I would have voted for her anyway, but the socks clinched the deal.
Black and white striped knee high socks drew the eye upward from chunky Mary Jane platform shoes to dainty ankles to the hard apple bulge of toned calves to the little red hearts stitched into the band just above the smooth roundness of her patella.
The tip of a scar showed on her left knee, above the sock. If asked, she would admit to a childhood injury playing touch football with her brothers. If asked again, she would say it happened during a science experiment gone wrong in Biology 101. The story changed each time, an endless litany of amusing inventions, keeping the questioner guessing, fascinated by the quirk of her lips that hinted at some naughtiness too extreme to share in polite company.
My mind always boggled trying to figure out how even kinky sex could lead to a scar on the knee. Extreme Shibari? Tantric tandem jumping? Naked balance beam dismount gone wrong?
A pleated black schoolgirl skirt started three inches above the socks, leaving a luscious acreage to appreciate in between. White, delicate skin, pale enough to lend credence to the hypothesis that she didn’t dye her hair that shade of red.
She stood on my doorstep, faux-demure in a buttoned-up white collared shirt that hugged her breasts and nipped in to her waist before flaring out over the top of the pleated skirt. Despite the windy day, her skirt held its place, demonstrating proper, ladylike behavior.
Lust swelled, and I suffered burning, kilt-induced curiosity. What was under there? If I asked nicely, would she come inside and let me find out?
She handed me a flyer. Macy Cooper for Councilwoman, it trumpeted, the header sharing equal space on the front flap with a business-suited picture which bore scant resemblance to this vision of pulchritudinous womanhood.
Big green eyes twinkled at me, lashes fluttering as though she knew my every thought. “This shows my stance on issues such as sales tax and regrading streets downtown. You’re still planning to vote tomorrow, right?”
“Right,” I agreed. “Would you like to come in, warm up for a minute with something hot to drink?”
“That’s sweet of you,” she said, pivoting to check the progress of her entourage. A gaggle of pimple-faced high school boys, a man in a suit, two young women with yoga mats slung quiver-style over their shoulders: All industrious in their duties, going house-to-house to spread the good word, offering earnest exhortations to vote for the best candidate.
Seemingly satisfied with their progress, she called to one young man passing by on the sidewalk, “Neal, I’m stopping here a few minutes. I’ll catch up. Text if you need me.” She blew him a kiss.
He nodded, Adams apple bobbing, eyes locked on her tight little calves when she swiveled back to me.
“I’d love something hot.”
That sexy, breathy tone was as unlike the cheerful holler to Neal as a cement mixer to a vibrator.
I swung the door wide, but she still brushed against me on her way in, hip rubbing my thigh, underlining our height difference even in her chunky heels.
“Coffee’s on. Irish cream flavor, just got it this afternoon,” I babbled, leading her down the hallway.
“Mm, smells delicious.” Every word stroked nerve endings already set a-jangle by those socks.
The kitchen’s single window overlooked a fenced-in back yard with big trees blocking even the nosiest neighbor’s view. Grabbing a mug from the dish rack and turning to face her, I struggled not to show how much I wanted to worship at her sock-clad feet. She rested a hand on a mini-skirt clad hip, then started a lingering slide, fingering the pleat, pinching a fold of fabric, rubbing it, glossy nails glinting pearly pink. She finally reached the hemline and I swallowed.
“You’re wondering what’s under here, aren’t you? I could see it on your face. You’ve been having impure thoughts.”
I fumbled the mug and set it back on the counter. “I can’t help it. You look like a slutty virgin schoolgirl milkmaid.”
She giggled. One hand tugged loose a curly red lock and twirled it around her fingers. A thumb went into her mouth, and she suckled slowly, pulling it out with a pop to ask, “Does it make you feel pervy?”
“Yes, damn it, it does,” I complained, closing the few feet between us and yanking her into my arms, ignoring her squeal. Reaching under her skirt, my palms cupped naked butt cheeks, explored further and found the thin string that nestled between. “You’re such a bad girl.”
She tensed and whimpered agreement.
Holding the skirt up with one hand, I smacked her bare cheek with the other. The first couple of slaps were slow, easy. She pressed closer into me, holding my waist, sighing. The next half dozen cracked like applause in the quiet room, accompanied by her shrieks. During the final half dozen, her mouth rooted for my nipple, biting down over the padded bra to give me the painful nip she knew I loved.
She fumbled at the tank top tucked into my waistband while I cupped her punished cheeks, enjoying the warmth raised by the brisk spanking. Reaching into my bra to pinch and tweak a hard nub, she begged, “Let me suck them.”
“No. You have a job to do. Go back out there and campaign. Don’t be late, though, or you’ll get another dozen smacks when you get home,” I warned.
“Mm,” she sighed, breath warm against my collarbone, talented fingers still plucking. I couldn’t help arching my back to get more of her touch.
Ignoring my order, she asked, “Are you sure? Five minutes. I could make you come.” She licked my neck, a long, warm, wet lick that weakened my knees, if not my resolve.
Spinning her around, I pulled the skirt up and slapped her ass hard. “Don’t tempt me, baby. You want a career in politics, it starts here.” I prodded her into the hallway. “If that Garcia boy wins, he’ll raise sales tax by another two percent.”
“He’s five years older than me.”
Such a wench. She took every opportunity to remind me of that, knowing our age difference bothered me as much as it thrilled me.
“Men mature slower than women,” I said. “Or at least, some women.” I pressed my body against hers, trapping her against the door. Moving her hair out of the way to nuzzle her neck, I whispered, “If you’re good, I’ll use the strap-on tonight and make you squirt. Now go get some votes.”
One Vote at a Time © 2016 by Devi Ansevi.
Written in response to a two-word prompt thread on Scribophile. Thanks to Hugh Ward for proposing socks and election and sparking this dirty ditty.