The Weekly Ritual - Sex Stories

The Weekly Ritual

... can already feel the relief.

"Oh my god, seriously those brownies smell awesome," I ask, catching another whiff from the oven.

"Yeah, it's a new recipe I'm trying from last season's Bake Off. Salted caramel brownies topped with a brown sugar caramel sauce and sea salt."

"Yum," I say as I reach under my skirt and slide my fingers into the sides of my cotton panties. I wiggle them down over my hips, letting them drop to my ankles. Stepping out of them, I kick the panties to the side next to the bra.

Next is my plaid skirt, with its crisply ironed pleats. I fumble a bit with the zipper in the back before it gives way, and the tartan fabric loosens around my waist. I shimmy my hips side to side, allowing the skirt to slide down my legs and onto the growing pile on the floor.

I smooth my hands down the front of my sweater, making sure the hem covers me decently. The navy blue cashmere stops just above mid-thigh, a bit shorter than my usual school outfit.

Like the ritual itself, I'm not sure how this no pants-and-panties part of our tradition started. It must have happened one particularly hot summer day when we were too lazy to put on our full outfits. But at some point, it got enshrined into our routine just like the other parts. We'd never be this informal with anyone else, barely dressed, makeup-free, hair a mess. But with each other, it feels natural. Comfortable even.

At the same time...lately, there has been an edge to our state of undress that I ...

... can't quite put my finger on. A subtle excitement in the air.

The cool air raises goosebumps on my bare legs and bottom. There's a buzz in my belly I don't understand. I feel shy, and bold at the same time. Exposed, but safe here in this space we've created.

I don't know if Mom feels it too, this nameless tension. Neither of us acknowledges it. We just carry on every Wednesday night with our silly accents and mindless chatter, as if we aren't practically naked.

As I stand there in just my sweater and socks, I catch a glimpse of myself in the hallway mirror and look at myself appraisingly.

I'm a blend of my parents' looks - I have my dad's thick, dark brown hair that falls in loose waves past my shoulders. But my delicate features and petite, slender build come from Mom's side. She still sometimes calls me her "mini-me" although at 5'6, I'm 3 inches taller than her now.

I run my hands down my sides, over the curves of my hips. Through the soft cashmere of my sweater, I trace my fingers along my flat stomach. I turn to the side, noting how my breasts protrude under the fabric. My legs are smooth and toned from years of dance classes. I lift one foot off the ground, pointing my toes and elongating my leg in the mirror, and sweep my hair over one shoulder, tilting my head to the side, practicing exaggerated poses and expressions. I can't help but giggle at my exaggerated pouty face.

Oh yes Miss Eva, you do look simply gorgeous, I think to myself in an exaggerated ...