Do I love her?

Every time I pass her in the street my heart forgets the meaning of rhythm. My tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth, my lungs shrivel up because all the moisture in my body is spreading over the surface of my skin.

I stare at her so brazenly, even during the day, it makes the pedestrians around us snigger. How can they not see that her beauty is unrivalled, even in a city of millions? From the flowers in her hair to her ever-obscured eyes and pillowy lips, she’s perfection.

Yes, during the day I stare, but only at night do I approach.

My legs feel unstable as I walk the six steps from the pavement to the entrance of Sleezy’s Peep Show. The door frame is rotting and damp, but I lean against it anyway. A neon sign blinks and flickers just a few feet above me. Girls, Girls, Girls. Its pink glow lends a blushing warmth to my cool, dark skin.

I glance at her, then, feeling coy, I look away. Being this close to her always puts me on edge. If the guy just beyond the beaded curtain knew I was here again, he’d call the police. He said as much last time. If only he knew how much the thrill of potentially being caught added to my excitement.

I wait for four whole minutes before deciding I can’t risk waiting any longer. Listening closely for the clinking of the wooden curtain being drawn, I glance first to the right, then the left. The club up the road has a small queue outside, but the rest of the street is quiet. Good. Now I can give my attention to the painted woman in the doorway.

Three deep breaths and then I’m swept away by her beauty. I inch my mini skirt an inch or two higher. Shiver as I slide my fingers over my thigh, puff out a foggy breath when I touch damp cotton.

I’m so warm. So wet and so warm. Soaking for her, swollen for her, aching for her. My fingertip skims my clitoris and every nerve in my body redirects its focus to that one, tiny area. Two fingers flatten on my clit. I move them in leisurely, lazy circles, pulling and tugging at my soft lips, spreading all of that silky wetness until skin glides effortlessly over skin.

What would she think of me doing this? Using my free hand, I lower my top until my nipples show over the neckline. If she opened her eyes right now what would she say? I catch a nipple between two fingers and squeeze, imagining how she’d sound, how her tongue would snake out to wet her lips. Would she want to suck me? Lick me? The thought goes off like a bomb in my mind and my body follows suit.

Shaking, panting, I stare, starry-eyed, at the woman painted on the door. Yes. I think I do love her.



No. 17 – Masked Grafitti

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