Disconnected Jottings

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: General Erotica  |  House: Booksiesilk Classic Group

'A penny for your thoughts', my Gran used to say when she saw me gazing distractedly into the distance. If only she knew . . .

Disconnected Jottings

So here I am, sitting on a train musing over the day's conversations. On line I've been chatting about knickers . . . or rather the lack of them. MY lack of them. In the real world I've been discussing education funding and the Independent Schools Standards Regulations with people whom I imagine don't give a second thought to my underwear . . . or lack of it. But do they? Do people wonder what is under my cream denim skirt? I know they like my legs. I see the surreptitious glances when they think I'm not looking.

Across the aisle, a woman is dozing with ear buds in; pink ones. Is she listening to music? Her knees are just a little too far apart. Not enough to be unladylike but just enough to promise . . . I realise that my knees are parted too and I am touching myself; touching myself just enough to feel mellow. Mom used to smile at me knowingly whenever I asked her why she didn't wear underwear. "Remember, I grew up in the seventies" she used to say. I don't ever remember her wearing knickers though she did sometimes wear a bra. I used to love the feel of her body through the long, cotton dresses that were so much a part of her spirit. It was a spirit rooted in Woodstock, though she she got no further than the Isle of Wight. I suppose it was inevitable that I would give up underwear at some point even without a sadistic gym teacher to rebel against. And I've often wondered if the reason I didn't get expelled is that my Head Teacher was sympathetic to the cause.

When I told Lesley during an English Literature lesson that I wasn't wearing Knickers she turned bright red and nearly freaked on me. We'd been sitting next to each other for a term and it was the only subject we shared. We'd started holding hands under the desk the week before. She took off so fast after the lesson that I didn't have time to talk to her about it. Next lesson she could hardly look me in the eye. I felt a great sadness, even more so when she wouldn't hold my hand. It came to my turn to read to the class and I felt a touch on my thigh. By the time Mark Anthony was burying Caesar, Lesley realised I was bare again. "Concentrate, Claudia!" Mr Stockton had never shouted at me before. Lesley giggled and took my hand. . . and soon I knew her secret too.

Gaffa tape? Believe me, Claudia, if you're going to hang from a kite over the water you need gaffa tape. I'd never really thought about it before, but I do remember coming down a chute at the Wild Wadi Water Park and thinking, Oh My GOD; I neeeed better bikini pants! Gaffa tape; Great advice, Stuart, but OUCH! when removing it!

"But you have to wear panties, Cee".
"Emma, you know I don't 'do' panties. And besides, you may live in Colorado but you're British . . . they're knickers".
"But Cee, I want us to swap panties; OK, knickers, at the restaurant so you have to wear some".
"God, Emma, can't we switch bras or something?"
"No! Knickers are more fun!"
"And we're doing this because?"
"I want to see if it can be done"
"OK, on one condition, before we leave we put both pairs into our wine glasses and you don't wear knickers for the rest of the vacation"
"See, I knew you'd let me have my way"

Seven! That's the number of people who bumped into me as I was standing still on the station concourse at Euston; seven! Why? Why is it that people seem incapable of walking past me without expecting me to lean to one side or step out of their way? It's not as if they cop a surreptitious grope as they pass me; they just bump into me. When it's a man I feel like reaching out and grabbing him by the balls and screaming "WHY" at him. A youngish woman walked right towards me today, texting from the device connected to her ears by white wires. As she bounced off me, my fingers grazed between her legs; her face was priceless . . . but she walked into me.

"But Auntie Cee, the ladies with 'bum knickers' in Daddy's film do it". OK . . . so I'm the indulgent aunt who took my niece to Disneyland when she was seven; but pole dancing on the people-mover at the airport?
"Which film is that, Miranda?"
"Blue Brother, I think. Will you buy me some knickers like that? I won't tell Mum"

So, I don't often wear knickers these days. I'm not sure why people get so exercised about it. Yes, I could flash if I felt so inclined, but when was the last time you saw a woman's knickers unless she wanted you to? It just doesn't happen and unless I want someone to know I'm bare under my skirt, they won't. Of course, there are times I may tease someone, but I never know when that my be. Usually it's either a woman who sets my 'gaydar' twitching or it's a mature man whom i think will appreciate a thrill and not take it as an invitation to be crass or crude. I do get a kick out of knowing I'm bare down there when I'm standing chatting to people who are completely unaware. I wonder how they would react if I told them. Occasionally, when I've been in a particularly impish mood, I have told someone.

Lesley giggled. "it's happened again, Cee; I don't have any knickers on now!" We were dancing at the school disco. All teenage hormones and bad music played too loudly over cheap speakers.
"I swear you do it deliberately, despite what you say"
"But Cee . . . You know I like to have something on for you to take off" Deja vu.
"Buttons or press studs this time?"
Giggle . . . "buttons; look on the floor over there"
"So, how many threads did you leave for them to hang by?"
"Cee! Honestly! Don't you believe me that they came off by themselves?"
"Well, Les, all I can say is keep buying your cami-knickers from the same store!"

Henry has the most amazing tongue. Just thinking about that first time makes the muscles of my loins tense and squirm, my mouth water and my nipples scrunch up into tight little peaks. It was an early Autumn walk in the woods. The trees were dressed in fall colours and it was one of those balmy late September days. We stopped to eat lunch leaning back against a tree. I stretched out my bare legs, feeling the last warmth of the sun caress them, letting my head rest back against the trunk, eyes closed.

It wasn't surprise, more resignation as I felt Henry's head in my lap. Ever the optimist! Actually, it was rather nice . . . Comforting. I smiled as I felt his breath against my thigh,, warm and tickling. I knew I shouldn't, but I felt my legs relax, parting slightly as Henry nibbled my inner thigh. My mouth was watering . . . And this is where I should have taken control.

Henry's nose was under the hem of my skirt and I could feel his warmth between my legs, reminding me I was bare down there. I swallowed and opened my eyes; then I opened my legs and gave in. I felt Henry's nose against my folds and then the warm, wet strokes of his tongue. I gasped, trying to push his head back but to no avail. Gosh! Where did he learn to do that? Back and forth along my most intimate places it flicked, places I had never been licked before! I was lost; as Henry barely seemed to take a breath, I could feel my moment coming. The swell broke over me, crashing and roiling around my tummy, catching my breath and jerking my pelvis harder into Henry's magic tongue. Again and again I tumbled over the edge, plummeting in free-fall from the ebb of orgasm into the flow of the next wave.

When I could stand no more, I grasped him by the ears, barely able to gasp 'enough'. Then I saw his erection . . . Panic screamed through my mind and I scrambled to my feet, babbling incoherently, protesting that lesbians don't do this. Henry looked sheepish, knowing he had taken advantage, but utterly self-satisfied too. Flustered now, I scooped-up the remains of our picnic and strode off along the path, Henry following behind like a besotted puppy-dog. I wondered how far up my skirt he could see and whether he could smell my arousal. I stopped and turned to face him. "don't you ever, ever do that again!" I scolded. But Henry just cocked his head to one side and looked at me with doleful brown eyes. This would be so much easier if he spoke English. Back at the car, I kissed Henry on the nose and straightened his collar, then lifted the tailgate . . .

And although I'm a dyed-in-the-wool lesbian, I do enjoy giving blow-jobs . . . but it's not anything to do with sexuality! I know that's hard to understand, perhaps, but I just love the feel, the taste and the process. In a similar way, I find it really hard to resist pork scratchings . . .

Submitted: November 01, 2015

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