messaline
Crucified Amazon
I thought moaning was pretty good....but who can argue with: "Staccato-gasping back-arching head-throwing arm-splaying sweat-drowning screams and the silence of soft breathing."
Perhaps ... perhaps ... but ... with Lotta ?
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Perhaps ... perhaps ... but ... with Lotta ?
P
Pia
Guest
Beautiful.... give her time... there is time... It's still early Autumn and 1935 isn't over yet...Perhaps ... perhaps ... but ... with Lotta ?
P
Pia
Guest
Great photos Messa.... but of course we are in the sleepy hollow of Thuringia... (well, not quite.... the administrative divisions of pre-war Germany contained one very odd anomaly... courtesy of the Holy Roman Empire...)Indeed and Berlin is so attractive in 1935 ...
View attachment 154618
... so enjoyed ... View attachment 154619 ... View attachment 154620 ...
... and so ..... View attachment 154621 ... friendly ...
PS : "Local residents want no contact with J... "
P
Pia
Guest
6,999!!!!
Does that mean I've just made it 7,000?
7,000 doses of pleasure, courtesy pkindenhaag.
P
Pia
Guest
Yes! You win a super big happy cuddly fluffy prize!!!!!! Thank you so much! Mwaaaah! Kiss kiss!!!!!Does that mean I've just made it 7,000?
7,000 doses of pleasure, courtesy pkindenhaag.
I'm pretty sure that's Lotte Lenya in die Dreigroschenoper,
by 1935 she was in Paris -
but indeed, the world Brecht had satirised in 1928
was becoming all too real in 1935.
I've researched and in fact she's Marlen Dietrich in "Der Blaue Engel" by Von Sternberg (1930) ...
What a beautiful woman !!! Mmmmmm!
Garters and silk stockings...
P
Pia
Guest
Lotte sang well... but indeed was gone... So instead please look up Edith Meinhard..... She could do also.... and was so much more pretty!
.....and really she is part of the story too....
.....and really she is part of the story too....
of course! what a wonderful voice, too!I've researched and in fact she's Marlen Dietrich in "Der Blaue Engel" by Von Sternberg (1930) ...
What a beautiful woman !!! Mmmmmm!
P
Pia
Guest
Chapter 6
“Come now….It’s safe….I’m on my own… Charlotte…I mean the maid, she’s away. Please come!”
Gisela placed the hand-set carefully onto the telephone, walked slowly to the sitting-room and sat, listening to nothing but silence.
She waited.
She could hear her own breathing, steady and deep. She could feel her heart beating. She licked her lip then touched it with a finger.
The bell rang. Her mind became instantly confused. She opened the door just a little, as if to check who was there. Then wide enough for Lotta to slip inside. She smiled slightly, biting her lip; then abandoning everything, her mouth gaping, pushed Lotta against the wall of the hallway, pulled her arms wide and high and kissed her and kissed her and kissed her.
Their faces soaked with tongues licking and sliding; Lotta’s warmth softness against her. Tugging and pulling. Dragging her up the stairs into her room. Falling entwined onto the bed. Lips meeting, struggling free of blouses and skirts, arms and hair tangling, noses touching, fingers reaching and stroking and discovering and dampening. Breath panting and rolling and flying and falling.
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P
Pia
Guest
The key turned in the lock. Gisela’s head lifted from the pillow. She heard the click of a woman’s steps on the parquet floor of the hall-way.
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Pia
Guest
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Pia
Guest
“Hello! Frau Eiswogel I’m back!”
Gisela slid off the sofa, discarding her half-read book. Yawned a lazy yawn and, bare-footed, wandered idly into the hallway.
“Hello Charlotte. You were quick today. Did you get the fish from the market? Kurt’s home tonight… I know he loves fish…Is it warm out? It looks nice. Maybe you can put some of the Alsace on ice…. And pour me a glass… I think… I’ll be in the garden. The trees are so lovely… The leaves will all be gone soon… There are hardly any left at all Charlotte are there?… Autumn… I sometimes like Autumn…”.
Gisela pulls the stiff lock on the tall windows open and steps out. Down the three broad steps and onto the lawn. The trees rear black and cold above her… barely a yellow leaf on the high branches. The gardener had piled up the fallen ones into two great red-gold heaps, already turning brown and black where the rain had soaked them through. She looks up at the pale blue light falling, as if through the fan of a Spanish dancer. She twists on her feet, enjoying the damp chill between her toes. Charlotte appears and Gisela takes the stem of the glass in her fingers; smiling she takes a sip. It tastes of fruit and harvest and sun and warmth and freshly mown hay. She lies her head back again, gazing at the ochre light peering through the first floor blinds, then slowly turns. The Gera is so gloomy she thinks to herself. Why is the river so gloomy? So dark and full of mystery. Flowing away. To the Unstrut and the Saale and the Elbe and all the way to Hamburg in the North. To the great Hanseatic port with its English Club and its merchants and its red brick warehouses and its white villas circling the Alstersee and its rowers in their brightly coloured zephyrs plying their shells over its silky surface. Gisela takes another sip and sighs and wanders back towards the house.
Gisela slid off the sofa, discarding her half-read book. Yawned a lazy yawn and, bare-footed, wandered idly into the hallway.
“Hello Charlotte. You were quick today. Did you get the fish from the market? Kurt’s home tonight… I know he loves fish…Is it warm out? It looks nice. Maybe you can put some of the Alsace on ice…. And pour me a glass… I think… I’ll be in the garden. The trees are so lovely… The leaves will all be gone soon… There are hardly any left at all Charlotte are there?… Autumn… I sometimes like Autumn…”.
Gisela pulls the stiff lock on the tall windows open and steps out. Down the three broad steps and onto the lawn. The trees rear black and cold above her… barely a yellow leaf on the high branches. The gardener had piled up the fallen ones into two great red-gold heaps, already turning brown and black where the rain had soaked them through. She looks up at the pale blue light falling, as if through the fan of a Spanish dancer. She twists on her feet, enjoying the damp chill between her toes. Charlotte appears and Gisela takes the stem of the glass in her fingers; smiling she takes a sip. It tastes of fruit and harvest and sun and warmth and freshly mown hay. She lies her head back again, gazing at the ochre light peering through the first floor blinds, then slowly turns. The Gera is so gloomy she thinks to herself. Why is the river so gloomy? So dark and full of mystery. Flowing away. To the Unstrut and the Saale and the Elbe and all the way to Hamburg in the North. To the great Hanseatic port with its English Club and its merchants and its red brick warehouses and its white villas circling the Alstersee and its rowers in their brightly coloured zephyrs plying their shells over its silky surface. Gisela takes another sip and sighs and wanders back towards the house.
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