A Striptease and Him
by
Saffron
by
Saffron
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Sun, 18th April, 2010
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Tonight is the last night of our special burlesque week and the number of guests in the audience is overwhelming. I peek through the wing drapes waiting for the final number, my one and only turn in the show, a tribute to Gypsy Rose Lee - ‘The Strip’ from the stage show, ‘Gypsy’.
The mini theatre is packed yet I can only see him. Once again he’s here; can everyone see the way I’m looking at him? Not obvious to others that this is his fifth night of seeing the show but obvious to me, he is only ever visible some minutes before I go on stage. He doesn’t know I am watching him right now, absorbing every detail I can. He has a tall stature, his dark hair a little disheveled, like he’s been fighting with the wind. I’ve studied his face so many times before, thinking him to be of similar appearance to Rock Hudson but slightly weathered. He leans against a pillar, the same pillar as before, holding a cigarette, wearing yet another fine cut suit. He looks perfectly edible but I’m sure he’s uncomfortable in such attire. I know his eyes are green and they will never leave me when I perform. I know this as my eyes will never leave him. My performance will be as if he’s the only person in the audience, just as previous nights.
Clinging on to the heavy drapes, I’m in a world of my own, oblivious to the noises from back stage. Looking around I admire the new décor and the handsome setting. The drapery construction alone took months to complete and lord knows I gave Peter, my architect and designer, a headache with the continual amount of changes that I made, desperately wanting it all to be perfect.
As Miss Deadly Nightshade’s erotic performance draws to a close I take one more stolen glance at him then step away from the curtain, ready to focus on my performance. I smooth down my figure hugging gown; it feels heavy with the number of red and silver sequins on the velvet fabric. There is a split slightly off-centre from the floor to my crotch. The dress is fixed only with three velcro fastenings at the front, enveloping my bodice so it’s easy to remove; my chest and shoulders are bare. I feel as if I can’t breathe but I’m not sure if that’s the dress, my nerves, or thoughts of him.
Instinctively I place my gloved hand to my auburn hair, checking it’s firmly in place. My neck I’ve kept naked this evening; the only jewellery I’m wearing are three inch diamond drop earrings, given to me by Charles.
I entwine my fingers of each hand together making sure my long, white satin gloves are snugly fit, pulling them securely over my elbows and up my arm; they’ll be removed soon.
My nerves are heightened, the lights suddenly dim, causing an eerie darkness to fall over the club, the audience quickly hushes. Having whispered my thanks to everyone’s cry of ‘good luck’, I quickly move upstage in front of the back drop, made of classically draped curtains with swags and tails in a mixture of deep red and royal blue tones. A bright spotlight shines through the shimmer of ivory voile, the scrim we call it, on to where I stand.
I pose with one knee slightly bent in front of the other, my long arms extended out to the side, palms down. I wait.
The audience cheers as the scrim opens. With my head held high, my back straight, I start to move with a brief solitary kick in my delicious, silver heels and walk with a relatively fast pace downstage on the light wooden flooring, strutting in time to the brush of a single drum cymbal to Gypsy’s ‘Let Me Entertain You’. All eyes are focused on me… and I love it!
I swag my hips from side to side as I approach the catwalk that is decked in the same deep red fabric as the curtains and edged with petit chrome spot lights.
I feel as tall as the CN Tower. The beat of the drum emphasizes my pronounced movement as I stop at the very edge trim and raise my arms high into a Greek statuesque pose. I just look around at everyone and smile. My heart is pounding of course through the exhilaration of being appreciated combined with the sexual excitement I feel knowing that he is watching my every move. I try so hard to focus on what I’m doing as the audience claps and whistles; I haven’t removed a stitch yet! He just stares at me, his eyes burning through my skin and I lose myself for a fraction of a second in the small world of just him and me, then finally I speak.
“Bonsoir!” I beam at the tables of the beautifully clad people, twirling my hips and running a hand down my naked thigh. I continue to flirtatiously say,
“Je m’appelle... Gypsy… Rose… Lee…” A single drum beat can be heard as I dip, seductively removing one finger from the glove as each word is spoken. A drum roll is played as I discard the remainder of the glove, throwing it into the audience. It lands in the third row. I remove the other glove just as seductively, twirling it around my head with a rotation of my hips, I throw it out again.
“And that concludes my entire performance in French,” I tease, the tone of my voice highlighting the sarcasm in my words.
The audience laugh.
“Where were you last night?” I bend down, winking at the bald headed gentleman who is now getting an eye full of my 36 D’s.
I continue to tease the audience with my wit and flirtatious swaggers, letting my dress do its work, emphasising the contours of my slender shape, promoting every jolting hip movement I make. Towards the end of the routine I strut to the left wing and then with a drum roll, my eyes firmly fixed on him, I very, very slowly undo the three velcro fastenings to my dress, a private dancer for his solo attention. An overwhelming heat radiates through my body, not just from the harsh lights that are beaming down against my skin. I have performed this routine night after night but never with such a strong feeling of desire for him.
As the heavy gown starts to fall I quickly grasp it together then swiftly pivoting, I turn my back to the audience and stand for a brief second before I return my gaze to face the front, grinning, teasingly. I hold my dress open; the audience know that if they were in front of me they would see my naked flesh. I let the dress slide through my fingers. It falls to the ground and just as quick I turn to face the audience reaching out to grab the drape to cover my nudity, hoping I get my timing right! The softness is breathtaking against my skin, as I run my naked leg up and down the fabric. My face feels flushed; my heart beats faster, its sound drowning out the cheers and gasps from the audience who are totally enraptured with my seduction.
The musicians are in full swing and as the tempo gets faster I begin to walk across the stage, facing the audience, carefully side stepping, from left to right pulling the curtain across its upper tracking with me. Still covering my nudeness, only my long bare legs and arms wrapped around the soft folds are visible. When I reach the other side of the stage, I pause. The curtain falls from my hands; my nudeness visible for seconds before the lights black out and the music and my performance ends.
Cathy swiftly hands me a sequinned black basque and matching heels and I do a quick change, keeping my tanned legs bare, unclasping the pin from my hair so it falls resting on my full breasts. Quite astonishingly the entire audience let out a roar so loud, much louder than previous nights, that I almost believe Frank Sinatra himself has walked on to the stage! All doubt of being ‘accepted’ is instantly erased. We have done it! We have given Toronto our final night’s homage to burlesque. I feel the energy from the first act to the grand finale; the audience sends forward waves of approval, acceptance and love.
I call the troupe to join me on the stage, as we take our final curtain call with a standing ovation and cheers of ‘encore’, the grand drape opening and closing three times in total.
Naturally, I look over and he’s gone, to be expected I know but I hoped he would’ve stayed longer this night. I wanted him.
April 5th 1963,
05:30 am.
“‘Much more tease than strip’, says The Tribute,” I shout out to old Joe, my jazz pianist, who is playing Errol Garner’s ‘Misty’ in the deserted theatre club. I sit at one of the intimate, small round tables, brushing down the crisp white table cloth I am determined to use, despite how costly they are to keep clean. The aroma of a much needed cup of black coffee sits in front of me and helps to get rid of the morning cobwebs after last night’s final performance.
The day had been long and tedious with a lot of emotionally charged words being spoken carelessly, mostly by me but only because of my passion to ensure that everything went accordingly to plan.
Wearing a black, silk dressing robe, I focus my eyes on the stage and memories of what happened only a few hours ago flood my mind.
“The boys have certainly got their reviews out quick,” I continue to talk to Joe, as I scan the selection of first editions I had ordered, hoping to get a feel of what the entertainment press thought of the show.
“Listen to this…’The Diamante Minx Club successfully plays homage to the great tradition of burlesque, imitating performers like Sally Rand and Gypsy Rose Lee,’ said the Variety.”
I lovingly look up at Joe who, still in his white tux jacket, makes his way to join me at the table. I continue to quote to him…
“‘Is there anything sexier than a woman in long gloves, red lipstick and a feather boa?’ That Eddie Carter from The Star has given us a glowing review,” I beam, taking out a cigarette from the deep burgundy packet but not ready to light it yet.
I sit back looking around at the result of my dream, could a girl ever be more happy than I am right this minute, my heart full of pride. Joe stands and with a smile as wide as Fats Waller’s, kisses me on the cheek telling me he’s proud of me. As he steals the cigarette from the table, he strolls outside to get some Toronto fresh air just as she is waking up. I’ll tell you more about Joe later.
Finally, I have made a name for myself. Me, Saffron Cartwright, a small town girl from Surrey, England, now making it big in Toronto.
What’s my story? I’ll read snippets from the review that Eddie published to you. Let me just light this cigarette and have a sip of coffee first.
I pick up the newspaper, shaking it to make it straight to read, my small frames are perched at the end of my nose so I push them back to focus. Before I begin though, I must tell you that reporter Eddie came to see me at the club for an informal interview, telling me to just talk about myself - the cheeky bugger printed it all! As if people would be interested in my story! Well you decide…
I read from the paper…
‘I am mesmerized by the stunning 30 year old. The British beauty sits in front of me with auburn hair, porcelain skin and glossy shell pink nails and lips. Her long legs are crossed at the knees revealing very shapely pins. She wears a tight bodice evening gown that she assures me, with a wink, can come off in a flash. Her eyes bright, she is keen to talk about growing up in the colourful days of burlesque and vaudeville theatre and of her ambitions to follow in her mother’s dancing footsteps.
I ask Saffron, or Saffy, she tells me to call her, to start at the beginning of her life and I sit back and listen to her intelligent, warm, sexy voice.
Okay, Eddie, let’s go way back in time. I was born in 1933 in Surrey and raised by a young single mum who was a show girl. Consequently, my pram was in the theatre most nights, either in a dressing room or at the side of the stage where I grew up, the artists always spending time with me. The older I got I started to think that Dorsey, Cole, Armstrong, and Fitzgerald were family members. Blues, jazz and swing music echoed around our flat day and night.’
I’ll skip the details about growing up in war time Britain, although Eddie printed them - far too depressing to relay all that, let’s just say we survived The Blitz. Just.
‘War ended in 1945, I was 12 years old and as an adolescent I actively pursued the stage through vocal lessons, dance instruction, and drama classes at school, yearning to follow in Mum’s footsteps despite her discouragement. My memory of beautiful women in stockings and garters and elaborate styles of near undress never left me.’
Let me skip a little bit more. Ah yes! We get to my favourite part, 1953; I’m a 20 year old Virgin. Oh my word! I must quickly tell you that The Star doesn’t print that, we can’t have folk knowing I was late popping my cherry, now can we? So let’s just keep that between you and me, shall we?
I will tell you what I didn’t tell Eddie though. I saw it all back stage; it’s amazing what you learn growing up in the theatre with strippers and fan dancers. I grew up with independent, strong minded, passionate women who taught me all I needed to know to be a woman in this world. Contrary to popular opinion, just because a girl strips it doesn’t make her a prostitute. I had the best schooling a girl could get and the biggest family with an abundance of love.
When I was old enough I was teased about boyfriends, even girlfriends. I dated, of course, but I wasn’t just going to give my virginity to any Tom Dick or Harry. I wanted the likes of Clark Gable to whisk me away on his white horse and I was prepared to wait. Anyway, it wasn’t exactly Clark Gable that stole my heart.
The Star writes…
‘When I was 20 I got my first theatrical role as a royal dancer in the Rogers and Hammerstein’s musical, ‘The King and I’, at the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane, London. After three years of auditions, working in cafes to pay for schooling, I finally got a lucky break. It was at the Theatre Royal that I met my husband, Charles Cartwright. A Canadian who returned to Britain some years after the war ended. About 20 years my senior. His love for the theatre brought him to the show on a nightly basis and at the back stage door afterwards. I discovered later, just to see me.’
Hah! and my backstage door some time after that!
Oh! But I digress, let me continue…
’We were married a year later and I moved to Etobicoke, Canada to be with my husband. Charles understood my passion and enthusiasm for the genre I grew up in and bought me, ‘Top Hat’ in downtown Toronto. A modest jazz bar with great potential to be something really special. It was managed by Joe ’fingers’ Stacey, a 58 year old jazz pianist who agreed to stay and work with me….’
I won’t read anymore in fear of boring you. You now know how I met Joe, my brick and best friend to both my late husband and I. Yes, sadly, adorable Charles died three years ago of a heart attack, just after his 50th birthday. He was my first love, and there hasn’t been anyone else since although many men have tried, apart from the one man I want.
Joe returns to the table, leaning over me he extinguishes a cigarette in the glass ashtray. “Sleep is what’s needed, Ms Saffron,” he says in his adorable New Orleans accent. His thin dark brown hands touch my shoulder and I look up at him, placing a hand behind me securely on top of his. I hold back the tears and begin to shuffle the papers together.
“He would have been proud of us, don’t you think, Joe?” I ask him of Charles.
“He would have been proud of YOU Saffron.” I hear the tears in his voice I didn’t have to see them. I simply nod.
My dressing room, or the parlor as everyone teases me, is my little ego room and is brimmed full with photos of Top Hat as it use to be, along with feather boas, pasties, ostrich feather fans and my costumes all neatly organized on a clothes rail. Bright spots trim the mirror of my vanity unit and my stage make up takes up much space. In private I wear very little apart from mascara and lipstick but like a young girl I still love to play dress up in sexy and voluptuous costumes and tight corsets and paint my face with theatre make up.
There is a deep plumb crushed velvet sofa against the back wall where I think of seducing him. How brazen of me to admit to that and trust me it’s not something I have thought about lightly. For three years I’ve been celibate and I do so desire him but if something is going to happen then it looks like it’s going to be down to me to instigate a liaison. I’ve flirted and teased the man and still he remains oblivious of my desire for him.
I’m tired now, just too tired to go back home to a lonely house. The comfort of the thick cushions beckons to me eagerly as sleep calls me, yet flees, ever elusive, just as I reach it. I try in vain not to do this, not to dream of him, but I’m helpless against a desire that is stronger than I am. I pretend the morning breeze that stirs my curtains and sighs my name is him. In my mind's eye I see him lean down to kiss my waiting lips and I slowly touch my fingers to my mouth. My tongue slips out to moisten my lips the way his would if he was here.
In the oblivion of my dreams I hear him moan as his hands reach out to caress my breasts, wondering at their weight, texture, and feel. My nipples harden as though his tongue really is tracing wet circles around them but he’s not here; I’m alone with my thoughts of him and the yearnings of my restless body.
My scalp tingles as I imagine his hands running through my hair, sending tiny electric shocks throughout my system. I feel warm and tighten my body under the illusion of his gentle breath. I sense a sudden rush of wetness as his phantom mouth closes around the tiny bud of my clitoris. Butterflies flutter crazily in my stomach. The slightly rough tongue that steadily thrusts in and out of me is actually my own solitary finger. The tongue tracing beautiful circles on and around my clitoris is only my middle finger, moistened by my mouth and the cream of my vagina.
The moans that fill the emptiness of my room are not ours, but mine alone. The waves of pleasure that wash over me as my walls clench and spasm are very real. I finally drift off to sleep, sated.
*****************************
Basically, she’s a pain in the arse. A bossy, demanding, mesmerizing, seductress who, unbeknown to her, makes me worship the very air she breaths. For months on end she’s had me at her beck and call, most days with me wanting to put my hands around her delicious neck and most nights wishing she was in my bed and not just in my dreams. Saffron Cartwright with her enchanting British accent, her annoying quirks and contradictions has bewitched me.
I’ve survived each day with the aroma of her perfume, her touch on my arm and her dark hazel eyes pleading as she says, ”Peter do you think we could just…,” when she wanted to make her small club into a replica of Carnegie Hall.
All I’ve wanted to do is kiss her delectable mouth and run my hands over her body to shut her up. She doesn’t know the effect of her leaning over the design drawings has had on me, day after day. Even taking my cigarette for a needy smoke and passing it back had my cock rise in appreciation, tasting her lipstick on the filter. Saffy makes me crazy mad and damn it, despite not having spoken since my contract ended a couple of months ago, I still want that infuriating, charming woman! If she was just any girl I would have taken her by now but Saffy isn’t a woman you just fuck and move on. She’s a keeper and I find myself in unfamiliar territory of pursuing someone I want to keep.
I’ve spent the last, god knows how long, having her invade my every thought, and she’s the image in my mind with each stroke of my cock. I can’t even think about being with another woman, she’s destroyed that for me, untypically, my soul is enraptured.
Leaning against the very expensive white marble pillar, which she insisted was needed in the club, despite my advice to the contrary, I watch her for the last time on stage, captivating as usual, my eyes riveted to her every move, every thrust of her slender hips and her soft delectable voice as she teases the audience. I have to share her with over a hundred pairs of eyes each hoping that she will glance their way. Is it my imagination that our eyes meet, that her performance is for me alone? I can feel my cock stir the moment she drops her gown, knowing she is naked behind that curtain but being unable to see or touch her is too much to bear. Just as she takes her first bow, I grab a quick Jack Daniels from the bar before leaving the smoky club, saluting a greeting to Joe, as he sees me leave and I venture out into the cold Toronto night air.
At home I shower and lay on my vacant bed listening to Billy Holliday, just staring into space and having a smoke. Something’s got to happen and soon as I’m losing my mind! Its gone 5 am by the time sleep takes over and Saffy once again appears in my dreams.
I’m sitting in the theatre, alone; the lights are dim apart from a single spot light on Saffy. The temptress stands, barefoot, at the end of the catwalk wearing just a white silk bra and black slacks, void of her stage costumes. I can see she is aroused through the silk of her bra, her nipples are standing erect and I start to twitch in the black leather seat. Having toyed with the packet for so long, I finally light a cigarette and lean forward in my seat as Saffy slowly unfastens the back of her bra. Leaning forward and with a gentle shake of her shoulders, it slides off and falls to her feet. She looks down at her breasts, admiringly, knowing how great they are, not at all small but very firm. Touching her dark erect nipple with her index finger, the beauty looks at me, teasingly. Her other nipple is given attention as she leans her slender head back in unbridled joy. Returning to my gaze, she slowly unbuttons the belt of her slacks, once again staring at me, never leaving eye contact.
I can’t help but marvel how the belt emphasizes her slender waist as she turns and unzips her slacks. Standing with her back to me now, her legs slightly astride, my lover glances back my way before wriggling her delicious fuckable arse out of her slacks. Provocatively she bends over to pick them off from the floor, allowing me to see her silk panties and a slight wet patch from her love juices. Saffy turns to me and laughs and places her thumbs at the side of her panties and without speaking motions to me should she remove them. I place a hand over the hard lump in my pants as she slides out of hers and throws the silks my way. Instinctively I place them to my nose and smile back, inhaling her exquisite scent, ready to ravish her delectable self. My dream ends.
***********************************
The following days I still spend in a state of euphoria over the club’s overwhelming reviews. Yet despite being as magical as it is, I’m so disappointed I can’t celebrate the club’s success with him. How stupid I am to think that he would have returned to see me. I no longer have any excuse to send him a telegram either. How much longer can I go on pretending I don’t care though, pretending he doesn’t mean anything to me?
A week later I’m shutting off the lights in the club and saying goodnight to Joe and the rest of the band and staff. The doors are bolted before I return to my dressing room. Sitting at my vanity unit I gaze at my reflection and see a painted face stare back at me. I wait in trepidation constantly looking at the clock. 00:55 I feel nervous now, wishing I had a Bloody Mary in front of me to give me the courage I need. I light a cigarette instead. There are footsteps outside my door and I’m apprehensive. I shouldn’t have been so stupid as to leave the back stage door unlocked.
My heart stops beating as I see the handle move; oh please don’t be a chain saw murderer. I tentatively back away and stumble into the stool by my dressing table as the door opens gently and I see my architect at the doorway. My relief has changed to delirium yet I cannot move and I can’t speak. We stand about ten feet apart, just staring into each other's eyes. My mouth is dry and I'm so anxious because now I have him here I don’t know what to say. Oh god, Peter, please speak, I tell myself, my hand instinctively moving to my neck in a nervous motion as I extinguish my cigarette with the other hand, fumbling to find the ashtray behind me. He stares at me, neither of us speaking until he takes one step forward away from the door and offers his hand. These seconds of silence feel like hours.
“Hi Saffy, I got your telegram,” he speaks, grinning, emphasizing his dimples. I move forward and extend my hand to his. We’ve shaken hands a million times before but that was then and this is now. This time his hand in mine sends messages of carnal lust to my body and my face feels flushed yearning for the man in front of me. I can tell he’s uncertain as to why he’s here. “For God’s sake Saffy say something,” that voice in my head yells. “Do you want me?” is what I want to say, yet the words won’t come out.
“Is everything okay Saffy?” he asks, probing for some reaction from me. I still haven’t uttered a word and he’s still holding my hand. I have to take the lead here, something I’ve never done before, in business yes, not in my personal life.
“Umm, I just wanted to talk to you about the re design of the bar,” I quickly affirm, baffled at the nonsense that I just blurted out.
“Sure Saffy…” he replies “…but at 1am in the morning?” He drops my hand and makes his way over to the small drinks trolley I have in my room. “Do you mind if I help myself?” has asks, not waiting for a reply and pours a whiskey into a crystal tumbler from the decanter. Did I just see the briefest of smirks on his face? Was he mocking me? Does he know? Is he going to make me work for his affection? He swigs the whiskey down before pouring another and faces me, casually leaning back against the chrome trolley.
Here goes…
I take a deep breath and shyly ask, “Peter, do you want me?” He stares at me, I can tell he is surprised by my words and says simply “No,” the glass returning to his wonderful lips.
Perturbed by his reaction but not convinced, I take a step towards him as I undo the first of dozens of small pearl buttons that fasten my black velvet gown in place. Bravely but fearing rejection, I ask him again, “Peter, do you want me?”
My body reveals all of the signs of my lust for him. He can no doubt see my nipples straining against the material, calling him. He closes his eyes this time and whispers, “No” but I can see the lie growing in his casual jeans and at last he smiles. How easy this is on the stage with an audience in front of me but the truth of the matter is I’ve never seduced a man into my arms let alone my bed!
I take another step towards him and seductively run my finger tip down his arm. “Tell me you don't want me,” I ask him coyly, my unguarded eyes staring up at him.
He catches his breath and in one movement, places the glass down and sweeps me against him, pushing me back against the dressing room wall so hard it hurts. My hands by my side, I gasp as his mouth finds mine and his tongue is already probing inside, his hands gripping my face tight. “Peter,” I moan, as surprisingly his hands then rip open my gown, the small beads popping onto the carpet whilst I’m left in a fine black slip, silk stockings, black heels and a string of beads, very little else. His large hands that I have seen so many times, fervently run over my body, raising the satin high, exposing my breasts before reaching underneath, touching my flesh with a determined fever. I quiver at his touch, surprised by my own intense passion that invades me. His breath smells of whiskey as he kisses my open mouth again before dropping his solid body on to his knees.
With his face pressed against my thighs, he unclips my stockings from the suspenders, sliding them down one after another. I’m finding it hard to breath as Peter’s hands run up the inside of my legs, grabbing the edge of my French knickers, dragging them down, the suspender belt following, along with my shoes and I’m able to step out of both. My womanhood is exposed to him. There is a powerful groan when he licks me in one long, glorious stroke from my love hole to clitoris. I can't help but moan and my body writhes under his teasing. I want to touch him and hold his head against me but he won't let me. He brushes my hands away and stands up, pressing his body against me, forcing me tighter back against the wall.
I look at his face and see a hungry man fighting the passion he’s feeling. I want him so badly too but I can't bear to have him take me like this so I try to push him away, struggling under his weight. “Peter, not like this,” I plea, feeling a little scared of his carnal seduction but excited too. “I won’t hurt you Saffy,” he tells me lovingly, kissing my face. He takes my wrists and holds them above my head with one hand whilst he unbuttons his jeans and struggles to remove his shorts and denim single handed. I know his manhood is hard although I can’t see it.
I haven’t touched a man’s erection, nor has a man stimulated my desire for three years and I thirst to have him inside me. I feel Peter’s hand between my legs and my body betrays me, so wet with longing that his fingers just slide inside. Did I hear him gasp or was that my own intake of breath? I know how much I want him and this is killing me.
He still holds my wrists firm as he whispers, “Saffy I am going to fuck your delicious body, you do know that don’t you?” My lover lets go of my wrists and pulls my bottom towards him as my arms go around his neck and I'm mouthing his name breathlessly before I bite my lip. I can only nod to his question, as he lifts me to settle on his throbbing rod. Instinctively I wrap my legs around his thick waist as he thrusts himself into me so hard I wince, clinging on to him, quenching my need. It’s the consummation of so many months of yearning and I want it as badly as he does. I press myself against him, feeling him inside me filling me so completely, touching the deepest part of me and I whisper, surprised at my own words, “Just fuck me, Peter, let it out and fuck me.”
His mouth is on mine again and he slams into me harder and harder. It's excruciating and ecstasy at the same time. I feel tight and he is big. I'm gasping in pleasure and pain, panting and moaning as he shouts my name. I can feel all the sensations rising in me and I know that it doesn't matter how primal this is, my body craves his. I'm rigid against him, arching into him, as he releases into me, shuddering and shaking. I try to support us with my back against the wall because his legs are trembling so much.
We remain motionless, caught up in the aftermath of our frenzied passion. We stay in this pose for what seems like forever until he can’t support my weight any longer. “Saffy,” he pants, as he leans down and places his wet forehead on mine. “I’m sorry, I couldn’t help myself, I’ve wanted you for too long,” Peter declares, his penis now limp and sliding out of me. He holds me close against his shirted chest, moving my long string of onyx beads as he kisses my neck. Everything is drained out of us.
I cling to Peter, shivering a little, weeping his liquid down the inside of my thighs. He kicks off his loafers and steps out of his briefs and jeans before finding my silk robe on the back of the door and places it around me. My decorative Indian cotton cushions that dress my chaise long are thrown on to the floor. Two warm blankets are placed on top of the white deep pile carpet and Peter moves to sweep me up and place me on the mountain of cushions.
His hand reaches down and touches my face and I turn to kiss it before urging him to join me on the soft oasis he’s created for us. Facing each other, I unbutton his shirt, my eyes never leaving his. The feel of his skin is soft under my fingers as I slide the cotton off his tanned shoulders. My lips and tongue caress his nipple, whilst my hands stroke the ripples of his arm muscles. Kissing my way down his stomach, licking his navel, I touch his scar hidden amongst the hair on his lower belly. So often I have dreamed of this moment, I feel as if I know his body like my own. I see the hardness of his manhood pushing towards my mouth, knowing it’s what I want and what he wants.
Licking the frenulum and feeling him pulsate against my tongue, encircling the shaft with my hands and caressing and stroking and enveloping him with my mouth, I pray that I am doing this right; I’m so out of practice. Peter’s hand guides me, the head of his rod finds the roof of my mouth, as I lick and tickle his balls with my fingers. I never knew I could feel so aroused and want someone so much. I stop to remove my robe and almost like a sign, Peter sits up and motions the satin slip to be removed. I raise my arms and he slowly glides the satin up over my head, his hands brushing under my arms causing a tingling sensation whilst I resist the urge to burst into a fit of giggles as he caresses the sensitive area. He grins as he realizes I am probably very ticklish in normal circumstances and I glare at him, “Don’t you dare even think about it.” I warn him playfully with a small wink and he looks at me nodding teasingly and I shake my head.
I am now completely naked apart from my beads and he maneuvers me onto my back kissing me all over. Oh God, my face, dark nipples, shoulders, belly all get the attention from his delicious mouth. My whole body is on fire with wanting him and I can't believe he’s hard once more as he kneels over me whilst sucking and blowing on my nipples, using my beads to caress over their tips. I shiver as three of Peter’s fingers push inside me, touching all my nerve endings finding that strawberry textured spot. I arch against his face and ministrations, feeling so wet, I ache for him. My womb tightens around his fingers and melts over him as my body ripples with pleasure from the shockwaves running through it.
My moans get louder, “I’m going to cum soon,” I’m almost embarrassed to tell him, hoping Peter will slow the pace of our lovemaking but wanting him on top of me, inside me. As he removes his hand I feel his index finger press against my clitoris and instinctively my hand tweaks my nipple, our eyes lock together, both feeling desired and wanted.
I try to concentrate on what he’s doing; prolonging the agony of the intense orgasm that I know will erupt soon. He returns to my hairless vagina inserting two fingers pushing them higher and higher whilst shivers run the length of my body. My moans get louder as his other hand returns to pleasuring my clitoris. My mouth is open and I push against Peter’s expert maneuvers as he continues grinding and twisting with his fingers, exquisite sensations that make me gasp and pant as I call out to him because I can't take much more. “Peter get on top,” I plead, wanting his hardness to manipulate me to the final orgasm. I feel him part my soft yielding lips with the head of his throbbing cock. “Yes,” he simply replies moving on top and pushing deep inside me. “Use your hips, Saffy, fuck me back as I drive hard into you,” he whispers, his mouth searching for mine. I open my legs wider as he slides deeper again, caressing and stroking my breasts. I scream and throw my arms out, pressing my hips upwards against the vibrations, arching my back. My skin is glistening, my hands are gripping the blanket and I'm crying as he thrusts in and out of me harder and harder. He is watching me, so vulnerable and so trusting until, finally, he sees me panting and screaming as the most complete orgasm hits. “Ahhhhhhhh,” I yell, biting my lip as tremors rip through me and my insides explode. My eyes give myself to him, my body yields to him. I’m delirious and struggle to breath. I can feel a pulsation as Peter remains inside me. “Please don’t move,” I ask him, my body going into exquisite spasms before we continue. However, he doesn’t ejaculate but rolls off to lie beside me and holds me until my trembling passes, leaving me limp and breathless in his arms.
“Saffy…” he begins, I can tell he has much to say but I don’t want an analysis of what just happened, I want to savour the moment.
“Shush,” I tell him, my finger slowly rising to his lips. “Let’s not dissect this, not yet.”
“You sweet, erotic, beautiful, maddening wench, I’ve missed you! You’re an amazing lover.”
With those words, he kisses me gently and when I’m calm he makes love to me carefully, quietly, with no fireworks, just acknowledging the way we both feel about each other. This time we cum together and it's not earth shattering and there's no screaming, just a feeling of completeness. The ache of all those dreams whilst apart is satisfied. We stay locked together, our arms wrapped around each other in my dressing room for as long as we can, just wanting to hold onto that feeling.
