Only a couple of weeks ago the park was full of short skirts, hot pants, even a few bikini bottoms. But it was too much—a mass of people that overwhelmed the senses. So I prefer it now that autumn is settling in, now that the scattered lunchers, students and idlers are properly framed by wide stretches of grass and brought into focus. But above all I prefer that it is tight jeans on show, so much more suggestive and sexy than the revealing skimpiness of the summer months.
I follow my usual pattern. I amble gently around the edge of the park, and through its central paths, scouting with practised glances for the ideal sight to muse upon. Not always do I find it, but today I am in luck. Everything is perfect: on a blanket she lies on her front, absorbed in a book, nibbling at an apple, in her 20s probably, slim and casual, wearing a hoodie. But it’s her jeans I’m drawn to.
I sit on a nearby bench and place my magazine across my lap—I may need some concealment later. And I look. My eyes gaze on the contours of her bottom, how her jeans wrap them and smooth them, and how the denim wrinkles and creases, breaking up the contours, not revealing all, leaving something to the mind and to discovery. And then I wonder: does she feel where the denim runs tightly across her bottom and where it does not? Does she sense where the denim leaves narrow bands of skin free, as free as if she were wearing knickers only, or maybe not even them?
I picture her naked after her shower, stopping herself as she is about to put her panties on, walking to the mirror instead and refreshing her eyes with the reflected sexiness of her bottom. In her panties she does the same; and then one last time in her jeans. And I can see her when she bought them, craning her neck to view the mirror’s reflection of her bottom, shifting her feet to see from every angle, perhaps even taking a selfie of her bottom to be sure that the jeans are equal to the great task they must fulfil, ready to buy only when she is satisfied how superbly the jeans show off her arse.
What might she feel if she knew what I was thinking? Perhaps she knows that all day long, wherever she goes, her bottom will be the object of stares, the source of stirrings and the inspiration of fantasies. And I imagine this pleasing her.
What would she say if I went up to her now and ran my hands over the denim, tracing the curve of each cheek, prodding at the creases, trying to explore how the curve continues? How would she react if I told her that I wanted to spank her bottom? I imagine the shock on her face—but she doesn’t move, she just gives a tiny nod, takes a final bite from her apple, packs her book away, and follows me to the secluded bench in the copse, drapes herself over my knee, offering her bottom, the denim now stretched tight across the skin, all her curves and contours ready to receive the first hard smack of my hand, and then again and again until she cries for me to stop.
She is marking the place in her book; she tosses the apple core away. I must hurry now. I slide my hand beneath the magazine and start stroking. I picture myself letting her off my lap, but on condition—that she kneels before me, leans forward between my legs, pulls my panties to one side, and licks my wet cunt. And on the point of quietly coming I imagine her denim jeans, damp from her excitement.