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| Blogs > rm_trainmepls1 > Seven Eves |
Erotica
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Erotica I was just going through old posts today and came across this story that my b/f (needluv694me) and I wrote together. . I put it inside this blog entry as its own post since it's so long!  |
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Awesome...  I can live without winning the good fight... but I can not live without fighting it.
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Awesome...  Can you tell which parts were written by a man and which by a woman?
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Chapter 1 Elizabeth crossed the floor of her sitting room slowly, stiffly, clutching her cane in her gnarled right hand. The age darkened floor boards creaked and groaned beneath her, not from the weight of her slight 102 lbs, but more likely from the weight of her 87 years of life. Elizabeth laughed softly to herself; what a silly analogy to make. She couldn't possibly be that old already, and her life experiences certainly weren't of the sort to weigh a person down. Of course she had had her troubles here and there, but on the whole her life had been, and still was, one of passion and excitement. Elizabeth lowered herself carefully into her wicker armchair in front of a pile of manuscript paper sitting on her cherry wood desk. Most of the paper was still fresh and blank, but there were quite a few pages already filled with her elegant, slanting script. Elizabeth was writing her memoirs. She had introduced herself to her prospective literary audience, telling them about the pretty, bright, auburn-haired, athletic girl growing up in farm country in Nebraska. The young girl had grown into a teen with a strong-willed, rebellious nature belied by a gentle, fawn-like beauty, all long legs and big brown innocent eyes. She had had admirers - quite a few, in fact. Vincent had been the most notable, so notable in fact that Elizabeth had followed him to Paris when she was just 17. School and a sleepy life as a farmer's daughter held no interest for Elizabeth - Babette, as Vincent liked to call her - compared to the intensity of Vincent's deep, dark eyes or the persuasive strength of his hands grasping her arms to pull her closer for a kiss or what appeared to the 17-year-old Babette to be the infinite wisdom of an older man of 34. Elizabeth flushed slightly remembering their first night together in Paris. She picked up her pen and began to write about it. Chapter 2 They'd spent the day seeing all the usual sights...the Eiffel Tower, the Arch de Triumphe, strolling the Champs Eleysee. It was heavenly. Sure the Germans were making trouble, but that had seemed so far away, and now with the coming of evening, the lights of Paris were magic. She could see more stars in Nebraska, but she could touch the lights of Paris. As they walked, Vincent held his arm around her waist, and she had leaned against him a little, feeling safe and secure in his strength. Her heart was full, and she smiled at everyone as they strolled along. Suddenly he stopped and pulled her to him and kissed her full on the lips, his tongue just brushing her lips....teasing...tantalizing. She'd never felt quite like that before. Sure, there had been times when her dreams were filled with images she barely understood, that caused feelings she couldn't suppress, and her hands had wandered...but this was different. Her heart pounded, her lips met his, she pressed against him, her breasts flat against his hard chest, her legs trembling. The kiss stopped, he looked at her with those deep dark eyes, and she melted. She was his, and nothing she could do would allow her to resist. He took her hand and they half walked-half ran across the square and to the room they'd rented. The door closed with a soft click, and he pushed her gently against the wall, holding her arms outstretched with his hands as he bent toward her and kissed her again, this time pushing himself against her. She felt the bulge in his pants and wanted desperately to touch it, to explore it, to wrap her hands around it and feel its strength. He let her go and she turned and slowly made her way toward the interior of the room, following her, he gently pushed her against the wall again, but this time her back was toward him, and he kissed her neck, and nibbled on her ears. She felt his hot breath on her neck as his hands slid from her waist to her breasts, cupping them, teasing the nipples through her dress. His hands slid from her breasts and past her waist to her hips, and then over her derriere, caressing the curve of her buttocks, exploring the cleft between them. Her breathing came fast and shallow...she'd never felt quite like this before, but she wanted it to last forever. She felt his hand quickly lifting her dress and sliding beneath her underwear....it felt so good...she pushed her derriere toward his hand, and then suddenly his hand was between her legs. His fingers slid easily through the moisture between her lips and she'd gasped as waves of pleasure washed over her. She desperately wanted to touch his manhood, but his weight pressed her against the wall, immobile, as he explored places even her fingers had never quite reached during those pubescent dreams. She gasped and shuddered as his fingers stroked her little button, and then, just as she thought she could stand it no longer, he had grasped her clitoris, pinching and twisting and pulling it gently. Her legs collapsed as her hips had thrust forward and something between a cry and a groan escaped her throat. Her body pulsed as he pulled her quietly away from the wall and led her, stumbling, toward the bed. bending her forward over the edge of the bed, he'd told her to stay there, and then she heard the sound of his clothes as he removed them. He'd flipped her dress over her back, then, and pulled off her wet underwear to reveal what had become the center of all sensation for the moment. And then she felt him. He was erect and ready and he slid his organ between her exposed lips, covering it with her moisture. She could feel it throb as it rubbed her and once again her breathing came fast and shallow as her excitement rose. The rubbing stopped it he pushed against her....slowly.....slowly.....she could feel him just at her threshold, thrusting gently but insistently, pushing....pushing.....and then he was inside her. Just barely, but enough that she could feel the tip of his organ slowly sliding in and out of her waiting body. With his hands on her back as she bent over the bed, she was unable to move, but her body didn't care...her entire being was centered around the tip of Vincent's manhood as it entered her and then left her empty again and again. Vincent would take her to the edge of bliss and then pull back over and over, until she had cried and begged for him to let her orgasm wash over her. Finally, she felt him stop, the tip of his organ inside her, pulsing.....he groaned, and as he pulled out of her, she felt the force of his ejaculation splash over her aching button. At last, the heat of his orgasm pushed her over the edge and her own body, writhing and thrusting, began to tremble and throb with her orgasm. Clutching the bedspread with both hands, she gasped and sobbed with release as she flowed over the peak of her passion. Her body slowly relaxed, but still twitched as here breathing slowed. Vincent lay on the bed, and she finally took her clothes off and lay down beside him. She nestled against the hair on his chest, throwing her leg over his, tracing the chiseled shape of his muscular arms, playing with his now-soft manhood.... Elizabeth could picture every move, recall every sensation, even after all these years. Smiling to herself, she put the pen down, picked up her cane and struggled to her feet. It was time for bed, and tomorrow was another day. She shuffled back across the sitting room, stopping to look at a photograph, faded with age, and dogeared from handling....a single tear escaped her eye as she looked at it for a long moment, and then she turned and shuffled on. Tomorrow had always been another day. Chapter 3 Elizabeth was up with the sun the next morning. She had had her tea and toast and was now lazing in bed again, but now she was no longer alone. Gordon, her physiotherapist slash lover was lying beside her, both of them basking in a ray of early morning sunshine. Elizabeth had never had call to use the term 'physiotherapist slash lover' with anyone since Gordon's existence was essentially a private matter between the two of them, but she got a kick somehow out of calling him that in her mind. Gordon was actually a retired physiotherapist in his early 70s. He had the most skilled hands for massage, and Elizabeth always felt like a young woman again after he was through kneading away her aches and pains. The two of them would always end up lying in bed together, talking and touching and caressing, after Elizabeth's therapy. He reminded her so much of Henri Matisse at that same age - distinguished, bearded, with the same knowing dark eyes that could see right into your soul, past any exterior distractions. Elizabeth had posed for Matisse several times in Paris in 1940. As the memories started flooding back, she grabbed the pad and pen at the side of the bed and started writing, while Gordon dozed lightly beside her. Tragically, Vincent had been killed when the Germans invaded France in the late spring of 1940. Babette was heartbroken, but she was strong and knew she had to fend for herself during those hard times. She had no money; her only valuable possession was the freshwater pearl bracelet with a sterling silver clasp that was her last gift from Vincent. She would have to find a way to earn money, which was difficult since she didn't speak more than a few words of French. Jobs were few and far between in Paris at the time. Food was rationed. Due to their more industrial nature, the areas outside of Paris were targets for the Germans. Babette would have to stay put and survive as best she could. She happened upon Henri one day in the boulangerie. Babette was trying to buy bread but was, to her embarrassment, short of money. They kindly, old, bearded, bespectacled man in line behind her bought her bread for her and offered her a job, too. It was a long time ago, but she could still remember essentially what he had said: He told her she had the most inspiring, graceful, natural beauty he had ever seen; would she pose for his next painting? Blushing, she readily agreed. The next week she arrived at his studio, a little unsure of what would happen, yet eager to earn some money and curious to see Henri's work. She was pretty sure she had heard his name before, but when she arrived at the studio and saw his paintings, she was astounded by their beauty and creativity. Babette felt humbled to be in the presence of such a talented artist. Her heart was beating a mile a minute as he greeted her at the studio door, kissing both her cheeks and remarking again on her beauty. Henri guided Babette toward a bench in front of an open window. He seated her down and backed up a few paces to contemplate her, maintaining eye contact the whole time. "Have you been to the Riviera, Cherie?" he had asked her. She had and told him so. "Very good," he said. "Imagine now that you are there. You can hear the surf behind you. There are seagulls overhead. You are relaxed and happy. Close your eyes, Cherie." She closed her eyes and tried to imagine the sound of the surf and gulls. Her eyes were still closed as she felt Henri's hands at the top button of her blouse. Her eyes sprang open in surprise, and her heart pounded high in her chest. "Relax, Cherie. The most natural state of a beautiful woman is to be nude, do you not agree? Imagine yourself as one with the water and the sand. You are no longer in the dirty, artificial city of Paris. You are a goddess of nature, naked and beautiful." He brushed her eyelids shut again and began unbuttoning her blouse. Babette's pulse raced and she swayed a little, dizzily, on her seat on the bench. She wasn't sure if she should try to leave or let him continue; did he want something more than for her to pose for him? She felt very out of her element here with this elderly artist. Her blouse was entirely unbuttoned now, and she could feel the breeze from the open studio window cooling her neck and her stomach. She felt very exposed and vulnerable, but she kept her eyes shut and tried to imagine the Riviera. Goosebumps ran down her arms. Henri slipped her blouse off her shoulders and unhooked her bra at the back. It, too, slipped down off her shoulders of its own accord, leaving her breasts exposed. The draft from the window played around her nipples, and Babette could feel them begin to harden and stand up. "Cherie, you are perfection. Such perfect, high, round breasts and an elegant neck. Ah, if I were only 40 years younger..." He softly cupped her breasts and ran his thumbs over her nipples, making them stand out even more. Babette flinched slightly but didn't open her eyes. She was still a little afraid, but she could also feel herself getting wet and aroused. She had never shown her breasts to anyone other than Vincent, and she wasn't sure what to make of this 70-year-old artist admiring her beauty in such an intimate way. She could hear him step back from her again, presumably to look at her with an artist's eye. Babette kept her eyes closed and tried to focus on the imaginary sound of crashing surf and sea birds. She could almost believe that the breeze from the window was blowing in off the water, carrying the fresh salty scent of the sea. She hardly noticed Henri's hands unbuttoning her skirt, and she compliantly stood as he took her by the upper arms and lifted her up from the bench. Her skirt fell to the floor, and she stepped out of it. Henri slid her panties down her long, athletic legs, stroking the muscles in her thighs as he did so. "Such well-formed muscles. Are you a dancer?" She shook her head, no. He tsk-tsked a little under his breath. "Quel gaspillage." She stepped out of her panties, as well, as he guided her back down onto the bench. He stepped back again. "Ah, one more detail." He went to unclasp her bracelet, but here Babette was no longer a willing subject. She withdrew her arm and opened her eyes. She hadn't removed the bracelet since Vincent's death. She looked up into Henri's eyes. "It's the last gift from my lover...he was killed in June by the Germans." She could finally say that without breaking down and crying, but still the thought of looking down and seeing her naked wrist was too much to bear. "As you will, Cherie. It is a beautiful bracelet and looks well on your arm." Henri retreated to his easel, and Babette kept her eyes open, watching his every move, wondering what would come next. She sat there for a few minutes while Henri mixed a few colours on his palette and studied her. "Cherie, you need to relax. You look as though you are hiding from me. Sit up straight and tall, push forward your pretty breasts and be proud and open." Losing a little of her self-consciousness, Babette did so. She took in a deep breath and straightened up and pushed her shoulders back, feeling her lungs expand and her breasts balance perfectly and buoyantly. She felt tingling pulses shooting from the pit of her stomach to between her legs. Henri smiled broadly and nodded his head and began to paint. After Henri had reached a certain place in his painting, he paused and looked meaningfully at her. "Now Cherie, I need something more from you. I need to see the deepest, most base and natural feeling you have. Part your knees, Cherie." Babette blushed deeply and opened her legs slightly. She could feel the cool air against her moist, hot inner thighs, and she realized that she was quite wet and aroused. "Wider, Cherie, please." Babette couldn't do it. It just wasn't proper. Even Vincent had never asked her to actually show herself to him like that. She blushed as fear and uncertainty crept back into her mind. Henri got up from his easel and walked back over to her. He stood over her for a few seconds trying to decide what was going through her mind. Babette looked up at him and met his gaze. "I think you are just shy, Cherie, " he said, as he opened her legs himself and returned to his painting. Babette felt her lower lips part and the air caress private places that were now no longer only for her eyes. She felt awkward and open and vulnerable under the old painter's eye. "Put your hand on your thigh, " he instructed her. She did. "Higher." She obliged. "Even higher, Cherie." She did that too. Her finger tips were now obscured by her soft, dark bush of hair. "Now...stroke yourself for me, Cherie. Give yourself pleasure. I need to paint your eyes and face." Babette, without thinking, did as Henri said. Trickles of fluid ran from between her lips down her inner thigh. Babette stroked herself for this stranger, this 70-year-old painter, abandoning herself to his wishes and to her own expert fingers. She opened her legs a little more and arched her neck and back slightly as she lost herself more in the electric sensations of pleasure running through her body, oblivious to Henri's brush strokes on the canvas. She was very close to climax when she felt Henri's hand move her own away and continue working her clit while he inserted two fingers inside her to reach her most internal pleasure spot. Babette gasped and raised her hands up to clutch at her own face and neck as she writhed in the intense Ecstasy of the orgasm to which Henri had brought her. "That, Cherie, is the look I needed. Merci." He kissed her full on the lips and returned to his easel, painting furiously, seemingly no longer even needing Babette's presence. She got up off the bench to see what he had created. It was a masterpiece. She felt flushed with both pride and pleasure as she left his studio with the happiest smile she had had since before Vincent's death. That session was only the first of many. Elizabeth put the pen and pad down as she heard Gordon stirring to wakefulness beside her. Chapter 4 Yawning, Gordon raised himself up on one elbow and said, "Good morning...I see you're up early as usual." "Yes," she said, "and I've written another chapter!" "Wonderful," he replied, "We'll read it together later, but now, your arthritis must be making you stiff. Let's get you moving again." His powerful fingers began to knead her recalcitrant joints, and the ache began to recede. As she lay there, her age and infirmity slowly faded under the expert ministrations of Gordon's fingers, and her mind began to wander..... It was Paris in 1943, and she was barely managing to survive as an American under the Vichy government, especially since she'd recently taken up with Pierre, a man she'd met who was part of the Resistance. She had to be careful, or she'd be under scrutiny by the government and her life would be in danger. In that maelstrom of political intrigue, a chance meeting at a bistro had put her social life back on track. Pierre made her tingle whenever she saw him, and she had gone home with wet panties more than once. She remembered the first time they made love. Pierre had been talking about the way things were going, but she'd not been listening...gazing instead into his hazel eyes, wondering what it would be like to be with him, and feeling her panties get wet yet again. As they left the bistro, she caught his arm and smiled up at him when he looked at her in surprise. They were off to see one of the local shows, and she was just happy to be with him. The room was crowded with German officers, but they found a seat near the stage and sat down to watch. There were singers, and dancers, and a stripper. She wasn't at all sure she was interested in seeing another woman naked, but she had the mischievous thought that maybe it would give Pierre ideas for later. The stripper started her routine, and Babette noticed that she was, indeed, quite beautiful. As the act proceeded, she found that while she was not quite aroused, she was definitely interested. Finally, the stripper was totally nude, thrusting her hips and spreading her legs for the assembled audience. When she moved around the stage so that she was in front of Babette and Pierre, she did the usual thrusting and spreading, and Babette was rendered speechless....this woman had the largest clitoris she'd ever seen! It was three or four centimeters long and perhaps a centimeter in diameter and protruded from between the stripper's nether lips quite prominently. Babette found herself fascinated and maybe a little aroused, but when she glanced at Pierre, she caught him rearranging a prominent bulge in his pants. Soon enough, the show was over, and Pierre had walked Babette back to her tiny third-floor flat. As they reached the door, he bent to kiss her, and her passion exploded. Her mouth hungrily sought his, her body pressed against his body, her hands pulled his hips tight against her belly, and she parted her legs just enough for his knee to slide between them. After what seemed forever, the embrace ended. The front of his pants had a definite bulge, and she laughed as she touched it, pulling him into her room and loosening his belt. He finished the job, dropping his pants and briefs to the floor and kicking them away, his erection standing away from his body. His shirt was next, and as he'd reached for her, she'd moved away, slowly undressing herself as she looked directly into his eyes. She stood before him naked, and let his eyes take in her beauty...the soft curve of her breasts, the button of her pink nipples, the flare of her hips, the triangle of soft, brown hair that receded between her legs. Pierre's breath was deep and trembling, his penis fully erect, drops of crystal liquid oozing from the tip. He watched her put her hand between her legs, cover it with her own liquid and then reach for his erection. Her juices mixed with his as she moistened his shaft and began to stroke it slowly. It felt so good in her hand, as it slid easily under her fingers! She pulled him to her cot and pushed him down to lie on his back. With a mischievous grin, she turned to straddle him with her mouth on his penis and her wet nether lips over his face. She began to move her head up and down, stroking his penis with her lips, teasing it with her tongue, tasting their combined juices. Soon, she felt the moist warmth of his tongue exploring between her lips, licking her inner lips, circling her clit, flicking it, pressing it gently. He sucked her clit into his mouth, nibbling gently, stroking it with his tongue. "He's SO good," she'd thought at the time, as her hips had begun to thrust gently on their own. She recalled the feel of his penis in her mouth, the hardness of the shaft and the soft velvet of the head. Soon she could stand it no longer and turned to face him, slowly lowering her hips to slide his penis inside her, feeling it fill her as it entered. Farther and farther she lowered herself onto his penis until it was completely engulfed. Stopping for a moment, she felt it throb inside her, reacting to her heat. She felt his hands on her breasts, lifting their weight, stroking them, teasing her nipples, rubbing them, twisting them, pinching them.... Her hips began to move, his penis sliding in and out of her, and his hips began to move in time with hers. Her breathing became deep and ragged, her movements more urgent...the thrusting changed so that she could rub her clit on his belly as his penis stroked in and out of her. Suddenly, she felt him thrust into her and stop...his head went back, his body tensed, and he let out a long groan. She felt his penis pulse inside her as he exploded, and then her own body tensed, her legs shook, her back arched, and with a few quick thrusts, her own body began to contract rhynically around his penis as she held her breath for a long moment and released it in a shuddering cry. Her reverie was interrupted by Gordon's voice. "Where were you?" he asked. "In France," she replied. Nodding, he winked at her and said, "I'll be back later, but I've got some errands to run. Do you need anything?" "Maybe another notebook," she said, thoughtfully, "I seem to be using them up more quickly than I imagined." "Very well, I won't be long." "I'm not going anywhere," she winked as she picked up her cane and shuffled into the sitting room. Lowering herself slowly into her favorite wicker armchair, she picked up her pen, selected a piece of paper from the table in front of her, and began to write.......
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1/12/2011 11:53 am |
Great writing. You have a wonderful way of making the story so visual i could picture myself in Vincent's place. Thanks for making my afternoon so pleasant. Greg
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