She giggled, a girlish, soft chuckle, and set her own glass down with a barely noticed clink of glass on tile to pour him a second. “Come, let’s g... to the living room. Have a seat on the ottoman.” Her tone, again, brooked no dissent. She left her own wine glass behind in the kitchen as she strode into the living room, standing before him as he sat down on the soft, tufted, forest green fabric of the ottoman. The brief wonderment of his position, directly in front of her nearly naked form,. The pillars seemed to disperse into the darkness as Wesley made his way back toward the rostrum. Wesley hadn’t realized how far down the Leo Avenue he was. It took a long time to reach the rostrum. Too long.It was vaguely luminescent ahead of him, the colors lifting from the surface into the air. Perhaps it had absorbed the daylight and would glow for some minutes after nightfall. He stumbled on toward his goal. Once he reached it, he would stay there and wait for whatever it was that the night. They were the ones my mom had given me several weeks ago for Valentine's Day. Boxers, with little red hearts. I usually wear briefs. My mother had insisted that I model them for her when she gave them to me, so I had gone to my room and changed. Just the hearts to hide my hard-on. Mother was obviously amused but tried to keep a straight face.What she couldn't hide either was the way the rosy nipple of her full breast poked a pretty point in the diaphanous fabric of her nightgown she was wearing. We decided to wait and see if we desired a dessert. We discussed wine and decided on a red local that our waiter announced was a great choice, but I suggested we have a glass of kir first and Margaret readily agreed. We sipped our kir and chatted away about skiing and ourselves and our private lives so far.The conversation seemed to float by itself without any awkward pauses or moments. We skipped dessert but agreed to have a coffee and cognac to finish off the meal. Margaret insisted on paying.
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