Dutch Movie - Berlin (pt. 01)

I do not make a habit of eavesdropping. Some nations force it on you: Australia, for example. I also often wonder about coincidences. Recently, on a too-short trip to California, I was unable to not listen in to two burly Australians in a hotel bar. They looked to be three or four whiskies in as one attempted to console the other in a typical (typically ineffective?) Australian way. "Always tough mate, to think of another man sleeping with your bird. She really put on a show with him, just like that, on the street. Bloody hot stuff." Evidently (was it linked to it having been February Carnival time?) one man's object of affections had put on a public show with another man.

What a co-incidence. On my computer was a movie -- a proper piece of art, of cinema - my wife had made before we met. I'd discovered it under unusual circumstances, and I had saved the watching of it until that evening. She'd not been my "bird" those several years ago, but in some way the boozy conversation was helping frame my thinking.

Context may help. I could see why she'd been cast, despite having done nothing more than amateur acting at university (and professional acting of a sort at the law firm where she had made partner). Perfectly cut, shoulder-length blonde hair streamed naturally, playfully about a classic Nordic face. She was a combination of high cheekbones, an aristocratic nose, a smile playing around delightful, naturally red lips. Jade green eyes could sparkle on demand. Middlingly tall (five foot eight), she had the lengthily lean frame of the swimmer and skier that she was, but without the usual thickness of legs. Warmth and playfulness were often hidden behind a professional demeanor, but they were hinted at by the tendrils of hair that strayed over alabaster cheeks and a face that could light up in delight.

Smart and captivating, she travelled on work as often as I. At thirty eight she was the youngest member of a board in France. I'd had to be in Switzerland at the same time, and we met in Paris.

She'd been staying - conventionally and lavishly - at one of the over-stuffed grande dames of the Triangle Doree. I arrived with a sense of absence and hunger. Our lovemaking was urgent and more rapid than normal, a physical reconnection.

Dinner with friends had been planned for that evening. The hosts were a charming couple, but the centerpiece was a talented professor of biochemistry at _______. His intelligence and research successes had given him some renown, yet he also felt his talent had given him a license to shock and stir controversy.

The Professor lived, for fun, in Paris. His Paris was not the tourist Paris. Nor was it the conservative bourgeois Paris of the 16th arrondissement, or even the more liberal and international Paris of the 7th. He was all about being BoBo, the Marais and a Paris that was flamboyant and gay in every sense of the word. His lifestyle was louche and hedonistic. Boyfriends came and went, sometimes two at once. At times it was hard to tell the flings from the boyfriends. The only thing monotonous in his love life was the consistency and rapidity of change.

The party they were collectively attending had been fueled by several magnums of a decent blanc de blancs from a little-known grower in champagne. Tongues had loosened. Of the twenty seated at the long, white, enameled table lit by fat, white candles about half were confirmed bohemians with a taste for money and half money with a taste for bohemianism. The dinner was socially complex: I was an outsider in in a group where couples had formed and reformed (once even from straight to gay and back) with considerable fluidity.

After a surprisingly complex Pouilly Fuisse served with the fish, bottles of various types were now appearing on the table, and the conversation had degenerated into three clusters, one at each end a smaller group in the middle.

Louche professor was at the end towards the broad doors giving onto the wrought Juliette balcony. The windows were open and the hilarity spilled out into the night air. The sister of a famous politician lived across, and the hostess was telling the group, in amusing detail, the activities of the sister of a well-known politician opposite. French was an evocative language for describing both this woman's vocal contributions to lovemaking and her fondness for parading by the windows 'toute nue': completely naked. The hostess noted acidly that she was waiting for the someone to make a film of all her goings on.

The flamboyant Professor decided to interject at that point - in English and looking mischievously at him - "Well your wife might know a thing or two about that." It was said archly and with more than a little acidity.

He refused to rise to the bait, which only egged louche Professor on. About half the group had tuned back to the hostess, but two were watching and listening with great curiosity. "I only saw it once, but I have been pushing Heinz to make a 'Director's Cut'."

He used silence as a weapon. Louche Professor had the courage to shock but lacked the patience to hold his ground. Having offered the bottle to his neighbors, he poured himself a glass of grappa. He sipped and waited, then looking at the louche professor, now tense with lack of response, said "You are a tease... and I'm well aware you've done far worse on film."

It was the Professor's turn to blush. Direct hit: so Louche Professor was not so innocent himself. . "Oh that porno thing in Prague. Deliciously sordid, I assure you but.." The professor was cut off by the host suggesting coffee.

That re-ordered conversation. He glanced curiously at his wife: as blonde and lovely and sexy as ever. Blonde mane twisted to one side accentuated the graceful length of her neck. What had she done?

The evening was still warm as they walked back to the hotel. The deep blue of the sky framed the shifting scenery of Paris. It was lovely, and they were silent as they walked. After a block of walking in silence he asked: "Did you make a movie with Heinz a few years ago?".

She laughed. "Oh dear, what a little gossip that man is. Did he tell you? What a troublemaker! Yes, I did. And I'm somewhat ashamed of it and Heinz has given me his word it won't be released, or seen. I think he showed it to a very small group a couple of times, but he has been sitting on it. I made it just before we met."

She trusted Heinz, but he did not.

Heinz's production company was happy to receive a call the next week from an intermediary entity seeking to purchase rights to the film. Heinz also offered three short films on experimental painters and two longer filmed "meditations" on identity and technology. He passed. For a relatively modest sum the film was his. The legal documentation was tightly worded and the film now in a data center of his choice. For a week he hesitated.

And so, sitting in the bar in California, he thought of what was on his computer. Finally he resolved to watch it. He connected his computer to the display. His fingers gently drummed on the silvery case, nervous and yet expectant at what he would find inside. His eyes were drawn to the black sliver of phone, lying askew on the table. Hesitatingly, he picked it up and dialed her.

"How was your flight?"

"Uneventful."

"And the hotel?"

"Lovely. Exceptionally well done renovation. Wish I could share it with you."

"I have a confession to make..." he said, drawing the words out.

"Really?"

"Yes... I bought the rights to Heinz's film, the important one."

He was rewarded with a small shriek. "I am blushing so much the phone line must be red" she admitted. "But it isn't finished."

"We'll see".

"Oh, now I truly am blushing."

He had expected a nude scene, but now he was utterly intrigued. The period before he met her, before she decided to be a little calmer, a little less high-wire act between work and partying, had certainly been adventurous, fueled by a wildness and more than one kind of consumable.

"It was a bit of a hedonistic time. My career was starting to fly, the money was there, the friends to enable it were there... I was younger and felt invincible. No one sees Heinz's films. At any rate, you'll see. The hedonism was a reaction to perhaps feeling too in control... some bits, oh well, losing control to be in control and all that sort of thing."

"Before you had my interest. Now you have my attention," was his response. "Distract me. Facetime me and show me how lovely you are naked."

"Oh darling, I'm sure you'll enjoy the movie more! But please don't be jealous."

He opened the computer and began to download the movie.

Scene 1:

That the movie was designed to be painterly in style was established at the outset. The sound of wind sighing through branches accompanied a moodily-lit view of a long and straight road disappearing into the distance. From the well-tended forest on either side it looked to be the Grunewald in Berlin. A distant figure emerged out of the misty grey of the horizon. The static camera angle meant that the viewer listened to a good ninety seconds of the caressing murmur of the wind before the figure resolved itself into what appeared to be a man dressed in black. He had a neatly trimmed, dark brown beard. Heinz had cast a young and good-looking version of himself, an inch or two above six feet. As he approached the camera began to swivel, tracking him; a slightly hypnotic and repetitive piano melody began to play over the wind.

The movie tracked the handsome man, who seemed to spend a very small portion of the day gazing moodily out the window of a modernist, if poorly lit, office. He wandered the streets of Berlin and drank prodigious amounts of coffee. He also conducted cryptic and brief conversations with friends (also all largely wearing minimalist black). The music was moody, and the photography -of everything from long and lamplit streets, to inky and slab-like rivers, to piles of autumnal leaves being shuffled by the wind -- was painfully still. If the visuals had a evocative power (the view of a street through a rain-spattered window was particularly well done) they nonetheless required patience and dedication to sit through.

Moody beard man was not a happy man. He had a girlfriend, who sat up in the black-sheeted bed to complain of his diffidence before standing, quite naked (black hair, large breasts, tattoo of snake on hip), to berate him. Her large breasts heaved with emotion. The camera lingered on her and panned over her belly and well-trimmed bush. She dressed and left.

The blonde, his now-wife, appeared perhaps 20 moody and excruciatingly slow minutes in. She was lovingly photographed seated in, what else, a café wearing a black turtle-neck, a black skirt and so forth.

The seduction looked too much like a European arthouse movie seduction: conversation, walk in silence, kiss under a railway arch. He watched her face through the various scenes with interest, there was an excitement in her eyes he could not quite define. Her smile seemed, if anything, slightly more devil-may-care. What was going on in her life at the time? He must ask.

Moody man had a 19th century flat filled with modern furniture, a strange sculpture of black wrought iron (a tangle of dark forms amid the pales) and cool northern light pouring through windows. It looked at first as though his now-wife was cast as the counterpoint - blonder, thinner, taller, more austere - to the brunette with the heaving breasts and snake tattoo.

The seduction was filmed in close up. Moody Beardy man drew near, a touch on the knee. There was no music just wind through the windows and traffic noises. A kiss. A deeper kiss. The camera photographed the fumbling out of clothes on a sofa. A turtleneck rolled off, a hand tugging bra straps off a perfect, creamy shoulder. It was close enough that the tangle of pale flesh was indistinct: here a breast, there a side of thigh, a flash of ass, but the camera moved quickly and the eye did not have time to linger. Compared to the full frontal of the brunette it was almost chaste. Yes, there was a mouth on her nipple, a hand caressing her ass, but it was swift and the scene ended with the two of them half-dressed post-coitus: her in panties and the black top (with the bra evidently off). The talking -- and the beautifully photographed silences - began again.

It seemed as though the louche professor had made a great deal of fuss about something that would not even be soft porn in America, let alone Europe.

The next scene was a sunny day. Moody man and Blonde now-wife met, dressed in black, at an old, paneled café. They were served by a surly waiter with a coffee-stained apron and then strolled down a tree-lined street. There was muted conversation as the camera panned up to focus on tree leaves that danced in a greeny-gold interplay with the morning sun.

They walked to his flat and he took her hand as he led her up the winding staircase, a medly of pale stone set off by the dark iron of the iron balustrade.

They stood facing each other in the sunlit bedroom. Her back was to the camera. Sheer curtains flapped gently behind him as the diffused sun flooded the room. They undressed facing each other. This time the lens held steady, centering the full length of the two actors in the frame. She tugged off a black v-neck and then slipped out of a black miniskirt. His black blazer came off and black jeans were unbuckled. She stepped out of boots. He unbuckled the dark grey woolen shirt. She rolled down her black tights and stepped out of them. She held her head straight towards him, face obscured by the sun-flecked gold mass of her hair. She unbuttoned her white shirt and the curve of her lovely back stood revealed. His jeans dropped and he stood in his briefs. She hooked her thumbs in her panties and slowly, provocatively, slipped them down the reveal a very firm, toned and rounded ass. He slipped out of his briefs to reveal a tight midriff set above a cock semi-tumescent and already half a foot in length. The shaft still hung down to end in a circumcized cock-head that was a deep red in color.

The camera admired the two naked bodies, one front, one rear, in silence.

Moody Beard held forth his right hand and led her to the bed, pulling down the sheets with his left. The lean side of her body and swell of breast (topped with an appealingly pink and erect nipple) came into view and swelled forward as she climbed onto the crisp white of the sheets.

His thoughts watching his wife, or a somewhat younger version of herself, were excited, if mixed. Thus far it looked like a standard European art film: no hiding full nudity but no guarantee all actors would participate. To date her performance had been nude, but leaving a considerable amount hidden. It was mildly scandalous she had appeared nude in a film, but ...

On the screen the actors were fumbling under the sheets. They were locked in a passionate kiss. Moody man's arm emerged from below the white cotton and began to caress a breast. First one was exposed, then both as he paused to pull back and caress strands of hair away from her face.

And then the perceptions and emotions of the watcher were transformed.

Moody beard rose onto his knees. White sheets and grey blanket puddled behind his now exposed ass. His right leg arched forward and then his foot was used to push sheet and blanket farther down the bed. The camera, which had been looking lengthwise down the bed, moved leftwards to capture both a better angle and the brighter light from the windows behind.

The movement in sheets left a lot more of her exposed. In response to her movement she had sat up somewhat, but most of her long, lean legs were now revealed, and both of her perfect C-cup breasts were now jutting forward, the medium-sized pink nipples standing quite to attention. The closer leg was slightly raised, blocking a view of her middle, but she was suddenly much more naked on screen. Perhaps more striking was what had happened to the Moody Beardy actor: at this angle it was clear that his semi-tumescent shaft had hardened into an erection of seven or eight inches. This jutted straight ahead of him, aimed directly at her tits. The circumcised head had now swelled into a redder shape, sharply defined against the shaft. This cock now swayed proudly with the subtle movements of its owner.

She was gazing at him with a slightly hungry, definitely excited look. Her glance clearly shifted between his intense gaze and his protruding, throbbing cock.

Moody Beard edged back on his knees and then leaned forward. His hands parted her legs and there was a brief flash of the pale skin of her cunt as his beard descended between her legs. His eyes were locked on hers. She mouthed the word "tickles" but that was superseded by hooding of eyes and a slight opening of her mouth.

This lasted for a minute. The slight flapping of curtains and road noise was accompanied by the faint lapping sounds produced by Moody Bearded man. He pulled back and smiled, then he redescended, tongue extended.

"Was she?" was the thought of the watching now-husband. It was a strange mix, to see the sex life of a partner on screen. But this was more than past sex life captured on a phone perched on a dresser. This was a film with a cameraman, a sound engineer, a director and who knows who else in the room. It was outright exhibitionism. And it was intensely arousing.

More was to come. She pulled Moody beard up to come level with her. As they kissed her had strayed down. Was it? Yes. On film her hand gripped the impressive shaft and began to stroke it. As hen angled onto her back his hand reached for her... yes, her pussy was now on show. Waxed (then as how) with a tight and well-defined slit in impossibly creamy and soft-looking skin, it seemed to draw his hand. And then they were stroking each other. She reached down and pulled his hand to her mouth. She inserted his finger in her mouth and sucked it, slicking his finger even as a slightly wanton look adorned her face.

The finger was let go and he placed it at her slit, his darker finger tracing her pussy lips before parting the labia to seek her clit. Throughout they kissed. It was absorbing to see him toy with her pussy, even more so when she pushed away from him, using a hand to flatten him from his sideways position onto his back. His cock tentpoled up and then swayed. She briefly rose onto her knees to knot her blonde mane into a loose bun. This gave the viewer a full view of ripe breasts (nipples quite stiff), taut belly and her waxed pussy. She was strikingly beautiful, an appealing combination of leaness and perfection of curve.

She bent forward from her knees and then leaned forward. Her tongue parted her lips and flicked at his cockhead even as she gripped the length of his cock. The camera drew closer as she traced the length of his cock up and down with her tongue-tip. She began to inhale the head and slowly lowered her mouth over half of the length. She was now sucking the cock of Moody Beard man. Her head slid up and down the increasingly slick member with a slow deliberation. Her eyes were focused on his face, which was transformed with pleasure and lust. She increased the pace. He reached one hand towards her head, loosening and disordering the makeshift blonde bun of hair. She pulled off his member, which bobbed back and forth in what seemed to be a slicked-up pantomime of happiness, and reorganized herself.

Her hand took the wet cock and stroked it. They smiled at each other. It was intensely arousing, yet (in a sort of go-back-in-history how could I think this?) inspiring of jealousy.

Moody Beard murmured something and she leaned forward, still holding his cock. Angling her head, looking much more to the camera, she began to lap at his balls.

After a semi-closeup of showing her tongue tracing the contours of his ball-sack, the camera angled around to get a shot from the rear. The act of fellating his package now cause her ass to rise in the air. Bending even more to tongue-tickle the lower scrotum, her lags parted to show pussy lips and a hint of pink. Another dip of the head and slowly, gently, the creamy cheeks of her taut and shapely bum parted momentarily to reveal the pink bud of her ass. The view between her legs closed up as she returned to her slow sucking up and down on Moody Beard's penis.