She had tugged the bell chain and was awaiting someone, anyone to invite her in. If she was nervous it was understandable because the Klinemanns were no ordinary family. They were old, rich and very strange. Marrying into them was going to present certain difficulties but she was prepared and determined to succeed. That morning she’d looked at herself in the mirror trying to decide what Ted Klinemann, her fianc?, saw in her. She was a red head with short cropped hair, nice long legs and medium breasts with extra large nipples. Her butt was slightly bigger than she would have liked it to be and on her milky white skin there were thousands of freckles. Her nose was squarish to match her chin and her mouth was a small, delicate petal painted a soft pink on only the top half. As requested, she was clad in her Sunday best red dress. Over the top of this, to keep out the winter chill, she wore a black overcoat. For forty she didn’t look too shabby at all.What, in Ted’s opinion and her own,. We tasted life and love and youth. Sometimes it was too much and we vomited. But when that happened, our friends held our hair back and nursed us back to adventure with laughs and the understanding that they would be next in line. When it was just right, we could close our eyes and devour the exquisite experiences of food or flesh.Our skin. Oh, that was the ultimate goal. Touch. We reached out with our hands to feel the world around us. We touched earth and sky. We touched food and drink. We touched bodies and art. We touched bodies that were art. We lost ourselves in this sense and found paradise.Through him, I return to that paradise. My senses reawaken and I remember.I see his beauty. Smooth skin. Muscled form. Mischievous smile enticing, inviting new games. He sees mine. Softer, fuller, my gaze answering his with the seductive knowledge of where these games can go.I smell him. Fresh and light. Clean. His skin, sun-kissed citrus and lavender mixed with new musk. His breath, coffee.
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