She cupped one breast in her hand, squeezing it firmly, then tugging mercilessly at the tip. She lifted it up to her mouth, quickly sucking on her own teat, before licking her lips. She then pressed her tits together, pushing them forward and upward, before releasing them, in an almost childish fashion, enjoying the way they bounced and jiggled and rippled.
Annie loosened the cord that tightened the waist of her pyjama shorts, then tugged them down past her wide, shapely hips. Once they had overcome that obstacle, the shorts fell to the floor, billowing softly in the air-conditioned environment of her bedroom. She stepped out of them, the thick, deep carpet cushioning and stroking the soles of her feet.
She stood there in front of the mirror, preening and admiring herself. She even did a little twirl, spinning around slowly, then slapping her hands down on her rump, grabbing big handfuls of her large, obscene buttocks.
You could see where Kim got her figure from. She was still young, not yet twenty, and she was leaner and a little more athletic looking than her mother. But she had inherited from her an essentially perfect hourglass figure. The large breasts, the curvy hips, the bubble butt. Annie was a tad shorter and heavier, but it was hard to argue that the weight hadn’t settled in all the right places. She had truly matured into her body.
Kim’s hair was more a strawberry blonde, rather than the deep red of her mom, but their colouring was very similar. They had the same eyes, a mesmerising, ocean blue. Similar lips, full and luscious. The sprinkling of freckles on their face. Kim may have been, in quite the most profound and disturbing way imaginable, her father’s child; but looks-wise, she owed it all to her mother.
For a moment or two, Annie considered sitting down on the bed, spreading her legs wide, and masturbating. This was another of her little rituals. Staring into that mirror and watching her play with herself. Her hand would be a blur, as she rubbed her clit maniacally, or fingered her twat without mercy. Sometimes she would roll around on the mattress, spending hours, glorying in the sensual pleasures of her body.
Very early on in the first flush of her relationship with Ray, long before the surprise pregnancy that led to their marriage, they would enjoy leisurely post-coital conversations, talking about this and that, the sublime and the ridiculous. In one of those little chats, she had asked him what would he do if he found himself transported into the body of a woman.
“Whose body?” He queried.
“Does it matter?” She replied.
“Absolutely. Are we talking about your body, for instance?” He said, with a raised eyebrow.
“Okay, let’s say it was my body.”
“Well, that’s easy. I wouldn’t set foot outside of my bedroom. I’d be just jerking – or jilling – myself off until the end of time.”
“You get to play with my body already.”
“That’s a good point.” He had said, pulling her up on top of him, and grabbing a firm hold of the cheeks of her ass. “But not as much I’d like.”
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