Creamo

The young lady checking us in wore a sheer polyester blouse over a lace camisole, strapless, so that it cut into what little chest flesh she had. I couldn’t stop staring at the soft ditch where the sheer top folded into the constricting elastic boob tube line, her squished, braless nipples jutting out further than they would in a well-fitted outfit. And one long, lone black hair from her head, escaped from the tight bun, coiled up on her shoulder.

How uncomfortable she must be, I thought.

How beautiful that is.

I murmured polite mmm hmms as she rattled off a list of resort features, but my mind’s eye leaned in, brushed off the hair, and unbuttoned the warm polyester blouse, wet with her humid day’s work where the four underarm seams joined each other. In both hands I scrunched the fabric to my face and inhaled her sweet and sour scent. My fingertips traced her collarbone, down her sternum, hooked the camisole elastic and slowly pulled the lace top the remaining three centimetres down the curve of her breasts. The tight elastic dragged each brown nipple down on the way; they pinged back up to erect attention after clearing the habedashery limbo line.

Excuse me m’aam?

Mmm? Sorry, the heat is getting to me. Yes, that sounds lovely, thank you.