I have a dinner invitation for the weekend. My hostess emailed me directions to her house, from the city to her bedroom, remarking that along the way how would I find her … either wearing panties or not ... as she greeted me at the door. I might have to have a little something to eat first.
She implies that dinner might consist of a single delectable dish served on a bed of cotton and silk, to be eaten with great relish in a leisurely fashion.
I look forward to the meal. Intensely. Given the choice, I think I'd prefer her to put on some panties before coming to the door. I don't know why, but with her I want to prolong the exquisite anticipation of unveiling just that little bit longer that it takes for me to slide my fingers into the elastic and pull the slip of fabric down her smooth thighs.
Sometimes I want a flash; this time I want an unveiling.