Let me paint a picture for you. I'm five-foot-four, which I adamantly argue is average. I have long, wavy, brown hair with strong hints of red and gold. In the winter when it darkens, I've been told it's "chestnut." My eyes are very green. While I'm average height, I'm above average weight, with curves in all the right places and some of the "wrong" ones! I'm about a size 16, 18 in some stores.
My torso is petite, considerably slimmer than my hips and very short in comparison with my legs, which are quite long. I have smallish hands, fingers, wrists and shoulders, thick thighs, anda rounded, bulbous ass.
My toenails are always painted, usually a bright color. I keep my fingernails painted with clear polish. My legs are shaved, as is my pussy - fully smooth. My breasts are small, just a handful each, well-shaped and fairly high - 38B. I have medium-pink areola and very responsive nipples.
My brows and lashes are black. I wear natural-looking makeup most days, including light lipstick, but I rarely make-up my eyes, though I often curl my lashes. When I remember to, I wear glasses - my favorites are rimless with green-tinted metal in a curvy pattern tucking them behind my ears.
My teeth are almost perfectly straight. My lips are not overly large but full, slightly pouty and naturally pink. My upper lip curves upward, and my nose has an upward tilt. My cheekbones are fairly high. I have a light dusting of freckles across my nose and forehead that you'd only notice from close proximity. My shoulders, however, are noticeably coated in freckles.
Puberty was rough looks-wise. My hair was frizzy, my breasts seemed destined to maintain a triangular shape for life, and my curves were embarrassing. As I grew up, I grew to like my appearance more. I've developed the opinion that a woman of thirty or forty has a beauty about her that a girl of eighteen or twenty has yet to develop. I don't yet look over thirty, according to most, though on days when I'm tired, my age shows more.
I want you to have an image of me, the woman in this story, as I describe the man and our interactions. At the time of this story, he was 19. I am eleven years his senior. Though I rarely saw him fully dressed, I know he usually wore loose jeans with a belt clasped with a hefty, decorative buckle, usually with a buttoned shirt or tee over a "wife beater."
While I have years on him, he has inches on me. He's 6'-6" tall without shoes. His hair is black, wavy and sometimes unruly. He has a soft gotee and mustache surrounding the softest, most delectable mouth I've ever seen on a man. I loved the way his mustache felt when we kissed. His lips are full and pink. His face is long. His eyes are a deep, dark, chocolate brown and turn down at the corners. His lashes are jet black and longer than mine.
He's very slender, almost bony, but still weighs over 200 pounds. His hands are long, his fingers slender, and his feet quite large. He has a trail of hair winding deliciously from his pubic bone up to his chest, where it spreads into a spattering of wiry, black curls. His nipples are small and react quickly to my tongue.
He has narrow hips and a slight ass. His cock, beneath his thick bush of black curls, is thick in girth and long but doesn't look it's size against his tall body. It's a beautiful specimen - veiny with a thick, mushroomed head that makes my mouth water upon seeing it.
And his truck is a red Toyota Tacoma, king cab. I've been in it only two or three times. This short story recalls one of those times.
