Swollen nipples gliding gently against the mink coat. That was Cullen's main memory of Lisa Foxworth. She had opened her full-length mink coat that evening, as they stood near Rockefeller Center in the snow, and revealed that she was wearing only a black thong, a black garterbelt, and black stockings underneath her mink coat. It was not the first time Cullen had been stunned by her sensuality during that whirlwind week in New York, when their chance encounter had led to a passion neither had known before or since.
As Cullen Favver leaned back in his leather chair, and turned to face out the picture window behind his office desk, his mind reeled under the sheer weight of the sensual images. He recalled the way he had recoiled in unexpected pleasure when Lisa had kissed his nipples. He hadn't known that male nipples were that sensitive, but she patiently taught him. Her instruction -- and he thought of it that way -- was the devil's work. Adjusting his tie, and straightening his vest, Cullen recalled the way she had kissed his thighs, her long hair brushing them. He recalled the way she would look up, almost mockingly, as she kissed his erection.
But then, returning to his senses, Cullen sat up in the chair, righted his tie, and turned to his appointment book for the month. The holidays were approaching, and surely he could escape the surly bonds of vocational responsibility for a week or two. Perhaps he would go skiing, relax for a few days, get some fresh air. Fresh powder, roaring fireplaces, wool sweaters, relaxing mountain hot tubs. It all seemed to fill the bill.
Meanwhile, a thousand miles away, it had began snowing during the Pledge of Allegiance. The light, powdery flakes danced through the clear mountain air outside the windows of the little classroom where Lisa Foxworth was teaching the stem christie. She had mastered the Arlberg method years before, while completing her doctorate at Ruprecht-Karls-Universitat, and Lisa still enjoyed spending a week or two after Christmas instructing tourists in skiing. It provided a welcome break from her usual routine of biochemical research, and enabled her to keep her firm, lithe thighs in top condition.
As Lisa gestured to the class, and turned to the blackboard to refer to her drawings of various ski maneuvers, many minds in her mostly male class began to wander. Lisa reminded several students of Bailey Quarters from "WKRP in Cincinnati." She was dressed conservatively, yes, but there was an undercurrent of sensuality -- a caged heat. As Lisa turned and demonstrated various ski positions, more than one of her students began to wonder about their studious, yet athletic, teacher -- her demeanor so utterly professional, yet her body so completely tantalizing in a soft cashmere sweater and casual jeans that hugged the supple curves of her body and were a convincing testament to the toning effects of daily skiing.
Upon first catching sight of her, others were reminded of Candace Bergen. Surely, Lisa had the same clear features and the same flowing hair. And yet there was something else. Lisa had the same direct gaze -- a gaze full of knowing sensuality. It was a gaze that left observers wondering if Lisa was the type of woman who would wear a leather garterbelt under a business suit.
When they saw Lisa flying down the slopes, her hair streaming out behind her, it was easy to discern her total abandon. Then she seemed wholly physical, a flickering flame of pure sensuality, a living embodiment of the theories and techniques she had diagrammed so well. It was but tiny step to imagine her laughing and panting with excitement in a snowbank, and it was this image that spurred even some of the most timid to strap on skis and perch at the top of the most precarious runs at the resort, visions of post-ski interludes with Lisa dancing in front of them.
Knowing her mainly for her expert ski instruction -- and her increasingly rare jokes about Gandhi -- Lisa's students had no way of knowing that Lisa had for years been fascinated by the rich tradition of 17th Century erotic Japanese woodblock prints. She loved Utamaro and his print "Lovers in an Upstairs Room." Utamaro published a book with twelve racy prints. He did shunga, literally "spring pictures," of bijin, the sensuous women who were the subjects of the prints.
On bitterly cold winter mornings, Lisa would arise and shower. As the hot water teased her slender, fit body, Lisa would begin to feel more alert, more ready to face the day. And, being a very healthy person, she would begin to feel the first twinges of daily desire. She believed that sex was inherently an optimistic thing, as her professor years ago in college had taught. Drying herself with a large white towel in front of the full-length mirror in her bathroom, even Lisa could not help but admire her lean, yet tempting figure.
Years ago, as an undergraduate, Lisa had taken "Thong Empowerment 101," a course in which students were taught how to cope with the trials and tribulations of life by means of lingerie therapy. As the course unfolded, Lisa found that there was something uplifting about donning a pretty satin demi-bra. She shivered with delight while putting on stockings and a garterbelt, especially while fastening the stockings to the garterbelt and imagining a handsome guy slowly, slowly kissing the tender, tan flesh at the tops of those stockings.
And, while all of those experiences were positive, Lisa was most cheered by the process of slowly, slowly wriggling into a wispy little thong. The little bits of fabric, designed to tease both the wearer and the viewer, almost seemed to have been designed by a diabolical force. Lisa knew from her boyfriends over the years how much they enjoyed the visual tease of thongs. How they would gaze, their eyes burning, at the thong fabric as it began its journey around her body.
