Category: sex

The Traveller by Afrodykie

The Island Stories … Part Two, number one (fiction, sort of)

ERESSOS. Picture it.

Autumn licks the sky, clouds white-grey, the Aegean stirs its choppy ripples into summer’s past.

Blue, Aegean blue, clear Blue Flag water laps the footprint shore, swirls sighs around the little stones.

Goodbye.

Umbrellas spike the sand and billow into frilly shade. Not too many now.

The car parks start to clear. The streets, the alleys they breathe again.

In the village, the plane tree leaves shrink and curl, they wither lifeless and drop, quite dead, their usefulness spent.

The cicadas cacophonous in their heated cry, soon too they’ll be gone. Went.

Eressos, cradled by the mountains: a palette of pinks curve soften glow in shortening sunset. Daytime’s scrubby shrubs brown dusky delicious they draw moon slice new slim moon blinks at dark’s secrets.

The stage is set: The Sappho International Women’s Festival starts on Saturday (www.womensfestival.eu).

That means lots of parties and lots of different things to do, and lots of women ambling about, their eyes do the roaming.

Ogle ogle.

I’m keen on the olive talk, the laughing yoga, and the art and music. Oh, and the fashion show.

I may even go swimmin with the wimmin, to the rock.

One thing’s for sure, I’ll be at Portokali in the village at 11 o clock on Wednesday.

The festival is a big girl now. She has a fringe, events that are not part of the official programme.

And the first one is Alessandra Pagani’s photographic exhibition, The Washing Line.

She’s hosting it, from Wednesday September 3, in her Obiettivo Studio, a dream space in her beautiful garden.

I’ll meet people at Portokali every day, at 11am, she says, leaning out the top window of her stone house.

It’s not far from mine but the houses don’t have numbers and the streets and alleys are nameless.

But everyone knows where Portokali is, in the village, just off the plateia.

In Skala, the Queen Bee (www.sapphotravel.com) was busy at her desk last night, as usual.

The festival, the 14th in a row, is the culmination of summer’s sweat.

Already the Flamingo Bar has hosted a party with the tagline: Take a Chance on Me.

Clearly there’s more than ogling going on.

And with three big parties thundering in the silence of Skala – one on Thursday (Flamingo) and another on Friday (Belle Ville) and the big big festival opening of Saturday at the open air cinema … if punters don’t grab the take me tooshes on the dance floor, maybe they’re out of step.

(ends)

 

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The Traveller by Afrodykie

X is for … XXXX
THERE’S nothing like a kiss to get the juices flowing.
Ah, that second when lips lock and tongues tour.
How you long for it.
That meeting of mouths … the breath of another melting into yours, what bliss it is.
Your hearts beat as one, tralala. They pound into each other, your breasts squash flat against her chest.
It’s the start of surrender, this kiss, it shows mutual attraction, it’s the kick-off to a climax.
It confirms a fascination.
Of course, it is also the beginning of the end, for all relationships, love affairs, liaisons, they all end in grief – if there is some emotion in the mix.
It’s either a break-up or death. Either way, it’s going to end.
This means a kiss usually heralds heartache — usually but not always.
That thought though is not on your mind, not when you latch onto her lips, as if they were the juiciest plum on the planet.
Nibble nosh suck tease.
Your tongue thinks it’s on a Contiki Expedition it explores so much, so quickly.
Oh, the smell of her, that pulse throbbing in her neck.
Her sighs, the sounds you love, your ears are full of them. You hear nothing else.
Is there a world out there?
Your mouth is on her neck. She throws back her head, murmuring.
Murmuring!
You glance at her face. Thank God, her eyes are closed.
You get serious and fumble with the buttons on her blouse.
Buttons breast, buttons breast.
She leans forward and takes your head in her hands.
Kiss me again, she says. Kiss me.
Oh, how you dive into the quiet words a river on her lips.
A breath of butterflies it floats between you.
Your bodies slam together, the dance of desire
The murmurs, her murmurs, turn into quickstep panting.
Your bodies swim in sweat.
You’ve ripped off each other’s clothes, your nakedness has met.
And yet your lips linger, lust. They work together, music in concert with hers.
This moment, this joyous jive, it is forever. There’s no day outside no night no anything.
At last, the nipple, your hands on a mission to the mound.
Hers, oh where are hers?
They’re in a circle round your neck, your back your everything.
They touch you.
Her hair splayed behind her, her face so tender, it’s so close to yours so touchable so reachable.
Stroke tickle hug.
She can’t let you go. She won’t, she smiles eyes big beads brown you drown in them.
And still you kiss, and kiss again.
It’s moist and warm and intimate.
It’s moist and warm and very intimate.
But you’re not ready. No, not yet.
(ends)

The Traveller by Afrodykie

V is for … Va-Va-Voom

IT was going to be for Vanilla, but everybody knows what vanilla sex is …

It’s the standard rumpy pumpy — no nips, slap-spanking or salacious sucking — and certainly no dressing up to give a dressing down.

Vanilla is missionary all the way (yawn) and a quick shower afterwards.

Sies!

There’ll never be a silk scarf in sight, never mind a fishnet stocking.

Nor suspenders in any shape or form! My word, no!

Aren’t they for whores? And dear, you and me, nibbling ear lobes is as far as we go, that’s deviation.

Pass the butter, please.

What? Your name’s Marjee? Ha ha. Short for margarine, coz you spread so easily?

Darling, no … that’s crude. Just now you’ll be hauling out the high heels, perhaps a mask or two.

Maybe you’ll tie me to the bed post and fetch the feather duster.

God forbid you tickle me with that.

I know you. You’ll tease me tease.

Yes, dear, that’s called erotic sexual denial.

Kinkeeeeee.

I’ll make you want it, want me, madly.

Laughs.

Top? Bottom. Sub. Dom? What’s that?

No, no, no lovie, it’s got nothing to do with my legs in the air and your backside pumping like a crazy piston.

It’s all about dominant-submissive, and it may be sexual or non-sexual.

I see. You in control, you tell me what to do.

Yes. Pass the marmalade, now. Tora!

Winks.

The point is: one of the pair submits, that’s a dom-sub relationship, and if there’s pain or humiliation then it starts melting into sado-masochism.

But there are no strings attached, sweetie, not like in bondage and discipline but let’s face it, BDSM, the whole bang shoot, it demands that one partner surrenders. It takes trust, and an imagination.

Yikes.

Nervously curls forefinger around cigarette and looks at partner quizzically.

Draws deeply, and blows smoke rings.

You mean like butch and femme?

No, love, really, that’s so 70s.

We’re stuck in a bit of a time-warp here, perpetuating these heterosexist roles. Don’t you think?

Just now you’ll want to get married!

Well, it’s worked so far … this hetero what did you say?

Maybe for you, but I’m getting bored, in bed too. Bed death. Ha ha. There’s nothing worse than this type of restraint … the proclivity to dwell on the familiar. I mean, when last was intimacy thrilling?

It tell you what, we get a movie or something, and some toys, and fantasise a bit. And you let go of that manly stuff, and just be sexual? Let’s titillate each other. Let’s go where we haven’t been.

Runs toes up partner’s leg underneath the breakfast table.

Drops shoulder of her blouse to reveal elegant clavicle and a throbbing pulse in her neck.

I want to give the orders.

Cocks head and blows kiss.

Naaah, love, c’mon … You’re being silly now. It’s just one of your silly ideas.

Smiles, and opens legs to steady herself. Partner leaves seat.

You going to do the dishes, love?

No baby, I’m going to do you. Now!

(ends)