The back of her neck is pale, blue-white; the dark, dark hair sweeping up in a fan as she presses it against the back of her head with one tense hand. Some heavy locks escape and fall. They are very moist from her own perspiration.
A long gray blouse of raw silk is falling off her shoulder. Its hem reaches halfway down her ass in the back and barely covers her intimate parts in the front. It is printed with damp shapes also made by her perspiring skin. The skin is, if anything, more pale where it is revealed at the edge of the silk. At her throat is a tracery of blue veins. She rocks unsteadily on her delicate feet, clad in high-heeled Roman sandals; the pale twin moons of her full breasts are exposed by the scooped neck of the blouse as she stoops and turns.
She is an indoor creature. She eats vegetables and not meat. She does not venture out-of-doors very often, and then only when cloaked in a wide-brimmed black hat, dark Burberry raincoat, and sunglasses. Few would know that, other than the Roman sandals and a pair of sheer black hose that clasp her thighs tightly, this is all she wears.
She is wearing the grey silk peasant blouse because the one she loves has made her a gift of it, insisting that she wear it tonight. Her lover is a bit tired of the vulnerability of her purely naked body, the white limbs darkening only slightly to lavender yellow toward the private skin. Baby fine hair under the arms and curling in a tidy oval around the lavender lips of her vulva.
The Lover, sitting in a simple wooden chair with a lyre back watches the woman with jaded eyes, indicating with a bored finger that she should spin. On her ass are circular bruises made by pulling the ivory flesh deep into the mouth and kneading it with a firm tongue; kneading it until she cries out, just a small aching whine. By now her nipples are also sore, and she jerks slightly as The Lover's fingers gently brush one and then clasp the other tightly between finger and thumb, rolling it like a cigarette paper full of marijuana. The other hand slips under the hem of the blouse. One finger ascends until it meets warm wet flesh. Finger and thumb pinch one loose lip, the one that hangs below the other. There are miniscule liquid sounds. She moans like a tiny animal.
On the left breast, at the fold of the right armpit, also beside the navel, and on the swollen soft flesh of the right inner thigh are more purple circles where the skin has been pulled into the mouth. Sometimes there are teethmarks.
Some would not tolerate the sweet pain that occurs when this happens. But this one invites the feeling when she loses herself to the sting of it. At that moment, with no other touch required, a small, electric turmoil begins deep in her womb. Something roils and twists as though fine wires were crisscrossing and sparking.
The sensation then moves down her long pale legs, so free of muscle tone. Inevitably, they twist, as though to get away, and at the same time, press closer together. For a long moment, one calf is clenched and the knee quivers before it is released.
Her small, fine buttocks tense until shallow blue hollows appear in each one. Moisture beads the small triangle at the base of her spine. A droplet rolls through the soft down into the deep cleavage between her barely quivering buttocks.
Even now she cries out "ow" softly, her face masked by the wave of hair, her lover's face also hidden by the hair and the pale curve of her breasts. The impudent bead at the top of her secret lips has emerged, fat and rosy, unlike the blue tones on the rest of the body. She feels the itch, the sweet irritation on this spot, which now asks for more attention as it flirts with the night air. The Lover leans close and spits on it, then oh so slowly rubs this cluster of foaming moisture in circles around the nub. Just below, the outer lips have swollen and arched away from each other as though to take a breath, allowing The Lover, who slides off the chair onto the floor, freedom to gaze up into the glistening inner coral. As the air touches this dampness, it tingles; so she strains to force this wonderful discomfort against something, rub it away, erase it. The muscles on the insides of her thighs tense, but The Lover's hands are there, holding the knees apart and still.
The target is not touched. Instead, The Lover's mouth grows lighter, lighter; the tongue gentler, gentler. The hands are not demanding now. They do not tantalize. They rest, soft and neutral. More of the cool air touches the wet nipples, the damp neck, a fine line of sweat, runs down beside the spine, another gleaming between the breasts and pooling in the navel.
She breathes out with strong rhythm, her mouth dry, her ears cool from The Lover's moist mouth, her bosom warm from the rising flush, each nipple a hard, sore knot. In the shadow, those other lips are quietly seeping.
The Lover leans back and holds her eyes for long moments in the darkness under her hair; smiles, showing a small red bud of tongue, and then, pulls her until the pale thighs form a cathedral over the waiting mouth. Unbuckles the tall sandal on her left foot, but does not remove it. She stands even less steadily now, fingers of her left hand pressed into the top of the table. She dares not clutch at The Lover's shoulder. That would be reason for rebuke, a dressing down even in this public place with the other patrons watching, or not watching as is their wont.
