The Tower

This arrived from the other side of the pond. It is written by a friend who gave me this piece for my blog. It is immensely beautiful, it sings with a poetic voice I admire. It is a little more explicit than the things you usually find here but I am sure you don't mind. Read and enjoy!

A seacoast park, on a windy, almost chilly day. You have dressed in earth tones: long skirt, blouse, sweater. You have arrived on schedule, just before sunset, just time enough to climb the long, circular staircase to the top of the Observation Tower. The vista is breathtaking. Best of all, you are alone here, so high up, leaning over the rail that encloses the roofless deck. You tuck your unruly breeze-blown tresses behind your ears.

Far below you, people stroll, singly, in couples or groups. All eyes are on the setting sun, the brilliant jewel colors and golden streaks of the clouds.

Entranced, you barely hear the footsteps on the stairs. You feel a mild, unreasonable disappointment at having to share the view. You straighten up slightly, grip the rail, and determinedly stare forward. You are, in your mind's eye, the very portrait of impenetrable solitude, offering no opening for introductions or idle observation.

The light steps pause. You are grateful that this interloper respects your privacy, your priority, and seeks only, like yourself, to enjoy the magical, privileged view, undisturbed and undisturbing.

Two minutes of reverie pass. Three. You realize that the stranger has not taken some unobtrusive place at the railing. All is yet silence. But your sixth sense, or a subtle sound, or even a hint of warmed, moving air, tells you the stranger stands immediately behind you. This brings a twinge of disquiet. You drop your eyes to the ground, see the people strolling, pointing, and are reassured.

Then...

Strong hands grip you by the flanks, just above your hips. You gasp, but remain still, mute. The touch is firm and insistent, but not quite rough, a hold you can break. You consider options, angles, as the importunate hands remain, calm, as if by right, on your waist. Your unease mounts. But oddly, you are reminded of being in the arms of an experienced dancer, a man confident in leading his inexperienced partner in intricate steps, slow or fast. The hands relax a bit. You relax a bit. But what…

A gentle, steady force presses you, ever so slightly, to your left. You resist for a moment, keep your footing, spread your legs for balance. Then – unthinkable -- you yield, bending stiffly and ever so slightly from the waist. The sure hands guide you back to plumb, then impel you, still insistent and gentle, to the right. You follow, less unwillingly, as the hands guide you in a slow rocking arc ... yes, like a dance, a softly swaying dance.

The man – not quite a stranger anymore, is he? -- takes a half step forward. You feel his shoulders pressing against yours, his chest brushing your back. He is swaying with you, rocking side to side, slowly, to the rhythm of – of what? The setting sun? The rising moon?

He guides your waist gently forward and back, now left and right --- a full circle. You release the rail, drop your arms to your side. His strong hands and firm back hold you up. The sun kisses the sea. The light is red, yellow, the shadows long... He reverses directions, pauses, speeds, slows. In spite of yourself, you unlock your knees, giving yourself wholly to the undulating improvisations of this unseen dance partner. Do you know, or do you merely hope, that …

You feel his breath, warm, on your right ear. He is crooning in a low voice, or perhaps whispering. The sound is urgent. The dance continues. But now the comforting hands glide, inch by inch, smoothly forward. Clasp your waist, fingertips interlaced in front of you. You place your hands over his. He pulls you close. The dance continues. You feel his broad chest against your back, his knees behind your knees, thighs against your buttocks. Still swaying.

His left hand returns to its first post, gripping your left hip. But his right, slowly, smoothly, slides under your sweater. You stiffen, take his wrist in your trembling hand. "Shh, shhh," he whispers, warm breath in your ear. You release him, place your hands back on the railing. He untucks your blouse, and his right hand slips under, caressing your belly, finding your breast, cupping it tenderly. He pulls you even closer to him, still swaying slowly. His left hand has already found your left breast, his smooth flat palm circling, barely brushing your hardening nipple. Now his hands lift your breasts appraisingly, testing their weight. And now, fiercely, he clasps you to himself. A rude prod from behind tells you how hard he is, how very hard. You feel his erection's radiant heat like a second sun. He arches back, away from you, but not quite completely breaking contact. Is this a hint, a warning, a reminder, invitation, boast?

Now his right hand turns, still flesh to your flesh, fingertips probing the waistband of your slacks. He leans forward, and you lean with him, bending slightly at the waist. His fingertips trace the top of your knickers, then glide underneath, inexorably downward. His hand cups your sex, gently, like a nesting bird. Lingers there...

You feel his left hand untuck the back of your blouse, then slide under slacks and knickers to cup your smooth bottom. This hand is restless. It clenches, kneads, presses, circles. Once, just once, it is pulled back, smacks you gently. His fingers clamp down again, open, close, pinching and palpating. The heat of this hand, the heat of your bottom under his hand, spread down your legs and through your pelvis. You imagine, no you see, the white outline his handprint would leave, will leave on your blushing cheek.

The left hand now probes forward, between your legs, joining briefly with the right. Dexterous fingers part, finding, flicking, stroking your clitoris. You feel one, two, three left digits probe your opening from behind, teasingly testing, dowsing for moisture, finding and transferring it to fingers still busying about your swollen pearl. Then, one, two, three, to the knuckles, to the hilt, they enter you. He enters you. He is in you, circling, back and forth, side to side. Just as your bodies' swaying dance continues, his hands holding your sex like reins, guiding you side to side, forward, back, around and around. You reach your arms behind, clasp him by the waist, pulling him, if possible, closer still. In your ear, you feel rather than hear urgent, indistinct, syllables: endearments, threats, promises, poetry… some old tune, or ….

His commanding hands dance, glide, guide your dance. You follow his lead, from twilight into darkness.

The Tavern

Fantasies are about painting pictures and sometimes when you do that it almost becomes a story. Here is a picture that not yet has become a story. Perhaps this theme is new for those of you who have read my blog. I made the drawing (had to say that).

Close to the harbour on a crowded but yet narrow street lies a tavern where ale and food is served along with entertainment and the lovely sight of fair women. Rowdy sailors go there and sit side by side with rough men from the mountains. You would find traders and adventurers there, and soldiers and thieves along with slavers and lumberjacks. All sorts of rough and strong and rowdy and brutal men sit on the benches and chairs in the big room of that tavern.

A great fireplace lights the room and its flickering light lends a certain red glow to the square features of the men, the flames reflecting in their hard eyes and glimmering on their steel muscles. This is a hard world of ruthless men and still there are women in the room. Between the tables and among the loud men there hurry the servant girls, small and soft and vulnerable in comparison.

The girls hurry between the men, trying to avoid their eager touch, their strong arms seeking to possess their bodies. They are appropriately and, with this, scantily clad. There is one clad in a thin cloth around her narrow hips, another in a flowing breechcloth and small embroidered waistcoat, yet another wears nothing but a leather thong and nothing more, her young breasts on full display.

The girls move in the room, their soft bodies in sharp contrast to the rough men, their semi exposed bodies accentuating their vulnerability. Their bodies are on display for the pleasure of the guests, their service not only that of bringing ale but also to let the men enjoy the sight of their shapely frames.

The crowd is loud and brutal but in a good mood. They laugh and drink and talk and sing. Suddenly there is a roar as one of the brutes manages to get hold of the thin skirt of one of the girls and rips it off. The girl having to complete her tasks in the nude to the great amusement of the guests. Her naked body only goes to strengthen the sense that this is a man's world, a place for the pleasure of men and the girls are only for entertainment.

In the middle of the room there is an open space. At one side is the fireplace at the other a small dais. Three musicians take their places on that dais and start playing. There is a drum, a flute and a strangely shaped sitar. The noise in the room continues but some of the guests turn their head towards the open space.

Suddenly all eyes are focussed on the open space as a girl enters. She is small, tiny in comparison to the men and all eyes are upon her. She is dressed in a red flowing breechcloth held in place by a golden chain low on her hips. Around her chest is tied a thin red piece of cloth. Besides this she is naked. The music stops and the girl stands still. She is waiting. The whole room is waiting.

The flute begins to play and then the sitar and lastly the drums. The girl begins to dance. She moves her body in soft flowing movements. The men can't take their eyes from her. She is small and looks so young, almost like a child but still there is something about her that makes her look older and wiser than ever a child can be. She is not a child, she is a woman and everyone can see that.

Her dance is beautiful, it is soft and vulnerable. She is both innocent and vulnerable and yet confident and strong. She dances her dreams and desires along with her strength and her softness.

The music gets wilder and the dance more intense. She moves her body to the music, becomes one with it and all the men stare at her in silent devotion. They desire her more than anything but not one of them dares to move risking to break the magic spell. He body exposed but yet covered makes them lust for her but she is not for them to touch, she is beyond them, belonging to another world.

The music stops, the dancing girls hurries from the floor on her bare feet. The men sit in silence. Some of them fighting back tears, knowing that they have seen something that is beyond them, something far more beautiful and lovely than they can ever be, something that is above and far, far away, never to be touched or taken. There is desire and lust and all earthly sensations but they know, as well, that they have been touched by something beyond that, something they will never forget.