The Gift - Turning Pages

She arrived home, tired and bothered. Although she was settling into her new position, it had been hard, those first weeks. She was aware of the need to constantly think, not only of her professional obligations, but also where she must 'fit' into the organisation. She was tired of doing so much thinking.

"Why can't some one just tell me what to do, for a change. I don't want to think about anything tonight."

She entered the lobby of her apartment building, brushing her thick hair away from her neck and twisting it into a coil down one side of her face. A rich dark brown, the hair was a contrast against her paler skin, but matched her dark brown eyes. She pushed her glasses back onto her nose. Going to the mail boxes, her long, elegant fingers slotted the key into the little door, the number of her apartment on a pressed metal label. She opened the door.

"God, more junk mail," she muttered, "but what's this?"

A small parcel lay on the floor of the mail space, maybe four inches by six inches, flat, perhaps a quarter of an inch thick. It was wrapped in plain brown paper, a neatly printed label with her name spelt out, Miss R ______, the apartment and street address all correct, but the post mark blurred, fuzzy. She could not make out where it was posted from, nor when. The corner of her mouth lifted in a wry smile. Who is sending me something addressed to a Miss, she thought, that's odd.

In her apartment she is quick to lock the door behind her, and quickly feeds little kitty, who chirrups a welcome and laces between her ankles.

"Oh, goodness, silly cat, I'm going to trip over you one of these days," she laughs as the little cat bunts her hand with its head.

The cat now content with its food, she falls into her favourite chair by the window, and carefully opens the plain brown wrapping of the small parcel. She notes that it is precisely folded, and the paper, now that she looks at it closely, appears to be hand made or at least, not standard newsagent stock. There is nothing on the back, no clue as to the sender.

Peeling the brown paper away, she finds underneath another layer of paper. The wrapping really is exquisite, expensive. It must be hand made, cream coloured, gently textured, tied around with a single blue silk ribbon, the bow flattened but not creased.

Underneath the bow, which she teases up so that the loops of the ribbon sit looped and coiled, just as they would be when first tied P(and she imagines long fingers tying the bow, with great care), underneath the bow is the single initial R, beautifully written in dark blue ink, the final loop of the letter curving in a long swaying line, curving into loops as the nib of a pen runs across the paper.

She runs her finger over the ink, and can feel, ever so sensitively, the crease in the paper where the pen has run. She turns the parcel over, but there is nothing on the back, just the crossed squares of the ribbon. What can it be, she thinks, a book? But I've not ordered any books.

She raises the package to her nose, and scents a crisp freshness as if the paper has been near a lemon tree in bright sunlight, and beside that crisp smell, a slight musky tang. She wonders, and rubs her finger along the curve of the ink, puts it to her nose. Yes, the slightly musky scent is from the ink, she can sense the most delicate linger on the tip of her finger.

Curious, she touches the end of her finger to the tiny tip of her tongue, and the scent is also a lingering taste, subtle and elusive, but tantalising.

She crosses her long legs, rubbing one ankle against the soft slide of her stocking and stretching out her toes. She twists in her chair, a long stretch through her tired body. The finger that has touched the ink and the tip of her tongue, slowly moves to a pulse on her throat as if to measure something there. The finger tip is delicate, but she does not sense the slight flush on her neck, not yet. Her thighs clench, a tiny quickening flutter, but it is so subtle, it's beneath the threshold of her senses. But oh, it is there, a slow alchemy moving.

She turns the package over once more and looks at the curl and loop of the blue ribbon. The pulse on her throat cries out for the finger that has moved from that place, oh, you will miss my faster beat, but it is there, quickening. With her own long fingers (and she imagines his long fingers tying the bow with great care) she takes one end of the ribbon between her thumb and her finger and pulls upon it.

With a soft, silken sigh the ribbon unravels, and falls away from the paper. Released from its tied tension, the paper covering opens away from the gift inside (something this luxurious can only be a gift), shadowed openings as the paper relaxes, hinting at the object within.

Her movements are slow now, she is eager to see what is covered but at the same time wants the delight to last. Kitty comes and plays with the ribbon, throwing it high in her paws and catching it, and she laughs.

"Oh kitty, there's something for you, too. But who has sent this to me, so beautifully wrapped?"

She folds back the paper, careful not to tear it or crease it, and takes in her hands a book. A slim, slender book, bound in a rich red leather that is warm and soft to touch.

The leather is all down the spine, and a border all around the front cover. She turns the book over, and the same border is there, maybe three quarters of an inch wide. On the front cover, the same hand has written the same initial, R, again. The book is for her, there can be no mistake. Miss R.

She holds the book in both hands, taking in the workmanship and care that has been given to this small gift, but who can it be from, this beautiful thing? She looks around the room, and all is normal, the low light of the sinking sun casting a warm glow on the wall opposite the window, the dappled shadows of the tree outside slowly moving as the wind catches the leaves.

Kitty is curled on her favourite blanket, one paw stretching out to the blue ribbon still, as if she too wants to delight in her gift a little longer (a ribbon is such a simple delight, for a cat).

She can wait no longer, and opens the cover of the book to the first page.

Read. Be told.

What? Her mind jumps to her thought as she entered the lobby, I don't want to think tonight... What is this book?

She turns the page, her fingers slightly shaking now.

Have you eaten tonight? Eat. Drink.

This must be some kind of a joke, and she turns the page. But cannot. She tries to turn the page, but her finger cannot find the separation of the paper. It's as if the book is solid, just the first two pages turning. She flips back to the first page and the words are the same. She turns the second page once again and, ah me, she sighs, the book knows me.

Eat and drink now. Then you may turn the page.

She puts the book down hard on to the table. Her heart flutters. What the hell? How can those words change? She thinks back to when she last ate, lunchtime, hours ago. She realises she is indeed hungry, thirsty, but how does the book know? Her irrational mind remembers that she didn't want to think tonight, and here is a book telling her what to do. Her rational mind says, it's right, you need to eat, you need to drink. Then you can turn the page...

She picks the book up, and tries again to turn the page. But cannot. Again she sighs, places the book, more gently this time, upon the table, and gets to her feet. She is hungry, she realises, and a glass of wine would be good. The other day she had bought a couple of bottles of wine, a promotional special. Why not? A smooth red, a delicate taste in her mouth, on her tongue. Unconsciously, she lifts her finger to her nose again, and is reminded of that subtle musky scent. The ink. She looks back at the book.

Inside the book, but she doesn't know it yet, the third page is beginning to separate from the second. She is doing what she's been told.

Finding some leftovers from the fridge, she has the makings of a decent meal, provided she cooks up some pasta. So she does. Once the water is bubbling in the pot, she pours herself a glass of the wine, and reads the label. The package the book came in revealed nothing, but the label on the wine bottle paints a whole little picture of a far away place she doesn't know.

There's a little world, right there on the label. And the wine, maybe her taste has been sensitised, my goodness, it's so smooth, so tantalising. Just one sip, and she is feeling so much more relaxed. The long week fades.

As the water boils and the pasta cooks, she has ten minutes to get out of her street clothes, splash some water on her face, and relax, just sit, before she enjoys her meal. After all, the book won't turn the page until she does. And she would be unfaithful if she picked up any other book, not while her new book is patiently waiting.

Going to her bedroom she shimmies out of her tight skirt, peels the stockings down her long legs, drops her knickers in a froth of lace on the floor, leaving them all in a pile for the morning. She reaches for some clips to pull her hair up off her neck, away from her shoulders, out of the way. She piles it up high. She can shake it out later, brush it shiny before she goes to bed. But right now, she wants it up and out of the way.

She quickly undoes the buttons of her blouse, crisp and cream for work, stylish yet demure, and it falls down her long back to join the rest of her clothes on the floor. Reaching behind her back, she unclips her bra, and it too drops.

Holding her full breasts in her hands, taking their weight in her palms after a long day, hot and constrained, she presses them hard in a subconscious massage. Sometimes she would like smaller breasts, palm cupped and weightless, but must do with her full breasts, they are lush and full and she is proud of their shape, really.

She can smell the dinner cooking and her belly is getting first priority now. Her lovely breasts can wait, their heavy weight now free. In the bathroom, she splashes cool water on her face, her chest, quickly between her legs, and then wraps herself in a flowing gown, wrapped around her tall body in a warm caress of cloth. Ah, that's better.

She eats, taking her time and savouring every taste. She has made a meal from good food, and it tastes good. The wine is smooth, and by the end of the meal, her lips dabbed with the side of a serviette to remove the rich juice from the corner of her mouth, she has filled another glass full of wine, and takes it back to her chair by the window. It's dark outside now, so she draws the curtains, leaving a slight gap for a cooling breeze to drift over her skin.

She is in her own warm cocoon now, belly content with a good meal, and a smooth taste of wine on her tongue. She makes herself comfortable in her chair, stretched langourously, her long legs stretched before her.

Her book awaits, and she is intrigued. Now, this time, she can turn to the third page for she has done as she was told. But they were just words on a page, how did the book know? She had a thought. What does the writer of the book know, what will he (for it must be a man, with his long fingers tying delicate bows) tell me to do now?

On the third page was a simple, but sublime, drawing of a pair of lips, slightly opened, the line of teeth behind a soft smile, the darker promise of a tongue, hidden. The mouth looked familiar.

Touch your lips. Are they soft?

Ah goodness, her lips are soft as she touches them. They are moistened from the wine, and the red of that fruity nectar tints the natural colour of her lips. She touches the tip of her finger to the glass of wine, and with her finger wet, wettens the line of her lips. They are truly moist now, and because her whole intellectual focus is on her lips, her mouth, she becomes aware of the fullness of her lips. She licks them, and with a light bite from her top teeth, she bites her bottom lip.

The slight sharpness of pain from her sharp teeth focuses her mind on sensations in her body. There is a dull ache behind her nipples, and she becomes aware of the weight of her breasts. She shifts her body slightly, and her knees drift apart, just an inch or two. She is aware of a tension in her legs. Between her legs, there is another quickening. Her cunt is about to breath.

She wets the tip of her finger with her tongue, and with the moistened tip, she turns the corner of the next page. Her moistness is a reward for the paper, and as she turns the page the corner of the page sticks to her finger, just for a moment. The next page turns, and the paper is ever so slightly curved. The words tell her what to do, and she returns the gift with her wetness, her rich red, kissable lips.

On the next page, there is another exquisite drawing, this time of an erect nipple tipped in pink, and it's the same size as her own nipple, life sized there on the page. It is drawn, and the tightness is brilliantly observed, there has been a steady gaze and a confident eye as her gift giver has drawn this image of the tip of her breast, that corrugated areola, that tight nub of a nipple. Deep in her breasts, inside each one, there is a deep stab of tightness as her nipples rise and tighten.

She is so glad that she stripped away her day clothes and is only draped in a loose gown now, because she knows, even before she reads the words, what they will say.

Pinch and twist your nipples. Both breasts together. Finger and thumb together. Pull on them. Now.

She does.

She drops the book to her lap and she slides her hands inside her gown, squeezing the palms of her hands onto her breasts, rolls the palms of her hands over her tight nipples, and presses them to her chest. She presses her hands over her lush full tits, she loves her tits when they are full and heavy, and the ache goes away with her hands when they press. Her palms feel the hard nubs of her nipples and she grips her own flesh. She drops her head back and her throat is long and stretched, and she takes her full breasts in her hands.

She pulls her palms away, a caress and a pull on the end of her tits, and she takes each nipple between a finger and a thumb, and pinches that throbbed tightness, twists and pulls. She pulls up the ache from deep within her breast and pulls it to the tips of her, and her body throbs, deep and alive. She licks her lips and sighs.

Fuck, book, tell me quick, what next?

The page turns, and the book is in her lap and did she turn the page in her eagerness to be told, or did the page turn in its eagerness to tell?

On the next page, there is a luminous drawing of a single, lush, full breast, the curve of cloth superbly drawn, one full breast drawn, a hand cupped under, an offering from within her gown. For of course, the gown from which the beautiful curved breast is offered, in the drawing there on the page, the gown is her own.

Look down. Imagine.

God, the instructions on the page are so simple, but so rich, so exciting. The woman is becoming heated now, and her imagination runs at the sight of her magnificent tit, the pink nipple tight and hard.

She imagines cradling the head of a man, her fingers running through his hair, his mouth hot and sucking on that breast, his hands cupped under it and taking its full, womanly weight, the weight of her perfect breast, and all that man wants to do is suck as much of that soft flesh into his mouth as he can, the heat of his mouth hot, his tongue tasting and swirling on that long nipple, nipping and biting. Tugging at her long nipples, her tits sucked into his mouth.

Ah God, enough, she says, too much. And with a last playful nip, that man is gone.

She imagines cradling the head of a youth, younger and beautiful, his long blond hair falling and hiding her breast. She is older than him, teaching him the lush fullness of a woman, how to please her, how to be slow. And she looks down at her breast and imagines a long, slender boy's body, broad shoulders and innocence, his head gently cradled in her hands , his gentle mouth suckling her breast, his warm hands around her body, pulling her onto his mouth.

Ah fuck, her nipples tighten and her breasts ache. Her cunt is opening, wetting. Sweet God, her imagination does this to her.

There is a sudden shift, and she imagines it's her own mouth suckling on that breast, taking that nipple into her mouth, the big breast is giving her nourishment. It is her hands cupping under that flesh, squeezing on the full, hot heat of a proud woman's breasts, her milky, full tits, the nipple hard. And oh god, as she sucks, she feels a shudder from the woman upon whom she sucks, and her head is held tight by two strong hands, and oh god, oh bliss, oh sweetness there is a great suck down and a sigh, and sweet milk fills her mouth, sweet honeyed nectar.

She drinks it down and it is oh so sweet, and her own breasts feel full and tight, as if they too could flow milk. Drink it down, that sweet milk, drink it down. Oh fuck, her belly aches, and is full and empty at the same time. The milk is so rich, it fills her, leaves her sated.

Her lips are a dribble, her suck has been so hard and her finger is in her mouth, little fucks into her mouth as her other hand pulls and tugs on a nipple. She shudders, god, she did not expect this. She did not expect being told what to do could be so good. Fuck.

Her fingers scrabble for her book, she must turn the next page, oh yes she wants to be told what is next. She does. Tell me, she sighs.

She turns the page, and there is the full rounded centre of her. Her belly is round and curved, and a pair of hands (long fingers that hold her belly with such gentle care) cover its fullness as if embraced from behind. Between the drawn, interlaced fingers, there is the deep curl of her navel. Her belly is full, and round, and creased, and wonderful.

A pillow, a soft place to rest. Dream.

She looks down at her body, her breasts all flushed and red where she has pinched and pressed, and the heat of those mouths still there, and she looks upon the swell of her belly. She presses the tip of her finger to the whorl of her navel, and pictures herself as a small squalling thing, the thick purple cord to her mother still pulsing with life and gives thanks. Alive. So fucking alive now, with heat and heart and lust. A gift from a stranger, ah my, dreams. My dreams.

In a stillness between pages, she imagines his head on her belly, soft and cradled, a pillow between pages, and she laughs as he says, "R, your tummy is rumbling, I can hear your last meal." She says, yes, the one I was told to eat.

She takes the book in both hands, pulls the gown close about her, and pulls her knees up on to the chair, resting her bum on her heels. She is wet, but she hasn't turned the page, not yet. She is still, quiet within her centre, and deep inside her, there is an empty ache. The play with her mouth and her breasts is wonderful, but it's not enough. Yet she pauses, wondering at the pages of the book. How does the book sense her shifting moods? Her needs? Damn it, her wants?

She turns the page.

There on the next page is another beautiful drawing, it is what she hoped it would be. It's a drawing of her womanly cunt, her lovely spreading lips shown with a wonderful, sensuous softness, so real that she raises the book to her nose to scent herself. Ohh, she sighs, it's just a drawing, there's no scent of me. But wait. She brings the page closer to her nose once more. My God, she thinks, it is me, I can smell me. She takes a deep breath, inhaling her presence, her essence, her wet cunt musk.

Between her legs, her cunt opens and a wetness is warm, deep within her.

The drawing is life size and so real, incredibly detailed, every wet glint of her skin, her folds. She realises she has never gazed at her own sex so closely, and she studies herself. The drawing on the page is vivid, so true, and she touches her finger to one of the drawn lips on the page. Her finger tip feels only paper, for it is only a drawing.