“I’ve brought you a thing or two from the Kingdom – come see,” she said, leading me to the low sofa. A bottle of fine sherry and little gift-wrapped boxes were there on the coffee table. “I’ve already started without you. Couldn’t wait, they’re so good….” She bent and reached underneath for the little copper box and took one out. I brought a candle near and touched its flame to the twisted end, and she brushed silken hair to the side and drew in with hollowed cheeks (a lovely sight, indeed, as I pictured those same lips sucking me). I followed then, knowing she’d already reached a high, remembering as I tasted the tip’s wetness that her occasional work in Londontown presented an opportunity to make a small clandestine purchase. I poured us some sherry and commented on its velvet taste as the inhalation of the sweet smoke had its desired effect.
“You know, if the customs people should ever find these on you, they’ll have your ass,” and her response was a smile that seemed to show amusement over my choice of words. Whatever could she have been thinking, I wondered?
March the Thirty-first
A train ride this day to begin one more adventure, this time to capture on film her smile and her form against the background of the city’s contemporary quarter; home to the artist, the university, and the boutiques offering the latest in European fashions. A small travel bag with camera and attachments that I’d brought became the subject of her attention, as the train followed a path to the main station. She sat beside me, a vision of pastel-colored blouse and worn, tight fitting jeans (totally in character, I thought) with lengths of brown hair brushed to a brilliance in the smokey light – I wanted her so badly. There were others in our compartment, so I could only fantasize, imagining having her straddle me there on the upholstered seat and move on my cock with the sway of the rail car. I smelled the fragrance of bathing oils on her skin and thought for a moment of how these scents were also to be found near her secret crevasses….
I was jarred back to reality as the train began a synchronized shuddering accompanied by the release of pressure and a shrill whistle, all to signal our arrival in the terminal. A glance through the glass now to see the transformation from natural to artificial light, then a dusty darkness as each car stopped with a jolt. One more steel carriage among many that had come home again to this greatest of stables. She leaned over to use the window glass as a mirror, touching her hair and breaking into a smile for my watching eyes. We found our way along the aisle to the end of the car and stepped down into the crowd. Its motion swept us onto the concourse, away from the baggage carts and ticket lines, and once again into the sunlight.
Our walk to the city’s square – recently converted to an open area for pedestrian shoppers – only lasted a few minutes, yet in that short time we were able to taste and feel the very life of the city. Noises of commercial transportation surrounded us, people of all ages moving with us, meeting us head-on, cris-crossing our path. Everywhere was evidence of a rapid pace of life only broken by the amblings of the very young and the very old. I looked at her as she moved beside me, her proud stature with jutting chin and breast and, once again, that loving smile. She seemed in a parade of her own making, drawing upon the inner thoughts of those she confronted along the way. Perhaps this was something of her mystique.
I for one knew her aura was not only evident in a crowd where so many at one time could pay her tribute, recalling visions of her atop the bed or kneeling against it, opening herself as if to say, “ The Princess Ariadne is now prepared to receive the cock of the delegate from Thessaloniki.” Then again, I cautioned myself, there was never any overt sign of this noble lineage in her voice or conscious actions. It was, however, quite apparent in the way her body moved, and, glancing at those passing by, I realized they, too, were aware of this special quality of hers.
It had been impossible to have her pose effectively along the thoroughfare without drawing the unwanted attention of others and losing the natural rhythms of the city. Instead, she continued to make her way along the boulevard, pausing to window shop at her own pace, while I kept in lense range (sometimes ahead of her) timing the motion of the people to capture her body in stride or her face in joyful beauty – and surely including a number of exposures that captured the rounded swell of her sweet ass cheeks hugged in faded denim. I never tired of seeing that part of her. How could I not capture the curve and flare of her womanly arse?
We came upon a secluded bank of telephone stalls, and, probably remembering a previous photo session, she stepped into one and began to pose for me under the pretense of making a call. Her back turned to me, head thrown back listening to the words of a make-believe speaker, she emphasized that part of her body she knew most fascinated me. Now hearing the camera working behind her, a turn of the head (and that devilish look, so often a trademark of her desire to give or receive a sensational fucking!). Then turning full around in the stall to face me, phone receiver held to an ear, eyes partly shut, she let her free hand roam into the front of her jeans. I watched fascinated as her fingers came to life inside. It lasted only seconds, but long enough for me to overcome my surprise and get the shot.
I loved her for her inventiveness, her sexy and provocative sense of humor. I walked over to her, held her and told her so – now feeling her soft perspiration and whisper of her hair. She brought two fingers to my lips, and I caught the scent of her pussy. My eyes focused on a tiny ringlet of hair she now used to tickle my nose and lips. And she placed her middle finger on my tongue to taste her saltiness and sweet musk. People were moving near us now, some in animated conversations. To them we could well have been casual lovers relieving the day’s tensions by sharing an intimate kiss, while having no idea of the symbolism the striking woman had attached to that kiss.
Later, we looked for a table out of the sun. We found one that was set back near the second rise of a terrace; a low wall that overflowed with the season’s first tulips separated us from the tables of an adjoining café. The shade umbrella advertising Campari filtered some of the noonday glare. I watched fascinated as a tiny fly circled near the white froth of my Pilsner beer. She had opened the little bags in front of her examining the details of the hand-carved ornaments of Easter she’d just purchased. I set the lense for another closeup of her face and working hands – closer this time. Chairs scraped the stone floor beside us, as students began to arrive from the university for their midday meal. Waiters were already on their way with trays of soup and bread and tall glasses of beer (I could use another one of those if I can get his attention).