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From: taria29c@aol.com (Taria29c)
Subject: RP Ancient Taria: Art Appreciation Part Two (#1/2)
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Over 18 only please

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 curve of my
calves, and the swell of my thighs. 

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