These are my clothes (standard:romance, 807 words)
Author: Jon Montego	Added: Jan 07 2007	Views/Reads: 3473/0	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
The pulsating and sometimes sensual scenarios where a woman finds herself in the heap of her clothes.

My name is Dolores, and for a long time, many people knew me by a
different name. It was often a name selected by me, to shine with 
resiliance and sensuality. It was a name that was far different from my 
real name, which was painfully average and told nothing about me. The 
only man that ever knew my real name, was my husband Patrick, who had 
no idea that any other name (or woman) besides Dolores existed. To my 
husband I was the woman he saw cooking in the kitchen, cleaning the 
rooms and every now and then, nude in his bedroom. I suppose that is 
how alot of men see their wives from time to time. Like a gracefuly 
object with no real realistic borders around her. I was aware that 
Patrick was no longer in cue with my challenges or troubles in life 
anymore. He became as distant as the identity I found myself clinging 
to. My age had escaped my beauty, and I had managed to surrender my 
body to the delicate touches of mother nature. A few lines at my hazel 
eyes, and magical whisps of lighter colors in my auburn hair were tale 
tale signs of my maturity. My thick but smooth tan skin tattled on my 
outdoor adventures. It was true that my womanhood had waited silenty to 
bring into fruitation the lovely abundance it was hiding all these 
years. My thighs and breasts were swollen but very firm. And though my 
waist was slim, my navel rose boldy into a gracious lump from past 
impregnation that was tender to look at. So it was, that after a few 
months of staring out the windows of my empty house, I began to long 
for the awakening of my soul. The days began to pass with anticipation 
again as I planned to find a young suitor to share my body's eager 
ambitions. I began to entertain prospects at coffee shops and bars, 
always doing my hunting while Patrick was away at work. My name to 
these sly crooks would always be something like "Felicia, Trisha or 
Samantha". There was something exciting about being a totally different 
woman with a completely different name. The suitor appeared much sooner 
then I had expected and I must admit that I wasted no time in comitting 
my leisure hours with him. He was no more than a boy with twenty years 
my younger. His aggressive hunger for my patronage exhausted my inmost 
organs. I was not bothered at all, and quickly developed a curious 
addiction. It was not long that word had been sent to many of his 
friends and I found myself handeling a rough and anxious looking crowd. 
Men and boys, some I assumed had never seen a real naked woman. But 
they came all the same. All of them zealous to satisfy their enormous 
appetites. What a mess it had been sometimes! There I would be laughing 
softly on my bed. My hair tousled about my face, robed in a white, 
men's dress-shirt while holding my abdomen gently and squeezing my legs 
together. Not a few seconds before I could recover from a strapping 
young boy's violence, I would suddenly be toppled over again and 
plundered furiously. There were many nights Patrick would eye me 
suspiciously as he finished and toss me over the bed. My thighs had 
never felt so raw, and I was rejoicing secretly. 

It was on a humid summer's day when the smell of sweating males still
lingered in my bedroom, that my soul awakened. I was sitting on my bed, 
with a fluffly comforter wrapped around my bare body, observing one of 
the last of the men left from the fiasco. He was strutting about the 
room, half-nude, looking for his boxers. While searching he caught my 
baby-blue knit sweater in his hand and tossed it carelessly over a 
chair. Someone else had also thrown my panties over a lamp shade, where 
they still swayed helplessly. "Excuse me" I said in a small but ardent 
voice. The man looked up at me with a blank expression. "These are my 
clothes" I said softly, "please treat them nicely". He appeared rather 
confused over this and gathered his belongings and left. I was alone 
now. And very pleased with myself. Lovingly I picked the sweater from 
off the ground and hugged it. I smiled and looked out the window, 
repeating softly to myself; "These are my clothes... mine." 

I never saw another one of those boys again, and I recovered a dignity
about myself I never had. My time had come, I was awake now, and loving 
every minute of it. Of course I had thought of leaving Patrick but I 
chose not to. He would be able to stay married to a wonderful woman. A 
woman named, Dolores. 


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