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I first saw Freya in Sydney, after work, at her touring incall. She arrived with a shy smile, coquettish as we headed up the elevator alone, beating a last second rush of tourists. We entered, I showered and we did not leave her bedroom. There was no alcohol but the conversation flowed like liquid nonetheless. Afterwards, euphoria and meaningful conversation surrounding me I knew I would have to see this delectable flower again.
Fast forward four months and I am in Melbourne on business and some hopeful pleasure. It was organised two weeks in advance. I wanted her to show me her Melbourne not the one plagued with unruly masses and congregations of consumers that spillover the sidewalk.
I met her at Section 8, she arrived breathless, slightly late as is a female’s prerogative, her upper body encased in a slim red dress and stockings. Her hair golden, untied and swaying with the afternoon wind. We walked down endless alleyways, Melbourne’s quaint closeness reflecting our whispered words and glances. We were sharing a secret, and all the faces, all the people were simply blanks.
Winding staircases and a creaky elevator found us sipping liquor underneath the fading sun at a rooftop terrace. Discourse moving from politics, to our respective childhoods, so varied we kept each other enthralled. In the same building was a restaurant, a modern Australian and Thai get-up with impossibly high ceilings. It was noisy, we picked at a little bit of this and that, a light early dinner that only needed to provide sustenance for the evening to come.
We reach my hotel and I shower. Returning I see she has placed candles around the room. “I am a romantic,” she informs me. Then takes momentary leave and returns in black lingerie. My towel, then carefully wrapped around my mid-riff was suddenly unnecessary. We French kiss, I taste her tongue her hand moves lower, and then finally her body bends at the knees.
She then proceeded to swallow me whole. Tongue a whirling dervish, lips humming, her mouth moist like velvet. She closes her eyes but it is out of enjoyment not some forlorn desire to be somewhere else. I ask her to look up at me, and those sapphire orbs comply. We move to the bed, the pleasure continues. I pull her hair gently as she moves me closer to our mutual goal. Soon there is no resistance, the wall breaks and there is an explosion. Unsurprisingly she reaches for a towel. Surprisingly, she swallows. With proud wickedness, she pokes out her tongue to confirm her deed. I can barely say more than a voiceless amazing.
In the candlelight afterwards I run my hands over supple nipples, tender, luminescent skin and in that instant I notice her beauty more truthful bereft of makeup, of artifice. I am stirred to reciprocate her earlier act. A gentle push, her head against the pillows, I remove her night shade coloured panties. Her secret place happily wet, a sliver of my tongue showed she was willing. I thought of sugarcane juice at first taste, a delightful and sweet thing. Slowly at first, then faster, deeper, a growing intrusion. A few minutes and I held her hand as she shuddered to climax, compelled by a thing so primitive that we are all helpless under its spell. Raising myself to my elbows I noticed a dampness in the white linen. Evidence of her realness becoming a task for some hapless hotel worker to undertake tomorrow.
Finding voice, I told her that I wanted to fuck. Protection applied, I entered her, missionary at first. Then doggy-style, then her on top. The way she moves, the rhythm of her gyrations as though she is dancing to some cosmic, otherworldly song. Spellbound, feeling things that a man must feel before his final day I clung on to her. Buttocks, back, breasts, mouth I needed more of her before this rollercoaster tipped over.
There was little to hold back the knowledge that release was imminent so I moved her back to that fabled religious pose. Sweat mingling, sticky, two bodies as one. Yet even in the midst of it, this delectable creature remembered the little things, like how I liked her hot breath on my earlobes. Whilst I approached plateau she paid attention to them until, our eyes on each other, I went over the hill. We collapsed together, her in my arms till the wicker light waned, naked as the day she was born.
That was late March. Now it is early May and I still have a candle keepsake to remind me of this woman’s timelessness. Her talent is to understand the relevant part of her lovers’, and then make herself the gift we want to reward ourselves with. Life is about memory creation, and clinking our imaginary glasses, here is too many more to come, my genius of unadulterated pleasure.
Fast forward four months and I am in Melbourne on business and some hopeful pleasure. It was organised two weeks in advance. I wanted her to show me her Melbourne not the one plagued with unruly masses and congregations of consumers that spillover the sidewalk.
I met her at Section 8, she arrived breathless, slightly late as is a female’s prerogative, her upper body encased in a slim red dress and stockings. Her hair golden, untied and swaying with the afternoon wind. We walked down endless alleyways, Melbourne’s quaint closeness reflecting our whispered words and glances. We were sharing a secret, and all the faces, all the people were simply blanks.
Winding staircases and a creaky elevator found us sipping liquor underneath the fading sun at a rooftop terrace. Discourse moving from politics, to our respective childhoods, so varied we kept each other enthralled. In the same building was a restaurant, a modern Australian and Thai get-up with impossibly high ceilings. It was noisy, we picked at a little bit of this and that, a light early dinner that only needed to provide sustenance for the evening to come.
We reach my hotel and I shower. Returning I see she has placed candles around the room. “I am a romantic,” she informs me. Then takes momentary leave and returns in black lingerie. My towel, then carefully wrapped around my mid-riff was suddenly unnecessary. We French kiss, I taste her tongue her hand moves lower, and then finally her body bends at the knees.
She then proceeded to swallow me whole. Tongue a whirling dervish, lips humming, her mouth moist like velvet. She closes her eyes but it is out of enjoyment not some forlorn desire to be somewhere else. I ask her to look up at me, and those sapphire orbs comply. We move to the bed, the pleasure continues. I pull her hair gently as she moves me closer to our mutual goal. Soon there is no resistance, the wall breaks and there is an explosion. Unsurprisingly she reaches for a towel. Surprisingly, she swallows. With proud wickedness, she pokes out her tongue to confirm her deed. I can barely say more than a voiceless amazing.
In the candlelight afterwards I run my hands over supple nipples, tender, luminescent skin and in that instant I notice her beauty more truthful bereft of makeup, of artifice. I am stirred to reciprocate her earlier act. A gentle push, her head against the pillows, I remove her night shade coloured panties. Her secret place happily wet, a sliver of my tongue showed she was willing. I thought of sugarcane juice at first taste, a delightful and sweet thing. Slowly at first, then faster, deeper, a growing intrusion. A few minutes and I held her hand as she shuddered to climax, compelled by a thing so primitive that we are all helpless under its spell. Raising myself to my elbows I noticed a dampness in the white linen. Evidence of her realness becoming a task for some hapless hotel worker to undertake tomorrow.
Finding voice, I told her that I wanted to fuck. Protection applied, I entered her, missionary at first. Then doggy-style, then her on top. The way she moves, the rhythm of her gyrations as though she is dancing to some cosmic, otherworldly song. Spellbound, feeling things that a man must feel before his final day I clung on to her. Buttocks, back, breasts, mouth I needed more of her before this rollercoaster tipped over.
There was little to hold back the knowledge that release was imminent so I moved her back to that fabled religious pose. Sweat mingling, sticky, two bodies as one. Yet even in the midst of it, this delectable creature remembered the little things, like how I liked her hot breath on my earlobes. Whilst I approached plateau she paid attention to them until, our eyes on each other, I went over the hill. We collapsed together, her in my arms till the wicker light waned, naked as the day she was born.
That was late March. Now it is early May and I still have a candle keepsake to remind me of this woman’s timelessness. Her talent is to understand the relevant part of her lovers’, and then make herself the gift we want to reward ourselves with. Life is about memory creation, and clinking our imaginary glasses, here is too many more to come, my genius of unadulterated pleasure.
