There is the softest whisper as a woman crosses her legs when she’s wearing stockings, and

There is the softest whisper as a woman crosses her legs when she’s wearing stockings, and the whisper slips up towards a hushed moan when she’s wearing socks. It’s a sound that I relish, that forces me to do my own adjustments, to fidget all by myself.

Because to get a woman to react, quite like that, is a thrill that’s unlike any other. It’s always the first thing, that first little reaction, that broadcasts her interest. It’s tiny signals, dozens of them coming in in drips and drabs, then a trickle, then a torrent, that let me know exactly what she’s thinking.

A thousand piece puzzle, each one picture side down, each one slowly overturned by the touching of her hair at a particular thing I might say, or the half smile as I sit a little closer. The slight flare of the eyes when I look directly at her, or something as simple as uncrossing and crossing the legs, half way through a sentence. 

A soft whisper, but one that’s got a lot to say.