Coated in powder blue, the richly carved door was impossible to jimmy, a formidable adversary to the most persistent hotel dick. It shut with a satisfying snick and we plummeted into our Never Never Land of lust and crazed obsession. Not for the first time, we were together not merely as lovers but as sexual soul mates. This time in Emerald City, my adopted hometown, 22 floors above the ground in a five star mirrored glass and shiny steel monolith. A silver tower bathed in cool, pale northern sunlight and the profound brown and golden colors of a late afternoon of an autumn day in September.
I was Andre; she was Diana during such trysts.
My true name was not Andre and by no means was I French but I loved doing soixante-neuf. Me going down on Diana, she sucking me, the two of us locked together, my head flat against her lower reaches, her noggin flush against my groin. In such mechanics, I discovered a passion for soixante-neuf.
A season in Paris and randy women made their shaved slits, their spongy coiffures freely available. Quite near the Seine, the Left Bank and Montmarte, I became a fierce habitué of a woman's gash. Sometimes I even had a chance to practice tradecraft, to get out on the streets, test skills learned in the piney woods near Williamsburg, Virginia.
In my travels as a vagabond lothario, I found Tel Aviv to my liking. Busty Sabras delighted me. In London corset-clad wenches curtsied to the queen and waved the business ends of canes and paddles at my exposed rump. And I bent them over and flailed them in return.
In Rome nubile Italian women, Messalina's descendents, bowled me over with their dark, sultry eyes, streaming raven hair and earthy natures. Each one more buxom then the next and all extraordinarily gifted in the sorts of sexual hi-jinks I relished. They pleasured, bedeviled with an astonishing adeptness characteristic of such hot- blooded women. Great cooks too. During my stays just off the Via Veneto in a ramshackle villa, I cavorted on my soft, yielding mattress with one spectacular woman and another. Then in the morning a shared breakfast finished off with espresso laced with a pinch of cinnamon. All the while I'd be sitting there at the table in a comfortable chair looking at my most recent bedmate and the tiny silver cross or religious medallion nestled in a remarkably sumptuous and silky bosom swelling out of her bodice. My companion's black hair tussled by all night bed romping flaring down over her shoulders. Fingers, their nails painted a garish red often holding a cup close to full, rapacious lips. This was after she used those talons to scratch across my back in the dark. In the comfortable silence she'd sit across from me and rub her smooth bare feet across my bare shins.
What of me? Then as now I was tall, lean, tended to slump too much. I don't think I was quite handsome but I could look in a mirror without sneaking up on the thing. I kept my blond hair close-cropped; there was a cowl lick back there somewhere. I tried to smile often as possible and had a certain degree of charm I suppose. Women liked the way I cocked my head, my sweet disposition. I sometimes took too many chances, liked living on the edge way too much but that is how it goes. I kept my own counsel and played it close to the vest. This hard and fast rule was never broken.
On my native ground, I found myself a tad more comfortable. My sense of possession was overblown and I liked my solitude, enjoyed sleeping alone in my sprawling bed. I was able to pop out of the covers, light off the computer, sip coffee, wear my ratty bathrobe and look totally disreputable checking out blogs.
Unusual circumstances, improbable events shaped my life, molded my personality. Try to analyze my character and you will be amazed by the dichotomies. I have a chameleon temperament; tend to be moody, sentimental and dashingly courageous on occasion. At other moments I can be irresolute, wanton and weak. Then in a flash I am a graciously charming bon vivant. After Nine One One I came into my own and did some dazzling work, labors quite off the scope though. I was committed and focused to the achievement, the realization of action meaning something.
Diana's uncommonly luscious body not only delighted my senses; it was a veritable sexual playground for a man with my randy temperament. From what I have gathered, she was born and bred in Northampton, Massachusetts and had numerous Portuguese ancestors in her past. She has the olive coloring, the sprawling mane of dark tresses, the ripe prominences from the bust line to the flaring, fluid hip action. Any male was lucky to be her choice, to be in her liquid embrace, to be ensnared by those torrid hazel eyes, the terrifyingly alluring body. Not beautiful in the manifest sense she had perfect teeth, a proud, defiant nose and a firm definitive somewhat ostentatious chin. She could have been Hera, wife, older sister of Zeus, majestic and solemn, crowned with regal golden polos on her head, patiently waiting to be soundly fucked in the lofty dominions by a Grecian godhead.
Smarts signifying a voluminous intellect bubbled up out of her as did her prim deportment and her wholesome persona. She reveled in being wicked. To think this vivacious woman also had her undergraduate degree in English, a passion for Rudyard Kipling poems and was relentlessly ambitious without being sullen or too obvious. Passionate and imaginative she had an uncommon aptitude for lovemaking. To any male with normal levels of testosterone her uninhibited altitude was breathtaking.
Like many 21st century couples we stumbled into one another in cyber land where we both were looking for merriment and entertainment. We shared our passion for eroticism, the nuances of erotic writing, tested the waters to see what naughty things we wished to pursue. Naturally, we met in person. Now, I targeted her with names like AMANDA or MELODY or BARBARA. Sometimes I spelled COUNTESS LUDMILLA OSTROKOVA something equally dense with consonants and vowels across her clit. With the swirl of my tongue and some light pressure against the engorged nub buried inside the fleshy trench between her legs, I sent her reeling. My God, how she pressed those silken legs about my head as I went down on her.
Diana quite stunning in a form fitting black cocktail sheath barely covering her thighs, walked ahead of me into the lavishly appointed suite. I carried her several overnight bags and my single beaten up, world weary satchel. Teetering on four-inch black high heels, she crossed the room's pale blue carpet in several easy strides, clasped her fingers round a tiny silver chain, the night stand's brass lamp to the left of the queen sized bed flicked on, lit the ceiling and made an umbrella of light at the corner of the bed. Her black patent leather clutch purse fell between the pint-sized lamp and the digital clock radio.
The room was no run of the mill Ramada Inn or Motel 6. The comfortable looking furniture might have occupied a stuffy collegial male club where staid old men smoked cigars and rumbled on about the poor state of the human condition. The lamp's patch of illumination took in the black wing back chair covered in shiny, creaky black leather across from the bed, next to a slender brass floor lamp fitted out with a pale yellow waxy shade. I moved to it, stripped out of my shirt and shoes, my pants still in place, settled into the seat cushion. I watched Diana slink about the room on those high heels. To make things even better for my fetish congested mind, I knew that when she removed those shoes, I'd hear her stocking clad feet making a satisfying swoosh across the carpet. I loved such crisp and mellow sounds, loved the way her red painted toenails shined under the mist of stockings.
Fantasy reached by a fetish made real was such a trip. I could hear my counter-culture mother saying such a thing. This from a woman known as Sadie Glitz, one of a select cadre known for her plaster cast impressions of rock idols' dongs. She, with a frizzy purple fro, usually braless and scrawny in her youth somehow managed to stay clear of Charlie Manson and other odd ball cultists. She'd kick off on acid in Haight-Ashbury occasionally, sell daisies on street corners and hunkered down with her share of Harley guys. God bless Mom and her unconventional nature.
Diana moved about the room looking there, checking here. She clucked her tongue inside her mouth when she saw the salmon hot tub with its gold fixtures, the brushed steel bar stocked with small liquor bottles and fine crystal glasses. She opened walk-in closets, rubbed a palm across a polished bureau surface, another palm along the smooth lines of the credenza, examined the antique student desk with its black chair on brass casters. Almost reluctantly, she touched the mattress gauged its firmness, then peered between the curtains, looked out at Puget Sound. She finished her inspection, paused to open one of her valises, a bag crammed full of makeup. Such femininity contained in a simple bag.
Fairly tall, heavy breasts canted her forward faintly. When we were together, she always directed a hazy, satisfied smile my way. Her complexion was creamy, her auburn hair, sparkling with tiny diamonds in the muted light, cascaded down on to her smooth shoulders in soft undulant waves. She moved with grace, no superfluous movements and a dancer's nimble cat like motion. Her high heels corded her legs and made me aware of her slim round ankles. I felt so sensitive to the moment, so in tune with her; I thought I could hear her hosiery rubbing on her slim thighs. The sexy sound enlivened my cock, tipped me into a downward spiral and I was nearly insane to fuck Diana.
Under the black sheath a miniscule garter belt, no panties to speak of and the paltriest of brassieres. These garments black as the sheath. Sitting in my chair, I'd see her slip out of the dress in one sure motion. There in front of me in all her splendor Diana would stand confidently and with unerring aplomb, a female comfortable and proud of her assets. On her feet the four-inch spiked black heels. Black hose on slim, sculpted legs secured with snaps to a miniscule garter belt. Her scooped out black balconet bra showing a wealth of cleavage down to the nipples charged with red fire. Her pussy shaved with no Hitler moustache to mask or shadow her smooth satin slit. I fantasized an encounter on an airport shuttle, me eating her pussy under a cloak.
