Flesh VII - The red lingerie

The bright red lingerie sat laying on the bedroom closet's hangar for a long time. Every time he tried coaxing her, she would wiggle out, shyness always an excuse. Only God knows why one feels shy of a gorgeous body. Or perhaps even God doesn't. People back home, a generation back sure did. Or perhaps everybody played along.

This time she agreed. After a hard day's work, he was more impatiently insistent in his mischief than usual. Demanding almost. She acquiesced and a slight tingling went up her as she did that. Shy or not, she always imagined herself in the red lingerie. But shy she was, and loosening a tiny bit the ballast of generations' worth of conditioning didn't come easy. She cooed to him to close his eyes. Once the familiar eyes were not looking, she took to the lingerie with a teenager's gusto. Before she put it on, she held it adoringly for a minute, watching the folds shimmer under the light like waves on water. She played gingerly with the gold-threaded lace work on the bosom and laughed a bit to herself. "Hurry Memsahib ! My patience is only so thick !" "Ok ok ... just a minute." She quickly took off her clothes except for the panty and bra she was wearing and put the lingerie on. She examined herself in the mirror. She almost asked him to open his eyes but stopped. Something didn't seem right. "Hold on a bit more dear ..." The black bra - who wears black with red ?! She rummaged silently in the closet for a red bra. She put it on and re-examined herself. She was satisfied enough for then.

Making her voice as husky as possible she said, "Dearest .... look at your wilddd cat !"

"Dearest ...."

"Dearest !"

She heard his light breathing just then. She stood there listening to his breath for a minute. Then she tenderly kissed her tired lion a sweet little dream.

Flesh VI - The Stripper

The friends they're talking on the phone excitedly, one laughing like Santa, other telling his story embarrassedly, proudly, happily. The story of his visit to a strip joint near LA called Layla. Pretty name. He sounded quite like that euphoric kid who sees the motorcycle gang everyday, with their silver-visored helmets and colourful gear, and somehow knows in his heart how the force of air must feel at ninety mph, how the pulsations of a powerful machine must feel, and yet can not contain the euphoria of a first ride on the open road.

But the gentlest thing I overheard was how that stripper, like a cat in heat, bared her privates to his excited but confused gaze and realizing the utter simplicity of the situation guided his hand so very angelically into her.