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"Heels desire" - now open
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chauderlos
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How gorgeous she looks…the long gown like a second skin, hugging so closely her feminine curves. I feel a light stir when I glance at her shoulders, the low line of black fabric that hugs the arc of her breasts. The tiny freckles that dot her skin. Ephélides, I like the French word for freckles. Ephélides, like éphémère… éphémères éphélides... The shoes I had selected for her, how closely the calfskin clads her feet, how powerful and confident her strides are. And the tiara… How clever of her; turning the XVIIIth century necklace into a queen's diadem…
I notice her quick look down at my shoes. Black polished Oxfords, the pair I was wearing the first day we met. To serve mein all my requests and desires for the night, she wrote. I want to serve her. To be her chevalier servant. To please her. Getting my pleasure from her pleasure.
While I bow to kiss her slender fingers, I notice that she isn't wearing any perfume tonight. I had guessed right, and the bottle of Shalimar, with assorted body ointment, in the cream cardboard box was a good idea, after all. Shalimar, the temple of love, bergamot pear and vanilla fragrances, very exotic, very daring…
Pulling the chair for her, Of course, Elizabeth, I'll be telling you stories…, enchanting stories, you'll avenge Scheherazade… The pasha had her tell him stories for 1 000 and one nights… you'll have me to tell you stories for one night… and all the nights to come.
If any, I thought.
Pouring champagne in our crystal glasses, holding mine at eyes level, her blurred face trough the floating bubbles, To your beauty… and to the pleasure of having you, with me tonight.
Laying the jade dildo on the table, between our plates, letting my fingers linger along the carefully carved dragon and phoenix motives, I start telling her the story of this object:
Dragon and phoenix… you, a former art student, know for sure the symbols attached to these animals; the dragon the Emperor, the Phoenix the Empress, male and female, yin and yang. I found it, years ago, in my grandparents' attic. In a trunk covered with faded labels, Corps expéditionnaire d'Extrême Orient, 5e Régiment d'Infanterie de Marine… So, the tales I had heard so many times, on Sundays, after the ritual family lunch, where true: my grand grandfather had indeed been to China, in 1901, as part of the expeditionary force sent to Beijing to suppress the Boxer rebellion. I will spare you the historic lecture, you're not here for that. Among other curios, medals of forgotten wars, I found a note book, the diary of my grand grandfather.
After the liberation of Beijing, and the storming of the Summer Palace that followed, he stayed for a few months in garrison at the French Embassy. At first, his diary is filled with military details, accounts of battles, descriptions of what he saw, discovered there. One day, he writes that he will be traveling to the Ming tombs, with his comrades. And there are no entries for one whole week, after his journey. What had happened? No one will ever know.
The next entry is a single, laconic sentence: Liù, my little princess.
And nothing else. After a month or so of silence, he starts writing again. Comments of the garrison's life, Notes on his fellows, and the account of his return No trace of Liù. Nothing. As if she never existed.
Was she some servant he met in a tea house? Was she a courtesan, or a real princess? And where did this olisbos come from? Did she give it to him, or he to her? Was it just an other antique he bought, or simply stole during the looting of the Summer Palace? Too many questions unanswered.
I've seen a picture of him, taken shortly after his return. And upright man, tall, short cropped hair, a neatly trimmed moustache. Confident-looking of his impeccable uniform, the convoluted stripes on the sleeves of his tunic, his right hand casually resting on the grip of his saber. But, or maybe was is my imagination, I could see that, despite all the pride of his condition, his eyes were, behind the glass of his monocle, shaded by distant memories of happiness lost for ever…
Please, Elizabeth, imagine with me… a handsome foreigner, an appealing young girl… the shyness of their relation, tiny steps after tiny step, smiles and glances… Or was is unexpected passion, a sudden outburst of desire? Imagine the emotion, the trembling hands, does he really have a thorny dick, like it was believed then? His thick, soldier's fingers, struggling to open her elaborate dress. The first touch, the softness of her skin, how amazing all these discoveries must have been… Their lovemaking, awkward at first for sure, the collision of two far-flung universes. How many stories could a talented writer build with a jade penis, a discolored sepia picture and three words, Liù, my little princess…?
I often wondered is I would ever use this olisbos. I often dreamed how delightful it would be to share it with some intelligent, beautiful, sensual woman… someone like you…
Her chin rests on her crossed fingers, her look is far away, in a distant world, where Calaf, Prince of Persia, could marry Turandot, Empress of China…
But you must be starving, and you let me talk, and talk…
I go to the kitchen, coming back with the . I hope you like sucré-salé… The contrast between the iodine taste of lobster and the sweetness of melon. Contrast... like your white skin and the black fabric of your dress. Your smile, and the darkness of your thoughts, sometimes.
I notice her quick look down at my shoes. Black polished Oxfords, the pair I was wearing the first day we met. To serve mein all my requests and desires for the night, she wrote. I want to serve her. To be her chevalier servant. To please her. Getting my pleasure from her pleasure.
While I bow to kiss her slender fingers, I notice that she isn't wearing any perfume tonight. I had guessed right, and the bottle of Shalimar, with assorted body ointment, in the cream cardboard box was a good idea, after all. Shalimar, the temple of love, bergamot pear and vanilla fragrances, very exotic, very daring…
Pulling the chair for her, Of course, Elizabeth, I'll be telling you stories…, enchanting stories, you'll avenge Scheherazade… The pasha had her tell him stories for 1 000 and one nights… you'll have me to tell you stories for one night… and all the nights to come.
If any, I thought.
Pouring champagne in our crystal glasses, holding mine at eyes level, her blurred face trough the floating bubbles, To your beauty… and to the pleasure of having you, with me tonight.
Laying the jade dildo on the table, between our plates, letting my fingers linger along the carefully carved dragon and phoenix motives, I start telling her the story of this object:
Dragon and phoenix… you, a former art student, know for sure the symbols attached to these animals; the dragon the Emperor, the Phoenix the Empress, male and female, yin and yang. I found it, years ago, in my grandparents' attic. In a trunk covered with faded labels, Corps expéditionnaire d'Extrême Orient, 5e Régiment d'Infanterie de Marine… So, the tales I had heard so many times, on Sundays, after the ritual family lunch, where true: my grand grandfather had indeed been to China, in 1901, as part of the expeditionary force sent to Beijing to suppress the Boxer rebellion. I will spare you the historic lecture, you're not here for that. Among other curios, medals of forgotten wars, I found a note book, the diary of my grand grandfather.
After the liberation of Beijing, and the storming of the Summer Palace that followed, he stayed for a few months in garrison at the French Embassy. At first, his diary is filled with military details, accounts of battles, descriptions of what he saw, discovered there. One day, he writes that he will be traveling to the Ming tombs, with his comrades. And there are no entries for one whole week, after his journey. What had happened? No one will ever know.
The next entry is a single, laconic sentence: Liù, my little princess.
And nothing else. After a month or so of silence, he starts writing again. Comments of the garrison's life, Notes on his fellows, and the account of his return No trace of Liù. Nothing. As if she never existed.
Was she some servant he met in a tea house? Was she a courtesan, or a real princess? And where did this olisbos come from? Did she give it to him, or he to her? Was it just an other antique he bought, or simply stole during the looting of the Summer Palace? Too many questions unanswered.
I've seen a picture of him, taken shortly after his return. And upright man, tall, short cropped hair, a neatly trimmed moustache. Confident-looking of his impeccable uniform, the convoluted stripes on the sleeves of his tunic, his right hand casually resting on the grip of his saber. But, or maybe was is my imagination, I could see that, despite all the pride of his condition, his eyes were, behind the glass of his monocle, shaded by distant memories of happiness lost for ever…
Please, Elizabeth, imagine with me… a handsome foreigner, an appealing young girl… the shyness of their relation, tiny steps after tiny step, smiles and glances… Or was is unexpected passion, a sudden outburst of desire? Imagine the emotion, the trembling hands, does he really have a thorny dick, like it was believed then? His thick, soldier's fingers, struggling to open her elaborate dress. The first touch, the softness of her skin, how amazing all these discoveries must have been… Their lovemaking, awkward at first for sure, the collision of two far-flung universes. How many stories could a talented writer build with a jade penis, a discolored sepia picture and three words, Liù, my little princess…?
I often wondered is I would ever use this olisbos. I often dreamed how delightful it would be to share it with some intelligent, beautiful, sensual woman… someone like you…
Her chin rests on her crossed fingers, her look is far away, in a distant world, where Calaf, Prince of Persia, could marry Turandot, Empress of China…
But you must be starving, and you let me talk, and talk…
I go to the kitchen, coming back with the . I hope you like sucré-salé… The contrast between the iodine taste of lobster and the sweetness of melon. Contrast... like your white skin and the black fabric of your dress. Your smile, and the darkness of your thoughts, sometimes.
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chauderlos
myself, at least
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…, and the symbolism is very thoughtful
While she tastes the salt-and-sugar salad, I wonder how lucky I was, the day she entered the shop. How lucky I was when she didn't rebuke when, for the first time, I let my fingers drift along her skirt, revealing her long and magnificent legs. How lucky I am, to have her here, at my table, enjoying the sight of her beautiful curves, her radiant smile, the sparkles that glow in her eyes when sexy reflections cross her mind. At the same time, I also wonder what will happen next, how will this strange relationship unfold, what of tomorrow?
More than her magnificent body, more than the curves of her breasts, even more than the way she looks when she give me her orders ~or when she begs to serve me, it's her mind that appeals me, that talks to my heart, that make me want so direly to see her, to simply BE with her, again and again. For sure, all the carnal pleasures she can offer, or that she can take, are Heaven on Earth. But her mind... should she ask me to walk in my full feminine attire in front of a mirror, should she beg for me to fuck her ass, or should she casually talk about the latest exhibition at the Museum for fine Arts… All the signals are flashing red in my mind, howling sirens are sending an all points warning message; tonight, I ignore all warnings, all alarms. Tonight, I belong to her. The only signals I care about are the ones she is sending now, waves of desire and demands and probing, that radiates around her.
What will happen tomorrow I don't care about; I brush sad and alarming thoughts out-of-the-way, saving my pessimism for later. Let's act as if there were, indeed, Point de lendemain…
She had set the cardboard box aside, leaving it unopened beside her plates. Wasn't she curious about its content? Was she too proud to accept a gift, even from me? Or was this just an other trick of hers?
I had skipped from champagne to white wine, and she get pleasure from the fresh and fruity taste of Pouilly Fuissé all the same. It was a pleasure to watch her eating. She wasn't wolfing the salad down, but she enjoyed the food, savoring each mouthful, letting the tastes mingle, the savors flourish. One day, if such a day ever happens, I shall prepare her a more hearty dinner, nearly raw meat and heavy Rhône valley red wine.
...now I'm wondering if this was for use on his princess, or if it was the other way around. What do you think?
Her question hit me like a blow. Was I such an open book to read? Looking at the slender fingers manipulating the jade phallus, I can't help but wondering if I will be bold enough to ask her, or to have her guess my secret wishes, regarding this…
Sorry, dear Elizabeth, but this is a question I can't answer, for sure. But I can imagine… Imagine that this object belonged to Liù. As an objet de consolation… She kept it inside a lacquer box, ornate with the pleasure ideogram, in red, beside her bed. It's summer, a hot, dry, sandy summer, like they can be around Beijing. The winds are carrying the sands of the desert of Tartaria inside every house, every place, every room. Even in the low hills, where the happy few gather during the hot months, the heat is unbearable. Liù is resting in the tiny pavilion, designed for the pleasure of watching the moon over the pound. A maidservant just read her a chapter of the Jing Ping Mei, the famous erotic classical novel. But she sent her away, she wants to be alone. With careful moves, she unfolds the numerous layers of the clothing, revealing her slender breast, flat and ivory white as an éphebe… With her purple nails, she probes and pinches her dark nipples, until she cries out of surprise and pleasure. She lays; her carefully ornate dress ruffled and wrinkled, her legs spread, ready to use the jade yin, warming the cold deep green stone with her slender fingers. She wants to rub it against the slick moistness of her folds, but then… she hears horse hooves clatter in the front courtyard of the yamen, it's him, it's Him... He enters, sweaty in his rumpled uniform, smiling, triumphant, wearing all the attribute of maleness, sword, ribbons, leather belt, riding boots. He collapses on the bed, fighting with his flies, impatient to bury his shaft into her soft pond. How deep a contrast, the delicate, ornate, refined Chinese princess and the roughneck officer, mating under the burning afternoon sun. He must have hurt her, impatient, hard, wanting, against the frail frame of her lithe body… But how she deeply wanted him, Him, her barbaric prince, deep inside her, bruising her frail rose bud… How roughly her thrusts inside her, how profound he pushes inside her, his copper belt buckle leaving deep dents on the tender flesh of her belly, his saber he didn't bother to unhook banging on the sandalwood floor. How heavy he falls on her fragile body, his breath short, after he climaxed. While he rests on his back, his breeches over his boots, his half tunic open over his hairy torso, the curved steely saber sheath at his side, she let her thoughts wander… the jade phallus, within hand reach. His heavy body, contented with carnal pleasure, free of sorrows and far into foreign land.
Did the idea occur then? Did she then, for the first time, imagine pushing it inside him ?....
All the time I have been telling her about this tale, my hands were resting on her shoulders, my lips near to her ear shell. I had kept my voice just above murmur, to be able to sense, to hear, every sigh, every stir of her frame. When I mentioned the rough entrance of the soldier, his sudden irruption of barbaric power inside the refined lady's boudoir, I felt a trembling, a missing heartbeat… But more than this... the idea of the cold stone profaning his muscular buttocks…
After I have poured her some more wine, and brought the next course to the table, I grab the rope, the silken length of rope, and coil it over her shoulder, once, twice, letting its waxed end rest right center of her cleavage.. Shibari…you must have come across this word, don't you?
While she tastes the salt-and-sugar salad, I wonder how lucky I was, the day she entered the shop. How lucky I was when she didn't rebuke when, for the first time, I let my fingers drift along her skirt, revealing her long and magnificent legs. How lucky I am, to have her here, at my table, enjoying the sight of her beautiful curves, her radiant smile, the sparkles that glow in her eyes when sexy reflections cross her mind. At the same time, I also wonder what will happen next, how will this strange relationship unfold, what of tomorrow?
More than her magnificent body, more than the curves of her breasts, even more than the way she looks when she give me her orders ~or when she begs to serve me, it's her mind that appeals me, that talks to my heart, that make me want so direly to see her, to simply BE with her, again and again. For sure, all the carnal pleasures she can offer, or that she can take, are Heaven on Earth. But her mind... should she ask me to walk in my full feminine attire in front of a mirror, should she beg for me to fuck her ass, or should she casually talk about the latest exhibition at the Museum for fine Arts… All the signals are flashing red in my mind, howling sirens are sending an all points warning message; tonight, I ignore all warnings, all alarms. Tonight, I belong to her. The only signals I care about are the ones she is sending now, waves of desire and demands and probing, that radiates around her.
What will happen tomorrow I don't care about; I brush sad and alarming thoughts out-of-the-way, saving my pessimism for later. Let's act as if there were, indeed, Point de lendemain…
She had set the cardboard box aside, leaving it unopened beside her plates. Wasn't she curious about its content? Was she too proud to accept a gift, even from me? Or was this just an other trick of hers?
I had skipped from champagne to white wine, and she get pleasure from the fresh and fruity taste of Pouilly Fuissé all the same. It was a pleasure to watch her eating. She wasn't wolfing the salad down, but she enjoyed the food, savoring each mouthful, letting the tastes mingle, the savors flourish. One day, if such a day ever happens, I shall prepare her a more hearty dinner, nearly raw meat and heavy Rhône valley red wine.
...now I'm wondering if this was for use on his princess, or if it was the other way around. What do you think?
Her question hit me like a blow. Was I such an open book to read? Looking at the slender fingers manipulating the jade phallus, I can't help but wondering if I will be bold enough to ask her, or to have her guess my secret wishes, regarding this…
Sorry, dear Elizabeth, but this is a question I can't answer, for sure. But I can imagine… Imagine that this object belonged to Liù. As an objet de consolation… She kept it inside a lacquer box, ornate with the pleasure ideogram, in red, beside her bed. It's summer, a hot, dry, sandy summer, like they can be around Beijing. The winds are carrying the sands of the desert of Tartaria inside every house, every place, every room. Even in the low hills, where the happy few gather during the hot months, the heat is unbearable. Liù is resting in the tiny pavilion, designed for the pleasure of watching the moon over the pound. A maidservant just read her a chapter of the Jing Ping Mei, the famous erotic classical novel. But she sent her away, she wants to be alone. With careful moves, she unfolds the numerous layers of the clothing, revealing her slender breast, flat and ivory white as an éphebe… With her purple nails, she probes and pinches her dark nipples, until she cries out of surprise and pleasure. She lays; her carefully ornate dress ruffled and wrinkled, her legs spread, ready to use the jade yin, warming the cold deep green stone with her slender fingers. She wants to rub it against the slick moistness of her folds, but then… she hears horse hooves clatter in the front courtyard of the yamen, it's him, it's Him... He enters, sweaty in his rumpled uniform, smiling, triumphant, wearing all the attribute of maleness, sword, ribbons, leather belt, riding boots. He collapses on the bed, fighting with his flies, impatient to bury his shaft into her soft pond. How deep a contrast, the delicate, ornate, refined Chinese princess and the roughneck officer, mating under the burning afternoon sun. He must have hurt her, impatient, hard, wanting, against the frail frame of her lithe body… But how she deeply wanted him, Him, her barbaric prince, deep inside her, bruising her frail rose bud… How roughly her thrusts inside her, how profound he pushes inside her, his copper belt buckle leaving deep dents on the tender flesh of her belly, his saber he didn't bother to unhook banging on the sandalwood floor. How heavy he falls on her fragile body, his breath short, after he climaxed. While he rests on his back, his breeches over his boots, his half tunic open over his hairy torso, the curved steely saber sheath at his side, she let her thoughts wander… the jade phallus, within hand reach. His heavy body, contented with carnal pleasure, free of sorrows and far into foreign land.
Did the idea occur then? Did she then, for the first time, imagine pushing it inside him ?....
All the time I have been telling her about this tale, my hands were resting on her shoulders, my lips near to her ear shell. I had kept my voice just above murmur, to be able to sense, to hear, every sigh, every stir of her frame. When I mentioned the rough entrance of the soldier, his sudden irruption of barbaric power inside the refined lady's boudoir, I felt a trembling, a missing heartbeat… But more than this... the idea of the cold stone profaning his muscular buttocks…
After I have poured her some more wine, and brought the next course to the table, I grab the rope, the silken length of rope, and coil it over her shoulder, once, twice, letting its waxed end rest right center of her cleavage.. Shibari…you must have come across this word, don't you?
chauderlos
myself, at least
- Joined
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For reasons that belong to her, Diamantine won't post any longer. Heels Desire will remain an unfinished story, for now at least.
I feel sorry, for it was, and will remain, a wonderful adventure through fantasy. And she is a wonderful, creative, sensual, cultured co-writer. What can I do, it's her choice and I have to live with it. But, I hope that she will come back, one day…
I wish to thank all the people here who read this thread, and those who cared to share their comments and opinions.
For now, Philipp will clear the table, unfortunately not wearing the French maid uniform he had chosen for that occasion. He will then put the silken rope, the jade penis, the whip and the blindfold back in the trunk and finish the wine, alone in the lounge, in the sole company of the lone lamppost, outside, in the empty street. Maybe browse through the ukio-e book. Or listen to Turandot. And wait for her return…
I feel sorry, for it was, and will remain, a wonderful adventure through fantasy. And she is a wonderful, creative, sensual, cultured co-writer. What can I do, it's her choice and I have to live with it. But, I hope that she will come back, one day…
I wish to thank all the people here who read this thread, and those who cared to share their comments and opinions.
For now, Philipp will clear the table, unfortunately not wearing the French maid uniform he had chosen for that occasion. He will then put the silken rope, the jade penis, the whip and the blindfold back in the trunk and finish the wine, alone in the lounge, in the sole company of the lone lamppost, outside, in the empty street. Maybe browse through the ukio-e book. Or listen to Turandot. And wait for her return…
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