Sunday afternoon in Marks and Spencer,
idly fingering lingerie,
my attention suddenly caught
by a tall and pretty redhead.
Seen from behind,
her low-cut, backless, drop-armhole top
draws my eyes.
No annoying bra strap cuts across
the taut muscles of her back,
and as she turns to face me
her unsupported breasts
swing freely back and forth.
So daring, in that top.
From the side, if she leans forward,
you’ll be able to see them,
her bare breasts.
Pretending to browse,
I stalk her to the shoe section.
She pouts,
considers,
then crouches and leans forward
to inspect strappy sandals.
My heart misses a beat.
I can see them perfectly,
her pale breasts,
loose and swinging slightly.
I’m transfixed
by the way they move,
hanging from her chest.
Nipples pink and perky,
surrounded by puffy areolas.
I press my legs together;
tense my thigh muscles;
so aroused I almost come.
Casually,
I raise my phone
as if texting,
but take a picture,
perfectly framing
her exposed tits.
My heart
is beating wildly
as she stands,
turns,
walks past me.
Stops.
Speaks.
“Show me the picture,” she whispers,
“Then I’ll let you see
what’s under my skirt too.”
