Eric Vincent - No-Ip.com

Arlette’s saga, volume 1
The monotonous kilometers of motorway, similar to a life without cheese, were streaming
with an unflagging rhythm. Arlette knew the road through and through : she had
accomplished it so many times, always with the same devotion, with the same desire
which gnawed her belly. However, she distrusted the final part, in the Parisian area. The
belt of the city always suffered of chronic traffic jam where she came in, around 5 pm.
Every time that she had parked her car where she could, she went up the stairs to the
second floor, the heart beating. She inserted the key, his key, in the heavy lock. Nobody.
Eric systematically came at home after. He liked to come in and to discover her clothes,
the posture she adopted to coil up on the sofa. His was never tired of feeling the
sensation of her raped intimacy with surprising a woman installed in his home. Each time,
his imaginary became stronger, brought in a flood of very visible emotions and he made
her love intensely, without undressing himself, making last the pleasure, as she desired it
passionately.
When she was driving, she dreamed of all the first times she knew with him. She always
was surprised to bring to the light new hidden facets of this man, similar to a Russian
dolly. When she thought she had a turn of his character, convinced to know him until the
limit of his thoughts, he chose this precise moment to reveal another part of his personal
characteristics. And when she looked the whole she found out, the pieces of the puzzle
patiently collated, it filled up her heart and dimmed her sight of a salt emotional liquid.
He enjoyed torturing his brain until he imagines and realizes something which would
surprise her. The sole limits were his imaginary one's, totally exacerbated by his first
wedding, made of frustrations.
As she was eager to discover a new small colored figurine inside the nest of Russian dolls,
she put more on speed, nearing the red limit of the motor's rating. That was always like
this : she imagined herself against him and everything went faster : her heart, her speed,
her desires. During their first meeting, on the fine sand of Tunisia, he asked her if she
wanted to live "others magical instants". She accepted without suspecting that magic
would be the cement of their meeting. Colors, perfumes, words, presents, so many
sensations reminding, daily, his presence in spite of the kilometers between them.
Once, very special, he dared an unprecedented trick. She came at Paris during the week,
by train. The appointment had been taken at the feet of the venerable lady of iron (not
Margaret Thatcher), the Eiffel tower. A meeting place easy to find, she thought. In fact,
the party occurred in the Eiffel tower, in the panoramic restaurant named "Le Jules
Verne". They had dinner tête-à-tête and took advantage of the view that couldn't be
obstructed over all Paris completely lighted up.
The dinner was sprinkled and the overheated spirits got a natural inclination to lead the
conversation back to the sexual allusions. The shape of the wine's bottle reminded them a
sex, they thought to discern a typical bump under the trouser of the waiter, a reaction due
to the dress that Arlette wore and which was opened at very interesting places.
After the meal, in the lift of one of the tower's feet, it carried on all the more. Their
bodies touched themselves lightly time and time, she by provoking with her eyes and her
suggestive walk swaying the hips, he by keeping his hands in the pockets with many
difficulties. They laughed at the contrite appearances of the sixteenth borough's lower
middle class, unintentional witnesses of the erotic scene.
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