There she sits with her back to me, four tables away at the "Lalogene"
Bar, in central Avignon, Festival Time. Four tables away but mere inches
from my roving eyes. Four tables away but oh, so close and piquant, sits
the young one with the auburn hair.
And a great glorious auburn mass it is, swimming in henna, dropping-dripping
down her back, a back of gold and tan, ochre and sienna, flesh and sun
both hot and molten. Nails polished of aureus translucence flutter about
her face as she speaks animatedly, Italian style.
Bracelets and ancient bangles dangle-jangle on butterfly wrists, to-and-froing
from drink to mouth to cigarette to hair to my entranced hypnosis. The
shoulders are bare. She wears a short vest, an Indian Paithani weave of
sorts, that must expose much mid-riff and belly button when she stands.
But there she sits and it's that perfect smooth and downy lower back that
moves and undulates as she fidgets about, all hot and bothered, no doubt.
And that gets us (eyes, soul, lubricity,--… and hands, we wish!!), to
the crux of the matter, the proverbial nitty-gritty, the essence of my
The trousers are black, with black paisley patterns, VERY lo-cut, and
as she leans forward, much curvaceous derriere struggles to be free. Oh,
how much it struggles!! It sinuously weaves up, down and around, turns
left, turns right, assumes balance, oscillates, sashays, speaks in tongues,
SCREAMS for recognition….
And, best of all, charm and delectation ineffable, it sends out into the
world the upper part of a black G-string, the belt end if you will, riding
as high as the trousers fall low. No subtle hint, here. The elastic belt
is thin, but that's nothing compared to the string venturing down into
regions of delight and inscrutability. Some call this variety "dental-floss
G-string": a charming description indeed. Back in the days, one had to
lift the covering cotton or silk to get one's hand on the round and soft
butt therein. Nowadays, you have to part the smiling cheeks to get to
the silken thread covering nary a thing!
Up to this point, I had only seen her from the back, and glorious as it
was, it had not prepared me for the Te Deum of wonder, the Hosannas of
bewilderment, and the Hallelujahs of enchantment to be found in her perfect
obverse, when she turned ever so fleetingly to point to something in my
Mediterranean was her face with deep burning black eyes laden with erotic
invite, blending to perfection a sense of shame with hints of perversion;
long lashes under the shades of abundant eyebrows, inviting you to consider
the prettiest of noses, with that slight upturn alluding to endless glee,
leading to her mouth. The mouth. That Mouth!
Lips of magic, lips of ensnarement. Full and abundant, dark red and oh,
so finely co-ordinated with the henna of her hair, the proverbial ripe
fruit waiting to be tasted, their succulence the dream of desert-lost
adventurers, those lips could tell me of Eleusinian Mysteries as well
as suckle the sacred hydromel whilst she worshiped my sceptre and jewels.
The chin, the fleshy cheeks, the oval of the face, it was all there in
absolute divinity. The kind of face that would make a preacher lay his
bible down (ask Muddy Waters or your preacher!).
At this point, I decided I had to do something. Luck and C'Thulu working
in unison, the Dutch group at the table next to Ms. Goddess decided to
leave at this blessed moment. Not even waiting for the waiter to clear
the table, I moved in. She looked at me as I sat down, and I blurted something
about escaping the sun, quite inane indeed, since the table I escaped
enjoyed equal shading with this new one. But how could I tell her that
her shade was all I craved?
The conversation I then proceeded to eavesdrop was all about her philandering
boss and her job as a summer maid in a rich vacationing family's household,
on holiday in Avignon for the Festival. Not sure if Mr. Big Boss managed
to have his way with her, but it sounded as if he tried mightily. Ah,
the joys of ancillary amours: little maids tend to fuck as enthusiastically
as duchesses, but they're a whole lot cheaper. Don't you agree, M'lord?
Now, I'm sitting facing her, and thanks to dark sunglasses, I can continue
my exploration. The vest I spoke of earlier is also very low-cut on the
front side, giving one a fine view on some superb cleavage. Venus de Provence
having eschewed a bra this afternoon, I find myself able to see breasts
with a will, the will to expose as much of themselves as Missy's movements
will allow. And all excited as she is by the lurid tale of her employer's
attentions, she allows plenty, believe me!
Firm they seem ("Excuse me Miss, may I cup your boobs and check for texture
and warmth?"), and abundant without excess, enough for a double-handed
elevation as the twinkling of bells and the chants of cherubs lead the
adorers to the altar of her nipples.
At one point, she bends forward and I see one berry of a nipple, nicely
erect possibly due to the perverse excitement of her tale. Later, she
stretches tigress-like and it's a full view of a gold ring pierced belly
button I am regaled with! Where will it all end? How much more can I take?
Ah, to be her acolyte for a lifetime or for a day, just to sit there enthralled
and mesmerised, watching her breathe.
More mundane and lustful concepts work their way through my mind, though.
I am grabbed by the urge to grab her and denude her at this café terrace,
to squeeze her so hard so as to find myself both in front and in back
of her at the same time. I want to open her up and read and taste her
secrets, invest and invade every atom of her marvels. And then, content
and united, to elope with her into abysses of delectation. I see warm
aromas rising from her languor, I taste the moans of her excited state,
and scream in silence the wishes of Eros. Verily, we have entered regions
of mystery, where soul and flesh meet and sublimate.
When I say "we", it is wishful thinking to the utmost, of course, for
Lil' Darling has ignored me throughout with a virtuosity worthy of an
award! Also, for there is always a black cloud to go with that silver
lining, she is accompanied, as you might have surmised. He smiles meekly,
appears interested, nods occasionally, interjects here and there, and
fails to devour her on the spot. I won't describe the geek, all too common,
I fear (Ladies, just look at your boyfriends!!). But tormenting and torturous
are the pangs of frustration as I picture his roving hands mapping her
perfection, his fingers running ellipses and double-eights in sweet musk
and sandalwood scented coves I wish I could fathom.
Later that night in my hotel room, trying to find solace in Morphea's
soft bosom (hoped-for sister of Morpheus, son of Hypnos!), whilst memories
of Venus in Thongs make my blood flow southward and up the stiff incline,
I realise in full the unfairness of your God.
From the next room and through the flimsy walls, I hear…
Moans and whispers and excited breathing
Creaks and croaks from much fatigued bedding
With a woman in need finding her fulfilment
While a star-filled member leads her to firmament:
"I'm coming, I'm coming, I'm comiiiiiing", she kindly informs her neighbours.
"Coming" as a figure of speech, I'm sure, and stating the very obvious,
since a Lady so moved has obviously arrived.