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Fidelio
I say to the rich 18th-century door, which opens. A man on the right, naked under his tunic, a woman on the left, equally naked, but without any veil, open the doors wide and let me in.
Ori and pomp, damn baroque. A Venetian villa, made available by a rich old voyeur, a surprise invitation: - Come and write.
An invitation from a couple, to sign my identity in this strange place: "The writer". I've been writing out of passion for a long time, recently for the game, for yours and for mine.
I decided to accept the invitation, even at the cost of not playing and feeling like a fish out of water. I had heard about this party, there was a very strict control at the entrance. Only perfect men and beautiful women. And I'm not perfect.
But word had gotten around, couples, women. There's the writer, we were saying, even to make fun of me.
And yet I know how powerful words can be. I've known it all my life and I've only used it recently. Only recently, in fact, I embraced who I really am.
To all this I think, and how much I remember Eyes Wide Shut this party. The pianist plays, elegant. I look at my red Moschino tuxedo, rented for the occasion. If you can't be elegant, at least be extravagant, Wilde said. Besides, the choice of red had a reason.
Of these things I think, while I'm drinking my scotch at an over-stocked bar, and I look at the first couple performing next to me on the sofa. A bare performance, he's just whispering something in her ear, she's looking at me as she grazes him from above her pants. They look like a private couple, with the same attitude. Nice, yes, but so far, uninteresting.
And then she comes over. You won't believe me, but I recognize her by her nail polish. Red, fiery, like the shoes she's wearing. My request: nails and shoes like in the profile picture.
She lights up the entrance with her blonde hair. Wavy. I recognize her even though I've never seen her face before. Accompanied by her man smiling, smiling at the good fortune to have her by his side.
What too many singles don't understand, and in this they are the same as people in the normal world, is that not all couples who love to play with singles are cuckolds. They just can't handle it. They're so afraid of their own shadow that they live on useless jealousy and pleasure.
The man who accompanies her is sure of himself, sure of her, sure that he won't lose her even if tonight, at this party, she fucks all the boys.
She won't, I think. So unique that she only selects what satisfies her vices, those she already knows and those she has yet to discover. Because already to see her walking, on that red heel that lifts her stature and makes my head spin, I see the warm curiosity, the continuous desire, the warmth of soul and body, the love for beauty.
I won't be the one drooling for her. My attire reveals itself to me, if you want to show up. I've written for you, about you, not yet with you. You know I want to. You don't need any more encouragement.
But it's on my second scotch, while the music gets darker reminiscent of the great film, that the theatre is full, couples talking to couples, me flirting with a single bare-breasted woman in front of me.
- Want to lick? - He asks me - Writer? - She makes fun of me too, I smile and bite her nipple with the right strength to hurt her.
- Ouch - Starnazza
- Don't make fun of me, I'll say sweet by grazing her neck and pulling her hair out...
They don't understand anything when you alternate pain and pleasure. I kiss her but my eyes are looking at her glazed hands. Hold your man in your hand, masturbating him slow, slow with your fingers on his erect glans. If I can barely guess what you look like, you want everything but to make him come. In fact, you want to leave him excited all night, to blow him off at home, in the privacy.
And in fact it lets you go, you take off a dress with a dizzying slit that I admire only now, and you give your first fabric underwear to a single statuesque.
But you're looking at me.
Your hand steady on your man's cock, the tongue of a Greek god who excites you by touching your clitoris.
I swallow. I can't help but imagine being in the place of one.
You do. You smile at me. You wink. I know what you're thinking about - write about this, how excited you got looking at me, how much you want me right now.
- I've wanted you ever since I saw that heel and that hand, unique, here and elsewhere. - I repeat, but only mentally. Hold my position, I'm not looking for you. I'll be watching you, of course, I can hardly help it.
A woman approaches me: - Are you offering me well?
This is a real woman, not the silly girl from before. The perfume makes me dizzy, it distracts me from you.
- Scotch, for you too. Very old and very dry - I'll order. I've always loved ordering for a woman, an old lesson. If you meet her taste, you've taken a step in the right direction.
Let's talk. She tells me that her man is watching, that he's cuckoo, that he wants a story about what a slut his wife is. They read about how I describe hotwife, they want their pound of flesh.
- Only if you are with me, I'll write about you. - I say dry.
In response, he kneels down, there, in front of me sitting at the bar. He takes my hand between hers and begins to lick my fingers, deeply, sucking them as if they were my member, and looks at her husband sitting on the sidelines.
I let her do it, I caress her hair with my other hand, slipping on her neck and wrapping it with my hand. I squeeze, and she looks at me. I squeeze again, and she stretches her hand down her pants. She finds me excited, of course. He doesn't touch the belt, he slips the zipper. Her hands are small, as small as she is. She reveals her breasts for me to look at. And she touches me with her fingers, just inside my pants, she helps me grow an erection that was already starting, she teases me, she makes me lose. He squeezes the glans in a circle with his fingers, his hands drive me crazy, always. It's the best way to make me enjoy it quickly. A strong woman who uses her lips and fingers on me.
A little pause would be enough, sometimes, to avoid enjoying and go on for hours. I've learned how I work, and that's the way I work. Some women enjoy their power to make me enjoy quickly, and what I have in front of me is one of them.
I'm enjoying his hands, his fingers and his mouth, which now wraps around my hard cock, and now I'm dropping every fiction.
I was looking for you, not her. I gave her the rope, but now the greedy look looks for you. And it finds you.
You made the single one lie down, the back of his neck facing me, to make him look at you. You're licking his frenulum, holding it in your hand. He's a perfect man and he's moaning loud now. You're looking at me, waiting for me to cross your eyes. Your man smiles pleased with your skill, with your sensuality. Not at all vulgar, with those hands dyed red with passion, while you play and drive a man crazy.
You take him to the border, and beyond, and then you let him go at the exact moment when the toyboy starts splashing hot, thick sperm. Ruined orgasm, I call it, but made by you sounds poetic.
He splashes semen on his belly while you get up, smile and get dressed. You kiss your man, leaning in front of him in the chair, and then you sit on him with your back to him.
He spreads your dress, barely, to slip with his hand and touch you while you're talking. I can't take my eyes off you. If you had a goal, you achieved it.
He's good at touching you, he leaves your mouth open and your breath short, and the party around us grows. Several couples are panting, several women take advantage of the six perfect singles provided by the old peeping Tom. For a moment I think he's recording everything, but there's no sign of the camera.
He keeps touching you, moving the dress. You are facing you and I see the center of your pleasure wet from his fingers. You look at me and dare me, again.
But you raise your hand, you signal me to come closer.
My cock is hard, even harder, and wet from the hotwife's saliva.
It's pressed down my pants when I get to you.
- Hello writer - and your excited laughter lights up the room. It seems to me that no one is playing, but around us they fuck, fuck, suck, enjoy.
I have eyes and ears just for you.
- You wanted to seduce me with a story, huh? - you have a singular laugh, amused but not contemptuous. Full.
I reach out to your man, to shake his hand. He hesitates a moment, he knows his fingers are wet with you. I nod, as if to encourage him. We shake hands, he knows I want your moods on my fingers.
And I want you to lick them, my fingers that barely know about you. I smile at you, and I reach out my hand. As if it's already written, I put my fingers just on your lips. And you touch them, and you slide them into your mouth, playing with your tongue on your fingertips. I'm looking for a hand of yours, and I want to do the same, with those hands that I've been dreaming about since I saw a simple picture, a red picture of nail polish and shoes.
All three of us are excited, definitely. Around us it's a strong orgy, we hear moans and cries, encouragement and sounds of moods, saliva, penetrations.
It's hard not to get carried away. We slip, in three, dressed, only our excitements exposed: it's a brutal heat while I'm lying on the ground, you on top of me, guiding my cock in your soaked desire, and barely riding me.
- Will you describe how good it feels to get inside me, writer? I want a story about how little I can resist having me - and as you speak the breath gets short, like mine.
He pushes you hard but sweet back, your red lips on mine open while my dick feels that his too slips inside you.
You scream to feel the two of us inside you, you move, it moves, I move. We suck of pleasure, I lick your neck and lips while we feel our birds separated from your body move for your one and only full pleasure that explodes quickly.
I love to hear a woman enjoy in a double. And you enjoy how very few women enjoy. Full of beauty and pleasure, full of the joy of making people enjoy.
You make us lie down and put us next to each other. You masturbate us, more decisive now, but you stop with him after a while.
And after a while you take me completely in the mouth, without leaving him, but to make me enjoy. You hold him in your hand while your mouth and your tongue and your hand are taking me to the limit. I look at your enamelled fingers, and while your mouth envelops me in the now inflamed chapel I burst, you take me, welcome me, warm, dense, strong. You drink me, I didn't expect it. I'm enjoying my cock and my brain.
It was our way of breaking the ice, of introducing ourselves in three: three people in their own unique way, who will have to get to know each other.
- Fidelio - I say to go out, after you and these games, the party full of orgasms has lost interest.
I arrive home, trying to sleep I think about what you are saying to each other, and how you will make him enjoy it.
I say to the rich 18th-century door, which opens. A man on the right, naked under his tunic, a woman on the left, equally naked, but without any veil, open the doors wide and let me in.
Ori and pomp, damn baroque. A Venetian villa, made available by a rich old voyeur, a surprise invitation: - Come and write.
An invitation from a couple, to sign my identity in this strange place: "The writer". I've been writing out of passion for a long time, recently for the game, for yours and for mine.
I decided to accept the invitation, even at the cost of not playing and feeling like a fish out of water. I had heard about this party, there was a very strict control at the entrance. Only perfect men and beautiful women. And I'm not perfect.
But word had gotten around, couples, women. There's the writer, we were saying, even to make fun of me.
And yet I know how powerful words can be. I've known it all my life and I've only used it recently. Only recently, in fact, I embraced who I really am.
To all this I think, and how much I remember Eyes Wide Shut this party. The pianist plays, elegant. I look at my red Moschino tuxedo, rented for the occasion. If you can't be elegant, at least be extravagant, Wilde said. Besides, the choice of red had a reason.
Of these things I think, while I'm drinking my scotch at an over-stocked bar, and I look at the first couple performing next to me on the sofa. A bare performance, he's just whispering something in her ear, she's looking at me as she grazes him from above her pants. They look like a private couple, with the same attitude. Nice, yes, but so far, uninteresting.
And then she comes over. You won't believe me, but I recognize her by her nail polish. Red, fiery, like the shoes she's wearing. My request: nails and shoes like in the profile picture.
She lights up the entrance with her blonde hair. Wavy. I recognize her even though I've never seen her face before. Accompanied by her man smiling, smiling at the good fortune to have her by his side.
What too many singles don't understand, and in this they are the same as people in the normal world, is that not all couples who love to play with singles are cuckolds. They just can't handle it. They're so afraid of their own shadow that they live on useless jealousy and pleasure.
The man who accompanies her is sure of himself, sure of her, sure that he won't lose her even if tonight, at this party, she fucks all the boys.
She won't, I think. So unique that she only selects what satisfies her vices, those she already knows and those she has yet to discover. Because already to see her walking, on that red heel that lifts her stature and makes my head spin, I see the warm curiosity, the continuous desire, the warmth of soul and body, the love for beauty.
I won't be the one drooling for her. My attire reveals itself to me, if you want to show up. I've written for you, about you, not yet with you. You know I want to. You don't need any more encouragement.
But it's on my second scotch, while the music gets darker reminiscent of the great film, that the theatre is full, couples talking to couples, me flirting with a single bare-breasted woman in front of me.
- Want to lick? - He asks me - Writer? - She makes fun of me too, I smile and bite her nipple with the right strength to hurt her.
- Ouch - Starnazza
- Don't make fun of me, I'll say sweet by grazing her neck and pulling her hair out...
They don't understand anything when you alternate pain and pleasure. I kiss her but my eyes are looking at her glazed hands. Hold your man in your hand, masturbating him slow, slow with your fingers on his erect glans. If I can barely guess what you look like, you want everything but to make him come. In fact, you want to leave him excited all night, to blow him off at home, in the privacy.
And in fact it lets you go, you take off a dress with a dizzying slit that I admire only now, and you give your first fabric underwear to a single statuesque.
But you're looking at me.
Your hand steady on your man's cock, the tongue of a Greek god who excites you by touching your clitoris.
I swallow. I can't help but imagine being in the place of one.
You do. You smile at me. You wink. I know what you're thinking about - write about this, how excited you got looking at me, how much you want me right now.
- I've wanted you ever since I saw that heel and that hand, unique, here and elsewhere. - I repeat, but only mentally. Hold my position, I'm not looking for you. I'll be watching you, of course, I can hardly help it.
A woman approaches me: - Are you offering me well?
This is a real woman, not the silly girl from before. The perfume makes me dizzy, it distracts me from you.
- Scotch, for you too. Very old and very dry - I'll order. I've always loved ordering for a woman, an old lesson. If you meet her taste, you've taken a step in the right direction.
Let's talk. She tells me that her man is watching, that he's cuckoo, that he wants a story about what a slut his wife is. They read about how I describe hotwife, they want their pound of flesh.
- Only if you are with me, I'll write about you. - I say dry.
In response, he kneels down, there, in front of me sitting at the bar. He takes my hand between hers and begins to lick my fingers, deeply, sucking them as if they were my member, and looks at her husband sitting on the sidelines.
I let her do it, I caress her hair with my other hand, slipping on her neck and wrapping it with my hand. I squeeze, and she looks at me. I squeeze again, and she stretches her hand down her pants. She finds me excited, of course. He doesn't touch the belt, he slips the zipper. Her hands are small, as small as she is. She reveals her breasts for me to look at. And she touches me with her fingers, just inside my pants, she helps me grow an erection that was already starting, she teases me, she makes me lose. He squeezes the glans in a circle with his fingers, his hands drive me crazy, always. It's the best way to make me enjoy it quickly. A strong woman who uses her lips and fingers on me.
A little pause would be enough, sometimes, to avoid enjoying and go on for hours. I've learned how I work, and that's the way I work. Some women enjoy their power to make me enjoy quickly, and what I have in front of me is one of them.
I'm enjoying his hands, his fingers and his mouth, which now wraps around my hard cock, and now I'm dropping every fiction.
I was looking for you, not her. I gave her the rope, but now the greedy look looks for you. And it finds you.
You made the single one lie down, the back of his neck facing me, to make him look at you. You're licking his frenulum, holding it in your hand. He's a perfect man and he's moaning loud now. You're looking at me, waiting for me to cross your eyes. Your man smiles pleased with your skill, with your sensuality. Not at all vulgar, with those hands dyed red with passion, while you play and drive a man crazy.
You take him to the border, and beyond, and then you let him go at the exact moment when the toyboy starts splashing hot, thick sperm. Ruined orgasm, I call it, but made by you sounds poetic.
He splashes semen on his belly while you get up, smile and get dressed. You kiss your man, leaning in front of him in the chair, and then you sit on him with your back to him.
He spreads your dress, barely, to slip with his hand and touch you while you're talking. I can't take my eyes off you. If you had a goal, you achieved it.
He's good at touching you, he leaves your mouth open and your breath short, and the party around us grows. Several couples are panting, several women take advantage of the six perfect singles provided by the old peeping Tom. For a moment I think he's recording everything, but there's no sign of the camera.
He keeps touching you, moving the dress. You are facing you and I see the center of your pleasure wet from his fingers. You look at me and dare me, again.
But you raise your hand, you signal me to come closer.
My cock is hard, even harder, and wet from the hotwife's saliva.
It's pressed down my pants when I get to you.
- Hello writer - and your excited laughter lights up the room. It seems to me that no one is playing, but around us they fuck, fuck, suck, enjoy.
I have eyes and ears just for you.
- You wanted to seduce me with a story, huh? - you have a singular laugh, amused but not contemptuous. Full.
I reach out to your man, to shake his hand. He hesitates a moment, he knows his fingers are wet with you. I nod, as if to encourage him. We shake hands, he knows I want your moods on my fingers.
And I want you to lick them, my fingers that barely know about you. I smile at you, and I reach out my hand. As if it's already written, I put my fingers just on your lips. And you touch them, and you slide them into your mouth, playing with your tongue on your fingertips. I'm looking for a hand of yours, and I want to do the same, with those hands that I've been dreaming about since I saw a simple picture, a red picture of nail polish and shoes.
All three of us are excited, definitely. Around us it's a strong orgy, we hear moans and cries, encouragement and sounds of moods, saliva, penetrations.
It's hard not to get carried away. We slip, in three, dressed, only our excitements exposed: it's a brutal heat while I'm lying on the ground, you on top of me, guiding my cock in your soaked desire, and barely riding me.
- Will you describe how good it feels to get inside me, writer? I want a story about how little I can resist having me - and as you speak the breath gets short, like mine.
He pushes you hard but sweet back, your red lips on mine open while my dick feels that his too slips inside you.
You scream to feel the two of us inside you, you move, it moves, I move. We suck of pleasure, I lick your neck and lips while we feel our birds separated from your body move for your one and only full pleasure that explodes quickly.
I love to hear a woman enjoy in a double. And you enjoy how very few women enjoy. Full of beauty and pleasure, full of the joy of making people enjoy.
You make us lie down and put us next to each other. You masturbate us, more decisive now, but you stop with him after a while.
And after a while you take me completely in the mouth, without leaving him, but to make me enjoy. You hold him in your hand while your mouth and your tongue and your hand are taking me to the limit. I look at your enamelled fingers, and while your mouth envelops me in the now inflamed chapel I burst, you take me, welcome me, warm, dense, strong. You drink me, I didn't expect it. I'm enjoying my cock and my brain.
It was our way of breaking the ice, of introducing ourselves in three: three people in their own unique way, who will have to get to know each other.
- Fidelio - I say to go out, after you and these games, the party full of orgasms has lost interest.
I arrive home, trying to sleep I think about what you are saying to each other, and how you will make him enjoy it.
Poke Bella
