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Life's Little Gifts

(A gift at the antique store)
by Daddy X


sensual fictionI had just been relieved from my shift downstairs to glance up the aisle and see two young girls at a jewelry case. There was a smallish brunette in profile, partially hidden so  only the vertical back half of the late teen was visible. My eyes, attuned to fine art as they are, focused on the thin so thin to be nearly transparent, lo-slung white drawstrings that draped over her Canova little tushy. I mumbled aloud to myself and scooted from behind the desk.

Approaching the two, I recognized the companion as a sharp kid who’d been in before, weighing and buying gold and silver objects for her father, a jeweler. They come in on a regular basis to buy, depending on the weight of the piece and spot prices of the precious metals. 

I made sure the one girl knew I remembered her. “You’re the one with the gold,” I spoke  in good cheer, sparking a teenage giggle from both the little charmers. (Dad was off somewhere else). I waited on them though; made sure to be there, high on alert when they wanted to see special and interesting things in the cases, but trying not to be too obvious.

There are those in an insensitive world who would render art down to its basest elements, and although I distain the practice I bit my tongue and helped the two look for objects anyway. Anything to keep them around on a slow day. The younger one, with something less than a pretty face, (Jersey Italian …so-so) but with that perfect bottom, looked a bit overly made up for my taste; ring in the nose, dyed hair and that, but the ultra-sweet-slut-aura… so appealing, so … So redeeming.

Leaning contraposto was an obvious and easy pose for her barely adult and limber torso. Hand on hip, the lithe little tart cantilevered her lower body. So graceful, so clueless, so classical in form. Positions for this young thing morphed smoothly, the unconscious kinetic fluidity of a photographer’s dream. Her breasts, from what I could see looked small, but damn- obscured by that jacket.

Focus, Daddy. 

As she ambulates, the filmy white fabric gliding about her legs brushes the malleable buns above, forming, reforming, shaping, reshaping themselves; providing a ghost of rounded globes reciprocating beneath the gauze, like hemispherical pistons, powering her stride. Just the simple act of shifting weight from one leg to the other flicks the flimsy cotton across her little ass in fresh and ever changing ways, grazing each cheek with its soft and specific gravity, tracing its own delicate aspiration of her skin in a clingy caress.

I stared in wonder, wondering if the lovely could be wearing anything at all under the nearly transparent pantaloons. How smooth it all was. 

 I also wondered if she could be aware of my wonder and wondered if she was acting the tease … I wondered. Worse, I wondered— Is she distracting me while a cohort breaks into a case somewhere else in the store?

She looked as if it could be in her nature, the way she held herself. And I wondered about what was the flavor of the trashy tart aspect of her I didn’t trust (but would like to taste). I watched. I wondered. 

I attended to the lovelies for the better part of an hour, spotting and weighing gold and silver items until they were finished shopping the store and about to pay for their purchases. Sitting in a chair to keep an eye on things and avoid being busted for my embarrassing erection, I cupped my chin in a palm and rested the elbow on the arm of the chair. Keeps the mouth closed. I sat right behind the young girls at the counter, daydreaming some sweet temporal amalgam of myself at twenty with a twaddle today.

As I’m thinking these dastardly thoughts, the other, the somewhat older, the cute and the dimpled tomboyish treasure seeker nudged alongside her flirty friend to softly lean her head on the brunette’s shoulder.

There, right before my astonished and grateful eyes, just 6 feet away, the older girl’s full right hand extended down to settle firmly on the younger girl’s plump left buttock. She glanced back, made eye contact with me and whispered something in the dark hair. She nuzzled deeper into her Sapphic friend’s neck and grinned at me. Then, with sleepy eyes, she opened her lips to mouth the dainty ear while holding the burning stare.

The youngster sucked up the attention as her friend sucked her ear and two sided isosoles triangles of teen flesh formed relief pillows between five slender digits. The hand squeezed twice. A thumb and index finger worked lengthwise into the vertical divide, sliding up and down to dig themselves deeper. The third, fourth and pinky punctuated the surface where I could see them stretching the see-through-thin fabric tight over the fine form of her younger lover’s other cheek, revealing smooth as satin skin and the pink evidence of nothing underneath but girl.

It made my day.

© 2012 Daddy X. All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or part without written permission from the author.

Bio: Daddy X always wanted to be a dirty old man.
He’s survived the 40’s, 50’s, 60’s, 70’s, 80’s, 90’s, and George W. Bush. He maintained good humor throughout Catholic school, a paper route, muskrat trapping, a steel mill, Bucks County, Haight Ashbury, North Beach, Castro Street, the Mendocino Coast, the SF bar business, drug addiction, alcoholism, a stroke, Hep C, cancer, a liver transplant, a year of interferon, a stickup at his ancient art gallery while tied to a desk (not as cool as it sounds), a triple bypass, and George W. Bush. 
Now he’s old, and it’s time to get dirty.
He’s been with Momma X (greatest editor on earth) for fifty years, but she thinks his stuff is too skievy to deal with. They live in northern California with an epileptic 90 lb lop-eared hound (17” wingspan) and two cats. They raise little green girls to medicinal maturity each and every year.


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