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She didn’t think he was so handsome at first. Rather through knowing him and dating him his good looks developed on her like moss on dry rock. She marveled at his intelligence. He picked up things about her very quickly, almost effortlessly, as though there were certain men who instinctively knew the hidden and well-protected desires of women and molded them to their person with an ease and finesse that presupposed some unique and special quality apart from clumsiness, shyness, or peculiarity. She saw that he wasn’t scared of her as her past boyfriends had been. He didn’t watch his back or protect her like the only pearl in the ocean, and this she found incredibly attractive. He possessed a built-in confidence that said she’d be safe with him, that he wouldn’t hold on too tight when her curiosity perused the other stacks of the masculine library. Not that she was interested in many men at once, but her independence always seemed to be at stake when she had shared herself with past. Straightening up with a look of confidence now, Francine reaches down and grasps the hem of her top and lifts it up revealing her very feminine soft rounded tummy. Her black lace and satin bra and her deep cleavage bounce into view as she pulls the top over her head in a flowing movement. “Mmmm,” I groan, almost under my breath. “You are so lovely Fran. There she is... my wife, the artist’s model,” I announce laughing. “Wearing nothing but her underwear and a smile.” Looking up and down her gorgeous body, I drink in the sight, my gaze roaming over her large breasts. I watch in delight as her nipples begin to harden and clearly show through the lacy material of her bra. Continuing my visual exploration, I take in her navel, its shape and depth, the contours of her tummy, the slight roll of soft flesh at the top of her panties and the blemishes and minor marks of her skin tone. The marks of a real woman, I think, a woman who has experienced a full life and the joys and trauma of.
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