She was named by a revolutionary army leader. She wore revolution, it covered her body in images and sacred texts. Her blood carried imprisoned family members, intellectual writers, activists and academics with her wherever she roamed. Her language was full of songs, stories and history. She told me herself almost as warning, that she studied, wrote, drank, danced and fucked with sometimes, sleep for good measure.
On a very sleepy Berlin night we ventured out to find beer and excitement. We found beer, lots of beer. Once we finally mastered the accent, we ordered like the brazen broads we were at home, without jet-lag. Walking home she taught me a traditional song, explaining the oral traditions of the culture and the importance of women, how respected they were. All I could do was wish for the v of her hand embroidered shirt to slide over exposing her areola and during particular drunkenly passionate verses her entire nipple.
Nipples make me crazy, I am a slave to nipples, especially that unexpected slip. This was before the days of Janet Jackson 's super bowl nippleversy and J-lo's Oscar nip slip, hell even before Internet porn mind you, the nipple still had power.
She was that women, the one even straight women would sleep with if given the chance, just to have that accent slide over their naked body and to be the focus of her passion.
It may have been youth, bravery, stupidity I don't know I wish I did, what ever it was, she's not the type of girl you'd ask what got her, what you did that was so right for fear, of ever risking a repeat performance.
We were walking along, staggering along, arm in arm holding eachother for support and we slipped over a small hedge in the dark. On the other side in the moist grass hid from the city I lightly kissed her neck, that was right beside my mouth. She laid on top of me in a giggling heap of drunkenness and ease.
I kissed her neck again in small gentle kisses then gentle bites. Sliding and coiling her around me so that I was on top of her in the grass. We both had long waist length hair that we had both taken down at the bar and it was now flowing over our faces and bodies.
I slid her white shirt off over her head and placed it behind her head. 'Oh you are a gentleman' she laughed. She lay there in the damp grass glowing and warm. She reached into her bag and pulled out a cheap bottle of new wine. 'In the bar I thought about you pouring this on my breasts' she said handing me the bottle.
New wine has no cork, it's too precarious if corked it can explode right on the grocery shelves. I opened the bottle and lifted her head and offered her a drink. 'An offering to the god Bakus', she laughed.
I poured a small amount into the palm of my hand and gently began massaging it onto her left breast using my entire wet palm. Her nipple stood and thanked me. 'I've been with boys too long' she said, 'I lack imagination in these areas. I expected you just to pour all over me, but it looks like you have a plan far greater'.
Being a woman with large breasts, I know about the sensitive underside of breasts that so rarely get touched. Rubbing the wine into her breasts, first the right then the left from her nipples, outwards to her full breast that filled two hands, ending on that soft round curve moving down her ribs and stomach.
Now pouring and licking, sucking, biting, she moaned and her solid breasts began to lactate, softening as the the liquid flowed.
I felt flattered at the raw abandonment and began massaging her abdomen with the mix of liquids.
Years before as a baby dyke I'd had the pleasure to have a sexual encounter with a much older, much more experienced dyke, who thankfully was an excellent lover. She had this great move that involved massaging the stomach, hips, thighs and inner thighs and then picking me up by my hips and massaging my ass up in the air then sliding my body back down. She did it in a this flowing, smooth endless wave, in repeated succession that did lovely things to the clit and lips. Doing it from waist to knee is a guaranteed turn on, it's tricky to master but worth the time and attention to detail. Do it to any woman and you'll be a rockstar.
She moaned and ungulated beneath me arching her back in rhythm with my pulls and lifts. Because I had been so successful up top, I made sure to return to her nipples and breasts and would shift my attention back to her torso lifting it off the grass, anchoring her ass into the ground, wondering about removing her panties and skirt.
'I don't have English, the blood isn't in my brain' she laughed. 'Speak in Spanish', I whispered in her ear as I bit it gently. I think it was poetry, maybe her grocery list whatever it was it was slow and deliberate and included gasps and moans and although I don't speak a word of Spanish, I knew it was approval to go further.
I slid up the short skirt she had on.
