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|These are my clothes (standard:romance, 807 words)|
|Author: Jon Montego||Added: Jan 07 2007||Views/Reads: 3006/0||Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)|
|The pulsating and sometimes sensual scenarios where a woman finds herself in the heap of her clothes.|
My name is Dolores, and for a long time, many people knew me by a different name. It was often a name selected by me, to shine with resiliance and sensuality. It was a name that was far different from my real name, which was painfully average and told nothing about me. The only man that ever knew my real name, was my husband Patrick, who had no idea that any other name (or woman) besides Dolores existed. To my husband I was the woman he saw cooking in the kitchen, cleaning the rooms and every now and then, nude in his bedroom. I suppose that is how alot of men see their wives from time to time. Like a gracefuly object with no real realistic borders around her. I was aware that Patrick was no longer in cue with my challenges or troubles in life anymore. He became as distant as the identity I found myself clinging to. My age had escaped my beauty, and I had managed to surrender my body to the delicate touches of mother nature. A few lines at my hazel eyes, and magical whisps of lighter colors in my auburn hair were tale tale signs of my maturity. My thick but smooth tan skin tattled on my outdoor adventures. It was true that my womanhood had waited silenty to bring into fruitation the lovely abundance it was hiding all these years. My thighs and breasts were swollen but very firm. And though my waist was slim, my navel rose boldy into a gracious lump from past impregnation that was tender to look at. So it was, that after a few months of staring out the windows of my empty house, I began to long for the awakening of my soul. The days began to pass with anticipation again as I planned to find a young suitor to share my body's eager ambitions. I began to entertain prospects at coffee shops and bars, always doing my hunting while Patrick was away at work. My name to these sly crooks would always be something like "Felicia, Trisha or Samantha". There was something exciting about being a totally different woman with a completely different name. The suitor appeared much sooner then I had expected and I must admit that I wasted no time in comitting my leisure hours with him. He was no more than a boy with twenty years my younger. His aggressive hunger for my patronage exhausted my inmost organs. I was not bothered at all, and quickly developed a curious addiction. It was not long that word had been sent to many of his friends and I found myself handeling a rough and anxious looking crowd. Men and boys, some I assumed had never seen a real naked woman. But they came all the same. All of them zealous to satisfy their enormous appetites. What a mess it had been sometimes! There I would be laughing softly on my bed. My hair tousled about my face, robed in a white, men's dress-shirt while holding my abdomen gently and squeezing my legs together. Not a few seconds before I could recover from a strapping young boy's violence, I would suddenly be toppled over again and plundered furiously. There were many nights Patrick would eye me suspiciously as he finished and toss me over the bed. My thighs had never felt so raw, and I was rejoicing secretly. It was on a humid summer's day when the smell of sweating males still lingered in my bedroom, that my soul awakened. I was sitting on my bed, with a fluffly comforter wrapped around my bare body, observing one of the last of the men left from the fiasco. He was strutting about the room, half-nude, looking for his boxers. While searching he caught my baby-blue knit sweater in his hand and tossed it carelessly over a chair. Someone else had also thrown my panties over a lamp shade, where they still swayed helplessly. "Excuse me" I said in a small but ardent voice. The man looked up at me with a blank expression. "These are my clothes" I said softly, "please treat them nicely". He appeared rather confused over this and gathered his belongings and left. I was alone now. And very pleased with myself. Lovingly I picked the sweater from off the ground and hugged it. I smiled and looked out the window, repeating softly to myself; "These are my clothes... mine." I never saw another one of those boys again, and I recovered a dignity about myself I never had. My time had come, I was awake now, and loving every minute of it. Of course I had thought of leaving Patrick but I chose not to. He would be able to stay married to a wonderful woman. A woman named, Dolores. Tweet
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