The Affair of the Pudding and the Shirt





"I think we have some chocolate pudding in the fridge." I say to her. "Would you mind getting it? Two spoons." 


"Sure," she says, trying to hide a puzzled look, not upset at me asking, but startled because I don't like to ask people to get me things unless it's absolutely necessary. 


All part of my secret plan. 


She's wearing her favorite shirt, she's had it it as long as I've known her.  It says "Furman University" on the front. She didn't go to Furman, and no one in her family went there. She says that it was her brother's old girlfriend, a Christmas gift or something, but the details have changed a few times, and she acts so furtive about it that I'm positive that it was actually an old boyfriend. 


I don't press it. I suppose it COULD bother me, but why? He's long been history, and she loves the shirt. Besides, she may be wearing the shirt he gave her forever ago, but I'm the one who gets to peak around underneath it. 


This brings us back to the Pudding Trip and the Shirt.  


It's not one of those women's nightshirts, the kind that goes down to the knee, or even longer.  The Furman shirt is regular T-shirt size.  Even better, it was regular T-shirt size whenever she had this boyfriend long ago (or if we're pretending to go by her story, when her brother had that girlfriend).  Don't get me wrong, I'm not saying she doesn't have her same 21 year old figure...but repeated washings, etc.....


The shirt BARELY covers the essentials, and even that boggles my mind at times, seemingly defying the Laws of Physics. 


Needless to say, it's my favorite shirt to watch her in. I've made a few comments as such, but really, she has NO IDEA how much I love seeing her walk around in that shirt. 


It seems silly, when I have plenty of opportunities to see her naked, but there's something so sexy about watching her in that shirt, walking around, my eyes GLUED to the hemline, way too excited to see even a glimpse of panties.  Call it my inner 12 year old boy making an appearance. Something about the forbidden, even the everyday quality of her favorite sleeping shirt and regular panties...I don't know. It makes me happy.  


I follow her, silently (I can be silent!) down to the kitchen. The thought occurs to me that in the dark house, the only light from the fridge she's about to open...if she senses me behind her she could be really scared...which in turn could make her really pissed.  Hmmm. I hadn't thought that through when I first conceived this plan. Well, too late to back out now.  Besides, even if she's pissed, it may work in my favor. (Physiologically, scaring a girl has the same chemical effect of the first stage of sexual excitement. It's why Horror movies will never go out of style.)


She's already at the fridge by the time I get there. In spite of myself I gape at her, open-mouthed. She's bent over to find the pudding (I hid it at the back of the second shelf), and in so doing her shirt has pulled up enough to see all of her panties and even some of her back.  Mmmmmmm.  


Can't get enough. 


She finally pulls the pudding out and I give that low throaty chuckle.  She shrieks a little and then glares at me in the dark.  


"What are you doing?  You scared me!  Why are you here when you asked me to go get the pudding??? YOU SCARED ME!!!!!!!" 


Simple truth is often best. "I asked you to get the pudding because I wanted to follow you and watch you bend over at the fridge," I say, my smile anything but apologetic. 


"What are you, 12 years old?" She's still glaring, but I heard...just a tremor in her voice.  Not a crack - she's still pissed, but she will forgive me, and some small part of her liked that I would go to all this trouble just to see her more of her body.  She's still glaring, though - it's time to attack again before she can decide I should be in the dog house tonight.


"I'm sorry, baby.  I didn't mean to scare you.  I start thinking about your luscious body and I lose all sense or reason..."


I let the words hang, and move slowly towards her. She knows it's a line. She knows I say it because I know it works. She also knows it's true, and that's WHY it works, and that makes all the difference. Before she can think of a comeback I'm to her, picking her up and carrying her over my shoulder back to bed.  


She shrieks again, but this time it's in a good way. I know I'm almost home free.  


"At least let me put the pudding down!  I don't want to spill it all over me!"


I laugh again, smacking that butt I worked so hard to see. "Darlin', be patient. You're getting ahead of me." 


By the time we reach the bedroom she's decided to spill some on me.  


It's only fair. How else would she get to eat any?  








shirt



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