Thought Catalog
September 23, 2014

Watching You Get Dressed Again

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What is the issue?

You’re walking around the bedroom, freshly showered with towels wrapped around your body and hair. I’m lying on your bed, observing your every move. You bend over and dig through your drawer and scoop out a pair of panties. You pick my favorite pair—the hot pink ones with the black laces. The towel hits the ground, exposing your petite body. You slip on your underwear one foot at a time, stumbling. I laugh.

“Oh, shush,” you say.

You’re looking through your closet, trying to pick out an outfit to wear. I’m staring at your ass, a slight red outline of my hand still imprinted on it from when we fucked earlier. You can’t decide what to wear, so you reach in and grab a bra. It doesn’t match your panties, but that zebra pattern makes your already perky breasts pop. I get up, hug you from behind, feel up your chest, place my lips on your neck, and begin kissing you.

“OK, OK…I have to get ready, baby,” you giggle.

I slap your ass and go back to lying on the bed. You’re frustrated by your closet’s inability to provide anything worth wearing today, so you start rummaging through your roommate’s selection. After much deliberation you find a blouse that fits your fancy. It’s black and perfectly complements your torso’s curves. It covers most of your ass, except for the bottom portion. Glorious.

“Come here,” I say.

“No, I have to finish getting ready.”

“Come here,” I direct you with my fingers.

You approach me and I firmly place a hand on each butt cheek, then kiss you and bite your lip.

“This is why it always takes me forever to get dressed when I’m with you,” you tell me. “All you want to do is touch.”

“Fuck, yeah, I do. You turn me on.”

You struggle to squeeze into your tight blue jeans, scooting them up your legs a few inches at a time. You zip up the fly and fasten the last button. Oh, God, those jeans—the way they hug your thighs, then run snugly all the way to your pussy. It shows off your ass in its full, wondrous splendor. I always stare at it when you’re walking ahead of me.

Your hair has had time to dry off. You remove the towel and toss it on the ground. You lean over to one side and vigorously begin to brush your hair, doing your damnedest to remove all the knots and tangles. You switch off to the other side and repeat the process. You put in some product and your curly hair begins to shine as you brush, brush, brush until it’s sculpted to your liking.

You powder your face. A slight rose color on your cheek contrasts starkly with your pale skin. The eyeliner is skillfully applied around your eyes that are at times green, at times brown, and in the right lighting hazel.

“Sweetie, should I put on red or pink lipstick?”

“Red!”

“You always want red.”

“Then why the fuck do you ask me?”

You smile at me with your red lips. Now it’s the arduous task of choosing which pair of shoes to wear. You know we’re going to be doing a lot of walking, so you skip the high heels. After much thought, you settle for your tried-and-true pair of black slippers.

“Well?” you say to me. “Are you going to get ready? All you’ve done is take a shower and you’re still in your shorts.”

“Give me a second.”

I take off my shorts, grab my pair of jeans from the ground, and put them on. Then I reach into my backpack and put on the first T-shirt I touch. I quickly slip on my socks and shoes. I go to the bathroom, brush my teeth, rub on some deodorant, and run some gel through my hair.

“Alright, mi amor, ready to go.” TC mark