You accepted the game he offered you
You then realize that, crossing with him the threshold of your room, you indulge in him, as he indulges in you, to write with him a new chapter in the history of your life, not without nourishing the foolish hope of to finish with him this book so dear to you, of which you have so eloquently told him the project tonight. Pressed by his questions, you told him about your love life, forced to give him more details than you wanted, digging with him in the folds of your body’s memory, driven by a confused need to confide him. You accepted the game he offered you.
Your right hand introduces the magnetic card into the main switch and your entire room lights up. The door closed, you tell him to undress completely and lie on bed where you join him after you have stripped off a hand feverish clothes you’ve been wearing since morning, heavy with the hints of the long train journey mixed with the fragrances of your own body.
You close the chisel of her legs on her sex and her fully shaved body appeared to you in the fold of the sheet like that of Eros disarmed. Your hands run on the beardless torso, your teeth nibble the tips of her nipples that gradually harden, pushed by the desire that you feel rising in him. You give him your two breasts to caress with his artist’s hands, whose fingers play in you the scales of sensations that you hope for.
Straddling his chest, his hands resting on the wall, just under the chart representing a weather map under which are drawn – you identify them finally – filigree Tania Young and Isabelle Martinet’s head-to-tail bodies stripped, the isobars of two anticyclones centered on the black delta at the top of their thighs, and whose caption “Disturbances Antipodes” makes you smile once again, you approach his hungry mouth hungry sex and tongue finally triggers the hurricane that covers your body a tropical sweat.
Shaken by a final gust of wind, your body falls backwards on the bed that Mario leaves, the proud yard, letting you find yourself in the wavering tangle of your senses satiated.
Slowly fall asleep. You feel Mario’s hand on your right ankle causing him to touch your buttock, forcing you to bend your knee only one, then two, then three, then four loosely threaded cotton rope above the ankle and the crease of the groin maintain at a very closed angle. Four new mid-leg cords then press your calf against your thigh.
A last fourth below the knee completes the obstacle. You have chosen not to open your eyes and let your hands rest on your legs, preferring to hear in you the crescendo echoes of ligatures. Your left leg is folded and symmetrically tied, decorated with three twin quads. The hands give you up, the maneuvering is completed.
You open your eyes to your modified body, now rigged for the cruise of which you have chosen the destination and fixed, in agreement with Mario, the road through the ocean of your desires. Mario plastered his lips on the hat at the bottom of the masts of your two legs and plunges his tongue into the open open bite.
Boat drunk too much bubbling you pitch and roll on the waves of pleasure that forms in your depths the bold language of Mario and you win at once in the storm of a second impatiently awaited ecstasy.