With a grin, I decided that, like Charlotte had in her day, I looked like sex walking. The bugle beads and fringe of the gold-colored silk flapper dress sparkled and reflected light around the room. The silk caressed the skin I had spent the last two hours washing and buffing and slathering with decadent scented lotions. Because of the spaghetti straps holding up the bodice, I could not wear a bra. Since my tits were at least a cup bigger than Charlotte’s, the silk clung tight to my full breasts. The dress skimmed over my toned body to the hem that hit me at mid-thigh. Whenever the material brushed against the skin of my hips, lightning bolts of want and need shot straight to my cunt. The feeling was in alignment with Charlotte’s memories. Every time she had worn this dress, she had felt the same way—hot and horny for the man who had presented her with the dress on their fourth date—Richard Donovan, Donovan Richards, or whatever name he wanted to call himself. It was the only gift he had given Charlotte that she had kept after they parted ways.
