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From: taria29b@aol.com (Taria29b)
Subject: REPOST: Art Appreciation Part 2 by Taria #1/2

Please move right along if you are:
(a) Under the age of legal consent for erotica
(b) Under the influence of Dworkin and McKinnon, who think I am just      
perpetuating the oppressive patriarchal social construct, or
(c) Under the impression that "erotica" is just "porn" misspelled.

I personally find this story very arousing, which makes sense, since I
wrote it.  But it has a lot of words and spends some time setting the
scene, and if you want more instant gratification you should try Mike
Hunt, who seems like a good quick cure for what ails you.  The rest of you
are welcome to join me, and read on.

All of Art Appreciation is archived at Luke's Place:
http://dspace.dial.pipex.com/town/avenue/xgs37
__________________________________________________

Art Appreciation: Part Two
by Taria

	It was April, and I was listening to cha-cha music while I
vacuumed.  "Latin Escapade" was the name of the album, a lush
early-sixties George Shearing record that made me want to get out a pair
of Capri pants and moan "ohhhhhh, Robbbbb" as I cleaned.  It was one of my
husband's favorite records, and with a tinge of annoyance I noted that he
could've been here enjoying it with me on this spring Sunday afternoon, if
he hadn't been at work.  Again.  Somewhere in March his latest Big
Important Project had apparently become The Big Important Project, and I
had barely seen him in weeks.

	He had promised to make up for that tomorrow night, though.  "A
real night out" was my reward for a month of lonesome dinners, lonely
weekends, and near-total abstinence.  We were going out to a swanky
Manhattan restaurant, the likes of which boring married people like us
rarely saw anymore, not since we were dating.  Better than that--we were
going out with other people, double-dating with Kathy and her latest,
whatever-his-name-was...Ardsdale or Arliss or Aardvark or something.  It
had been months since I had seen Kath or even spoken with her, but we
always got together on her birthday and she had promised some kind of
special announcement this time.  When we were listening to her phone
message a week earlier, we both rolled our eyes.  Was Aardvark "The One"
this time?  Fat chance.

	Vrummmvrummm...as I cha-cha'ed with the Electrolux I thought about
Kathy, excited all over again at the prospect of escaping my apartment,
the Fortress of Solitude.  Kathy!, I grinned, and bounced a little higher
off the floor.  I met Kath eons ago in high school, Sophomore year gym
class.  We were in the locker room, changing for volleyball or something
at some ungodly hour in the morning.  At least, I was changing.  The girl
with the locker across from me, all big hair, makeup, and cracking gum,
was in trouble.  Tight jeans were in back then--an era before "livin'
large" became chic--but hers were way beyond tight and into second-skin
territory.  This may have been attractive to boys, but they were hell to
get out of, and I watched as she wriggled and bounced and hopped, all to
no avail.  I tried, really I did, but I couldn't help myself--I had been
out late the previous night and it was way early, and the spectacle before
me was just too much.  I just laughed and laughed, great big rolling
guffaws, till I had to sit down from laughing so hard.

	I had to give her credit--after glaring at me a little she was
laughing too, and the two of us sat there cracking up until we were all
giggled out.  After we recovered I joined her in her valiant efforts, and
after struggling mightily we were able to get her black studded boots off,
and then--after a lot of pulling and much more laughter--her stonewashed
jeans, and, it turned out, a pair of lacy purple panties that were tugged
partially down her thighs along with the jeans.  As she adjusted herself
and I finished changing we made our introductions.  She was Kathy, from
Staten Island.  She loved Madonna and thought Springsteen was cute, had a
boyfriend named Anthony, and it was really cool to meet me.  

	Anthony was gone practically before gym class ended that first
day, and soon afterwards the big hair and makeup got toned down, and
Springsteen was abandoned for the depth and meaning of David Bowie and
Pink Floyd.  We drank and smoked, shared clothes and once a boyfriend
(once we found that out, he was history), and passed long notes to each
other in boring classes, mostly consisting of Pink Floyd song lyrics.  She
shared with me the pain of her parents' divorce; I shared with her my
fantasy to do a slow striptease to a David Bowie song for my boyfriend
Jack.  Though I lost touch with everyone else right after we graduated I
remained close with Kath, and even though we only saw each other twice a
year these days, we were still tight as ever.

	GRONKKKK...shoot...what did I vacuum up there, a plastic
pen-cover?  I kicked at the off switch and only then heard a faint ring. 
Phone, dammit--I tripped a little on the vacuum cord and banged my knee
against a coffee table corner, hard.  By the time I reached the phone I
was hobbling and cursing, but I managed an almost-human "Hi...yes?"

	"Hey, Baby."  It was my husband.  But he was too quiet, and "Hey,
Baby" was never a good sign.  Uh-oh.

	"Hi, Sweetie.  What's up?  Everything OK?  And why do you sound
like you're calling from India or someplace?  Am I on speaker-phone?  You
know I told you never to do that again, Big Boy."

	He hesitated a minute again, and I felt a sinking feeling in my
stomach even before he spoke.  "See, it's like this...I'm on this plane,
see..."

	PLANE?!

	"Yeah....to Detroit.  I hate this like hell, but the Man says I
gotta go, for a week, and....Baby?  Aaaw, Honey.  C'mon...you know how
this is, and Larry had to ship me out on short notice, and he's really
sorry, and so am I, but..."

	The trip was absolutely necessary, absolutely had to take place
right now, and absolutely drove me up a fucking wall.  I wasn't just mad
but totally enraged, furious with him, his boss, his job, his airline,
with the entire city of Detroit.  For a little while it was miserable, he
guilty and harried, me snappish and accusatory.  His contriteness helped,
but I was still fuming and he knew it.  "Tell you what, love--you go out
with Kathy tomorrow night and have fun anyway--you know you never go out
without me, and sometimes you really want to, admit it."

	Okay, he had me there.  But what, spend a whole night alone with
lovebirds Kathy and Aardvark, abandoned by the man who once upon a time
seduced me with white roses and love poems?  Dammit, I had been a third
wheel before, and I didn't like it, not one bit.  All protests were
fruitless, though.  He was already gone and we both knew he couldn't turn
the plane around, much as we both wished he could.  My husband soothed me
with words of love and guilt, and with fatuous promises of the time we
would spend when he returned--as if he hadn't already blown that by taking
this trip.  I grumped and he apologized, and we both listened to the
crackle of the tenuous phone connection in silence for a little while. 
And then we hung up, and he returned to his work, scattered on the
extended fold-up tray before him.  And I wrapped my arms around my knees
and sat huddled on the floor for a little while, until I remembered there
was still a little Haagen- Dasz left in the freezer door.

	I was still disgruntled when I called Kathy the next day, and I
was in no mood to be trifled with; when she began to try to back out of
our big night, I blew up.  "What do you mean you want to cancel, you
toad?!?  FINALLY I am supposed to get one night, just one fucking night,
and first him, and then you and you can all go to hell and..."  After I
stopped to catch my breath, Kathy explained.  Aarvark wasn't The One after
all; he was just a big loser (surpise!  I never saw THAT one coming), and
they had broken up; how much fun would it be alone without the guys,
anyway; and besides, that swanky restaurant where we were supposed to go
was really expensive for her with her McJob and her McSalary, the food
wasn't that great...and she'd just been there the night before for her
break-up meal with Aardvark.  My world was shattered; she was sorry.  I
was irate; she was hurt.  I apologized, not altogether sincerely; she blew
me a raspberry and said I could kiss her lily-white ass.  Then we both
snickered and eventually we compromised: a dinner alone at my place, she
would bring wine and flowers.

	Well, if I wasn't going out for a big night I was still damn well
going to pretend.  Three hours before Kathy was to come I prepped a fancy
garlic chicken dish I hadn't served in years, with lots of cut vegetables
and aromatic rice, and set the table.  While it was cooking I took a long,
slow, hot, steamy shower, and after I got out and towelled off I dabbed on
just a smidge of my favorite, most expensive perfume.  Screw the sweat
pants, I thought, I'm going all out tonight: I took out the laciest
lingerie I could find in my drawer, a pale purple demi-bra with bikini
panties, and I topped the effect with a rarely-worn garter belt clipped to
thigh-high net stockings.  

	I paused briefly to look in my full-length mirror for a moment,
and was pleased with what I saw, a desirable, sexy, sweet-scented woman
and not a baggy lump in sweats.  I snorted, and psychically tormented my
absent husband with the vision he was missing.  I then drew on a pretty
scoop-necked blouse, more low-cut and daring than my usual, and a short,
tight skirt that hugged my curves to perfection.  Some attention to my
thick dark hair, gold hoop earrings, careful makeup, another little dab of
perfume, and a pair of pumps and I was done.  Smashing, if I thought so
myself, and just in time--  *ding dong*  --because my company had arrived.

	As I pulled the door open Kathy's eyes widened, and I ushered her
in along with her liquor-store shopping bag and teetering parcels of
flora, fauna, and, unexpectedly, dessert.  "You look like a million
bucks," she announced, "and I feel like shit about everything.  Including
the fact that I'm underdressed"  "It's totally OK," I responded, and I
told her that I had been looking forward to this special night with her
for a long time, and that I had a deep need to dress up for someone right
now, so why not her?  Kathy, frankly, looked stunning anyway, even though
she was dressed only in her usual Kathy duds: black flats, her hair in a
ponytail, big gold glasses (those were new, I liked them and I said so),
and a pair of newish blue overalls over a white top.  She looked scrubbed,
natural, just a little tousled, and sweet; overalls always made her seem
more childlike, younger, and in this outfit Kath looked just like the girl
I first met in high school.

	We got dinner out together and smiled and laughed and drank some
of her wine--there were three bottles, "better safe than sorry"--and then
we talked some more, and ate some dinner, and drank some more wine, and
soon we were in the living room, still chattering away, half-filled wine
glasses in hand.  Aardvark was a dipstick, it turned out.  He was whiny,
annoying, possessive, and a lousy lay, which more than anything else was
the reason Kath had gotten rid of him.  "I mean, really," she complained,
"his thing was nothing special, he barely knew what to do with it, and he
kept trying to get me to watch those moooo-vies with him whenever we were
alone."

	"Moooo-vies?" I echoed, drawing out the "moooooooo."  "Like what?"

	"You know," she said.  "Sex ones.  Dirty movies.  Especially
whadayacallem, girl/girl ones...lesbians."  She giggled.  "Dyke-y movies."
 Kathy gestured with her hand, the one holding her glass, and sloshed a
little over the rim.  "What IS it with guys and this lesbian thing,
anyway?" she demanded.  "I mean, Armonk--Arkenoid--what was that you
called him again?"

	"Aardvark," I supplied, helpfully.

	<Slurp>  "Hmmm...Aardvark--he was always going on about girls with
girls, always with the 'did you ever try it in college' thing.  And not
just him--other guys too.  What IS it with them, anyway?" she repeated,
with emphasis.

	I sipped my wine, thoughtfully.  "I think maybe it's curiosity. 
Or insecurity.  Or a little of both.  Everything they have is all hanging
out, or standing up and out when they're excited.  When they feel pleasure
it's obvious, it's all out there, visible.  With women they're less
certain.  How can they actually tell if we are aroused?  If we orgasm?"  I
reddened a little....must be the wine talking, not me.  "I mean , maybe
they are really aroused by seeing a woman aroused, touched by another
woman who knows what she is feeling, who can really share her experience
instead of just fumbling around in unfamiliar territory.  And maybe the
softness of women's bodies together makes a nice contrast to all of that
hardness, that aggressive male penetrating sex.  You know..." I trailed
off, not exactly sure where I was going.

	Kathy looked back at me and pointed her glass at me.  "And MAYBE
they are just imagining what it would be like if THEY were in the middle
of two women.  Maybe watching girls together lets 'em dream of a Guy
Sandwich.  Maybe they just like seeing two times as many naked babes at
once, and they could care less about my arousal or my orgasm!"

	I snorted.  "Well, *I* care, darling, not that I remember arousal
or orgasm too well lately, what with the Better Half loving his fucking
job more than me."  I giggled, a lopsided alcohol-laden kind of sound. 
"Or fucking his loving job more than me, more than he fucks me."  What a
funny word!  "Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck," I babbled, and singsonged, "no fuckin
for me!"  Kathy laughed from where she lay on the floor.  "So what the
hell do you DO?  You must be going out of your mind!  I went without sex
for a month once, after Jim moved out, and it was just unbearable."

	"First of all," I said primly, "not everyone in the world is
afflic--" my tongue stumbled, and I tried again--"afflicted with your
incredibly powerful hormones."  I giggled again.  "And second, I have my
sex book, thank you very much."  I heard a BONK, followed by a soft
"ee-yowtch," and then Kathy's head appeared from behind the coffee table. 
"SEX book?!?  You gotta be kidding.  You were blushing that one time we
snuck a Playgirl into science lab, and you used to go absolutely nuts
about porn and exploitation and objectifying women."

	"That was you, the college feminist, remember?  The hairy hordes
of Dyke House had you convinced that 'erotica' was just a fancy name for
legitimizing violence against women."  Kathy thought a minute and conceded
the point--when she was in college in Ohio the all-girl dorm next door,
Dychman House, was so chock-full of radical feminists and young wymyn that
the nickname "Dyke House" had become sort of inevitable.  Actually, the
dorm's residents--or some of them, anyway--kind of encouraged the term. 
Kathy had spent two memorable semesters under the Dychman House influence
early in her college career, and for months she refused to wear makeup,
high heels, or shave her pits or legs.  It couldn't last, and I think that
the effort to abandon the patriarchal oppression of the Beauty Myth almost
cost her her sanity.

	Karen stood up, wobbling a little, and stuck her glass out at me
again.  "I demand that you show me this degenerate book, you perv.  What
is it--"The Joy of Sex"?  I bet it's really tame, whatever it is. 
"Soft-Core Arousal Techniques for Bored Yuppie People"?  I stuck my tongue
out at her, and she grinned impudently at me.  "Is it 'Sex for One?'"  I
staggered to my feet off the couch, teetering a little myself, and
riposted "nope...but maybe I should get you that as a birthday present now
that Aardvark is history."  I stuck my tongue out again and lurched past
her on my way to the bedroom, squeaking when she pinched my butt as I
swung by.  "NOT nice!" I admonished.  "Keep that up and you see nothing!"

	The two of us made our way unsteadily to the bedroom with our
wine, giggling a little and sort of swaying into each other down the
hallway.  When we got there I asked Kathy to get the lights.  She did, but
accidentally hit the button twice, knocking the lights down to what I
called "romantic lighting" (once, in an unguarded moment, my husband
called it "fuck-me" lighting, claiming that if I could wear "fuck-me"
pumps, why not lights?  I responded that a "light" fucking was much less
fun than a "pumping" one...but in the end he proved me wrong, though it
was sure fun finding out!).  

	On tiptoes I started to rummage around on my high shelf, the junk
shelf where I also kept my secret purchases.  "Where IS that book?" I
muttered, as I tossed various miscellaneous objects and packages over my
shoulder in the hunt.  Finally, toward the bottom of the pile, I found it:
my Andres photography catalogue, still in its original bag and sadly
neglected in the months since I bought it.  I turned around to Kathy on
the bed, where she was bending over the floor a little, rooting about in
the mound of discarded packages I had scattered.  She sat up quickly, and
I plopped down next to her on the edge of the bed, offering her the glossy
book.

	As we slowly turned the pages, looking at images I hadn't seen
since I purchased the catalogue at the Andres show last winter, I found
myself watching Kathy, taking in her reactions to the photos.  Most of the
pairings, the gay men, the old men with young women, even the naked woman
caressing the huge penis of an aroused stallion, provoked little more than
mirth, and--in the case of the horse--a derisive snort.  But when we
reached one called "Head"--a woman in a Pirandello costume perched on a
stool, with a man's head between her parted legs and his tongue grazing
her clitoris--I heard her breath catch.  Her eyes widened a little, and I
saw her cheeks flush.  

	Cautiously, Kathy raised her wine glass to her lips and tilted it
just enough to moisten her top lip, just a little.  She lowered her glass
again, and with her other hand brushed a stray wisp of hair behind her
ear, never removing her eyes from the book spread open on her lap. 
Suddenly I was conscious of her breathing, which was a little faster and
shallower.  As she slowly, almost reluctantly, turned the page, I looked
at her from the side.  Her face was still a little flushed, and with her
free hand she was rubbing the back of her neck.  The movement pulled a
little at her chest, and in the large gap in the overalls I could see the
rounded swell of her breast under the white shirt she wore, rising and
falling slightly with the rhythm of her breaths.

	"Here...let me," I said, and after carefully placing my wine glass
down on the floor I bounced around on the bed until I was kneeling behind
Kathy, my hands lightly massaging her neck and shoulders.  "Mmmmmmm," she
murmured as I rubbed and kneaded the muscles, "that feels soooo good." 
She kept leafing through the Andres book as I massaged over her overall
straps, which I removed to the sides and out of the way, and her shirt. 
Suddenly I felt her back stiffen, her shoulders tighten as she came to a
photo I could identify over her shoulder: "Christiaan & Rose," two slim
blond lovers, their arms entwined, she behind him and facing to the side. 


	Kathy was flushed again, a red blush spreading across her cheeks
and the back of her neck.  I was all flushed too, swept up in the hot
feeling I always got when I saw that picture.  I stopped rubbing, my hands
still resting on Kathy's shoulders, and blinked twice, trying to regain
some measure of composure.  Kathy bent her head back and looked up at me,
smiling at my discomfort.  "Why so quiet all of a sudden?" she said, her
voice a little husky.  I couldn't answer.  My mouth had gone dry and I was
still tingling with the memory of how turned on I had been the first time
I had met Christiaan and Rose, in an art gallery several months ago.

	Kathy lay her wine glass on the floor beside mine, and turned
around halfway on the bed.  "It's the penis she's wearing, isn't it. 
That's what's got you all hot and bothered."  I kneeled there before her,
my hands on my knees, my face flaming and my eyes focused on her knees,
her hands, anywhere but her face.  "Come on, girl...I promise not to make
fun of you.  It turns you on, the girl behind her boyfriend, wearing a
cock, that harness around her waist.  Look at me," she commanded, and for
a moment our eyes met.  "Yes," I whispered in a low voice, almost
inaudibly.  Kathy was looking at me with intensity; "me too," she
murmured.  "So I guess I can figure out why you bought this."  In her
right hand was a crumpled lavender paper bag, which she must have
retrieved from the pile of stuff I had tossed on the floor.  Peeking out
of the opening was the pale tip of a simulated cock, and a narrow black
leather strap.

	I froze, my mouth dropping slightly open and a bright blush
appearing on my cheeks.  Kathy was looking straight at me, her eyes locked
with mine as I kneeled there, embarrassed, mortified, ashamed at her
discovery.  Softly she reached out with her hand and covered mine, which
was resting on my knee, clenching at the hem of my skirt.  She smiled, a
small smile that spread across her mouth.  "Have you ever used it?" she
asked, with the barest trace of wicked prodding in her tone.  I lowered my
eyes and blushed a fiery red.  "Uhmmmm...well...yes..."  She inhaled, a
sharp little gasp.  "With anyone?  With...him?"  "No," I responded, in a
still, small whisper.  "Only..."  Kathy was regarding me with amusement,
her eyes dancing.  "Only by yourself.  Only on yourself."  I nodded. 
"That's right," I said.  Her hand still on mine, Kathy shook the cock free
out of the bag, and held it.  "And it felt good, inside you...didn't it?"
she asked, very softly.  "Felt good when I wore it too," I muttered, a
little defensively.  Kathy brought her face up to mine, close to my own,
and looked deep in my eyes.  "I want to see this," she said to me. 
"Please.  Put it on.  Show me."

	"Kath..." I began, unable to formulate a response to this, the
last thing I expected.  "I'm serious," she said, still holding my hand in
hers.  "Come on, now."  Still holding my hand, she pulled at it until it
was resting against the cock on the bed; she folded both our hands around
the cockshaft until I was encircling it, her hand squeezing mine around
the cock.  Her mouth very close to my ear, Kathy whispered "it's supposed
to be worn.  You're supposed to wear it.  For me...please."  Her words,
her voice caressed me, her scent sweet and heavy with soap and perfume; my
upper arm burned where her breasts rested against me, the denim of the
overall material rough against the sheer material of my blouse.  I was
exquisitely conscious of her physical presence, of the heat she seemed to
give off as she leaned against me.  I had never fully understood the sweet
torment felt by the many men Kathy had attracted over the years.  I had
never felt the seductive power of her sensuality, the irresistable
attraction Kathy exuded.  "All right," I whispered.  "If you want."

	Slowly, awkwardly, I inched my way past Kathy and got off the bed,
standing up in front of her.  Almost in a trance, I tried to take off my
skirt, but it wouldn't push down over my hips.  Helplessly I looked at
Kathy, who smiled and sat straight up until she was close to me, her hair
just brushing the underside of my breasts as she leaned forward.  Her
right hand ran across my waist, over my hip, and around to the back, where
she lay it flat against the small of my back as I stood.  After a moment
she pinched her fingers together and found the zipper, and slowly she
unzipped me.  "Seems to me you need some help getting out of your
bottoms," she said, grinning, "want me to turn on some David Bowie?"  I
smiled back a little nervously, briefly flashing on our high school years
and how we had first met.  With deft fingers she unbuttoned the single
button above the zipper, and then deliberately used both her hands to pull
the skirt down past my hips, exposing the top of my light purple underwear
as she did so--and my garter belt.  "Oooooo," she murmured, running one
finger along the edge of the waistband as her other hand gave a sharp tug
so that the skirt slid down all at once, landing at my feet.

	"Very daring," she said, and I smiled at her as I lifted my blouse
off over my head and shook my hair free.  I stood before her in the
garter-belt and net thigh-highs, a brief pair of purple panties, and a
matching lacy brassiere that left little to the imagination; my breasts
were spilling mostly out of the cups, which barely contained enough of
them to cover the nipples showing through the thin material as dark
patches.  I spread my legs apart a little to balance myself as I stood,
and I felt the warmth between my legs and caught a whiff of my scent as I
moved.  I was aroused, and that was obvious; Kathy, her face at the level
of my exposed belly-button, could not have missed the signs, and the
thought excited me further.

	"Now what?" I asked in a scratchy voice, huskier than before. 
"Well...." she began, but I interrupted.  "I'm not going to stand here
putting on a show for you, honey.  If you want me to do anything else, the
first thing you're gonna do is at least take off your shoes."  Kathy
grinned at me, a challenging smile.  "I can do better than that," she
said, and I watched as she stood up next to me, kicked off her flats, and
unbuttoned her overalls.  After only a few buttons, Kathy yanked down the
denim outfit and pulled her knees up and out of the pants legs, one by
one.  With an evil smile she then pulled her white top up and over her
head, leaving her in bra and panties next to me.

	I had entirely forgotten how big Kathy was.  Years of bulky
sweaters, oversized jackets, and extra-large overalls had obscured her
breasts to the point that I had forgotten what she looked like back in
high school.  Back then her tank tops and t-shirts had attracted the
attention of every male in viewing distance, the aggressively out-thrust
D-plus cups that had also gained her no small measure of envy from many of
the girls in the locker room.  I had never been too jealous; I was fairly
satisfied with my own 34C's (or 36B's--I was fairly sure that my perfect
size was a mythical 35-and-a-half B-plus cup, which I had never found in
any department-store lingerie shop I frequented), and Kathy's descriptions
of occasional backaches and the incredible ticklishness of her breasts did
little to make me dissatisfied with my own gifts.  But standing there,
facing each other in our underwear, I ogled her, my eyes captured by the
heaviness, the sheer heft of her chest, encased as it was in her bra.  She
watched me stare avidly, and her breasts shook a little with her laughter.
 "They always stare right at my boobs," she commented wryly.  "I show
these to anyone with a cock, and right away the rest of me is invisible." 
My eyes traveled upward to her face, and again I saw her amusement, mixed
with fondness as we regarded each other.

	"Are you sure you really want to do this?" I asked, as much to
myself as to Kathy.  "I mean, I've never...I'm not sure...we..."  Kathy
reached out with her hands and softly rested them on the sides of my
belly, just above my hips, and then pulled me closer to her.  Throwing
caution to the wind, I reached my hands out and took her face between
them, caressing her cheek, her jawline.  She held me closer; I felt our
breasts come into contact, the thicker satin of her bra pushing against
the lace of mine, the stitching of the material just tweaking the
erectness of my right nipple.  

	Our faces moved together, mine tilted a little to the side as our
lips brushed.  My lips parted and my tongue snaked out, and then we were
kissing each other, tentatively at first and then deeply.  I tasted the
fruity sweetness of the wine she had drunk, smelled the very faint scent
of garlic from our meal, long since completed.  My tongue traced the
outline of her hard white teeth and then intertwined with hers, not
wrestling as I sometimes did with my husband, but exploring; a soft, warm,
wet caressing, my tongue moving first above and then below hers.  My hands
were holding her head softly, then rubbing down at her neck, then down to
her sides as we kissed.  I felt her hands around my waist; I felt her
questing tongue and lips; I felt a shiver between my hands as they rested
on her sides.

	"I need to get out of the garter belt," I croaked, and Kathy ran
her hands down my waist, along my hips--causing me to tremble a little as
she did so--and down to the snaps that connected the belt to the
stockings.  With a quick flick on each one Kathy loosened them and then
got to her knees before me.  Very gently, she placed both of her hands at
the top of my left stocking, caressing the band at the top where the
stocking met my thigh.  After rubbing around my upper thigh a little, she
began rolling the stocking down, oh so slowly, past my knee, and then down
my calf to my ankle.  I lifted my left leg to help, leaning on her
shoulders so I would not fall.  I looked down at her, me eye dwelling on
her hair and then on her breasts, which I could see clearly from this
vantage point.  I sighed, and then sighed some more as she repeated the
process on my right leg.  Her hands were soft and magical, running up and
down my legs, caressing the hollow behind my knees, tracing the instep of
my foot , the swell of my thighs.

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