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Jenny walked down the road, her full, perfect breasts jiggling gently under her silk tank-top, her dark, plump nipples pertly distorting the fabric. Other pedestrians remained unaware of this exquisite drama due to the heavy cotton sweater she wore over her shirt, which shielded the exquisite movements of her rotund bubbies from the eyes of the ordinary observer. As she walked, one full, smooth thigh slid against the other, as her round buttocks swayed bewitchingly. Her crinkly black pubes, compressed by her underwear, hugged the voluptuous curves of her labia majora, while bifurcating them rested the rosy and intricate hairless folds of her labia minora. Above her panties rose a faint trail of fine black hairs, reaching towards, but never quite attaining, the thrillingly yonic vertical slit of her tiny navel. These wondrous mysteries were likewise concealed in a pair of baggy corduroys, and attracted nary a glance. As she entered the convenience store, the bell jingled faintly, and Biff, the strapping young clerk, entirely failed to look up from his monster truck magazine. His thick, uncircumcised member remained flaccid, a fact evident to anyone who was to glance (though no one did) at its shape, clearly outlined through his snug bluejeans. Evidence of his capacity for volcanic lust and earthy wit was, for the moment, completely absent from his lean, clean-shaven face. The force of his gaze, the scrutiny of his pale, penetrating gray eyes was turned indifferently to an article on new developments in rustproofing. Jenny found the items she desired -- a Snickers bar and a small coffee -- and brought them to the counter. His peripheral vision alerting him to the necessity of action, Biff deftly slid the magazine onto the cigarette display case behind him, and surveyed her purchase with a practiced eye. "I don't need a bag," Jenny murmured, her voice a warm and husky alto, her breath redolent of the pink moist interior passages of her throat and mouth, her full lips parting slightly as she spoke, to reveal her glistening and agile tongue within. Biff leaned over the register, his strong and nimble fingers flying across the keyboard in skillful motion. "Dollar forty-seven," he growled, his mind consumed with desire to resume the abandoned article. She proffered two ones, and he made change, his callused hand hovering over her delicate one for a moment as he dropped two quarters and three pennies into her sensitive palm. "Thanks," she murmured, as she headed for the door. "Have a good one" he urged her, turning his lean and muscular torso toward the waiting magazine. Brief though it was, this encounter would haunt both of them for the ensuing half-hour, redolent as it was of chances missed, of opportunities squandered. But they would never see each other again. |
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12.07.06: Scarlet Letters -- in case it isn't glaringly obvious -- is currently
on an extended hiatus. The web has changed, we've changed, and
we're trying to figure out how we both fit together now, which isn't a process we want to rush. If you're looking for more current SL-related content, you can
have check out upcoming books from editor Heather Corinna and previous co-editor Hanne Blank, check out Heather's current sexuality sites, or explore sites through the femmerotic network. We hope to be back with you soon, as fresh, challenging and
unexpected as ever.
In the meantime, by all means, enjoy our years of past content,
all of which still remain in the public and subscription areas.
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