My beautiful redhead

My beautiful redhead

She was shy, she was of a porcelain timidity, my beautiful redhead. That she gathered enough courage to leave me this note, this smile without any glance, it does not astonish me anymore. She had had to feel it in my voice, in my words, that my audacity would exceed hers and that thus, without looking like it, she was giving me the key. For me to open her. I will do it.

This evening, she speaks to me, I can see her profile. Her words are soft silences, her lashes drape her curiosity. She is so beautiful! I sat on the couch, place myself in her sunrays, she talks beneath her long hair. She wears a long linen dress, tons of buttons pressed on the front. I can see, but barely, the roundness of her knee, almost her thigh and already her skin calls me. White, modest. I would like to see you looking at it. I would like her hands so long on her hair, that she retains them, that I can feel the nape of her neck, feel her odor, she smells like dew... I know that she waits. I know that she doesn’t know how. I benefit from the minutes which are slipping on her to absorb myself with each one of her freckles. Like this one. And those. Those on the angle of her jaw, are drawing the shape my mouth, are they not? And while awaiting, she stares at the silence, I see my hand passing on these moles, on her skin, I touch her. The back of my fingers, the back of my nails, just posed there, gently tracing the contour of her cheek, the corner of her lips. I feel her retaining her breath. She closes her eyes. Turns her head towards my caress. I feel like a man. Unable to close my eyes in front of her beauty, I want to see her, seeing her obsesses me and fascinates me, I am the one that will take her this evening...

Under the contact of my fingers close to her chin, I see her opening, almost melting. The muscles of her face are stretched almost to the point of disappearing. Look at the smooth contour of her eyelids, the lips which are opened now, the face going up... Delectable. A so small caress. And yet sufficient.

I approach my face of hers, our skins reach each other and I am filled up by her flavors, her face slightly smelling of abandonment, slightly smells like the fields. The tip of my nose, as I so like to do, finding itself a way up the curves of her face; my opened eyes, always, are taking in her total confidence. I am taken away by her softness, I hope for the taste of her mouth; I am the one that will taste her, this evening...

I place myself closer to her, my heels slipped under me, she is so tall, even seated, and I still want to be higher, I want her under my glance. I’m higher now, and she leans her head, exposing me her face. I know that she wishes my kisses. Not yet. Not already. I take her in the cup of my two hands, they look so brown, my hands, on her so white skin, my fingers touching her eyelids, finding way through her hair, it’s like I’m framing her desire. And I contemplate her. For a long time. I’m thinking that in one moment, she will be naked in front of me, in a few seconds I will see the contrast of our colors, in an eternity I will have her in my mouth.

Oh… I would like to be able to draw you the spectacle that she offers to me when she rises finally and faces me, when upright in front of me the buttons burst under her fingers, when appear valleys and hills of her breasts, cut out by the black of her laces! I would like to let you feel the heat which goes up in me when her belly is exposed, when her long thighs in front of my glances emerge in an ultimate revealing...

I hear the typical friction of linen which goes down on her back, I hear her slow and deep breathing. I feel her incredible decency and yet she should be proud! She could splash us with her splendor, claim ovation, poke, arouse... she could become so vain, by throwing us her perfection to our face. But no. She has the uncertainty of little girls, seeks to be made reassure, request almost our leniency.

I cannot believe that at each morning, naked in front of her mirrors, she does not see what I admire: the incredible whiteness of her skin, the softness of her curves without any angle, the so feminine roundness of her belly, her hips, the narrowness of its size, the work of art of her shoulders, her breasts... I cannot believe. I turn her over, using of her hips like a delicious pivot and I go up myself against her, slowly passing my fingers, my cheeks, my breasts under my clothing along her buttocks, along her back, through the river of her hair... I must stand on my toes to taste her neck, I have my fingers lost in her twisted hair, filled by their weight, I want to engulf my whole self in this silk, this mane...

I feel her, she is curved towards me, and the delicate profile which I like so much is pointing towards the ceiling and my hands want to take her all. I caress again her shoulders, along her arms, join her hands which clutch mine and which she uses to encircle herself. I become captive of her pressure. She’s intertwined with my arms, very close to me in both our hands, pressed against me as if we were only one body, one music. Our superimposed palms collect each one of her breast, our fingers intersected overlapping her nipples, our breathings balance one against the others. My teeth discover her back with just enough pressure to make her quiver and under her shivers, suddenly, I want to be naked. I cannot stand being in my clothes any longer, suddenly they are to me of a heaviness, a thickness unbearable.

-Undress me, please...
And rather than doing so, she guides me towards her room, her bed, the intimacy of it and offers it me. I feel so strong and vulnerable that is unreal, impossible, irreconcilable. However... She, standing in front of the bed, to my feet, I feel the power of my luck, she will be the one touching me this evening... She is draped of light and I am madly afraid of her hands over my flaws. For the first time, for the first time since… so long ago, I feel so uncertain of myself. I would like to pay her the homage to offer her the absolute, the glare of perfection! I’m falling. I am not a man anymore, I am not a woman any longer, I become hope.

My eyes are closed. Like a signal, instantaneously, I perceive the freshness of her skin on my ankles. She takes each of her hands up my trousers and goes up my muscles, feeling me, satin against silk. It thins out the leaves of my fears with each gained centimeter, her alleviating fingers delivers me, she founds herself higher and higher inside my thighs. All of her arms now hide in my trousers, capturing me of her delicacy. By supporting the palms of her hands on the swelling of my thighs, she draws aside my legs, tickles me with the tips of her nails, goes as far as she can, passing very close to the edges of my underwear, while over it, she breathes my odors. The contrast of the heat of her breath which transpierces my clothing and of the freshness of her hands drives me crazy.

When she withdraws her arms for finally stripping me, I feel abandoned and trembling. She sits, squatted between my legs and for the first time really, our glances are sought. And while she jumps one by one the hooks which will deliver out my breasts, while she maintains all her secrecies in her silence, she stands my glance, she has me in her eyes, she is taking me. The daily stripping of a woman can make it so easy to do the same with another one, and with so much of familiarity! Never a man could, without looking at it, without excavating, to come to end with this interminable corset... It is in such subtleties that my love for them is rediscovered. So far from your pornographic visions of two women being together for your needs!

And if one asks me, I will answer simply. I like.

I like that her kisses isolated to us from the world behind the screen of her hair. I like that even if my hands traverse a thousand times the extent of her shoulders to her buttocks, never her softness attenuates... it increases. I like that the long point of her nipples dances across my belly while she drinks to the fountain of my breasts. I like when I place my face under her, between her legs, my hand finds a place on her waist; I like smelling the echo of my odor but to know that it is hers... I like to lick her sex, to seek her, to touch her, knowing that she is different from me but so the same… I like to insert my fingers and recognize the same way in, but narrower, same water, same groans. I like to see her in front of me, seize the junction of her waist and her hips and to see the movement that it makes...

I like to find myself lying against her back, head on her stomach, arm on her belly and her hand over my hair and fall asleep without having to speak. I like that in middle of the night she will wake up, will go get some raspberries, that we will eat them out on the balcony half naked, that we will kiss slightly but sufficiently. I like it.

Have you seen the moon last night? Quasi-monstrous in its half-sun pace, gilded like a pancake folded into two, immense in the horizon? A moon like the end of the world. However I know that if it were so large, appearing so close, that it had nothing to do with the solstice which soon will come. If it were so close, it’s that it came to see us...