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Description
At long last, it was a nice day. The sky was a clear blue, speckled with tiny fluffy clouds which presented absolutely no threat of rain. The breeze was cool enough to take the edge off the sun, but not cold enough to bite. And unlike most people around me, I didn't need to fear sunburn.

So, of course, I was at the beach.

Not a busy beach, mind. I live in England, I knew what to expect if I went anywhere even vaguely tourist-y. It was a small beach, but it had everything I needed. Warm, light brown sand. Enough space to lay out a towel, and the sound of waves lapping at the shore.

Also a few seagulls circling like vultures, waiting for the slightest crumb of dropped food. And a small pack of milk-skinned beer-bellied locals. I didn't need to look at that sight though. Behind my sunglasses, my eyes were closed. I just let my body absorb the heat and be soothed by the wind and waves, like some sort of big, happy plant.

I did have to stretch eventually, though. I clambered slowly to my feet, stepping off the towel and on to the sand. My feet sunk into it slightly, letting the warmth surround my skin. Each individual grain might have been coarse, but together, shifting around me as I moved, they felt more like a warm, liquid blanket.

My sundress rose in the breeze, letting it brush my bare legs with a cooling caress. What would normally be a freezing sting felt like a comfort. Everything was nice.

Then I tilted my head so that some windswept strands of hair would move out of my eyes.

And I saw something beautiful.

I was wearing sunglasses, so nobody would know if I stared. So I just stared.

She looked as though the cover of a glamour magazine had become superimposed onto the real world. She was airbrushed perfection. The only thing which made her seem like a real person was that her hair blew in the mind.

Even blown out of place, her hair seemed entirely flawless, mostly straight but falling in slight slowing strands which shone brown in the bright sunlight. Her skin was shining too, a natural tan glowing in the heat and with the light reflected off the waves. The lines of her swimsuit top accentuated her slender figure, but also emphasized her curves which, while small, seemed like some sculptor had done a lot of mathematics as they perfectly crafted her figure.

And, well, given I was seeing her from behind, I couldn't help but let my gaze drift down to her butt. It was an exact reflection of her chest, an appealing curve which my eyes slid down naturally. A pair of tight, short jeans covered her cheeks, clearly taut against her skin and somehow emphasizing her curves even more than a skin-tight bikini would. And the turned-up legs meant my eyes fell straight off her ass and down to her full and flawlessly smooth thighs.

I could barely stop myself from gawking. This woman was beautiful. Fit. Sexy. Any number of words could describe her. The only thing I wasn't sure about was whether I wanted to be with her, or just wanted to be her.

One thought came to me clearly. I needed to look more, I needed to be certain how I felt about her. Was it just lust? Or envy?

I lowered my sunglasses, subconsciously biting my lip as I did.

Of course, that was when she chose to turn her head. A strangely absent-looking brown eye swivelled in my direction. She smiled, she winked.

And she even gave a little shake of her back.

I had averted my gaze bashfully, so my eyes were right on target to see it. Her tight jeans made each move of her butt visible, every little wiggle rippled through the fabric so I could essentially see the tanned flesh beneath, with the visual aid of the muscles of her thighs mirroring it.

My own legs were nothing like that. They were thin where hers were full, they were entirely bare but hidden under a dress, whereas hers were both tightly covered but alluringly exposed.

A feeling overcame my thighs. A familiar feeling, taken from my memory, the feeling of wearing a tight pair of denim shorts. The feeling of a slightly restricted range of movement, of bare skin exposed to the world. The feeling of vulnerability, but also the security of tight pressure.

It was how I would feel if I was like her. If I dressed more provocatively. If I leaned in to the summer heat instead of going for a conservative dress which hid all of my body below the shoulder blades.

She was beautiful. She was perfect.

She was smiling at me. She knew I was watching. Maybe she even knew what I was thinking. Somehow, form her smile, it felt like she did. It wasn't just the face of someone used to onlookers staring in envy, it was the cheeky smile of someone who knew exactly what she was doing.

Her arms lifted above her head, and her entire body swayed. Her eyes were on me, looking over her shoulder. She knew I couldn't help but stare. She knew the power she had over me.

I let my gaze drift back downwards.

The movement wasn't exaggerated, but it was clear. Her butt was moving in long arcs, from side to side. The image was one of a pendulum, her hands the hand holding it, her flawless torso the string, and her perfect bum the stone. Back and forth, endless movement. Lazy and easy to track, but still somehow a perfect curve.

I didn't want to look away from her body, but I couldn't possibly tear myself from that swinging motion. My eyes simply locked on to it, and no amount of willpower could move my gaze away.

Actually, it felt like the idea of having willpower was slipping away. Sliding down the curve and being trapped at the bottom, out of reach. Melting away in the summer heat.

She was a human pendulum, and I was in a hypnotic trance.

I was obsessed, I could think only about her look. My skin was darker than her tan, but it could still shine when exposed. My hair was messier, but I could let it down and let it blow freely in the wind as I moved my body like hers. I could keep my waist and hips in blue jeans, clinging tight to my body to show my curves.

I could be just like her. Showing off my body, letting anyone who wanted to see, with the constant sensation of tight clothes against my body.

That outfit would be a constant reminder. A reminder that I...

That I was hypnotised to dress that way.

Her smile was radiant. I smiled back. We locked eyes, and both of our gazes were blank. I understood.

A warmth blossomed between my legs, and I knew it would remain until I got changed. It was a promise from my subconscious to my conscious, if I dressed right, I would be rewarded with pleasure. The constant rub of a tight swimsuit against my chest, and of jeans between my legs.

I knew I would be happy.

I knew what my summer look would be.

I knew exactly what I had to do.

I just nodded to her. She smiled and waved goodbye.

As I headed home, I wondered if I could see her again. And if I could meet the person who showed her how to dress.

---

What started as a one-off manip for a denim fetishist 'friend' (hey did you know that denim fetish was a thing? My basic outfit is jeans + converse and I didn't know it was a thing, it's nice to find out you can appeal to people without trying very hard ) quickly developed when I hit upon this excellent pun. This also means it's a rare Mauri story starting from the title rather than a concept, so it might be a bit meandering.

But hey, worth it for the pun.

Also, obviously, an experiment with first person. I have a very strong memory of reading some actual writers saying that first person is really difficult to pull off. To be honest, even after years of doing this fetish writing thing I haven't evolved my understanding of the craft enough to grok why first person is different, but maybe this worked? I really can't tell.

Anyway, happy first day of summer (northern hemisphere ;D)! As always proofreading by my literary lifeguard, Dormiria , if you like spirals, you will like his gallery.

Description
At long last, it was a nice day. The sky was a clear blue, speckled with tiny fluffy clouds which presented absolutely no threat of rain. The breeze was cool enough to take the edge off the sun, but not cold enough to bite. And unlike most people around me, I didn't need to fear sunburn.

So, of course, I was at the beach.

Not a busy beach, mind. I live in England, I knew what to expect if I went anywhere even vaguely tourist-y. It was a small beach, but it had everything I needed. Warm, light brown sand. Enough space to lay out a towel, and the sound of waves lapping at the shore.

Also a few seagulls circling like vultures, waiting for the slightest crumb of dropped food. And a small pack of milk-skinned beer-bellied locals. I didn't need to look at that sight though. Behind my sunglasses, my eyes were closed. I just let my body absorb the heat and be soothed by the wind and waves, like some sort of big, happy plant.

I did have to stretch eventually, though. I clambered slowly to my feet, stepping off the towel and on to the sand. My feet sunk into it slightly, letting the warmth surround my skin. Each individual grain might have been coarse, but together, shifting around me as I moved, they felt more like a warm, liquid blanket.

My sundress rose in the breeze, letting it brush my bare legs with a cooling caress. What would normally be a freezing sting felt like a comfort. Everything was nice.

Then I tilted my head so that some windswept strands of hair would move out of my eyes.

And I saw something beautiful.

I was wearing sunglasses, so nobody would know if I stared. So I just stared.

She looked as though the cover of a glamour magazine had become superimposed onto the real world. She was airbrushed perfection. The only thing which made her seem like a real person was that her hair blew in the mind.

Even blown out of place, her hair seemed entirely flawless, mostly straight but falling in slight slowing strands which shone brown in the bright sunlight. Her skin was shining too, a natural tan glowing in the heat and with the light reflected off the waves. The lines of her swimsuit top accentuated her slender figure, but also emphasized her curves which, while small, seemed like some sculptor had done a lot of mathematics as they perfectly crafted her figure.

And, well, given I was seeing her from behind, I couldn't help but let my gaze drift down to her butt. It was an exact reflection of her chest, an appealing curve which my eyes slid down naturally. A pair of tight, short jeans covered her cheeks, clearly taut against her skin and somehow emphasizing her curves even more than a skin-tight bikini would. And the turned-up legs meant my eyes fell straight off her ass and down to her full and flawlessly smooth thighs.

I could barely stop myself from gawking. This woman was beautiful. Fit. Sexy. Any number of words could describe her. The only thing I wasn't sure about was whether I wanted to be with her, or just wanted to be her.

One thought came to me clearly. I needed to look more, I needed to be certain how I felt about her. Was it just lust? Or envy?

I lowered my sunglasses, subconsciously biting my lip as I did.

Of course, that was when she chose to turn her head. A strangely absent-looking brown eye swivelled in my direction. She smiled, she winked.

And she even gave a little shake of her back.

I had averted my gaze bashfully, so my eyes were right on target to see it. Her tight jeans made each move of her butt visible, every little wiggle rippled through the fabric so I could essentially see the tanned flesh beneath, with the visual aid of the muscles of her thighs mirroring it.

My own legs were nothing like that. They were thin where hers were full, they were entirely bare but hidden under a dress, whereas hers were both tightly covered but alluringly exposed.

A feeling overcame my thighs. A familiar feeling, taken from my memory, the feeling of wearing a tight pair of denim shorts. The feeling of a slightly restricted range of movement, of bare skin exposed to the world. The feeling of vulnerability, but also the security of tight pressure.

It was how I would feel if I was like her. If I dressed more provocatively. If I leaned in to the summer heat instead of going for a conservative dress which hid all of my body below the shoulder blades.

She was beautiful. She was perfect.

She was smiling at me. She knew I was watching. Maybe she even knew what I was thinking. Somehow, form her smile, it felt like she did. It wasn't just the face of someone used to onlookers staring in envy, it was the cheeky smile of someone who knew exactly what she was doing.

Her arms lifted above her head, and her entire body swayed. Her eyes were on me, looking over her shoulder. She knew I couldn't help but stare. She knew the power she had over me.

I let my gaze drift back downwards.

The movement wasn't exaggerated, but it was clear. Her butt was moving in long arcs, from side to side. The image was one of a pendulum, her hands the hand holding it, her flawless torso the string, and her perfect bum the stone. Back and forth, endless movement. Lazy and easy to track, but still somehow a perfect curve.

I didn't want to look away from her body, but I couldn't possibly tear myself from that swinging motion. My eyes simply locked on to it, and no amount of willpower could move my gaze away.

Actually, it felt like the idea of having willpower was slipping away. Sliding down the curve and being trapped at the bottom, out of reach. Melting away in the summer heat.

She was a human pendulum, and I was in a hypnotic trance.

I was obsessed, I could think only about her look. My skin was darker than her tan, but it could still shine when exposed. My hair was messier, but I could let it down and let it blow freely in the wind as I moved my body like hers. I could keep my waist and hips in blue jeans, clinging tight to my body to show my curves.

I could be just like her. Showing off my body, letting anyone who wanted to see, with the constant sensation of tight clothes against my body.

That outfit would be a constant reminder. A reminder that I...

That I was hypnotised to dress that way.

Her smile was radiant. I smiled back. We locked eyes, and both of our gazes were blank. I understood.

A warmth blossomed between my legs, and I knew it would remain until I got changed. It was a promise from my subconscious to my conscious, if I dressed right, I would be rewarded with pleasure. The constant rub of a tight swimsuit against my chest, and of jeans between my legs.

I knew I would be happy.

I knew what my summer look would be.

I knew exactly what I had to do.

I just nodded to her. She smiled and waved goodbye.

As I headed home, I wondered if I could see her again. And if I could meet the person who showed her how to dress.

---

What started as a one-off manip for a denim fetishist 'friend' (hey did you know that denim fetish was a thing? My basic outfit is jeans + converse and I didn't know it was a thing, it's nice to find out you can appeal to people without trying very hard ) quickly developed when I hit upon this excellent pun. This also means it's a rare Mauri story starting from the title rather than a concept, so it might be a bit meandering.

But hey, worth it for the pun.

Also, obviously, an experiment with first person. I have a very strong memory of reading some actual writers saying that first person is really difficult to pull off. To be honest, even after years of doing this fetish writing thing I haven't evolved my understanding of the craft enough to grok why first person is different, but maybe this worked? I really can't tell.

Anyway, happy first day of summer (northern hemisphere ;D)! As always proofreading by my literary lifeguard, Dormiria , if you like spirals, you will like his gallery.