Euphoria

'Euphoria' is a wondrous place! A place that only the truest of lovers are ever permitted to enter - and even then, usually for perhaps just an hour or two.

A place of warm sunny days - days where the softest whisper of a breeze keeps it from becoming a little too hot. A place of balmy, sunset-flushed evenings - the technicoloured blaze of which is soon followed by deep velvety, star and moon-lit nights.

A place where no intrusion by the multitude of day-to-day troubles is allowed.

A place where voices are never harsh. Where greed, envy and jealousy are all unknown.

A place where no ache, pain, or even the mildest discomfort is ever felt.

A place where laughter is the loudest noise.

A place where one's beloved's body is - at least in your eyes - both perfect and in perfect harmony with yours.

A place where kisses are always either lovingly and moistly soft, or hungrily passion-filled.

A place where love-making is either mutually and joyfully spontaneous, or preceded by a time of leisurely, but increasingly tension-filled foreplay.

A place where climaxes are frequently synchronous - and even when not, always, always utterly rapturous.

Now I have been lucky and privileged enough to have visited 'Euphoria' - just the once. My visit lasting three days - or to be more precise, for exactly sixty-nine and three quarter hours.

And the fact that my visit was at such a very late stage in my life, should give heart to those who have not yet been offered the chance to go there.

And my admission that, even if the devil himself (or herself, or itself) offered to exchange an additional ten years of life for just one of the hours from one of those days, I would immediately and unhesitatingly refuse it - should convince anyone to not miss the opportunity, should it ever be presented to them.

Now those hours are - and always will be - so precious to me that I will not, ever, divulge their detail, but, as further encouragement for the reader not to miss their chance of visiting 'Euphoria', I will tell a little of the fantasies my lover and I had, before we went there. And say that even these fade to the merest, palest shadow by comparison with the actuality of the love-filled time we shared there.

The first two fantasies are hers, the third - titled 'Rapture' - is mine. Enjoy them, and hope that you too will one day be offered your chance to visit 'Euphoria' - and if so, grab it quickly and firmly with both hands!

These fantasies were exchanged during the period we were only on-line lovers, which we were for six months before our single meeting.

And finally, whilst I do - as always - use my own name, out of my continuing love and respect for my one time lover, I will only refer to her by a pseudonym - I have chosen 'Sue'.

Pantyless in New York…

Tony caromio,

Being very mindful of the penalty that you had imposed - so delightfully! - upon me for my apostrophe transgression, even as I was saying au revoir to my aunt I was gleefully looking forward to the opportunity to think sweet - and lascivious! - thoughts of you and me.

And although I knew the pastry shop would be the highlight of my morning I first of all went to the Metropolitan Museum of Art, wearing that Italian silk dress I have so often spoken of.

Now it may have been the dress, and the fact that there was a breeze swirling and billowing the skirt tantalizingly, or it may have been my increasing anticipation, but simply walking up the steps at the front of the MMA was enough that all my senses came to the fore, and I began to feel that pressure between my legs that is such a giveaway that the system is highly tuned.

(I love the MMA - and thinking thoughts of you! - but I guess I was still a little surprised at both the suddenness and the intensity of those sensations.)

I went straight to the impressionist section: Monet, Degas, Morisot, Cezanne, Manet, Pissaro, Corot … and, coupled with the thought of your hand holding mine - and maybe creeping slyly elsewhere! - I was caught up in the heavy sensuality of the paintings immediately.

So much so that no more then half an hour later I had no choice but to remove the minimal lace panties I was wearing, for fear that they would become so saturated that I would begin dripping on the floor.

Without them, I could hope that my thighs would act as a runway, and the hope that the sticky fluid would be slow enough to dry as it ran.

That was fortunately the case, although the feeling of my thighs sticking together for the remainder of the morning, was a little disconcerting.

What was even more so was the thought of what you might do if you had in reality been there and I had told you what was happening to me. I could well imagine you finding us some little cupboard in which I could sit upon an upturned bucket while - in your loving kindness - you went down on me…

Frustration piled upon frustration! And for the two and a half hours I remained at the MMA those sensations only intensified…

Every fold of fabric, every expanse of beautifully silky flesh, every soft and lovely mouth in those paintings undid me.

The still lifes, the country scenes too, seemed almost as effective in maintaining my high state of arousal as those of the nudes and the formally dressed.

However - unlike if you had been there with me - I didn't feel the need for release; just the totally overwhelming sensuality of my response.

I was a tad embarrassed when one of the doormen asked me if I had enjoyed the visit, and there I was, sodden panties in my handbag, naked under my gossamer light skirt, the scent of female arousal perceptible to me at least, and with high colour I asserted that it had been the best ever.

After that I took the subway to downtown Chelsea. Even there, when the train came roaring in to the platform, and my skirt billowed up in swirls and eddies around my thighs, my response was renewed at the thought of being so uncompromisingly revealed. And again I wished you had been there to perhaps at least catch a momentary glimpse of that part of me that you affirm is my very prettiest…

Nevertheless, with all those juices flowing again, I realized that I would have to quick-step it over to Le Pain Quotidien for refreshments, but fortunately it is only a block from the subway stop. Even as I walked in I had a glance in the glass pastry case and decided on the lemon tart, with cream would be the one that both you and I would most enjoy. A filtered coffee to replace lost fluids seemed a good idea too.

When the order arrived, I was delighted to find that the coffee was served in a pot with a small jug of milk and a small bowl from which to drink. The lemon tart was topped with a fresh raspberry that was so suggestive in itself, that I was delighted to spoon it up with fresh cultured thick cream and to eat it immediately.

The cream was unlike any I have had since I was a child. Not whipped, not sweetened, but thick, smooth and rich, like a mousse.

I was about ready to climax from just at the sensation and taste. The combination of tart raspberry and that smooth cream was almost too much for me.

Then came the tart; lemony and slightly runny. The perfect texture; not thickened to glue, but deliciously sensuously smooth and soft, lemony and fragrant. With the cream it was an erotic experience.

Even more so was the thought of you sitting opposite me - I wondered where one of your hands might be! - watching my lips and mouth slowly licking, sometimes - quite unlady-like - sucking, making sure I wasted not a single drop - maybe remembering what I said about wishing as to what those selfsame lips and mouth could have done with your gorgeous cock very late last night…

Of course, as I been aware of the very real possibility of such a reaction I had deliberately pushed the skirt behind me - rather than smoothing it beneath me - so I was sitting on the (mercifully) wooden chair dripping a puddle directly onto the seat…

Then I ate the crumbly buttery crust, scooping up cream and lemony smooth filling with it. It was such ecstasy that I left the coffee until the tart was completely eaten, and even then it seemed a shame to wash away such experience and taste.

As I said, all that while I was of course picturing you sitting just across from me on the other side of the tiny hand-scrubbed wooden table - mostly just watching silently. It felt a little as though you were watching me pleasure myself, and so, there was the sensation of self-consciousness, but mainly the incredibly erotically charged atmosphere that is inseparable from such a scene.

I didn't want to finish, or to leave, so I just sat there for a long while, staring out of the window, but seeing nothing; simply overwhelmed by sensation.

Even the soles of my feel felt hot and tingly.

I wasn't sure what to do about the puddle, but eventually contrived to use a serviette to dab underneath the front of my skirt, cleaning up most of the sticky fluid, and then wiping the remainder off the chair with my skirt.

Because I was heading back to my aunt's for the afternoon, I had to stop in at a shop to buy another pair of panties, just because I felt that it was too risky to remain without them and then to ride the subway back, many hours later. However, perhaps because I was in a hurry, or more probably, because I still had the images of you in my mind - and subconsciously selected those I thought would please you - I didn't choose particularly carefully, because even those new panties were saturated by the time I arrived home!

The Lincoln Centre Performance

Caromio,

Tonight I went to the Lincoln Centre to see the American Ballet Theatre perform "Don Quixote". I was writing to you during the afternoon, having not long since received an email or two from you. I was already very pleasurably aroused, and really just wanted to go on writing (talking) with you, so I kept putting off the time I needed to get ready to go out.

Eventually I realized that I could not postpone any longer so I closed down the computer and went to get ready.

It had been an extremely hot day, and at 6.30pm was still very humid and oppressive, so I didn't want to wear the long red dress I had brought for such an occasion, due to the heat.

Seeing the French-pink satiny skirt on the hanger, I immediately decided that it would be perfect!

The skirt is knee length, its lines just skimming the outline of bottom and thighs. At the hem a border of fine lace, so that it looks a little like a blushing pink satin slip.

The co-ordinating top is as fine and light as gossamer, all translucently patterned, apart from a couple of insets of double-layered fabric that conceal bra straps and cups.

A lace border around the deep V-neckline allows a tantalizing view; right down to the tiny bow at the centre front of the bra, but it is essentially its delicacy, the glimpses it allows, and the knowledge of the translucency of the fabric that makes the top so attractive.

Furthermore, the whole outfit is beautifully cool to wear.

I decided that despite the heat I would wear thigh-high stockings, partly because I love the feel of them, and also because they make the whole outfit, with the silvery-bronze peep-toe shoes look complete.

As I was short of time, I put my hair up in a twist, for reasons of formality and also to remain cool by keeping my hair off my neck, then I dashed out of the apartment, with a small silver bag, holding the bare minimum of money, licence and keys, and managed to get a taxi unusually quickly.

I arrived in good time, and began to enjoy the setting: the spectacular chandeliers that lit the entrance and the enormous open space formed by the grand curved wooden staircase sweeping both to left and right to form a huge horseshoe, up to the second tier.

Looking up through the centre of that space one could see the glass geodesic dome that formed the ceiling and rooftop, with sunlight shining through.

The New York women were dressed magnificently, and I kept turning here and there to observe yet more attractive women and more gorgeous outfits. In this way I remained completely entertained until the beginning of the performance.

When the orchestra began to tune up, and I realized the crispness of the sound, I knew it was going to be a wonderful evening.

I was in the second seat from the aisle, right at the front of the grand central tier, with an uninterrupted view of stage and orchestra. Hearing the orchestra, I wanted to sit on the edge of my seat with excitement.

The seat next to me was empty, Caro, and I imagined you were sitting there right next to me. I imagined that you were tuning into my excitement to some extent, touching my knee and gently caressing the back of my neck. I was almost oblivious to such attentions, such was my anticipation of the performance.

When the ballet began and I realized how artistically exquisite and technically brilliant the dancers were, I entered a kind of trance of pure delight - so I wasn't even particularly aware of your hand sliding gently over the slippery fabric of the skirt, rhythmically caressing from knee to upper thigh.

It was only when I felt your fingers softly slipping over the stocking underneath, that I was suddenly caught up in the sensuality of the situation and the fantasy of the ballet, each potentiating the other.

As your fingers reached the lacy top of the stocking and then touched the bare skin above it, I realized that you had pushed my skirt almost right up to the tops of my thighs, and that I was faintly trembling.

I was wearing the silky mauve panties that matched my bra, and now your fingers were gently caressing back and forth over the flesh at the top of my thigh, edging ever closer to the extra sensitive spot closest to my crotch which by then was already saturated.

Even I could detect the scent of my arousal, despite the fact that I was concentrating intensely on the performance.

At this stage I had my bottom angled way forward at the edge of the seat, encouraging your fingers to easier access, whilst my pussy was contracting with anticipation.

Then with your fingers beginning to circle very delicately over the crotch of my wet clinging panties, I cup my right breast in my hand and begin to flick the stiffened nipple with my thumb, shooting tremors directly through my clitoris.

The prima ballerina is dancing a very showy solo, up and down on her pointes and pirouetting around the stage, one perfect turn after another. The audience clap wildly as she completes a series of arabesques, and you choose that moment to lean across and whisper, "I want to lick you!".

My arousal leaps to another level at your words, and then you begin to lick my bare shoulder in time to your finger now stroking my clit. My mind makes the connection between your words and what we have each said we fantasise about, and I am caught in an ecstasy of my own - somehow holding myself back, and not climaxing until the next - luckily - endless round of applause, my left hand clutching your thigh from the force of the orgasm.

As the lights come up, you smooth down my skirt, and then turning to me, you hold my face in your hands and kiss my mouth ever so gently. I catch my smell on your fingers, and shudder through several after-shocks, as you smile into the kiss, and stroke my cheek.

As the lights in the theatre brightened, I knew that we would have to stand to let the people in our row get past. Given your state of arousal I knew that wouldn't be so comfortable, so wasn't surprised that you allowed me to walk ahead of you up the stairs from our seats to the second floor lobby - with each step knowing your eyes would be fixed upon my buttocks, which were being so enticingly displayed under the satiny pink fabric of the skirt.

We walked slowly through the lobby and then the grand hall, and you held my hand as we made our way down the sweeping staircase to the lowest level and there, I was able to show you the deep floor to ceiling insets in the wall where the photos of many famous performers were displayed.

You stood behind me with your hands clasped loosely around my waist, your continuing erection pressing hard against the back of my upper thigh - so I subtly shifted, and then, whilst we looked at the pictures, rubbed my slippery bottom against you.

It was still very hot and the light glary outside, so it was a good choice to be down in the cool of the lowest level. I could put my hand behind me and feel the outline of your erection, slide my hand up and down the length, and tighten and loosen my grip, while you breathed and groaned into my hair. You had a handful of my left buttock - and with that, and the hard strength of you in my hand combining with the distinctively male smell of it, I could feel my own arousal renewing.

I so wanted to turn around and to remove your cock from the confines of your trousers; I wanted so desperately to lap the head like an ice-cream cone, sliding my other hand under your balls to gently cup and weigh them; to lick up and down the shaft following it each time with my hand; and then to slide my lips around it, gradually filling my mouth with as much as I could hold there, then sucking quickly in little bursts as I withdrew, flicking fast and gently with my tongue at the head; and then suddenly engulfing you again in the warm softness of my mouth; this time sucking hard and consistently whilst I withdrew again.

There would be such exquisite pleasure from lavishing so much attention on such a responsive subject! And that plus the fantasy of feeling you eventually gushing your life forces deep into my throat, makes me positively giddily dizzy with lustful desire.

However, there is little else we can do for the time being, so I suggest we buy a cup of tea, and you are astonished. "A cup of tea? Now? Whatever for?"

I smile resolutely, so - "Whatever my heart's own requires" - you murmur.

We drink our tea, which is of course merely a suitable distraction, whilst observing other audience members. I watch a very tall, young and slender woman in a glittering charcoal coloured sheath, fitted like a glove and opened at the front to mid-thigh. Long slender legs emerge from the lily-like skirt, ending in black stiletto shoes.

I indicate her to you. "She looks like one of the characters who people your stories", I suggest. An equally handsome young man accompanies her.

Then I notice a slightly older woman, leaning against the bar, her back facing us. Her hair is brown and swept elegantly into a French roll, and she is wearing a perfectly shaped silk dress of wide coffee and cream vertical stripes. The length of the dress accentuates her most beautiful shapely calves and narrow ankles.

However, it is her partner's long-fingered hand stroking sensuously up and down from the nape of her neck to the small of her back that has me mesmerized. There is something so caring, and so sensual about that caressing, that I feel like a voyeur as I watch, and feel the growing warmth in my groin.

I revert to the present, and note my own hand sliding up and down your arm at the same tempo.

When the theatre bells ring you place your arm around my waist and we stroll slowly back to our seats in the centre tier, where we find that there are now empty seats around us, as people have availed themselves of better vacant seats in the midsection of the tier. We look at each other and exchange a long deep kiss.

"Caro, are you comfortable?" I asked, as we readied ourselves for the next act of Don Quixote. Although you looked puzzled when I suggested it, you - as always - indulged me when I said I wanted us to swap seats, so that I am seated on your left. However, I am concerned that now that you no longer have the aisle seat, your beautifully long legs might feel cramped. "Well, as comfortable as possible under the circumstances" you laugh indulgently.