Monday, September 05, 2005

Goddess in a Short Skirt

“Hey,” Charles said. “Dig the chick doing the schoolgirl thing.”

He looked, even though he didn’t generally go in for the schoolgirl look. Then he saw her.

“That’s no schoolgirl act,” he said.

“What are you talking about?” Charles smacked his arm. “She’s got the white shirt, the socks, and dude… the skirt. Come on, look at that skirt!”

Oh, he was looking. But she still wasn’t a schoolgirl. She was what the schoolgirl mystique aspired to be. She was what all those skinny girls in fake school uniforms were trying to be when they tried on the look. She was a woman who knew what men wanted, and was prepared to make them earn it. A woman who could wear a short skirt, and not make men think of Catholic girls half their age. She was a dying breed, and she’d come there for him.

She stood behind the sofa, her hands pressing against it, her back to the door. She knew he could see her from where he was. She also knew he wasn’t coming any closer.

But she knew he wanted to.

And she knew just how much her skirt was showing him. She felt his gaze move up her legs, felt them linger on her thighs, drinking in her luscious curves before focusing on that tantalizing glimpse she’d let him have.

She felt his desire from across the other room, felt it through the throng of partygoers and their trivial muted lusts, felt it pulsing in waves of heat that flowed over her body.

She would bring him to her. It was the only way he could have her; the only way any man could have her.

She gave him a better look. Her posture and the view served to issue him an invitation. She knew he wanted her, and she wanted him. With a flick of her skirt, she sent her own desire back to him. It was a thick scent of August nights and close quarters, a damp musk that filled his senses and made him drunk with his need for her. He stared at her, and the vision of perfection she offered him. He wanted her, ached for her, but could not bring himself to go to her. She was a Goddess, a living work of art. A woman like her was surely beyond his mortal grasp.

She could still feel his eyes on her. He was worshipping her: very inch of her, every perfect curve. Others watched her now too. A group of skinny girls in tank tops and miniskirts left quietly. They knew they’d make no conquests here tonight. A drunk approached, reaching a hand out toward her ass. At a single word from her, his hand stopped and his face went pale. The drunk left quickly, and for the rest of his life could only be aroused by the memory of her.

No others approached. Not even the one she wanted. He was running out of time. Her offer would expire soon, and she would leave alone if need be. Only the strongest of men could satisfy her. Only the boldest need try. She thought he might be both, but he was proving to be neither.

She decided to give him an even better look, an even more tantalizing glimpse. She spoke in a breathy whisper that carried across the crowded party to his ears alone.

“What are you waiting for?”

She showed him again. Showed him what he could have, where she wanted to feel him. His desire was a physical presence in the room. It wrapped itself around her and penetrated her. She felt his lust inside her, and she knew he could feel hers, reaching out to him and grabbing hold, daring him to come to her, leading him to her.

But still he stood, unmoving, a forgotten beer getting warm in his trembling hand.

She stood straight, demanding the attention of those few who hadn’t given it. Every eye was on her, tracing the luscious curve of one perfect leg up under the hem of her skirt.

They all worshipped her now, every one of them, waves of lust buffeting her from every corner of the room. But she would have none of them, save him. She spoke again, once more whispering words for him alone.

“Here I am,” she said, her voice a soft purr with a hint of steel. “I am yours for the taking, if you have the will to take me. Take me,” she promised, “and you will feel passion you never dreamed possible.”

And yet he remained still, unmoving. He took a nervous sip of his beer, wishing for the courage he knew he didn’t possess.

And then it was too late. She pulled on her discarded panties and pulled down the hem of her skirt, giving him one last look at the glory that could have been his.

“You had your chance,” she said, this time loud enough for all to hear. She walked away, tossing a casual taunt over her shoulder as she sauntered out of the party.

“I came here seeking a man, but found a house full of boys.”

And then she was gone.

He ran from the house, finally jolted into motion by fear and regret, but she was nowhere to be found. She was gone from his life forever, and would haunt his every sexual encounter until the day he died.


m said...

now that's MY kind of school girl. i LOVE it! your work keeps getting better and better.

purplesimon said...

Yeah, she wasn't there because I'd picked her up!

Oh, woken from my dream again!

Great story Chris. Another pleasurable read. Any autobiographical detail? :)

Got to keep reading the rest. Why are you so prolific? I can't keep up! :)

purplesimon out...

Lena said...

You know what I think about it but again I'll say it .. it's very inspiring. Thanks.

Rae Ann said...

Wow. I'm speechless. lol

Chris said...

Thanks everybody. This one, obviously, was very fun to write. ;)

And Simon, no. Well, maybe a little. There were one or two occasions in my single days where I lacked the courage to talk to women. Though, I don't know that I would have been so shy in the face of somone so insistent.

Lisa said...

damn, that was intense!