They called to me; I know they did.
She may have been the enemy but I knew I wanted her from the moment I saw her invading our seminar and my attention.
We should never have met; I was a fur trader and she was an animal rights protester. They were banned from the town centre; they should have been kept away from our conference by a formidable ring of security officers and police officers.
Instead, a dozen body-painted, and almost-naked women charged into the private function. Her soft orbs, delicately painted with a subtle yellow hue and then covered in spots, looked divine as they bounced into my view, interrupting the shocked speaker, who gasped in disbelief at the horde of half-naked women. “Stop the fur trade. Stop the cruelty,” they shouted, but I was focused on her. Her smile, her eyes, her breasts.
She might not have been the youngest, or the prettiest, but she was the most beautiful. She held herself with a confident poise: composed and assured as her eyes scanned the delegates and deposed the fleeing speaker from his podium.
I watched; enjoying every bounce of her heavenly breasts shimmering under the bright lights of the small lecture theatre. I looked at her bare, shapely body; my eyes traced her smooth, painted flesh from her scant yellow briefs up her body; I felt my loins stirring.
The painted leopard gestured into the room and she scanned the delegates for their response; eager to taunt and harry them: we were the enemy.
But I watched, taking in every last twitch of her decorated body; the smooth, elegant arms painted golden and decorated with leopard print spots, outstretched as it waved furiously in front of her, and then as the police officers burst into the room, the bare-footed girl leapt from the stage and ran towards us.
I was captivated; drawn into her as her golden hair flashed out behind her, and her speckled bosom danced so enticingly into my eye line: a velvety symbol of femininity entrancing in its delightful tenderness yet arousing in its shameless exhibitionism.
I wanted to grab and caress her beautiful breasts, run my fingers over their silky exterior and toy with her erect nipples that were desperate for my fingers to gently squeeze. I wanted to lie the protesting exhibitionist onto a bed, and kiss her body, starting at her navel and encircling her breasts with my soft osculations that would have her purring in delight.
And then I wanted to roll my tongue over her nipple, toying with her other between my fingers as she panted, surrendering to my touch and unable to resist my hedonistic intent.
I wanted her, and as the police officer bundled her to the floor, I knew she wanted it too; her nipples winked at me. They called to me. They begged me for my touch.
“I’ll bail you out,” I rashly promised to the girl being handcuffed by a Police officer, inches from my seat .
And I would: if nothing to see those painted breasts again.