(preface'; if you're looking for line after line of pure porn, this isn't the story for you. In this I aim for the latter part of the site's title, a sense of unbridled, shameless erotica, and certain readers might, hopefully find it amusing and entertaining, . It does get very heated as it grows to inevitable climax. It's quite a long read, but if you decide to run with it I hope you enjoy it, or at least parts of it. S')
DEGUELLO
Shadows And Reflection
Memories of other places, as distant as the times that framed them, flitted through his awareness. Those places had known as much quiet, as much of peaceful breezes and soothing, shadow dappling, sunlight. There had been moments of calm and reflection in those times and places.
However, there had not been such a sense of tranquillity as held sway here. No, instead, always, enshrined in the living of those recalled events there had lain risk. Immense risk that even skill and calmest ability could never fully remove.
He smiled, unseen by those easily heard chatting no more than fifty feet away. Despite this being only his second visit to this place, once he had stepped from the pathway and into the trees, he had come 'home', re-entered one of his most natural elements.
She was there, her appearance and posture offering a look of almost nonchalant elegance framed in his carefully established field of vision. His eyes absorbed the gleaming tan of exposed thigh where it escaped the insignificant shrouding of a short skirt. The skirt, worn to order, was plaid, a cliché ripe in provocation, and possessing an established element of an in-joke.
Taught legs worked the full benefit of high heels that should by rights have turned a walk through life into an experience akin to strolling a swaying tightrope. Despite how much he truly appreciated the visual rewards sponsored by stilettos, he would never understand how the hell a woman could walk in them.
So, she was playing the game according to the rules so recently laid down. In a way, he was impressed. She at least had the courage to pursue the game this far. Many, indeed most, would not possess such fortitude. On the other hand, some might say it was arrogance she demonstrated. Maybe, he mused, she just didn't know when to back of, to cut and run.
His eyes travelled higher, scanning the white top where thin fabric stroked its prophetic way over a taught belly, subtly flesh clad ribs and those delectable breasts. He loved proportion in all things, almost. There had been no real place in his personal history for proportion. The seeming contradiction was more a 'personal' mantra, a coda engraved on his past's hidden memorial.
In women's beauty, proportion was often the key. Whether they were tall, short, slim or stocky, it was often the way their bodies and features interplayed, worked with one another, that held the key to unlocking the vault of attractiveness. The way beauty and desirability was packaged in the media was predictably a joke.
Catwalk models were generally the pinnacle of that ever escalating joke . Nothing wrong with the height they had, but, 'for Gods sake', why the hell did they always seem to end up looking like anorexic giraffes, recruiting posters for 'Cult Bulimia'. Even worse, why did the world conspire with the lie that those anaemic looking straws looked good? In many cases, you could find more flesh on a xylophone. It must be like bedding a skeleton, and necrophilia, no matter how advanced, had never appealed to him.
No...., proportion was the key, that and a body that knew it was a woman's, knew it's own identity.
His life though, the way he had lived, experienced, was subject to different standards. There was no real place for proportion in the fabric of his existence. Therein lay, and always had lain, large portions of the extreme. But...payday had been payday, so it was a case of taking the rough with the smooth.
She had taken a deep breath. Those delectable breasts moved in a shimmer of temptation. They weren't huge, nor were they small. They were 'present'. They were so very worthy of note, and they were beautifully formed. They fit her well, as if tailored to the rest of her tight body.
Her hair travelled in a sweeping arc as she scanned about her. He knew she was looking for him, searching the sparse scattering of walkers and tourists. She had already seen him. Four times, he had walked by her. Twice, they had been close enough for him to have reached out and touched her.
She hadn't even realised her eyes had beheld the same man more than once. They had been tricked, confused, rather than deceived. Camouflage was indeed and art, so much more involved than mottled paints and scraggy, bushy, outcrops and ragged add-ons. Many think camouflage is about hiding something behind an obscuring screen. It isn't. Camouflage is about altering outlines, disrupting form. It is all about dissembling the real, and applying a visual leger de main.
All it had taken was a cheap reversible lightweight coat, two different hats, two pairs of sunglasses, a newspaper, and cheap drawstring pack. In different combinations, they allowed him to become anything up to a dozen people. Coat on hat A, coat on Hat B, either coat no hat, any of these with sunglasses-slightly-mirrored, any again with sunglasses' flat-black, coat off bag concealed within its folds, paper carried, paper bagged, paper and bag binned. On and on, so many options, so many versions, so many ways to merge innocuously with her memory's blind spots. Often the simplest tradecraft could be the most effective. After all,
camouflage, disguise, masks, they get used every day, by people in all walks of life, just so they can keep the 'real me' safe
The sole aspect of him she might recall vividly was his eyes. Normally it would have been a bad error to let her get such a sharp impression of them. Not today. Today it had been deliberate. He knew about the impact of his eyes. It had been remarked upon by plenty. Deeper green than any Irish patriot might pray for, shot through with steel grey belonging on a kensei's art. She would remember them. He had meant her to, like a disturbing shadow of disrupted clarity haunting the very edges of recall.
A breeze caught her hem and flicked the skirt high for a heartbeat. He glimpsed narrow scrap of white fabric nestling between the exposed higher reaches of tan. Her hand had flicked down at the hem. Instinctual self-preservation, even in one self-proclaimed as an exhibitionist. Despite her claims, the programmes kicked in.
He savoured the look of her. Tall, maybe five feet seven, she was slim but sweetly curved. Everything went in when it was meant to, and headed back out when, and where, a man would prefer it did so. Her legs were finely formed, long and lithe, but with a defined sculpt that murmured of strength.
He knew she had riding, dancing, or some form of personal exercise in her 'portfolio'. Legs like hers didn't happen by enacting the merits of planting potatoes in couches.
He would have guessed at riding as a start point for the help nature had in moulding those limbs. Her thighs had the look of a learned need to grip about them. The obvious, but still gentle swell of just apparent muscle fitted with experience of gripping a mount's flanks, and powering the butt's choreographed collusion with saddle and gait. Her calves, similarly subtle in musculature, were right for legs that had used stirrups as fulcrums to lever instructions into an animal far stronger than its rider.
She moved with grace, and an elegance that flowed naturally rather than being produced by design and artifice. He didn't doubt there were times she amplified it, but the basis, the root, that was just part of her.
