He was frozen in the moment, the back of her neck arching away from him, her long thick curly red hair held to one side by a perfect, perfect hand, her body, her beautiful body in that dress, her ass inches from his straining cock, her breasts jutting out proudly waiting for his hands...
No. No. No. He had to focus, had to remember how he suddenly found himself in this very compromising position with... No. No. No. Think. Think. Think. It had probably only been minutes, not hours. Not days. It only seemed that way.
He had arrived home. Early. On Friday. It was still Friday. Early evening. It was still early evening. Had put down his bags, had called hello. No answer. Bummer of a way to come from a long trip, to an empty house, they must not have gotten his message. And then there she was on the stairs, coming down toward him. He could see her mouth moving in the memory, but he couldn't hear. He could only see. He could only see that dress. Barely there, very black, very leg, very breasts, very. No. No. No. Think. Don't think. Don't go there. Was she home from a date, going on a date? Jealousy. A date, in that dress, underwear doubtful. His... No. Don't go there. Come back. Standing in front of him. Turning. Why? What had she said? Why was he frozen? Why not kiss the neck. Why not? You know why not. It's not right. But look at it. Look at that dress. The dress. She said something about the dress. The zipper. That was it. Hands down, don't touch. Just that. That's it. She wants help with the zipper. But. That can't be right. She's waiting though. Ask. Can't hurt to ask. That's safe. Has it been seconds since she asked, minutes, hours, years wanting to touch, to kiss, to grab to fondle? Ask. Come on. It's safe. It's OK. Say something.
"But the zipper's already up."
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