P
Pia
Guest
Fantastic match but wrong result :-
-
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P
Pia
Guest
The Third Story - 1935
Chapter 1
Chapter 1
Gisela’s eyes shut tight. She could feel his hands running through her thick, tangled mass of red hair, sliding down over her face, tracing the outline of her cheeks. Slipping behind her neck and with utter delicacy stroking her ears; then running slowly, slowly to the tip of her nose, creating the most delightful tingling. Parting her soft, moist lips; pulling gently down, as a mother might to a baby, then sliding inside. She could sense her breath touching him, feel the warmth as it somehow reflected back. His finger nails drawing the most wonderful sensations from this soft, damp, pink cave. Her head fell backwards onto the silk sheets. Her eyes opened, welcoming in the golden light streaming through the heavy dark trees crowding the garden.
This was their first day in the new villa. They had left behind the old medieval townhouse in the city centre. Left behind the musty smells of decay, the old creaking staircases, the endless noise. Now they could be themselves, enjoy the success that had come to them. This was home - Gustav-Adolf-Straße 1, and a new home deserved a celebration.
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"Parting her soft, moist lips; pulling gently down, as a mother might to a baby, then sliding inside. She could sense her breath touching him, feel the warmth as it somehow reflected back. His finger nails drawing the most wonderful sensations from this soft, damp, pink cave. Her head fell backwards onto the silk sheets."
Gahhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!!
Gahhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!!
tssssssssssssss this story is self-explanatory.................... a new great one
P
Pia
Guest
So..... A few little changes..... It was so hard to decide which year to set this in, and I know I will have to play fast and loose with a few historical details, but I didn't want to with my second lead (who has yet to appear), so it had to be 1935, not 1936.... and when I re-read it I just hated my second paragraph, so I've rewritten it in the following installment... I hate it when my stories tell the reader what to think; that's for the reader to decide... I just should set the mood and the place... in my first attempt I didn't respect that..... I know where I'm going but I'm never sure how I'll be getting there!
P
Pia
Guest
This was their first day in the new villa at Gustav-Adolf-Straße 1. They had left behind the old medieval townhouse in the city centre. Left behind the musty smells of decay, the old creaking staircases, endless noise. In exchange a proud mansion in the leafy suburbs, the Gera flowing gently by the back garden. Maids pushing babies in prams along the sun-dappled streets, the occasional chauffeured car sliding by.
The furniture had been installed. Kurt had selected with care: a blend of the functional, the traditional and the modern, occasional deco pieces chosen with taste decorating the public rooms. And the lighting too; none of the fussy tassels of his parents’ generation, instead clean steel and chrome. He wandered from his study, letting his fingers roll over the broad desk, then into the dining room where the simple, austere yet enticing design of Wilhelm Dechert which had so excited him at the exhibition had translated quite perfectly, the light from the tall windows playing in the spacious room. Pulling wide the sliding doors he stepped into the drawing room, admiring the carved stone of the fireplace with its broad mantle, the Persian carpet breaking the polished monotony of the parquet floor. Sitting down at the Steinway, he leant backwards. Stretched his arms out and flexed his fingers. A deep breath and then the room and the hall beyond filled with trembling chords.
“What is that, darling? It sounds so awful! Oh please play something nice!”
Gisela, her hair unpinned and tumbling over her shoulders, slid around the hallway door
“Scriabin, Sonata Number 4….”
Kurt continued playing, his eyes lifting from the keys towards his wife, her leg escaping her thin white dressing gown and curling with deliberate provocation around the door-edge, her lips making a soft, childish pout.
“I don’t like it Kurty sweety… play me something nice… Please!”
His hands lifted.
“Oh darling, we’ll never teach you any culture will we? Come here then and kiss me and I’ll play something easier, well, easier to listen to… A bit of Brahms? I think you can cope with that, maybe?”
As quiet and soft as a ghost she moved across the room, breathing in the scent of the trees hanging heavy in the air, not a hint of a breeze coming through the open windows.
“You know I’m always here to kiss you Kurty… There… Now be super nice and I’ll get a bottle of wine. Alright?”
The furniture had been installed. Kurt had selected with care: a blend of the functional, the traditional and the modern, occasional deco pieces chosen with taste decorating the public rooms. And the lighting too; none of the fussy tassels of his parents’ generation, instead clean steel and chrome. He wandered from his study, letting his fingers roll over the broad desk, then into the dining room where the simple, austere yet enticing design of Wilhelm Dechert which had so excited him at the exhibition had translated quite perfectly, the light from the tall windows playing in the spacious room. Pulling wide the sliding doors he stepped into the drawing room, admiring the carved stone of the fireplace with its broad mantle, the Persian carpet breaking the polished monotony of the parquet floor. Sitting down at the Steinway, he leant backwards. Stretched his arms out and flexed his fingers. A deep breath and then the room and the hall beyond filled with trembling chords.
“What is that, darling? It sounds so awful! Oh please play something nice!”
Gisela, her hair unpinned and tumbling over her shoulders, slid around the hallway door
“Scriabin, Sonata Number 4….”
Kurt continued playing, his eyes lifting from the keys towards his wife, her leg escaping her thin white dressing gown and curling with deliberate provocation around the door-edge, her lips making a soft, childish pout.
“I don’t like it Kurty sweety… play me something nice… Please!”
His hands lifted.
“Oh darling, we’ll never teach you any culture will we? Come here then and kiss me and I’ll play something easier, well, easier to listen to… A bit of Brahms? I think you can cope with that, maybe?”
As quiet and soft as a ghost she moved across the room, breathing in the scent of the trees hanging heavy in the air, not a hint of a breeze coming through the open windows.
“You know I’m always here to kiss you Kurty… There… Now be super nice and I’ll get a bottle of wine. Alright?”
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P
Pia
Guest
Awwww that's kind! Thank you!
RacingRodent
Consul
Interesting piece, it starts off so gently that at first I felt it might almost have been written for a harpsichord but there are several mood swings as the piece goes and it swerves back and forth between pleasure and what feels to me like almost anger, sometimes both at once.
A bit like going to a party and realising that you don't like most of the people there but are unwilling to desert your friends who are trying to give you a good time.
cxslave
Chain Slave
All the thought you give to your writing really does shine through when you read it PK! The details of the story combined with your trademark open-ended way of concluding each part makes it easy to imagine the possibilities in your head. It makes me want to read the next part so badly!
P
Pia
Guest
Grey reflections off the white tiles, a thin line of green – a sea green or maybe the colour of the tangles growing on the fringe of the sea, on a rock washed over by the ocean. Chrome pipes dull shine. Turn the tap. Stiffly at first, then comforting in my grip. Turn, turn. Hear a hiss… Breathe… Expecting.
Beading tears slowly tracing left, right, down, down. Waiting. Embraced by the stream of steam and water, hands slipping through my hair, my heavy hair. Staring up, eyes shut, then open into the spindrift. He’s here. Against me. Soaping me with the sponge we bought in Marienbad, or was it in Schwangau? I can’t remember. Smooth, touching. We kiss so deeply.
They lay together on the bed, in that dark, paneled room, the room the sun saw only when the shutters were pulled back. On the white sheets. Stretched out. Breathing deeply. Her hair still soaking dark on the pillow. Feeling my breasts rise and fall. Looking at him. He’s looking at the ceiling. At the unlit lamp. He’s beautiful.
Beading tears slowly tracing left, right, down, down. Waiting. Embraced by the stream of steam and water, hands slipping through my hair, my heavy hair. Staring up, eyes shut, then open into the spindrift. He’s here. Against me. Soaping me with the sponge we bought in Marienbad, or was it in Schwangau? I can’t remember. Smooth, touching. We kiss so deeply.
They lay together on the bed, in that dark, paneled room, the room the sun saw only when the shutters were pulled back. On the white sheets. Stretched out. Breathing deeply. Her hair still soaking dark on the pillow. Feeling my breasts rise and fall. Looking at him. He’s looking at the ceiling. At the unlit lamp. He’s beautiful.
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P
Pia
Guest
.....misschien.....
P
Pia
Guest
P
Pia
Guest
Chapter 2
Light pouring from the windows, across the quiet, summer street. Inside Kurt moved quickly from room to room, checking and correcting.
“The glasses, make sure you fill them as soon as the first guests arrive, clear?”
Adjusting the pictures framed in sliver on the Steinway. Running his fingers through his hair.
“How is the food? Don’t overheat it. Bring enough out each time, I don’t want the guests waiting”
The staff, some permanent, some hired for the night, nodded affirmations. In the kitchen the young maid dropped a tray, the tin ringing and clattering on the tiled floor. He ran to see. Be careful!
Gisela before her mirror. Combing and pinning her hair. Easing the curls behind her ears, twisting and holding. Letting go and sighing. Trying again.
“Kurt! Kurty! Come and help me! I need you up here!”
The smile reflecting into his eyes, his hands on her bare shoulders. She could smell his face next to her own. Touching.
Knotting his tie, pinning the tiny badge into the silk lapel of his dinner suit, smoothing the cream waistcoat. Leading her by the hand, a finger lightly on the tender edge of her lip. Two deep breaths echoed their steps on the polished floor, a gloved hand resting on the balustrade.
The sound of cars arriving and heels over gravel as the night gave to the warmth of yellow light and panelled walls, scented with jasmine and the sound of quiet music.
Introductions and chatter; admiring comments. What taste! The latest looks! How gorgeous! Glasses clinking, groups meeting and parting, drifting beneath the great trees by the Gera. A whispered butler’s message presaged a straightened jacket and clicking salutes.
“Sir, I am grateful that you could come, may I introduce…”
“Ah, so you must be the beautiful Gisela… I have heard so much about you. And indeed you are quite, quite delectable my dear…”
She smiled, offering her hand as he bowed, the tiniest wrinkling of her nose as the bald head descended, sensing eyes seeking out her décolletage.
“Fritz Stauffel. Delighted, my dear. And Kurt, what a splendid place! Well done, well done!”
Stepping through the parting crowd to stand between the piano and the stone bulk of the fireplace.
“And what a fine portrait! Where did you find this Kurt?”
“From Berlin Sir, a special order”
“Good, good. Very fine. Very fine indeed. Our Führer looks well. A good frame. Very fine”
A nod, and the music changed. Uniforms and suits straightened, heels clicked to attention. The words swelling in volume, the nostrils of the women, glasses in trembling hands, dilating as mouths strained wide. The candles on the mantle flaming bright, their smoke rising in still, silent columns into the humid air :
Die Fahne hoch die Reihen fest geschlossen
S. A. marschiert mit ruhig festem Schritt
Kam'raden die Rotfront und Reaktion erschossen
Marschier'n im Geist in unsern Reihen mit
Die Strasse frei den braunen Batallionen
Die Strasse frei dem Sturmabteilungsmann
Es schau'n auf's Hackenkreuz voll Hoffung schon Millionen
Der Tag fur Freiheit und fur Brot bricht an
Zum letzen Mal wird nun Appell geblasen
Zum Kampfe steh'n wir alle schon bereit
Bald flattern Hitler-fahnen Uber allen Strassen
Die Knechtschaft dauert nur mehr kurze Zeit
Die Fahne hoch die Reihen fest geschlossen
S. A. marschiert mit ruhig festem Schritt
Kam'raden die Rotfront und Reaktion erschossen
Marschier'n im Geist in unsern Reihen mit!
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P
Pia
Guest
P
Pia
Guest
....and, as it goes with these things, when you search around you find so many fascinating things... So forgive me for posting another version, with some wonderful footage. It is trite to say, but the Germans not only had the finest uniforms, courtesy of the designs and manufacturing of Hugo Boss AG, but also the most wonderful music... as you would expect from that nation of high culture. I think we should sometimes just try to hear, behind the horrors we associate with these sounds today, the sheer excitement that would have filled the hearts of so many ordinary Germans in the 1930s, and that filled the reception rooms in Gustav-Adolf-Straße 1 on that fine summer's evening in 1935....
But remember, nothing stays the same. No happiness can last. Night must fall.
But remember, nothing stays the same. No happiness can last. Night must fall.
P
Pia
Guest
I know you will, but look especially at the women's outfits and the children...,
