Dressed to the nines: sequins and lace and sheer silks. Shoes that cost hundreds, with a heel that I can barely walk in (let alone dance in) but without which the look would be incomplete. Because the point is not function. The point is the form and fit.It's like a hundred other events. Premieres, thousand-a-plate political dinners, grand-re-openings of whatever building has been newly renovated this year. It's like them all, and I'm not even sure what this one is celebrating, only that I have to attend, have to look good on his arm, because that's what my job is.So I'm smiling, taking the hand of that acquaintance, telling him how long it's been, cocking my eyebrow in the way that implies I find him attractive, that I could have been his, if he'd only been as great as my husband is. It's reflexive, born of four years' practice. And it's tedious. But I do it again to the next guy, too. And the next. Because part of the alpha-male dominance game is letting them know what they're. She was glad she had trimmed her bush the night before. She had ash blonde pubic hair that she kept very short. She didn't like to shave it completely. She'd tried that once a few years before, and the itching was unbearable. When it finally grew back, she vowed to never shave it again. Instead, she liked to keep it well trimmed.He spent time kissing both inner thighs, moving upward. "He's teasing me", she thought. He slowly, but surely, kissed his way to her pussy. Now was the moment of truth.She took one last look. She looked down between her breasts, down past her stomach to his dark blond locks. She was so restless with anticipation that she had to close her eyes. She closed them tight and hoped that he would take her beyond any pleasures that she'd ever felt before.Take her, he did. She felt his tongue slowly moving up and down her slit. His tongue strokes were very light. His tongue stroked a little harder. He teased her clit with his tongue. Lightly swirling around it with his.
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