Lucia

by Rahyne

Oh to touch and be touched. She runs her fingers across the walls, leaving trails behind. Her fingertips are sensitive, almost as much as the warmth between her thighs. She longs to touch everything, to be touched by everything. She delights in the bombardment of the senses. The scent of curry, the feeling of heavy Egyptian silk in her palms, the sound of thousands singing the same song, a Capella. She revels in the taste of fresh honey, eating it with her fingers from the jar, licking each tip clean, before shoving the rest of her finger deep into her mouth, because most of all, she longs for looks of absolute desire, deep stares imagining her warm lips pressed against their own. She always leaves honey or her lips, and with a final dusty stare, she licks it deftly from her mouth. Men stare at her with fear, her teachers falter and trip in her presence, women forget their own names with one look into her eyes. Her essence is overwhelming. She exudes sexuality, but her secret is, she is a virgin. She offers you the sound of the sea, a conk shell to your ear, when she knows you will never see the ocean, never feel the waves and the wash lick your feet and your calves.

She would take delight in tempting certain victims, coyly touching a teachers hand when he explained the tragic hero's flaw, leaving a few buttons undone and her thighs parted, leaving her father rooted to his chair, his eyes rooted to his lovely daughter. Many tortured men, tortured for she chose untouchables, married men, older men, with girls her own age, relatives, wrapped their hands around their sex and pitifully pounded away, always imagining how much softer her own delicate hands must be. Her father pressed his ears against her door at night, listening to her roll over in bed, his cock swollen in his pants, his mind buzzing with passion and guilt.

But although the treacherous girl tortured men with her gaze, she wanted nothing to do with them physically. She was addicted to her own body, her glorious curves, thick thighs, breasts piled high on her chest, hair tickling her nipples as she stood naked, examining her figure with delight. So it made perfect sense for her to crave the same essence, the same softness that she herself possessed. She longed for the warmth of another woman's body, a soft stomach, rich pubic hair, the smell of honey and an undertone of the breeze that drifts from the sea shore. She wanted soft hands, delicate feet, cupid lips. Her thoughts would wander senselessly. She, bound to a chair, legs spread, her phantom lover exploring the unexplored, her tongue causing ecstacy, toes curled tight, nails across skin, hair tangled in hair, curled fingers lost endlessly in warm, slippery passion. She would blush at these thoughts, putting them from her mind, distracting herself by loosening the buttons on her shirt. Her teacher would falter, and she would smile innocently. Her legs trembled.

Her father dated many women. Younger, older, some nearly her own age. She loved to meet the new ones, knowing how unaware they were of her eyes on their seductive outfits meant for her father's eyes. They would talk politely, taking in her gracious compliments, relaxing. She knew they feared her disapproval. If she didn't approve, neither did daddy. One evening, he brought home a young girl, no older than nineteen. Her light brown hair was in a relaxed braid that hung down to the middle of her slight back. She had on a simple, short cut black dress, and black ballet flats. She was petite, in all ways. Her breasts were small and perky, and she delighted in seeing that her father's young darling wasn't wearing a bra. Her nipples were pressed against the thin, spindly fabric of her dress. She looked like a deer in the headlights, frightened yet excited, knowing something is about to hit but reveling in the glorious light. Her father was attractive, and treated his women well. She would often press her ear against her father's bedroom door on such nights, glazed over eyes drifting, hearing the moans and sighs of the girl, obviously being well worked over by her father. She knew that her father was a good lover, either that or every girl he brought home faked their earth-shattering orgasms. She often wondered what it would be like to crawl into bed with him on a lonely evening, allowing him to explore his creation. He was the only man she truly wanted, but her fear that if she went over the line of casually flirtatious, he would turn here away. She knew he watched her. When she bent over, he stared at here thighs and her perfect ass. When she sat reading, he was lost in the tunnel between her two spread legs. She didn't know that while he fucked his lovers, he softly cooed her name, allowing only himself to hear the thick word in his mouth. Lucia...