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In her French maid uniform, Jules serves her master.

Partly, simple personal preference of shape and size.

Partly, something deeper in the human psyche that associated them with comfort and nourishment.

They were flawless.

She was flawless.

What if I was in a dream? It would not have been the first time I'd woken up from a beautiful dream world where I'd had someone. Granted, those someones always had faces half-muted by the fact that were dreams.

Her face was clear to me. Every tiny spot on her skin. Every eyelash. Every faint crease in her lower lip.

Was this perhaps simply just an unusually detailed dream?

Tears began to well in my eyes.

Will daylight lick me into shape, as the song goes, and a raging sea drown her deep inside of me?

I sniffed and a tear fell onto the material to be absorbed.

"What's wrong," she said softly, yet not in a way that offered pity. Even that I adored.

"You're perfect."

A heartbeat later, "No one is perfect," she said, not as a challenge, but because she knew I would never say such an objectively false thing. She knew there was something more that I was not saying. She knew that I needed to say it, if only for my own sake.

"You're perfect in every way that I give a damn about," I said calmly, matter-of-factly.

Her heartbeat increased a bit more. Her right hand moved to my exposed cheek and caressed, and then simply held.

I slid my palm down her ribcage to her waist and then back up, beneath her tank top.

Her right hand obligingly returned to its resting place.

I closed my eyes as my fingertips found the edge of her breast.

Her heartbeat increased just a bit more.

I push slightly into the pliable flesh as my fingers continued around to cup the warmth.

I held a moment before massaging gently. It filled my grip perfectly.

My thumb climbed upward. I could tell when the flesh of the breast became areola. It had that almost imperceptible rise and the slightly bumpy texture.

I found her nipple just in time to feel it stiffen. It grazed my finger, instead of my finger grazing it.

She inhaled shallowly, but suddenly, and her heartbeat increased just a bit.

It was a beautiful experience that is always, sadly, over far too quickly.

I moved my forefinger to assist my thumb in capturing that bud, as if it might escape. If I did not coax it tenderly, it would return to its hiding place.

I rolled it carefully. Occasionally pulled, convincing it to remain.

She exhaled a moan. Her fingers were indecisive on my scalp.

The rest of my hand joined in on the softer flesh below. Every surface was now in motion. There was no place to hide.

He fingers left my head, moving upward, but the edge of her hand maintained contact, repeatedly brushing against me, even though I was no longer the point of focus.

Her breathing and heartbeat increased a bit more.

The sound of a breath through the nose was different than the sound of a breath through open lips.

I released her and pushed the tank top upward and over.

Inches from my closed eyes was her exposed breast. I needed only open them, but I did not do so.

The material on which my face was resting was suddenly pulled out from under me, and I found myself against her skin.

I returned my hand to its task, and then after some heartbeats, I rolled my head until that expanse of skin was beneath my lips instead.

Suction. A tiny desire to draw something closer. To draw it within. A desire for it to be a part of you.

My lips met her in steps taken with a specific destination in mind.

The underside of her breast. My tongue ran along the edge, defining it.

Another short, sharp inhalation heard from afar.

Upward. Tongue and lips working in concert. A slow climb.

My nose lightly brushed her stiffness. My tongue lightly caressed her softness. My lips and breath lightly drew her closer.

A change of texture. A change of angle.

I moved my tongue up that sturdy slope. Base to peak. Base to peak. Base to peak. And then drew it within.

I consumed it.

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