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.