February 14, 2003.02.14.03. - valentine's [rune]Valentine’s Day.
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Dinner was some steakhouse, the sort of place that
doesn’t have prices on the menu, because if you have
to ask you cannot afford it. Dinner was filet mignon
and crusty potatoes and asparagus out of season and
ca. vi. ar. and wine that flowed like water. She had
asked for a private room, and the maître d'hôtel was
prepared to screw them out of it in favor of some
second-hand table by the kitchen until he got a whiff
of their rage and saw how unsettled some of the other
patrons were and decided to seat them in the private
room as she had requested.She wore a dress - for him, a dress - black, this one,
some flimsy, clinging thing and silky black stockings
(garters. He saw the flash of the bands high on her
muscular thighs as she rose from the car) and another
pair of her favorite sort of strappy high heels. They
push the toes forward, emphasize the line of the leg,
and lift her, of course, almost to his height. Some
women cannot pull them off, or at least, can only
stand and totter. Others mince their way about in
such shoes, as if they had been hobbled. She
saunters, she prowls, she sways: serpentwolf. Animal.She had made reservations. Reservations, as in
plural, not merely the one. She made reservations,
and she told him to pack a bag for the night, but
would not tell him where they were going. After
dinner - after an after dinner smoke, as they made
their leisurely way back to the Z3 - as he slid into
the passenger’s seat, she told him to close his eyes
and handed him something satin.Not lingerie. A blindfold.
“Put it on,” she says, twenty minutes into the thirty
minute drive. Because she made reservations, and it’s
going to be a surprise. “We’re almost there. I want
it to be a surprise.”Ten minutes later, the Z3 is pulling into a parking
lot, somewhere. The engine dies, she sets the parking
break, and her door swings open and closed, then his.
She curves one arm around his waist and takes him by
the hand. The parking lot becomes a sidewalks, and
the sidewalk leads to the door, and the door leads
down some hallway, where their footsteps are muffled
by some plush, sound-absorbing carpet. There is, of
course, another door (the sound of a keycard, a small
beep), which she throws upon, through which she guides
him. The sound of running water - somewhere, nearby -
and her nails against the wall, flipping a switch.
Lights. Camera......all that, yeah. She’s laughing - some low coil of
sound - and presses a kiss beneath the hollow of his
jaw as her fingers dance to lift the blindfold from
his eyes, and suddenly it’s 1001 Arabian Nights, or
the modern equivalent thereof. Less tale-telling,
more sex, the usual. It’s one of those places, and
likely he thought they were an urban myth too. The
decor is luxurious, and just this side of tacky, or
perhaps it has crossed over, but does that really
matter?No, wait. It has definitely crossed over, and the
rather enormous heartshaped bed is that seems - at
first - to dominate the room is the least of it. What
- on earth - is that above it? (Looks like a trapeze,
James.) And the sound of running water? (That would be
from the small pool, of course, complete with
waterfall, just through those glass doors.) There’s
more, of course, there’s always more: a private little
patio surrounded by snow, with a steaming hottub, a
sauna beyond the pool, and - god, that really is a
trapeze - plenty of mirrors and, well, Rune, of
course, fingers crawling into his hair, turning him to
her, mouth sliding along his jaw like fire, because
she has a scorched earth policy when it comes to such
things.“We have it for the weekend.” Scorched, fucking
earth. “...that should give us enough time to play.”(james)
a dress
she wore some flimsy little clinging dress
she wore some strappy little high heels
she wore some hinting, peeking, tanting bands slid aaaallll the way high up
in the middle of February
in fifty feet of snow around her So-Cal blood
just. for. him.he had returned the favor as best he could
(We're going out tonight, James, at six.... sharp)
shaved and scrubbed clean - even under his fingernails
tips of some of the raggedier dreads trimmed to neaten up their disarray
the black jeans and some dark, dark blood-red/black button up he doesn't say where it came from
tank boots polished to some rich, lacquered shine(and yes, Wolf flaked and has to finish typing this post reply)
Posted by james at February 14, 2003 12:00 AM
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