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Repeating from back to front, weaving patterns he knew from memory. We'd done this so many times, I knew myself just by feel that this would be the basic version. Two double-rows of rope under my breasts as well as above that wrapped all the way around. In front, the rope would also make a V-shape between my breasts and go back over my shoulders. In back, there would be a simple stem down my spine connecting the parallel lines and a figure-eight weave at the top between my shoulder blades to secure the loose ends.
And he lived less than an hour away in one of the suburbs. When I first met him, he had his basement all set up for meetings.
They were nothing like the ones I was used to going to here. His included mini-seminars with proper techniques and always ended with the couples practicing whatever had been discussed. Since I was partner-less, he worked privately with me on the weekends in non-sexual situations for about six months.
On one knee. I kept looking from him to the box and back again. Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God.
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When I arched to him, he pulled back. Moved to my hips where he stroked each curve and dip, tracing the bones underneath. When I tried to twist away, he returned to my breasts.
Over and over again, we played that game. And the longer it went on, the wetter I became.
I really could use the money, and Chris said he really wanted to go on the trip since it had been a few years since he'd seen his two sisters. He suggested adjusting the time he'd be gone so he could return in time to celebrate the special day with me. As much as it hurt to know I couldn't go with him, I was okay with the compromise. Reluctantly, we parted at the airport after a myriad of kisses when he had to board.
Held the sheet to my breasts, suddenly self-conscious. "Did you have a fling with her daughter, too?" He nodded, his face so stoic. "Oh, my God, Chris. How could she.