My eyes stare at the keel. The quiet water is lapping the keel of the boat. Do boats make love? And why shouldn't they?
Now, thinking over it, the water is licking the keel while the outboard penetrates the water. Yes, boats make love with water.
The water is lightly rippled, like hips wigging slowly, like mine in fact. Venice is like a lover and that's where I have wanted to bring mine, everything in this city is making love.
This night breeze, a relief after an overly hot day, it's cool and it makes me feel hot.
I picked this dress on purpose, it's black with small white flowers, a frill on the bottom.
A deep V neckline, just hinting to the base of my breast and stiletto sandals. Nothing else, and I mean nothing else.
This cool breeze moves my dress, I see the uncomfortable look on my lover's face as we walk on the side of the canal, not touching.
That's the rule I placed to this game and he accepted, not only I told him I'm not wearing anything other than my fluctuating dress and stiletto heels, but he cannot touch me, and neither will I, until...the time will come.
I saw him reacting immediately as I explained the rules, an immediate swelling in his pants, and the uncomfortable yet pleased look on his face, ready for another game.
I have let him pick the restaurant, now the stage is mine...so here we sit, on the side of the canal, boats rocking slowly, it's like quiet panic. Everything looks quiet, still, resting...but...there's something in store.
We nibble on a share dish of Mediterranean appetizers, sun dried tomatoes lying in their oil puddle, eggplant sauce to spread on small bits of pita bread, cubes of feta cheese rolling on my tongue, artichokes and olives, each bite is a provoking to the senses. His eyes stare the sun dried tomato entering my mouth, wishing it was his cock, and I show him the same smile a torturer would show to his victim.
He moves on his chair when I suck on an olive to extract the small, spicy, red pepper piece that's stuffing it.
It's rewarding to tease him, to imagine his cock growing in his pants, pulsating...
My tease game continues on a dish of grilled scampi served with different sauces, so I can dip them in one, lick it off, roll the crustacean on my tongue, then give it a bite and munch it with a naughty look in my eyes. His eyes are totally taken, his risotto is not capturing his attention as much as my mouth does, and he keeps on adjusting on his chair.
I am excited, I have wanted him to look rough, unshaved, it's double as exciting and my thighs are glistening wetness from an aroused pussy leaking its juices. But it's not time yet...
I wonder, if the waiter has understood anything of our game, if he has noticed a bulge under the table and envies us for the game we are playing. How many games does he witness everyday, which could be more interesting? In a while I find myself envying the waiter, he is probably aware of more games than I can think of.