She was okay with being naked. She didn’t mind walking past my open windows or if I snapped a picture of her every once in a while. I liked that. I liked how much she enjoyed her body, lounging and showing off her curves without a hint of the embarrassment that is drilled into women. But the pigtails made her mortified.
It was funny how she tried to talk me out of them, explaining how sexy she looked with her hair down or up or this way or that.
“You said I could have you any way I wanted,” I started seriously, though I was holding a pair of rabbit ears.
She pouted, which she knew would only make me both harder and meaner.
“I did,” she admitted.
“Are you no longer comfortable with that arraignment?” asked, putting the rabbit ears down.
“No, no!” she whined, deliciously confused.
“Then pigtails,” I said, dropping two little hair bands and a brush on the bed next to her.
She pouted and grumbled as she brushed her hair into shape. I stopped her when I saw how she is doing it.
“No, not in the back, the pigtails go up on top of your head.”
She glared, but she did I what asked.
Her thighs were thick, and her large breasts swayed as she fixed the pigtails so that they were just the way I wanted them. I smiled, and although she tried to keep frowning, I knew she liked making me happy.
On the bed, I laid out pink thigh high socks. Special ordered for girls with generous thighs. A cute little pink t-shirt that was far too small for her. She squeezed into both, very aware of how much I was enjoying watching.
I looked at her expectantly.
“No panties?” she asked, looking around.
“No panties, but you did forget something,” I said, looking down at the ears.
They were fuzzy pink and white. One ear was very erect, while the other was bent and wouldn’t stay up. She picked them up and glared at me as she put them on. They sat just behind her pigtails, making her look ridiculous.
Her voice became breathy, a little higher, whiney with all the words dragged out.
“You’re dressing me like a little girl. I’m not a little girl,” she pouted, her voice the very opposite of her complaint.
“I know you’re not. I don’t want a little girl. I want a smart, mature, grown woman. I want a woman with a degree and a good job and a life plan. I want a brilliant equal who puts that all aside and pretends to be a silly innocent little girl just for me,” I explained, closing in on her.
She pouted a little more cartoonishly and looked down at the floor.
“And you hate it, don’t you?” I asked as I got to her, kissing her neck.
“Yes!” she whined, though her eyes rolled back as my hand took her generous breasts and squeezed.
My hand then moved down, down, to her soft belly, to her thick thighs and then between them.
“Hate it, hm? So you aren’t wet at all then,” I said, slipping my fingers over the perfect smoothness of her mons.
Her eyes closed and she shook her head.
“Nope, not wet at all, you don’t even have to check,” she said, the transformation complete and her voice a squeaky little girl’s.
But I did check, and my fingers slipped into silky wetness that spelled victory.
Then in a whirlwind, I pushed her down on the bed, my hand on my belt.
“Well it’s a good thing you aren’t a little girl, you are just a rabbit. And you know what rabbits like to do,” I said, pushing her legs apart.
The best smiles were when they tried desperately not to and failed.