

She saw it, but I think she knew it already. Why else was she here so close?

“Do you have a spare key at home?” I asked, looking down at her. She didn’t back up an inch.

She just stared back for a moment.

“Yes,” she replied, “But I can’t get in my apartment.”

“Can the office let you in?” I asked.

“Yeah,” she said.

“Okay,” I answered, “Get in.”

I walked around to my passenger door and opened it for her.

She stood there for a moment.

“Get in,” I repeated.

She did.

I closed the door and walked around to the driver’s side.

Getting in, I couldn’t help but notice…her scent..it was, delicious.
 
Now that was different...in a good way.

The story let your imagination take hold!
OH and welcome i8uslowly
 
I definitely enjoyed it. Check your PM's my friend
 
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