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On our way home I couldn’t keep my eyes off of her sitting next to me, the seatbelt splitting her small breasts causing the cotton to press tight against her firm nipples and her shorts riding high exposing the tenderness of her inner thigh. I knew it was wrong but I just couldn’t quit, I was sexually attracted to the little girl I had raised. Although I was probably thinking with the wrong head I felt like she knew what she was doing to me but I had to be sure, I had to find out if I was right. The rest of the day went as normal, after doing her homework she came outside to help me in the yard as she always does. This time was a little different being she was still wearing the shorts that had driven me crazy all day which were doing a great job of distracting me as I worked. Sitting on the steps waiting as put up the rakes I saw the sexiest thing I had seen yet when she returned and stood in front of me with her hands on her hips, the elastic was darkened by her sweat which formed. V that appeals to me is that I don’t know much about her. I know her exteriors, I know her friendly social housewife persona. But that’s a classification she molded herself into and will preserve, right down to the underwear she chooses for herself. I hold them in my hand – white Jockeys, the occasional black or gray. Classic, rounded, reserved shape. Faintly stained. These things aren’t the truth. Why should we always want to know the truth when we can enduringly indulge ourselves in our far more expansive imagination? These cotton delicacies mask the truth, they are the last mask for the truth. That’s why I find them so erotic. They are the last thing that must mold to her, that she must mold to. They are the last persistent blue flame of the imagination. They are the last thing she uses to hide and the last thing I seek to remove – but who doesn’t want games of hide and seek to last longer? Isn’t that the best part? I select an off white pair, distinguishable because of its.
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