New, red bikini

D was going on a cruise, so she bought a new, red bikini. Buying a bikini is the easier part, though; the harder part is feeling entirely good while wearing it. In order to wear a red bikini and feel entirely good while doing so, you are supposed to look like this:D, modeling her new, red bikini for me in a room at the Kew, did not look like that. She looked like this:And from the back, she looked like this:
Real women are sexy as women in pictures are not and cannot be. Women in pictures are not women at all, but pictures. D, walking about in her new red bikini, was a woman not a picture. She looked very, very sexy.

Some of that sexiness can be credited to the bikini - to its clever, minimalist modesty, which hides very little from the eyes, but leaves a lot to the imagination; to the silver mock clasp - branded 'Calvin Klein' - on the front, between the breasts, nudging the mind towards thoughts of unclasping; to the ties
at the neck and in the middle of the back, each begging for a light tug on one loose end of the knot; to the neckward upsweep of the halter, which by flattening and lifting the breasts, makes it seem as if the back were already arching in surrender or abandon;
to the stretch and cling of the cloth - one of those amazing lycra or lycralike elasticated fabrics - over breast, belly, ass; and to the neat, tight pouch covering the cunt-hair, compressing the cunt-lips, clearing a slot between the legs. But a bikini borrows most of its sexiness from the woman it barely covers. Wearing it for me, D felt very sexy, and it showed. Could she feel as sexy wearing it for herself, and for the strange men and women who would see her wearing it?

D walked about the room, while we talked about what it would be like walking about by the pool on the boat, or on the beach in Jamaica; she lounged in a chair, and on the bed, while I played the stranger, eyeing her from my nearby lounger, or from a nearby spot on the sand. Men, and women also, look at her as she walks by; they watch her as she lounges, in her red bikini. What do they see? If they are looking, they see what I see.

And what did I see? I saw a woman for whom, in the confines of the sexual space, I would do and say just about anything, so long as it remained in the sexual space and did not leak outside it. A woman who wanted to be fucked by me as much as I wanted to fuck her; who wanted to fuck me as much as I wanted to be fucked by her. A woman whose cunt, resting squarely on my face, was capable of stopping all thought. But the random men, and women also, at the pool, or on the beach, would not see any of that. They would simply see a woman who looked damn good in a new, red bikini, and who obviously knew that she looked damn good; a woman happy to be looked at because she knew she was worth looking at; a woman worth lusting after. That she was happy to be looked at was clear, because there she was, by the pool, on the beach, with nothing on but that smart new red bikini, completely easy and free in her body. Was she happy to be lusted after - well, that was not so clear. But she looked damn good in her new, red bikini, and as I lusted after, I reckoned that any man who was looking would be lusting after her as well.

We proceeded, over the course of the next couple of hours, to consecrate the new, red bikini. D was bleeding, so that was added to the mix of sweat and seed and spit, of cuntjuice and come, that we used for anointment. I fingered her through the crotch of the bikini, until it was bloody and wet; I hooked the crotch aside and ate her cunt; we fucked, with the briefs pushed out of the way, and then stripped off altogether; I reached into the halter to pinch and twist her nipples, and then untied it and flung it aside. Later, after D had been naked for a while, I wore the bikini - it fitted nicely - and was fucked wearing it. At another time, I pounded D's ass while she was wearing it, and we watched ourselves in the mirror. D watched as I fucked her while I was wearing the bikini, my ass held tight in the cloth as I drove my cock into her. The red bikini came off me, went on her again; or I had one piece, while she had another. I sniffed and sucked at the bloody crotch while fucking her. I tied the halter in place, untied it to suck at her nipples, tied it in place again. By the time we were done, there was hardly a sexual act that could not be linked to D's new red bikini; every time that she put it on, she would be as sexy as when wearing it for me; whenever she wore it, she would feel as sexy as she in fact is.

An alternative account of this activity would interpret it as territorial marking, or taking possession: whenever D wore the bikini, no matter who looked at her, no matter what she did while wearing it, or who she took it off for, she would still be mine. I prefer my reading, in which, thanks to me, she would feel as sexy as she in fact is whenever she wore it. Either way, it was an interesting, and enjoyable, afternoon.