Note: This story was dynamically reformatted for online reading convenience.
 
 The Breeze by Silkinn

   You know the sort of day.  When it's so hot, that even the trees seem
too tired to breathe.  When the sun is so glaringly painful, that your eyes
burn when you lift them up from your feet as you slouch listlessly along.
When the road seems to melt, and you can feel every single pebble through
the soles of your sneakers.

   That's how hot it was.

   I licked my dry lips with the tip of my tongue as I lay on my back on
the porch, willing a breeze to float down from the mountains.  A butterfly
floated through my field of vision, impossibly cheerful and unconcerned by
the heat, its dark purple wings fluttering as it dipped and soared on
invisible fairy currents.

   I could feel the perspiration pooling between my shoulder blades as they
pressed against the old creaky floorboards, and I shifted uncomfortably,
wiggling my bum irritably.  My sun dress was soaked through, as if I had
stood out in the garden in the middle of a torential downpour.  Even my
hair lay flat and lifeless, pasted against my forehead and neck, as if in
mute sympathy with me.

   I tried breathing as shallowly as possible, trying to conserve energy,
willing my internal engine to cool, until finally, my eyelids fluttered
closed and I slipped into a fitful sleep, my hands falling to lie at my
sides, fingers open...........

   A hand.

   It lightly gripped my left ankle, the thumb and forefinger easily
meeting.  It felt smooth, the fingers seemed well-formed, strong.

   Sliding, slippery-sliding, up my left leg.  It had reached my shin.  It
stopped, as if examining the faint scar, the only evidence from a childhood
fall from an old willow tree that I should never have been climbing in the
first place.

   It moved again.

   Now it had reached my knee.  It seemed to slow its progress, as if
pausing for breath, then finally, it again inched its way higher, moving
excruciatingly slowly up my thigh.  I felt the movement of cloth against my
skin and realised the hand was moving the hem of my dress up with it as it
inched higher.

   The dress slid higher, and I wondered if the hand could feel how damp
the material was.  I could feel that my thighs were exposed, no, not just
my thighs...the hand was creeping higher, pushing and bunching the dress
before it, sliding it across my burning skin.

   Again, it paused, then again slowly moved, briefly crossing the silky
panties before reaching my hip.  It seemed to caress the skin there, and I
felt a thumb, slowly rubbing in a circular motion.

   Then, it changed direction, and moved horizontally, barely touching my
tummy, and I felt it skim the fine downy hair as it passed, on its way to
my other hip, where the thumb again gently rubbed.

   Then back again, to my belly button, and now a finger slowly explored,
circling around and around.

   A button unfastened, then another, as the hand made its way up my body,
and I felt my dress peel off my body, like the skin from a juicy peach.

   Now I felt fingers, slowly moving towards my left breast, sliding
effortlessly across my wet skin.  They paused at the lower swell, then the
hand slid sideways up...and across my nipple, before returning to circle
it, much the same as it had done with my belly button ages ago.

   I felt a palm, pressing gently against my nipple as it rose up to meet
it, then the thumb again, joined by a finger as it gently stroked and
pulled, and circled, and stroked, and pulled.

   The hand slid across to my right breast, cupping it easily, catching
that nipple between thumb and forefinger as it squeezed almost painfully,
before releasing and again resuming the gentle attention it had lavished on
my left nipple.

   Then, the hand slid down, over my belly button, across the faint swell
of my belly, down.

   Further down.

   Until I felt the tips of the fingers briefly touch the elastic of my
panties.

   The hand crept lower, trailing fire across my skin as I felt it pass
through the soft hair.  A finger, one I hadn't felt before, slid even
lower, easily parted the lips and briefly touched the hard little point
before dipping into the wet, slippery folds below.  Then it drew back,
again across the little bump, before reaching forward once more, this time
sliding further in.

   Another finger slipped down surreptitiously to join it, and they both
gently parted the folds, soaking themselves in the wetness now, before
rising up and stroking, pinching, rubbing.

   Again and again the pattern repeated, and I felt my hips rising off the
floorboards, my thighs straining to open wider, my breath catching in my
throat, as the fire raged into an inferno, streaking up through my belly,
circling my aching nipples with its touch, gripping my throat until I
couldn't breathe.  And still the fire roared until finally...

   I felt the breeze then finally, soft against my cheek, and I wept with
joy.
   Comments, criticisms etcetera, to silkinn@chickmail.com