Garden Party Huntress

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.

I roll my shoulders slightly forward to release the tension on the spaghetti straps and reflexively unsnap my bra, slipping it from my shoulders. I note Oma’s approval as she hands me a fifty-year-old piece of silk. It slides down over my forearms, down the insides of my toned upper arms, and down the swell of my breasts, where it’s hem deliciously lingers, trapped by my nipples. Gravity carries its delicate lace hemline over the tips as the fabric falls to its full length with a whoosh!

“Oh!” I exclaim, caught off-guard by the thrill.

Oma laughs, a laugh like wind-chimes in a summer’s breeze, “yes, my dear, it is silk, really fine silk, and you will have to get used to enjoying that feeling without giving any outward appearance that you are enjoying that feeling.”

Oma, my Oma.

“The panties, Oma?” A simple question but one which diminishes me and magnifies my Oma.

“They, my dear…” Oma is behind me now, her hands are on my bare shoulders, her fingertips barely touching my bare skin as they move down the center of my back, across my shoulder-blades, down my sides, down the turn of my hips, to rest on my pelvis… “They, my dear, are immaterial if you are going to wear a full slip. Choose one of two, either bra and panties with a camisole or a full slip with whatever panties make you feel comfortable, confident, in control.” She pulls me to her from behind, the soft skin of her arms pulling me into her safe and warm embrace as her strong hands cross and rest on my tummy.

It is a lingering embrace, a lovely, lingering embrace.

Her chest is leaning against my back as she stretches to whisper “nothing is quite so exciting to a man as your confidence. You exude the sensuality you feel and control. Do not tease yourself more than you can contain. I find that the silk is enough. Do you?” I nod, my eyes closed, “yes, Oma, it is enough.”

She releases me, spell broken.

I feel her sliding her dress up my right arm. I reach back and slide my left arm into the sleave so that Oma can pull it up over my shoulders.

Oma leaves me there. I reach to begin buttoning. “No, my dear, wait a moment.” She sits on her bed, folding her right knee over her left, dangling a two-inch heel, letting it sway mesmerizingly back and forth in the brightly lit room. “Take a moment to smooth the silk before you button… Slow, in control, confident.”

I close my eyes, placing my hands on my breasts, at the collar of Oma’s slip. Beneath my fingertips, that flawless silk lace and its accompanying solid fabric. I instinctively pull my long, thin fingers back, arching my hands so that only my upper palms rub my hard nipples as I smooth the silk across my chest. Oh, that momentary delight!

My hands slide down to my rib cage, down across my tummy, down the turns to my hips, down my hips to my upper thighs.

Oma nods approvingly. I do not need to see her to know this. Fifty years before, she was me. She stood before her Oma, being coached on the art of the hunt, building on the groundwork laid down since she was a little girl, all of it culminating in a fifty-year marriage to my Opa.

“Now, the buttons.” I reach for the top one, immediately recognizing my error. My eyes fly open, but she is smiling warmly, amused by the mistake and my reaction, her right eyebrow raised in a question. We need say nothing for me to know. My fingertips skip that button, and the next, resting on the third.

Oma nods approvingly.

One by one, I button Oma’s dress, my dress, pulling it up a little to reach the last two. I gather the cotton together with the cloth belt, buckling it into its delicate silver.

“How tight, Oma?”

She stands, crossing the short space to me atop her heels like a trapeze artist. Would I ever be as graceful as she is, perched daringly above the abyss?

Her fingertips are between my belt and my hips.

“No, that is right, just enough to pull the fabric above tight but not so much as to make you uncomfortable, my dear.”

Oma takes my left hand in hers and leads me to the bed. We sit, me beside her as she hands me her heels.

“They go with this dress” is her simple statement. Seeing my apprehension, she continues “yes, I know, but there is no presentation quite like that of a young woman in heels.” I slip them on, crisscrossing my legs as I buckle each. Oma places her hand on my knee and gives it a little push so that my thighs are pressed closely together, my right over my left.

“Let me show you something…” her practiced fingers slipping across my knee to the hem and then up to the bottom button. “Open two buttons if you expect to be sitting in a place you can be seen and keep them closed if you expect to be standing more of the time.”

Oma slips two buttons from their sheaths, sharpening my claws.

“See how the cotton drapes from your knee now, revealing more of your calf.”

“Stockings, Oma?”

She smiles. “Outside, in the warm sun?”

Confidence is born of the confluence of comfort and daring, revealing and withholding what we wish.

“Let your routine be your stockings. If you wear them, wear them daringly.”

I can feel him enter the room, feel him searching for me. I can see in Oma’s eyes that he is beside the pocket doors somewhere on my left. I resist the urge to acknowledge it, the slightest Oma glance confirms that I am right to ignore him, to let him search for me in the crowded room.

His voice is perfect, calm but having an impatient undertone as he is greeted. He is courteous but not looking for any of the pleasantries which are so necessary in times like these. He wants me, needs to see me, breathe me in, ravish me and I want him to want this, to need this as well.

I feel my beautiful boy’s eyes upon me. He is drinking in a vision of me. I hear his footfalls, his clumsy tread from hardwood to carpet… three strides… He is behind my chair. I admit to having to quiet my heart and restrain myself from looking around.

“Miss Emily… It’s great to see you!” as I turn, he gives courteous greeting to Oma, but his eyes barely leave me for her. Our eyes meet. I take him in in one glance. The JC Penny white shirt fits him well and the blue blazer does not, bought to be a little too large so that he won’t have to buy another as his shoulders do their final filling out. Khaki pants, brown shoes, clumsily polished over the laces, all draped over powerful shoulders, arms, and back.

He looks like his daddy, a good man.

“Could I trouble you to keep Emily company while I catch up with someone, Bobby” Oma intones.

He could not have agreed or sat more quickly.

Bobby is leaning in to me, his eyes fixed on my face. I reach out with my left hand and gently touch his folded hands, a practiced gesture that elicits a reflexive, bold response as he opens his hand and his palm to clasp mine. His hands are rough, calloused, grease and dirt permanently embedded in them. No matter how much he should wash them, the will never been truly clean.

I lean back, taking Bobby’s hand with me, resting his downward facing palm on my upward facing palm, on my bare knee. Oh, the joy of catching that flutter of uncertainty and desire in him as I do so.

We talk in hushed tones before Oma decides it is time to restore the huntress and prey relationship. Bobby mustn’t get too comfortable with me, but I can’t help but feel a pang of loss for that moment where we were connected.

I stand and smooth out my dress, my right hip turned towards Bobby, just inches from him. I know he can smell my lavender perfume and lotion. I pretend not to notice as I stride away without looking back.