Lolita of the 21st Century

She lets me look from the doorway of the living room as she unbuttons and removes her blouse, exposing the cream color of the skin beneath it.  The swell of her diminutive breasts is accentuated by the lacy demi-bra’s push.  A hint of hard coral-colored nipples is visible.  The hairs of my body lift to attention.  Gooseflesh rises in ripples.  I can feel the crimson flush of heat spreading, moist and earthy, coalescing between my thighs.  

She unsnaps her jeans, pulls down on the zipper and tugs them to her knees in a shimmy motion. Then, with opposite foot to each knee, she marches them down her calves, eventually kicking them across the room in my direction.  They land at my feet.  Her panties, delicate with tiny pink flowers, cling softly to her trim, boy hips.  She reaches around her back without looking at what she’s doing, as if she’d been performing this trick forever and not just for a couple of  years, and unclips the bra.  It falls to the floor.  She peels out of her panties, flowers fall.  She flops backward onto the couch openly naked and crosses her legs in perhaps some unconscious reticence. Her caramel-colored hair falls loose, molding to the curve of her shoulders and breasts.  

I could count the moles that interrupt the milky smoothness of her skin, if I were inclined.  There are nine.  Two above her left breast, just below the skeletal-key shape of her clavicle and seven in an explosive splatter from breastbone to navel.  I cannot take my eyes from her body.  Pure joy in my adoration of its loveliness.  

The intensity with which her stare shouts back at me to look at her face, to see her, to see what she wants of me is almost palpable.  I will myself not to abandon my eyes to hers.  Unimpeded, she gets up from the couch.  Her movements bring her to stand right in front of me, slender, beautiful, foreboding.  Her ripening sexuality at odds with her virginal innocence in my eyes.  My heart quickens.  

She holds out her hands for me to take them, for me to take her, an almost pleading gesture, as if I would be doing her a great service.

I’m sorry.  I…I…can’t.”  I stammer, feeling antiquated, old fashioned or maybe just old.  The intensity of my want could only be restrained because of that feeling.  Oh, how I did want to pleasure myself with her. I could imagine the taste when tongue broke through the boundary of those bountiful lips, the suckled sweetness of those ripening breasts, the succulent juice of her genitalia mixed with the iron taste of skin rode raw.  I wanted to be the first to conquer this new territory.  I could feel my manhood stir and rage, being denied once roused.

Her hand flew up and struck my right cheek with the ferocity of shame, desire, youthful will, and of course the searing pain of rejection.

She awkwardly pushes me aside, sobbing, and runs from the room and up the stairs.  Within seconds, I hear the slam of her door.