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| Blogs > migentleman49 > My Blog |
it was the kind of night that moves slowly...
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it was the kind of night that moves slowly... it was the kind of night that moves slowly, hot and humid. The moisture was suspended so that you walked through it, rather having it fall on you as rain. The thick air made it hard to get a full breath and yet the frogs and crickets were in full voice. The moon was up. It was a pale yellow color with a fog surrounding it. The colors and hues of the forest were muted in shadows from the dim moonlight. We walked silently, hand in hand down the gravel path until we got to the porch of the old house. The wooden rocking chairs lining the wood slat floor below the cocked shudders hanging on the wall didn’t move as we opened the door and walked inside. It was a man’s house. The walls were roughhewn planks taken from the forest that surrounded us in another era. The ceilings were stamped with tin squares from the turn of the century south, when cotton was still king and the bayous were places where people went to be lost. I walked to the mantle over the fireplace in the parlor and struck a match to light the candles. One by one the light filled the room and the shadows that creped-in through the long windows began to fade. She stood in the middle of the room looking quizzically at the walls that were lined with carefully crafted bookcases filled with leather and cloth bound spines with gold lettering of all descriptions. She stepped closer to the massive wall of books that reached to the full 12 foot height of the wall. Emerson, Thoreau, Falkner, Hemingway, Kipling, Wolf, Steinbeck, Fitzgerald and Dubois stood lining the shelves as testament to a more enlightened time. A time when men were men of destiny and women were their ornaments, their trophies. As she absorbed the depth of the moment he stepped to within an arm’s reach of her from behind and extended his hands to her shoulders. His hands grasped both her shoulders and her head fell down on one side against his hand, and she moaned. He pulled her back against his chest and wrapped an arm around her while his other hand pulled her soft hair to the one side. While she collapsed against him he put his head down to her soft shoulder and kissed her neck. “This is my hideaway. Nobody has been here except you, “ his words were soft yet the timber in his voice matched the grains that surrounded them. “This is very special”, she whispered to him. He led her into the next room and lit several candles that removed the darkness and shown a tall large bed nestled between four posts and covered in white cotton linens piled high with pillows and shams of paisley Victorian chenille. Subtle, yet elegant coverings that added depth to an already richly textured room. The candlelight showed its flickering light onto the stone fireplace and deeply upholstered leather chair that sat beside it. A small side table with a wine decanter and leather-bound edition of Rudyard Kipling’s The Man Who Would Be King lay awaiting the next chapter to unfold. She finished her view of the room and returned her attention to him as he handed her a glass of red wine he produced from the bedside table. The hand-cut crystal glasses lifted the scent of the wine up into her senses as she raised it to her lips. “To your success”, she said as she sipped the deep red elixir. “Bringing you here tonight is the only success I want right now”, he looked into her eyes and said “I want you to know all of me, the things I allow everyone to see and the things that no one else has ever known about me. You have no idea how I protect this part of me.” He stepped over to a large armoire that looked like it was over 100 years old and opened the door to reveal an electronic array of monitors, buttons, LED lights and switched on the power. Immediately, the sounds of uncommon blues began to fill the room. The music was a blend of creole, zydeco and New Orleans jazz. It was organic in the way that it awakened the senses almost as if it had been conjured-up by an old Acadian squeezebox master deep in the bayou. “I didn’t think there was electricity in the house with all the candles and such’, she said with some amazement in her voice. “Well I am a traditionalist, but I am also practical. The candles were my way of beginning my seduction of you,” his tone was soft yet full voiced. “I wanted you to experience the house slowly, discovering its charm and character that is hidden under the shadows, kind of like me,” he smiled and walked to her. He reached both his hands to her face brushing her hair back with his fingers, then cupping his hands on either side of her cheeks; he drew her to him and kissed her. His hands soon moved slowly from her face to the blouse she wore. His fingers began to unbutton the fabric and when he began to slip the third button through its opening she grasped his hands in hers. “Stop there and sit down” whereupon she pushed against his chest with her hands directing him to the plush leather chair by the fireplace. He stepped to the chair and settled into it looking at her all the time. “You presume too much sir. You brought me here knowing how to arouse my senses and make me crave your touch as you play-out this beautiful and erotic seduction. In fact, I am going to be in control of you tonight. It is I that is going to fill your senses with my smell, taste and passion”, she looked squarely into his eyes and spoke in her dry southern-miss voice. As he sat looking somewhat surprised and pleased, she began to slip the third button of her blouse through its eyelet, then the next and the next. Her eyes didn’t leave his while she slid her blouse off and onto to the floor while she swayed in time with the sounds of the night and that eccentric pulsating jazz rhythm that was drifting through the bayou. The shadows created ghost-like images across his lap as she slid out of the skirt she wore revealing her soft white skin and features. She stood in front of him wearing only the string of pearls he had given her and azure blue heals. Her blonde hair was teased and wildly coiffed on her head adding to the titillation. The music was beginning to take her to places in her mind and soul she had not often been. She was a vision of erotic energy. The wry smile that came across her lips every time she looked into his eyes added to his enjoyment. After a few minutes of wild gyrations and dancing, beads of perspiration began to appear on her neck and chest, sliding slowly down between her breast that jostled with every turn and dip she took. Her legs began to lower her towards the seasoned hard wood floor and the tapestry that lay on it. She held his knees as she knelt. Her thighs flexed and spread wide as she came to rest before him, crouched on her knees. The music was increasing in intensity. Her body glistened through the beads of sweat. Her checks were ruby red and looked quite inviting against the backdrop of the large four-poster bed with the white linens and mounds of colorful pillows. Her eyes never lost their connection with his and he only diverted his momentarily to gaze at her natural beauty. She reached to his chest once again and began to unbutton his shirt. Her fingers were skilled at knowing how to undress a man, slowly and deliberately. Under her breath she hummed along with the chaotic rhythms, her passion building into a frenzy that she could not constrain for much longer. She wanted to take him as a tigress would take prey in the wild. Once she opened his shirt and pulled it from his trousers she began to unbutton his belt. She slid his khakis down his legs, one at a time until he sat there, his manhood exposed and throbbing. He was beginning to sweat, yet he had done nothing thus far except watch her… |
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Nice to see the power in both camps.
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