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I wanted boots for my birthday.

We were at the comic book store catching up on the latest strips when he mentioned an unnatural loving for boot-clad women. I could not banish the look he had in his eyes from my mind for the next couple of days.

At nights, I would think about how I would show off my new boots to him.

I would get a pair of those sexy patent leather knee-highs that came with a wicked 5-inch stiletto. In black. I would wear them on black leggings made of an intertwining pattern of lace.

I would wear those under a thin strip of crimson Lycra and slip into a gauzy, metallic blouse. I would dress my hair up into a carefully sprayed mess and fasten it with a vivid crimson pin. It would look good, peeking out from my wavy black hair.

I would go to his place and he would be mesmerized by this different me. He would move to make place for me on his rickety bed-for-one, I would put my hand on his knee to stop him.

I would lean into him and he would fall back on his elbows and look at me with the same look I had glimpsed in his eyes at the comic book store. I would then ask him how he liked my new boots and he would say, you make them look good. He would run his hands admiringly over my lace-clad thighs, slipping them under my skirt and skimming them over my wispy blouse.

He would love me like I wanted him to love me, with the passion I wanted, with our senses getting the better of us and with our bodies getting ahead of our minds.

It would be so wonderful letting go of what we knew of each other and getting to know a different side to the curves and angles that we were made of and were so familiar with. It would be lovely getting to know how we both sounded when we whispered and gasped and cried in pleasure. It would be perfect experiencing all this on his little bed-for-one that would smell of my scent from that day on.

How I wish life would hurry up and get us from two thirteen-year-olds to twenty-three-year-olds faster.

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