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Friday night

Satin on skin

Samantha was finding it difficult to disentangle her own thoughts and feelings.

She was acutely aware of her own image in the bathroom mirror and, there, reflected back, was a lean, attractive woman in her late thirties with long, dark hair falling, limp and heavy with moisture, past her shoulders. Aside from that, it was the nudity of the woman that continued to draw Sam's glance, her gaze sliding over the gentle curves of naturally tanned skin made rosy from the past twenty-five minutes of vicious scrubbing, shaving and washing under a steaming shower. Idly, her fingers slid over the damp skin of her taut belly and the woman in the mirror did the same, smiling back.

She was also distinctly conscious of her own tension – sexual tension – that innate and instinctive response that builds in the body causing the skin to quiver with the slightest touch or friction, the breath to catch, breasts heave and the hips to flex forward. Despite the initial chill after having exited the shower, she could feel a mist of anticipatory perspiration under her hair on the back of her neck and between her shoulders. There was also a conspicuous warmth radiating from further down which continually made her knees come tightly together wanting, both, to lock it out and encourage it.

She already knew that this would be a special night and due plans for it had been made. Sam bent over, turning on the hair drier and her hair, in a cascade of reddish reflections under the bathroom lights, descended toward the floor. She began to gently run her fingers through it, beginning at the back and teasing out the dampness under the blast of heat from the drier. As she did, she ran over the list of self-imposed preparations that, hopefully, would make this a particularly memorable, Friday night.

On the previous weekend, the apartment had been thoroughly washed and vacuumed. The large cushions, piled haphazardly here and there and which gave her apartment the look and feel of some Arab sheik's tent, were singly or in groups carted to the balcony and beaten mercilessly. An extra round of laundry had been performed on Sunday afternoon to ensure that fresh bed and bath linens were available. Immediately, on returning from work where she had, to the amusement of her colleagues, been comically distracted and flustered all day, Sam, stripped down from her business suit to bra and panties, had changed the bed. Then, 'just to try it out', she had slipped between the sheets where, enclosed in heavy, cotton linen, she became conscious of the musky perfume of her own body and, with her eyes closed, her manicured nails had closed fitfully against the covers and her body flexed as she imagined the evening's culmination.

With her hair done and trailing in a waving mane down her back, Sam began her makeup. She found that she was not cooperating with herself; when she needed to look up, her eyes continued to look down, studying the throat, breasts and hips of her reflected self and she continued to shift uncomfortably, her thighs warring against each other. Carefully applying her mascara, she noticed a slight, nervous tremour in her hand. Her breathing was rapid and shallow.

Her dress for the evening, a satin, burgundy masterpiece of subtlety, was laid out across the foot of the bed waiting for her. The dress had been purchased months before in anticipation of this evening which, she knew, would inevitably come and that she desired so much. It fell to just above her knees – a comfortable length – in delightful folds of shimmering fabric. Over the top of the hips and through the midriff, it was corsetted and then evidenced the bust by being a little more voluminous across the chest. The back was low to the hooks of the corsette but it covered the shoulders, although leaving the arms bare.

The issue with which Samantha was having difficulty was what to wear under it. Mentally, she ran through her wardrobe, discarding and then reconsidering various items. With her body preparations completed and a final glance in the mirror, ever conscious of the waning time, she quickly reordered the toiletries, wiped down the counter and then raced gracefully, her skin emanating a delicate musk, to the bedroom. On the bedside table, her phone jangled softly. Still naked and enjoying the feel of her own, unencumbered body, she picked it up and peered at the screen.

'leaving now. 20 mins. C u soon :)'

Flustered, she dropped the device on the carefully remade bed and opened the chest of drawers where she was confronted with the dubious organisation of her under-things. Growing more desperate for a decision with each passing second and despairing of finding the right combination, she pawed quickly through one drawer and then slapped it shut. A second was thrust open, nearly coming free of its runners, and she began to explore some lesser used items. Finally, Sam lit on a satisfying solution. The panties scarcely merited the term since they were little more than thin bands of black lace bought on a whim at Victoria's Secret while shopping with her girlfriend, Tanya. Reasoning that the dress was support enough, she chose a black, silk camisole on long, whisper thin straps that was just the right cut to nestle under the dress. Its ebony smoothness as it slid over her shoulders was welcome and refreshingly cool against her skin which, with the arrival of the message, seemed only to burn hotter to the touch than before and she could feel a dampening desire where, so early in the evening, she wished there was none. Samantha had just concluded fixing the dress into place when there was a knock, softly, at the door.

“That's not possible,” she said, shocked, and her glance flashing to the bedside alarm clock.

She quickly stowed the leftover, unused items in the drawer and slammed it shut. On bare feet, she pattered down the hallway and peered through the peep-hole in the door. She breathed a sigh of relief and unlocked the door, opening it. Tanya was waiting in the hallway.

“I hope I'm not distur.... Oh! La la! Look at you!” Tanya's exclamation was genuine and she broke into an enormous grin.

Tanya, still in her early thirties and single, was a more voluptuous woman compared to Sam. She was about five inches shorter but the bounty of her ample figure meant that, when out together, it was usually Tanya, augmented by her Nordic features, who garnered the appreciative glances and Sam didn't mind. Tanya lived two floors below. She and Sam had met and become friends at the postboxes.

Sam leaned against the door, catching her breath and willing her body to cool but it would not comply.

“I'm expecting someone,” she reported and smiled shyly at Tanya.

Tanya would not let up. She made Sam step into the hall and do a pirouette, complimenting her on how beautiful she was. Sam enjoyed having the gaze of Tanya's clear, blue eyes on her and her cheeks flushed with colour. They hugged and, as they parted, Sam spontaneously gave Tanya a kiss. That touch of skin – Tanya's cheek, the corner of her mouth – to her lips sent Sam's senses reeling with erotic sensations, recalling to her mind the reflected image of earlier; the naked woman with her fingertips tracing slowly across her lower belly. She took Tanya's hand, inviting her in for a glass of wine.

“I can't stay if you are expecting someone,” protested Tanya as the door closed and Sam flounced across the living room to fetch wine and glasses.

In the kitchen, Sam's hands shook and she fumbled continually while attempting to uncork the wine.

“It's just a glass of wine,” informed Sam, scooping up some glasses by their stems from under the bar.

“I suppose,” responded Tanya and flopped, giggling, onto the sofa.

“Besides,” said Sam, emerging, “maybe three would be three times the fun.”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

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