Saturday, November 17, 2007


She arrived in a short skirt, knee high boots, fish net stockings and a basque.
We drank wine, lots of it, chatted, kissed.
We stood together in the kitchen while she smoked cigarettes, my hand on her waste.
On the couch we touched, she leaning her head on my shoulder, me stroking her hair and back.
Later in bed, our clothes on the floor we entered each other, bodies sliding together, kissing constantly.
She came. Everywhere. On the bed, the towels that I’d fortunately placed to hand. In my mouth. On my pelvis as we grinded together. Rivers of it, cascading from her like a waterfall, powerful, intense, beautiful. She apologised, I told her not to be sorry.
Afterwards we sat facing each other on the bed, legs entwined, my thighs on hers, arms wrapped tightly around each other, kissing and talking, my hands in her hair, hers on the small of my back.
“perfecto,” she said, over and over again.
Today I am left with a hang over, a lot of washing to do, and a smile.
I’m glad I returned her call.

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