tagLesbian SexThe Roses of Pieria

The Roses of Pieria


(Music being played inside the private music studio setting accompanying the sex, is: North Sunset - 'Last Sunset' (Original Mix); Roald Velden - 'Thru The Rain' (Original Mix); AirTraffic - 'Dreamer's (Keith Harris Remix)


Silence descended on the grounds of the modern luxury mansion high up on the Western Hills. It was a relatively big house, of course -- five bedroom suites, walk-in wardrobes, private baths.

The family who lived in it had just left for an evening out in the city.

They didn't own the place, it was owned by a billionaire who lived somewhere nearby, no one really knew where. The fact was he lived in the same house. The mansion was cleverly built to hide various narrow hallways and small top level living spaces that couldn't be seen from casual examination from the outside. And there were secret, hidden staircases descending deep underground into sizable areas holding amazing modern technology and living quarters: high performance audio equipment, super high speed net connectivity, fitness machines, even very expensive digital artwork. The deal the owner had with the family was that they were to live around the fact that every now and then throughout the year there were large functions and parties hosted at the place.

...And every so often, someone in the billionaire's close circle who might be travelling through would stay at the guest facilities attached to the complex just beyond the large feature pool at the side compound.

Sharise found the secret door and unlocked it with her little palladium-plated key. It 'shushed' open.

Inside it was quiet, the lighting relatively dim, the air almost cool, with anthracite-coloured Alcantara all over the walls, and a few long very slender fluoro lights positioned in the ceiling and in the sides of the walls.

Sharise had arrived off the plane not more than two hours ago from London, unshowered, stiff in her muscles, and with her cream skirt suit crumpled from the long cruise mostly at around forty thousand feet in the pressurized cabin.

She had slept on the long trip over and she wasn't tired. Certainly not mentally tired.

Across one side of wall there were half a dozen large computer screens - large, though not super large. There were unusual screen-saver visuals running in silence although they were obviously from the now mythically famous (no one knew who he was -- or perhaps she) early days of the internet on-line identity 'Feldspar' and his equally famous 'Sonique Rabbit-hole' audio visualization program.

It was very futuristic inside here: the computer work station desks were sloped, these also Alcantara covered, and geometrically-shaped, not round or rectangular like normal desks. Mounted flush into the tops were two thin lines of pale turquoise-colored high efficiency light strips.

The billionaire owner was around here somewhere, she knew; somewhere in the complex of rooms, control-rooms, and sound-proofed music studios, maybe even in the modular and hi-tech Dornbracht 'culture of water ' bathroom suite. He lived his life almost like an ancient Thracian Orphic initiate -- but living in an Underworld of his own design, rather than the conceptions of it in ordinary common history books.

Sharise was here because of the new Oskar Fischinger-inspired computerized music program the billionaire had very recently acquired as a fully developed, fully functioning network speed system integrated into the audio hardware. *, the mysterious, perhaps slightly eccentric owner, had commissioned her original idea about it she had based on the earlier work of Fischinger, to be put into a truly practical advanced new software system. It was designed to be able to create entirely new musical phrases and samples processed instantaneously from a very sophisticated human somatic and movement visualization sensor interface.

Every eye-blink, every drop of perspiration, every subtle flex of muscle, every action, gyration, pose or smooth limb transition of choreography would result in musical geometries being effected on-screen and digitally described into the complex MIDI computer-driven audio system.

She was still looking around when the room went suddenly completely black, all the computer screens going dark, even the dim slender tone lights going off, with only a few small clusters of tiny red technical LED's glowing here and there.

Sharise heard automated sprays of scented mist shoot into the room: the odor of violets, oriental pink lily muscadet, and illegal nitro musk with bergamot and Meyer lemon... All highly sensual, fresh, and arousing.

She knew he was here somewhere now. Observing and also directing in the action.

There was someone else in here now too, but definitely a woman, and not a man; she could feel the warmth, the soft flesh, the long hair, all right up next to her as a beat-matching sound signal took up its typical 'commencement of track' position, easing its way through the initial white noise from the bank of powerful total surround speakers.

One computer screen came on, showing infra-red outlines of their bodies.

The other woman's body was absolutely clear as a silhouette on the screen, writhing, slowly dancing, and Sharise could feel the heat coming up from off her body now up very close to her - she was literally hot like maybe she had been dancing for hours already in a thick atmosphere-d nightclub. She was sweating, beads of moisture pouring down her face, under her arms, beneath her breasts. Now she was literally wiping herself against the skin and clothing of the London girl.

In a shaft of sudden turquoise light Sharise caught her face and eyes, clearly Asiatic, slant-angled eyes half-opened, eye-lashes heavy with thick mascara. ...Very very beautiful though, in the face.

Almost naked -- just wearing bra and black lace panties. Not young though, surprisingly mature for the kinds of movements she was making, the dance expression of her body, the unrestrained, almost sexually teenager provocations. Definitely not a teenager! No way.

The ambient air was so cold and crystal clear and ion gas brushed through the conditioners that the smell of warm wet pussy was obvious and prominent. Had she been fucked very recently... Was she intending to fuck or be fucked...? All of the above...?

What was soon enough very clear was that the woman was interested in Sharise, although Sharise was pretty sure she had never ever even seen her anywhere before, never previously met this hot Chinese woman -- not even eye-to-eye across a distance in a crowd. She would have certainly remembered - Sharise was a self-acknowledged and openly self-admitted bisexual highly attracted to other good-looking women. Hard penises were one thing, but experienced, knowing, 'cunt' was at the deep dark eternal base of the Living Cosmos... ...were they not.

Yes -, truly experienced, knowing cunt is quite rare. It develops from over several lifetimes not just one. And certainly not ever through some simplistic understanding formed from a life built around the driving spiritual poverty and false economies of the Le Corbusier mentality enslaved industrialized planetary suffocation of the contemporaneous 'modern' age.

It wasn't cunt that Sharise could smell. There was an ice-cracking cold bottle of vodka on the table at arm's length away, next to a glass dish of incredibly rare albino Beluga. The Chinese woman picked up the small mother-of-pearl spoonful of raw salty fishy eggs and placed them on the back of her other hand, just in the crescent between her index finger and thumb, and consumed the morsel with a learned motion against her lips and slightly opened mouth. And then she took a neat shot of vodka.

She placed both her hands between her legs with her thighs pressing tightly together, her body suddenly bending at the knees in a subconscious reflex action of ecstasy, involuntary, almost animal instinctual, her head tilting upwards and back and her eyes rolling to the heavens with her eyelids shuttering closed, her body swaying with mesmeric intensity to the swelling beat of the music driving through the large powerful and panoramic audio system all around them.

Slowly, slowly, still with eyes virtually closed, she withdrew one hand and raised it up close to Sharise's face.

"Guess which hand..." She said. She had the deepest, richest, creamiest, most unusually cultured of English voices and accents; not at all Oriental or clipped in any way. And almost in a gestalt Sharise suddenly realized she wasn't exactly Chinese as such, she was Russian -- one of these Kamchatka or Baikonur or Vostochny Russian Far Eastern women of part-Asiatic ethnicity. Could be even Jewish for that matter, from the Jewish autonomous oblast next to the Heilongjiang province in China. She had dark hair and not the often pale golden hair of the more Central Russia part-Asiatic types.

The music was totally hypnotic, and the woman beyond just plain seductive. Almost with the very first bass drop Sharise found herself squatting to the floor, her mouth yielding to the soft, blue-white beautifully manicured Russo-Chinese hand which took her by the chin and led her to the other woman's delicious mouth presently.

And they yielded their bodies up to the yearnings of their sexual exoticism and their twinned souls in a fully consented communion.

The act of tribadism, when it is done correctly, is as positive an act of fucking as ordinary male-female intercourse. It is steady thrumming of the outer lips of both vaginal orifices across each other, sideways, as it were, and also grinding in and hard against the pubic mounds and thrillingly, shivering into the clitoris -- very active, very positive movements, highly advanced and sensual motions designed to take each person up to the edge-limits before explosive cumming -- even potentially 'squirting,' the woman's transudate fluid flooding all over the engorged mouth of female genitalia.

Sharise actually felt like she was going to piss, almost like she was desperately in need of pissing; like she was going to piss but still not wanting to get away from being stuck close to the body of the other woman, and hence going to piss all over her groin, down her thighs, already redolent from sexual effluvium. In the event, it didn't happen at all like that, and in a sudden moment she just came in convulsive shudders between the legs of the other woman, right into her cunt, the tremors of her vaginal lips and extending clitoris licking themselves with little autonomic flutters and yet emotionally viciously like tsunami waves against the wet hairy Chinese cunt she was fucking. Now at last she was clearly conscious of the smell of both of their pussies together, both sweaty from the energetic body heat of sexual crisis and frenzy and the friction of fucking, of tribbing hard together, and already both heavily lubricated for many long minutes. She could smell herself as slightly different from the clean odor of the other woman -- her own effluvium somewhat acrid by comparison, slightly sour and filled with adrenaline and the hints of elevated testosterone levels that some dominant women also can generate naturally from almost whatever they do when they do it with urgency and commitment.

How many times she had already sweated like a car salesman or casino gambler just from the excitement and long-winded focused activity of dressing provocatively for glamour and occasion: like the serious visage-d French master waiter in his black dress dinner jacket and butterfly bow-tie, black onyx button studs -- preparing the Cherries Jubilee the true Escoffier way... Formally constructing it, methodically, patiently, stirring, stirring, with the back of a silver spoon, crushing the sugar and the buttery and Kirschwasser laced syrupy sauce with tiny flourishes producing the nappé -- so much stylized performance, affectation, even stilted aloofness, but always with the underlying intention and ultimate objective crouching like an animal there: sexual provocation juxtaposed against high glamour; glowing embers from the handfuls of cinnamon spice thrown into the burning alcohol flames - fireworks and getting fucked drunk. And all just from an ice cream dessert.

...She had learned how to dress glamorously in the same stylized way like this -- like as if you yourself were being an adult ice cream dessert - for sexual provocation, from the L'Oreal and New York, San Francisco, and Hollywood master stylist Robert P. He had taught her how it wasn't about tastefulness but about being tasty! It was all about making others salivate over you.

...All that winding and twisting of fresh raw tasar silk fabric, its mildly aseptic smell, the feel between your fingers, the strange inviting texture of the fabric, the tight forming of it around the waist and over the expressive hips, the wealth-signifying dusty shaded colors, the glamour red lipstick and the heavy evening make-up, the coiffed hair with its glistening sheen. The Piaget parure jewels for symbols of the coming fireworks and for fucking afterwards; after the complete seduction.

How were they so mutually-harmonized, so mutually compatible, so easily attracted, so quick and easily sexual together? Was it just pure mutual sensuousness? Two people deliberately put together that someone must have known were both beyond just your average slut in the bedroom. Or was it truly a libertine spirit they both shared? ...That had found them together at the right moment in space and time and in the right place for intimacy and for privacy and for fucking. In all events sensuality at these levels is rare... It's an emotional calling out in a blizzard or a wilderness or a deep forest of deep unto deep. It's either there or it isn't really there. Sexual sorcerers say 'Kismet.' Fate the road, Destiny the end-game.

But why were they so energized?

Of course it was the music. That was obvious. But then there's always external music, and then there is internal music in the soul.

The music that is in each and every person's soul... These were people who made the music, the external music through the Fischinger digital screen program, but then it was already there inside them all along. And it was through the revealed music they were able to tell fully, completely, not just detect.

And you always must know, fully, and completely -- to be able to fuck like this.

And then speaks the beautiful poetry of the resolving of doubts, fears, and the years of loss and realizing what you had lost:

"I... Missed you... So!"

"I... Missed you... Slowly."

"I... Let you... Go!"

"Now... I... Kiss you..."

"I... Kissed you... Slowly."

"I missed you so."

Report Story

byDesiremakesmeweak© 0 comments/ 3562 views/ 3 favorites

Share the love

Similar stories

Report a Bug

1 Pages:1

Please Rate This Submission:

Please Rate This Submission:

  • 1
  • 2
  • 3
  • 4
  • 5
Please wait
Favorite Author Favorite Story

heartbigmike8204, 1QUEENSCORPION and 1 other people favorited this story! 

by Anonymous

If the above comment contains any ads, links, or breaks Literotica rules, please report it.

There are no recent comments  - Click here to add a comment to this story

Add a

Post a public comment on this submission (click here to send private anonymous feedback to the author instead).

Post comment as (click to select):

Refresh ImageYou may also listen to a recording of the characters.

Preview comment

Forgot your password?

Please wait

Change picture

Your current user avatar, all sizes:

Default size User Picture  Medium size User Picture  Small size User Picture  Tiny size User Picture

You have a new user avatar waiting for moderation.

Select new user avatar: