She:
Selects fresh hand towel. Folds it in half and lays it beside the sink. Removes toiletries from suitcase, arranging them on the towel by function: nails here, eyes over here, lotions in this place, medicines in that. Rearranges by time of day and order of use. Rearranges with taller items in back, shorter in front. Rearranges by function within time of day. Clears off towel, moves it to the opposite side of the sink; rearranges toiletries on towel. Satisfied, goes to hang up clothes and arrange lingerie neatly in drawers. Places empty suitcase in closet behind shoes.
He:
Drops suitcase on chair. Removes Dopp kit (that’s sponge bag for those of you East of the pond) from suitcase, places beside sink. Thinks deeply about settling in for the length of the stay: finally commits to unzipping kit. Satisfied, turns on ESPN; plans to hang shirt near the shower in the morning in case there are any really bad wrinkles.
— Frenulum (based on a few recent observations)
She came in to my office, stood in front of my desk, handed me a note, and waited.
“Mrs. Hawthorne says that you are in violation of the dress code,” I said.
“Yes, sir.”
I stood and walked around my desk. I gave her a careful look. “Your heels are high enough: I don’t need to get the ruler out. It’s clear at a glance that your kilt is short enough. That’s a standard uniform blouse. Everything is clean. Your hair is done properly.”
“Yes, sir,” she said, not quite suppressing a mischievous smile.
Then it hit me. Some of the girls, skittish about the brevity of their uniform kilts, had recently tried adding an illegal pair of bike shorts underneath. “Lift your kilt, please,” I instructed.
Her smile got even more saucy. She grabbed the hem and raised it high, revealing nothing beneath it but bare schoolgirl pussy.
It took me a moment to react, as I gazed at that beautiful flower. “What— How— Why are you not wearing panties, Miss?” I demanded.
She held her skirt high as she raised one foot to plant it on the seat of a chair; her glistening labia parted with a juicy squick. She reached down with a finger and began slowly to circle her clit. “I know I’m only a Junior,” she said in sultry tones. “But I thought being this naughty might convince you to give me a Senior girl’s punishment.”
— Frenulum
Last night found me, traveling for business, in a little Midwestern (USA) town — flyover country, to the coasties. It was my first visit, but I had heard of it from time to time over the years from a friend who grew up here: a sleepy, four-stoplight town that woke up only a few days a year for its annual flower festival.
What I found instead, venturing out for dinner, was a vibrant, active, youthful place teeming with energy. Every restaurant was packed, music spilled from every door, the sidewalks were busy and full of “Where to next?” excitement.
On a Wednesday night. The desk clerk at the hotel said things really pick up on the weekends.
It reminded me of a long-ago warning that was given to a girl I was seeing, by one of her friends. “Careful,” she advised, “It’s the quiet ones you have to watch out for.”
From the road,
— Frenulum
