Unbuttoned Tale #1: Death and the Maiden: Le Petit Mal
By lizzi tadoinot parsons

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We had waited months. I had noticed him noticing me but thought nothing of it. After all, I had gone from a waifish one hundred pounds or so to a full-grown woman, all tits and hips. it was spring and the first buds appeared on the trees and as I dressed one morning, I noticed my reflection. Me but different. Where before I had been petite, I now had curves. My breasts had grown ripe as if swelling with sweet milk. Had I been pregnant, I would have been a solid six months at least. The tops were swollen and arched nicely downward to my nipples which had become hard as raspberries and sensitive too. Even a 36 C now felt tight.

I walked the streets with new bras and panties, feeling the movement of my breasts as they swayed and bounced with each step when I hopped down the stairs in my usual fashion. I noticed men and women alike noticing me, and noticing me there and felt self-conscious. Here were these breasts --a real woman's body and initially, I wanted to run and hide. My hips, once boyish and narrow, now switched as I walked in my long, black skirt and between my legs I felt my little apricot had flowered and grown into a ripe peach, ready for the picking. My skin too, especially my chest and neck had taken on a pink flush that came and went with a will of its own and always at the most inopportune times. All that said, friends said I was "glowing" that I looked happy, and I did. I was me, but better, grown, and full.

When he and I were alone, I felt especially shy, and circumstance, unfortunately, had us often alone. To make matters worse, no matter which bra I wore, with my silk blouses and light cotton spring tops, you could see my nipples clearly through the fabric and they ached with a soreness from rubbing against the white lace of my new bras. They stood straight as the stem of a pale honeysuckle as if asking to be suckled, licked, kissed and cupped.

I tried not to think about it. I tried to concentrate only on conversation or the work before us. An album he bought, a book he was writing, I listened intently but couldn't help notice him noticing me and worse, he had detected my shyness and took a minor perverse pleasure in making me blush with his words.

Really, I puzzled about how anything he said was so embarrassing or funny. Why did I blush so much around him? I had never felt so Scottish and so far away from home as when with him, yet I had known him for years and worked with him for a long time. Now, his gestures, his manner of speaking his very foreignness stood out more than before and I found it curiously attractive. I thought little of it though, sure that this would pass until one day I rang and said I would be unable to make our lunch meeting.

"What will I do?" he laughed. Was he mocking me, I wondered. Was he serious. I couldn't tell.

"You'll manage." I said calmly.

"It'll be hard," he laughed again. At last he said it and I can't say where the next sentence came from but I said it aloud and said, "You know, Humbert Humbert, you're not nice. You're naughty."

"Really? Why's that." he said, still the laughter in his voice.

"I know what you're thinking." I tried in my best schoolmarm voice. He only laughed even more and said, "What's that?" I could tell now he was teasing and it pissed me off.

"You want to put me in a car and drive me across state lines and do things to me," I spit out, half disgusted, half delighted, half unsure.

"What things?" he said coyly.

"Never mind." I answered sternly.

"Oh, come on?" he said. "You can't accuse me without telling me of what."

I was alone in my car, yet flushing bright red by now and felt like I was dangling before him, helpless. I ended the conversation hurriedly and tried not to think about it, but it haunted me all day.

When I next saw him, it was a hundred times worse than it had been. I did not acknowledge our prior conversation but saw the smile in his eyes when he looked at me and whenever we sat close together. I felt my face grow pink and hot in his presence, and the more it did, the more he seemed to delight.

One rainy day he rang and said we should meet to discuss the poems we had been translating together. It was some old, French erotica and granted, we had decided on months prior, I was not happy with the subject matter now. Still, it was for a big publication and I refused to back out because of shyness or some silly game.

I drove to his office and picked him up. We had tea at the local tea shop. Students sat all around us working on their papers and i could hear the faint sound of violin music as it bled out of the windows of the nearby school. We worked on the poems together and sat side by side. He was wearing a dark suit, his grey hair offset by the jacket, his legs tapering to his waist nicely, firmly. When he got up to get our tea, without thinking, I caught myself looking at the folds of fabric around his crotch. It wasn't a tight suit, so it was hardly crude, but the folds of the fabric looked awfully nice, I had to admit. Sexy, I thought. I wondered what he would look like without the suit, what his cock looked like, but tried to put the idea out of my head. I could guess, I thought. It's not important.

"Cunny" he said, "What do you like for 'cunny'?" It was an old word for cunt. There were other words in French, all of them nice in their way. "Which do you like," he began, "Cunny, peche, abricot, con?"

I wiggled, feeling myself swelling there. Was I a peach? An apricot, a delicate pouch or poche?

"Peach" I said, then "Peche" declaratively, with authority.

He smiled, as if he knew I had been thinking of my own body. I did not or could not or would not meet his eyes at that moment for fear of turning a deeper red and then what?

"Oh," he said excitedly, "I have a new word for us... Bicoter... it means to nibble softly." He smiled and held my gaze. Was I really speechless? I was. Shit. Again I felt myself blushing and said it was time to go but first excused myself to the ladies room where I examined my reflection. My eyes were silver-grey and my once tight hair bun had come loose and strands of auburn flew about my pale pinkish skin. I looked like I had just been made love to or was about to. In any event, I looked like a woman full-bloom and in love.

I ran some cold water over my wrists to cool off and went back out.

"Ready?" I said

We left, walking through the light rain to my care. I had parked on a quiet side street nearby the church and the symphony school. We got in and out of the rain, but for some reason I did not start the engine, merely put the key in the ignition.

The rain fell harder now, making gentle thudding sounds on the roof. I felt his hand move to my neck and to my surprise, I leaned back into his grasp and closed my eyes. He took the pin out of my hair and it fell like ribbons. With one hand, he ran through the strands and with the other, he took my face in his palm and turned me toward him and kissed me so softly it was almost imperceptible.

I let him kiss me. That is accurate. I did not even kiss him back at first. I was frozen I could not move. He said, "Bicote" and gently put his tongue between my lips and sucked gently on the bow of my upper lip.

My breasts already felt full, swollen, aching. They seemed to ache toward him without any will on my part. Jesus, I thought.

His hand met my breast and cupped it. I kept my eyes shut. I could not look. He had stopped kissing me and I knew he was looking at them. I wanted to run. I wanted to stay. Then, so quickly and so gently, he deftly took one breast out of the lace and cupped it in his palm, "God, that's beautiful," he said. I opened my eyes long enough to see his neck lean forward and his eyes begin to close as his mouth closed around my nipple and he began to lick and suckle as if he had been born to it. I heard myself say, "Oh God and then no" but my neck arched back in surrender and I presented to him like a deer giving herself over.

He other hand was on my thigh at the top of my stocking. I felt his finger gently hook my panties to the side, but he didn't touch me there. He was lifting my skirt with his other hand. He wanted to see. I couldn't stand this. I had always been too shy, too nervous, but I wasn't stopping him. I did mutter a vague "Please no?" but it didn't mean very much as I said, my body ached toward him. Such betrayal. He gave me a reassuring kiss and then he went back to lifting my skirt, his finger still hooking my panties aside, my little ripe peach exposed.

With his other hand, he unbuckled his belt. I heard that, then the zip. He took my hand and put it gently on him. He was wide, big, almost too big, I thought, but so very smooth. the skin there was so tight and smooth and the shape of him felt good. "You're too big" I said it. I hadn't meant to say it out loud but I had.

"I'm gentle," he said and that was that. He still had my skirt up and had opened my legs as wide as they would part in the car. With his fingers, he gently spread the outer lips of me to see the inner, flush pink and my swollen clitoris. Perhaps he was watching for some measure of whether to proceed or stop. No matter what I was saying, my body was saying yes.

He began to move my hand up and down over his penis. I had never done this before and felt nervous that I would do it wrong, but he was patient. The whole time, he watched as my breasts, now lifted up and out of my bra, was hoisted high as if on show for him by the lace and my legs, he had taken care of himself. I was on full display and he watched as he moved my head to him and I took the tip of his penis in my mouth and sucked and licked around him, flicking with my tongue as he helped. I knew he was looking at my breasts move up and down, the hardness of my nipples as I did it, the flush pink between my legs. He let me suck him until he almost came and then stopped me and arched me back. I lay back on the seat, and again he took each breast in turn in his mouth and I could feel his tongue working around each nipple the way he sucked me there. He still had not touched me between the legs, his finger was still hooked and I could almost feel the tip of it, but not quite. I kept thinking of what his penis would feel like there. Just the tip, I thought. I could imagine it there, spreading me open, filling me the way one feels full and right on certain Sundays. Such an odd connection, but that is how it felt.

I lay back like this, with him at my breasts, then felt it... his finger tip just touching around the outside of me in smooth, slow circles before he put just the tip of it in. He was a tease, I thought. I put a little more in and then pressed upward in small pulses, beating a steady rhythm. I leaned forward and said, "please...no," into his neck, which he held me, still touching me with his finger, my nipple in his mouth, but as I said it, my body again was leaning to him and he did not stop. Would not. Then I felt nothing for a moment and heard only the gentle rain and then a scream, myself, as I shouted out a cry of No and then Please, oh please? I tried to reach for him, but he wouldn't let me, just kept on and put more of his finger in me until I thought I would really quite literally die. There was no time for right, for wrong, for consideration. There was this moment only and what happened in it and though I had not expected nor planned this, I had forgotten everything about the world around us. It was just he and I in that moment.

When I opened my eyes he was staring at my face, as if he had been watching the whole time. I felt embarrassed and he sweetly took me in his arms and said, "shhhhh??" and held me tight, his hand resting and cupping my little peach as if to protect me from others. I felt safe, loved.

We did our best to gather ourselves and make ourselves presentable and I drove him, as he held my hand, back to his office where I pulled to the curb to let him out, frankly, I was still a bit dazed. He looked just happy, outlined as he got out and leaning down to wave, the grey sky behind him. How could I not smile back? So I did. As he waved and I began to pull away I heard him say, "So I'll see you later?" and I nodded and smiled back. "Bastard," I laughed, "Yes? I'll see you later."

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"I could imagine it there, spreading me open, filling me the way one feels full and right on certain Sundays."
Reflections (Marcelle)                   
                    Carl Frieseke 1909
Reflections (Marcelle) , 1909 Carl Frieseke .
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