A romantic night with your favourite models

if i may i want post this new thread because i have two romantic dreams
first one: i would like to pass a love night in venice with gia
second one: i would like to pass a love night in paris with angelina
answered your dreams...

To the romantic brudgon, who has asked for it
and to her who brings the spark to light the fire.

A show is just a show
A film is just a film
A play is just a play
A book is just a book
A story is just a story
But all of these can breed a dream

The autumn mist had barely begun to lift when finally I reached my destination. Having parked the rented car, I couldn´t first decide in which direction to walk. Then the bells began to chime and their sound led me towards the gate from which a narrow newly-raked path led into the churchyard and up to the old chapel. Soon I could see through the haze the place where about ten people had gathered by the open grave. Four of them, I realized, were there for the mission of carrying the coffin. They stood aside while the others stepped nearer the dark rectangle on the ground.

I was pleased to be there almost in time. Of course I was too late for the ceremony inside the church, but I hadn´t made up my mind how to get there anyway, without raising too much curiosity. Neither had I had any idea as to how much people there would be present. If there were many, there would have been no problem. Now, there being just a few, I would have to dwell discreetly in the background, if possible unnoticed.

The journey had been complicated. The weather conditions had caused a three hours delay for the take-off in Copenhagen and later forced the plane to land in some place near Katowice. A bus had then evacuated the passengers to a nearby village where there was a train to be caught. A few hours later, in a town with a name I couldn´t easily learn to spell, I found an AVIS where I got hold of this car. And now I was here, without sleep for many hours, but decided to do whatever was possible.

She had not been scheduled for a show for over a month. Those who put questions were told not to worry, but got no explanations. Then, suddenly, I discovered that her name and picture had been removed from the models page of the Forum. She was not even in the page for the “Former models” where those who have left the channel usually are to be found. Then I started to make inquiries by sending emails to the channel. It took a long time to get any answer at all and those I then received were far from helpful. But at last my persistence paid. Someone called Christina or Christine gave me a number to a person who could make me wiser. I suspect they simply wanted to get rid of me somehow.

The man I got into contact with probably thought I was a relative or a close friend. Anyway, I found out what I had already feared. There had been an accident followed by unexpected complications and finally there remained nothing to be done. I also got the details for the funeral, because I had expressed my wish to send flowers.

The priest wore very tasteful clothes that deserved a brighter weather than this, I reflected. I could not decide whether this was the appearance of a Roman Catholic or an Orthodox, me myself coming from a highly secularized or else mainly Lutheran country. I had stopped at some distance, pretending to search for something in my pockets and then to read on the tombstones and the other signs, including many pictures, for identification of the inhabitants of the tombs. Then I found that, without being aware of it, I had come a little too close to the little group. I stopped again and surveyed the scene cautiously. There were four people dressed for winter, standing absolutely motionless at the edge of the grave. The fifth person was shorter and moved a little behind the others, as if trying to hide from me. Certainly a much younger person than the rest.

And now the coffin disappeared into the ground. At the same time the mist was swept away by a cold breeze blowing up. The wind filled my eyes with tears so that suddenly I could see nothing. After a while I wiped my eyes and discovered that the mourners had stepped back a little from the grave and started to sing something, but the sound barely reached my ears through the wind. The small person was now more visible, having stepped away some distance from the others, so that I could see that it was a girl. She wore black boots and a dark fur with a pattern of brownish-red patches on it. Her head was hidden inside a hood and she wore a muffler around her neck and up a bit so that it covered also the mouth and nose. Suddenly the wind caught her fur and raised it just a little, perhaps a decimeter. She wore probably a dress or a skirt, but no stockings or they must have been very thin.

This was not the proper time or place for looking at girls legs and I didn´t intend to do so even for that short moment. But there was something, a feeling I could not understand. I closed my eyes and waited for the mourners to leave the place so that I could do the same.

I heard no sound of her moving, but even before I opened my eyes again I felt that someone was standing close to my right arm. I looked down at the girl. There was a pair of dark brown eyes visible and everything else covered. She gave me a very steady glance and I thought I could read something there, perhaps a moment of fear or caution, but surely above all it signaled pure curiosity. Her question did not contradict that assumption.
-Who are you?

The words came from inside the muffler and the collar of the fur and didn´t give away the quality of her voice. I told her that I was just a casual passer-by of no importance, but something in her glance confused me so that I, in spite of that feeble explanation, heard myself ask
-And who are you? Her sister?

She did not answer. Instead we stood there looking at each other for what could perhaps have been a minute, which is a very long time under those circumstances, but to me seemed an hour. Then, very slowly, after what must have been for her a hard decision, she let the fabric that covered her nose slide down a little bit so that both the nose and the upper part of her cheeks were shown. Then I knew.

Whatever the mix of feelings was that now took hold of me I will never understand, but I knew that I would not be able to speak or move for a long time. In fact, neither of us did. After another period of time that felt like eternity, someone approached us. She turned around and said something, but I did not understand the language. Then she faced me again and I gazed incredulously at the little mole under her left eye, the part of her which I had at first thought was perhaps the only imperfection on her and which later I had learnt to love like I did every other part of her. So it couldn´t be her sister, not even a twin sister. At last I was able to speak.
-But, who is in that coffin?
Now her face was entirely visible, the straight nose and the so well-known attractive mouth. She looked very grave and very pale when she said
-It´s empty. Just some stones and gravel.

After a while we had started to walk slowly together towards the gate. All the others had vanished somehow and she seemed glad to accept when I offered her lift to the flat where she was temporarily living. The trip was prolonged by the fact that we picked up the priest after a few minutes. He had preferred to walk instead of joining the others in their car, but either overestimated his strength or underestimated the distance to the railway station, so we drove him there. Since his train was delayed, we took some coffee together and that was when the explanations began.

Father Gregory was a Roman Catholic who had lived in the US for some years and was now living in Scandinavia, where he was much engaged in helping hidden refugees, most of them without “papers”. He was also an old friend of the family, a factor without which he would never had considered taking part in such a very unusual affair.

To “disappear” was her only chance left, if she wanted to live. Everything else had been tried, but in vain. The conflict behind was an old one, dating back to times where ethnic issues played a devastating role, not least in these parts. Then the two families had continued fighting each other for reasons more and more personal. Today the threat was “revenge” for someone being put in jail, allegedly due to information given to the police by one of her cousins, now dead. But now they had settled everything. By Sunday afternoon she would be on the train taking her to the new country, where she would start her new life under her new name, known only to a handful of persons besides herself and Father Gregory. They would never find her again now that she was believed dead.

After the train had departed, the only one on a Saturday evening, I drove her home. There had been not much time for my own explanations so far. But surely she should have asked that simple question: Why had I wanted to go to the funeral in a place so remote from where I lived? And what could I answer? I had not the words for it. Would she ask? We were now fast approaching the place which for me would mark the end of this weird adventure.
The house was situated in the outskirts of the village, or rather suburb to the nearby town. It lay in almost complete darkness, as if the other three apartments were not inhabited. I slowed down and drove as near as I could to the only entrance. The car had almost come to a stop when she uttered the words.
- It´s better to park around the corner.

Turning that corner was, as I thought later, like turning a leaf in the book of events that formed this, the most extraordinary adventure in my entire life. We left the car and she led the way into the house and upstairs. She had nothing to carry, I just a small bag. Inside the sparsely furnished flat it was a little cold when we entered, but lighting some candles soon made its contribution to the warming up. Then we spent a pleasant evening talking. It was easier than I had expected. Her English worked better under these more relaxed conditions than I had ever heard from the TV studio. We were roughly on the same level, since I had not had many opportunities to practice speaking the language lately.

It seemed to me that we were avoiding two questions. I did not ask why she had chosen to trust a perfect stranger like me, especially regarding the danger she had been facing now for a long time. And she had still not asked me about my motive. So far I think that the enormous relief and the euphoria I had felt when the truth about the false funeral was revealed had prevented every other feeling to grow, but now I began to feel more and more uneasy. There were a few minutes of silence when she took out some fruit for us to eat. When she sat down again, facing me across the low table, I tried to start my explanation. I had not spoken more than 4 or 5 words in a rather stammering fashion, before she quickly raised her hand and put a finger across her lips to stop me. –Not now! she said. Her lips were formed like an “o” in the way so familiar to me. She looked then, I thought, as if she would start to whistle, but instead that expression invariably seemed to indicate that she had some special action in mind. She reached out some grapes for me to eat and suddenly I felt thankful for not having to go on with my badly rehearsed monologue.

Instead she said, looking at me with a rather thoughtful air -You see, I know. I learnt something about you already out there in the churchyard. I had to check, of course. But I would never have got into your car if I hadn´t been sure. I´m glad you came.

We went on talking of various things and she told me more of her plans for the future. She looked very relaxed, sitting in the armchair opposite me with her feet drawn up. It was clear that she had not bothered to dress for the funeral, since she was supposed not to take off the fur then. Instead she wore a dress of color somewhere between blue and violet and matching socks. She looked marvelous as I think she has always done. It first struck me that she did not appear as young as everyone seems to regard her. That rather simplified the conversation for me, since I find it easier to talk to a woman of some maturity than with someone barely out of her teens.

Occasionally, though, when she smiled or laughed in a certain way, her air was as if she had been much younger and the transition then fascinated me. I never found out if that was an intentional trick she used or if it just came natural, but I think that quality of hers can explain a good deal of her appeal, at least that goes for me.

She had had no reason or opportunity to bring home any food, but we found some chips and three bottles of beer of some Czech make, left behind by an earlier tenant. The beer was not exactly her cup of tea, if I may put it that way, but she joined me anyway and we sat there having a nice evening.

There is one funny little thing that I recall now. Beside the grapes and other fruit on the dish I had seen two round ball-like things, one blue and one green. Out of curiosity I reached out for the green one. It turned out to be a billiard ball with number 6 on it, underlined not to be confused with nr 9. I recognized it and must have looked a bit confused what to say, for she laughed and explained.
-Oh, those were in a package I got from some of my workmates when I left. They meant it as a souvenir. I opened it after I came here. There was a little card with a greeting written on it. She hesitated, then searched in a drawer near to where she was sitting and produced the little card. I took it and read: “If you ever get bored, think about us, and here are a couple of balls for you to play with”
There were also some names written on it. I looked at her. She was bent slightly forward, shaking her head and laughing, some white teeth visible. Maybe I just imagined a faint wave of red on her cheeks for a moment.

It was getting late when the option of taking a shower was mentioned. It had long before been decided that I should stay until the next day. The flat had a kitchen and two rooms, so there would be no difficulty regarding space. Besides, I would drive her to the station tomorrow.
We settled the order of showering so that she began. You must forgive me if, when the sound of the streaming water was heard, my thoughts began to stray somewhat freely. My first thought, now left alone, was that of course there would be a shower present wherever she lived or stayed. How many times have I not enjoyed her shower shows on the screen, first live and then the recordings, in every possible way, including slow motion and even still pictures? And how probable had it been that ever I should sit and listen to the streaming water from her showering behind a closed door? And yet, here I was! This wasn´t a show, of course. I would not be able to see anything. And if, for a moment, I would let my imagination picture the scene behind that door it would be totally inadequate to include any teasing as of course any use of a garment. But remembrances of past shows made their way through my mind and I found myself guessing the color of her panties. Light blue would be my bet.

I barely managed to remember where I was and that I was now dealing with reality, not fantasy, so that I would have to behave accordingly.
My sense of time may have been affected by something or maybe I had got too used to the length of the typically interrupted shower shows in the channel, but unexpectedly early the sound of running water ceased and presently I heard bare feet touching the floor.

When she came out she was dressed in a white robe, several numbers too large. There was a white rope tied around the waist and she was barefoot. The size of the robe made it cover her almost as much as had the clothes when I first saw her out in the churchyard. She had some crumpled pieces of cloth in one hand, and I watched her shove down a pair of socks into a laundry-basket. I also caught a glimpse of something light yellow, so I thought that my guess had been wrong.

I showered rather quickly and then used the towel I had borrowed. It was time then for pajama, and I had brought one with me, so I took it on. When I came out she was in the kitchen. She was standing near the fridge with the door open. I couldn´t see first what she was doing, but she turned her face to me and we looked silently at each other for a while. She looked very grave and concentrated first, but then she smiled in a rather unusual way. She was still dressed in the white dressing-gown with the white rope to keep it together around her small body. The knot was bow-formed with both ends rather long.

While she looked at me with what I thought was a new and strange intensity, she raised her hand with a conic glass, rather large, and I saw that she had poured milk in it almost to the brim. But now she seemed to change her mind and put the glass into the fridge. She said: No, I think you would prefer something else. Some wine? Red ? White? There is a little of each here.
I told her then about the bottle I had bought earlier in a tax-free shop. She smiled again.

For those of you who have not seen her or have not that taste that makes her irresistible to you, for you I can only say that words , at least my words, are and will always be insufficient to give you any idea of how I experienced the unexpected events during that weekend. I am sorry that I can´t do better for you.

For those of you who know her better, I mean of course not in person but through her work, there is a chance that you will understand what I will now describe. I have already mentioned that curious way she has of forming her lips to an “o” as if starting to whistle. That was for me always a sign that she planned some “hot action”, as some call it, when she worked in the shows. I don´t know if it´s something that she is conscious of or not, but it had the effect of putting me on alert.

The other thing is the movement of her hands. I find it strange that not every erotic model uses some method for “teasing” to make their performance more interesting. I don´t even know if they try, but I know that only a very small number of them radiates any teasing effect upon me. One method is of course when a model barely touches a part of a garment in a place where it´s possible to open it and eventually to take it off. I am sure that any further description here would be quite unnecessary.

Now, when I took the bottle from my bag, I thought for a moment that I saw her mouth making the little sign that I just mentioned, but it was so quick that I could have been mistaken. Also, when she moved a little away from the fridge, she took a few steps which reminded me of what I had seen so many times. And I imagined her hand touching the end of the rope that held her all too large dressing-gown together in the front and I wondered if that was something she did without being aware of it. And when she started, infinitely slowly, to pull the rope bit after bit, then I changed my mind and decided that she was going to show me some appreciation for my efforts by giving me a little piece of teasing on this very private scene.

But, once again, I was wrong.

Epilogue
The sun was rising over the distant forest-clad mountains in the east. In much less than an hour the rays would reach the ground of the entire vast plain, making it´s frosty white surface gleam and glisten as if the first snow of the coming winter had already fallen.
Already there was sunlight coming in upon the old ash-tree. From the top drops of water were falling and now in the middle part the leaves that had lately changed their color into a lighter and more yellow-green tone were being liberated from the ice that the first really cold night had brought upon them. And soon after that liberation they lost their grip and fell towards the ground, first one by one , then in tenths, then in hundreds, so that when finally the sun´s rays reached all the way down to the ground they would find almost all the leaves of the past summer already there.
And now the light had gained way to go further. It found its way to the almost desolate old building just a few meters ahead, the ongoing decay of which now became evident. Now a bunch of rays found the large window, entered the room where on the floor there stood an empty bottle, illuminated the label with the letters RÉMY MARTIN, then was reflected by the green glass of the bottle so that one little mischievous ray caught the eyelid of a human being lying there motionless, maybe alive, maybe not, but almost entirely covered by a large piece of white cloth.
And then the eyelid moved, blinked, blinked again and opened wide. But the ray of light would not catch the arm that was now stretched out, neither another pair of eyes slowly opening, one pair of eyes looking into another, a smile in each.
If there were other rays following, perhaps out of curiosity, they might find the two figures there, playing and struggling, now underneath the white cloth, now on top of it, not caring whether there were light or darkness.
Fate had brought to both of them the surprises of their lives. And there was still one to come. For, when later that day they would get to the railway station for the Sunday noon train, they would find that it was already Monday.

I think we are concerned here with dreams, essentially. If we should wish to turn the dream into reality, most of us would be dependent on a broad smile from Fate. We can, however, somewhat simplify the task for Fate by inventing a possible scenario according to which this transition could take place. So I challenged my brain to come up with such a scenario, potentially leading to events compatible with the headline of this thread. The work is apparently done on a part-time basis and therefore far from finished at this moment. I can only reveal the beginning.
I knew from the start that the brain would pick Kate, evidently since she´s the only wo.. oops, ..sorry, that was only my wife passing. Where was I? Yes, and the plot did surprise me at first. A spy story or what? Possibly the psycological background was created by the fact that she (Kate) had disapperad for several days without anyone seeming to know of her whereabouts, as far as I knew. Probably kidnapped.
So it all began with that phone call. I answered and heard her whisper : Are you mr texasranger? Can you help me please, they´re after me ! ”They” I thought must be KGB or some more modern organization. It turned out that she had, with good help from Angelina, tracked me down using my e-mail address. She had no one else in the world who could help her, she told me.
So there it is. I am eagerly waiting for the next signal from my brain. It may be that THE END IS NEAR, but I hope for a brighter future with a much more happy end. Otherwise there will be no romantic night and so all this will be OFF TOPIC, and I will have to delete this text.. We will see!

after a beautiful day with Gia a hot romantic night with her

Shouldn´t there be a competition about the best (or worst?) description, say in the form of a short novel, of what happens in a romantic night dream involving one or more of the models. The problem is that I cannot come to think of what the first prize ought to be

Now if you could reduce that to 160 characters, you could send it as a VIP SMS ...
... and watch her talk her way out of it .

I would love to take Evah out on a romantic evening in a classy restaurant, after that taking a long walk in the moonshine and then taking her home with me, opening a nice bottle of wine, having a long and close conversation, giving her a nice massage of her feet...

...and after that I would like to do some backdoor with her... of course only if she's into this. Else I wouldn't mind if she would play with my skin flute while I'll cream her legs and drink wine she's pouring down on them

Watcher wrote:And that is worth opening a new thread?

for me yes....respects the thought of other members
for you isn't worth? i respect so don't post here
in friendly

Watcher wrote:What makes you think any of the models would be the slightest bit interested in spending "A romantic night with ..." someone who fantasises over a model on the TV screen?

you are the usual....nothing....can i dream?
or i must ask you the permission