by Louis B. Shalako
c2010
All Rights Reserved
Schwartzie sat on the end of the bed to dress, feeling the warmth and moisture of the shower evaporating. This brought a delicious little shiver. First it was the panties, all frilly and white, with lace around the legs and waistband.
Next, the stockings, then the garter belt, both in black lace, and then; standing, the uplift bra with the top halves cutaway to reveal the state-of-the-art, top-of-the-line, cutting edge implants. Perfumed and powdered, moisturized and defoliated, Schwartzie’s golden skin, maintained by periodic visits to the tanning salon, glowed with a lustrous self-indulgence. Her body was a high-maintenance, high performance machine.
You could cut glass with those nipples.
Then it was the black leather skirt, and the tube top, and the little vest with cowhide-style colours in brown, black and white. Once things warmed up, whether it was Les or any other male; it could be removed when tactical requirements dictated, to expose the lovely shoulder blades, the smooth, creamy shoulders, the cleavage where the skirt revealed the top of a pink rose tattooed on her right cheek, just below the dimples caused by slender hips, pert buttocks and proper stretching exercises.
Vests were useful, to remove at the proper time, or better yet to unbutton it and make him stretch and peek.
It would reveal nipples straining and pushing at the thin, sheer printed fabric of the skimpy little top.
Schwartzie looked forward to seeing the look on Les’s face, not that it would do him much good.
Schwartzie was going to tease the hell out of old Les. That much revenge would seem to be in order. It seemed due after the last few months of his persistent, lecherous, drooling advances.
Then it was the cowboy boots. And the hat, a cute little white Stetson, with a black leather band. The only trouble with the hat was that it ruled out the flower in the hair over the ear. But if Les was looking for trouble, Schwartzie intended to make him sweat, make him pay. Tease the living shit out of him, and then slap him in the face. If necessary. Just not ready for a relationship…yet. And definitely not with Les.
Schwartzie tried not to think of how stupid it was. How stupid it was, to allow Les Purvis to bully, con, browbeat, and finally persuade; that a night out wouldn’t hurt once in a while; that they were just good friends and he understood that. But Les was up to no good. That much was obvious. And country-western dancing! Yeesh! Schwartzie was so bored, with this town; its small, peasant-minded folk, how bitter that word seemed on the tongue; even though the words were quickly bitten back. She was bored of life itself.
The thought of asking for another transfer occupied her mind, but it would have to wait for at least another six months or it would seem ‘ungrateful.’
“Two and a half years in this place,” moaned Schwartzie. “It’s so hard to believe!”
The full-length pair of mirrors on the hall sliding closet doors revealed that the little mink still looked good, the coat as well as Schwartzie, ‘Yours truly,’ as the saying went.
Schwartzie kept a journal. What, oh what, would pen inscribe in there tonight? What scurrilous observations? What delectable tid-bits of manners, of talk. What personal secrets would be revealed? His life story?
Oh, God.
Would Les pick his nose and talk about football? Drink himself into a stupor? Was Schwartzie no more than a designated driver? It was difficult to believe that Les would honestly try to transform himself into a different person, or that he would be able to achieve his full adult maturity overnight.
