As she bit her lip, her hands rose of their own volition to cup herself, her palms filled to overflowing as her fingers sought those tender bits, pinching, tugging, pulling as a lover would, doing things to herself, touching herself in a manner she had never needed—or wanted—to do before.
When she looked at her reflection, she saw a woman she didn't really know. Her features were softened in the light, her honey-blonde hair flowing down her back, rather than scraped into a ponytail so it would stay out of her eyes. She looked… not quite rubenesque, but womanly through and through. Shadows pointed out her more obviously feminine features, curving lovingly around the hands that held her breasts, slimming a waist that wasn't quite fat but not as toned as it should be from eating on the run and never exercising, and shrouding the delta between her thighs modestly while playing up the rounded curves of her hips and thighs.
Her hands wandered to that juncture between her legs, gathering up the gown in one hand and pushing aside the crotch of her panties with the other until she could sink her fingers between those soft, feminine folds and caress the half-engorged button she found there until she was close… so, so close.
But then she heard a voice from downstairs, and the spell was abruptly broken. Suddenly she realized how stupid she must look, standing there in front of the mirror, feeling herself up. So she turned away and finished undressing.
Cimmy had gone the whole hog when Eva had given her this present and she'd known she was coming here, buying something that was as far from the sexy self she'd just discovered as possible; a chin high, toe length, granny-style nightgown. She hadn't gone as far as buying the mobcap that went with it, however, because this was, after all, Arizona. Even in the fall, triple digit temperatures weren't unusual.
Cimmy liked how she felt in the gown. Not in the same way as she'd just discovered she liked touching herself, but in a soul satisfying manner that had her turning up the air conditioning—one of the hotel's few concessions to modernity that Cimmy alternately castigated and praised them for in her mind—and diving under the covers, pulling that pretty quilt all the way up under her chin and rolling onto her side, hoping that sleep would claim her quickly.