Beneath the liquid cobalt sky, the moon, Vivienne was her name, winked at me. She was our only observer, glowing her consent as a silent participant in the unfolding fantasy. A knowing smirk on her face, as if she recognized this game from my favorite porn. It was a saucy number from the seventies, set in a decadent Venetian masquerade. I had watched it р so many times I knew it by heart, every glance, every gasp, every hungry touch.
Salvatore, my lover, was game; his eyes held a sparkle of intrigue and excitementр’. "Ti prometto, cara," he said, his hand caressing my cheek. "Prometto di essere il tuo amante perfetto." I had dressed him in plush velvet, a burgundy masquerade mask concealing all but his mischievous eyes. A delicious smile spread across my lips; he was my duke in disguise, his identity veiled by the mask's mystery.
We were in our element, an ambiance punctuated with antique furniture and glow of amber candles. The old wooden floor creaked with every playful step we took, echoing throughout the high-ceiling and spacious living room. The scent of wax interlacing with the perfume of my satin robe provoked a familiarity, a comfort woven within the intense anticipation that loomed between us.
Embracing the whimsy, we took on our roles with fervor, our words interspersed in English and Italian. His touch was like a fluttering quill, tracing verses of passion on the parchment of my skin р“. "Mio caro duca," I whispered in his ear, our bodies entwined in a dance of desire, not confined by the binary definitions of masculinity and femininity, but fluid, raw and real.
Our exchange was enthralling, the fantasy merging with reality. We reveled in every moment, every sensation amplified by the exquisite tension of our game. The lines between the roles we were playing and ourselves began to blur. Were we my Duke and I, or were we Salvatore and I, the Italian storyteller who found solace in stories of sensual encounters? Does it really matter when pleasure is so profound, so personal?
As the night tiptoed towards the dawn, we had painted our own fantasy, a canvas filled with sweeping strokes of arousal, traced outlines of intimacy, and splashes of exquisite climax. We had breathed life into our favorite porn, but this was not a reproduction. This was ours, raw and unfiltered, a testament to our uninhibited desires, narrated by my lover and I, my Duke and I. Vivienne the moonр looked on, smiling with a knowing nod-- she was well pleased with the performance.  |