In the shadow of the Cathédrale Notre-Dame,
you ask me to dance,
which actually means fuck hard and all night long.
You’ve entered my danger space. I want you.
The ground creeks with intrigue
An illusion of tension between us.
Lights breathe through limestone.
A pale, golden hue that mimics
the Chardonnay grapes ripening in Montagne de Reims.
I’m as ripe as the grapes,
crying out for touch and fuck.
But I’m not letting you know it.
My skirt sequined, sparkling and short.
Your hand rides my leg in ownership.
I slap it away.
There are steps, stages to this dance, this decadence.
We’re barely a foot apart
but holding our positions, waiting.
Heavy fabric drapes so high at my thighs,
My lace panties are virtually visible
Your eyeing my hairless cunt beneath,
the dress code as regal as royalty.
It says look but don’t touch - yet my flesh fine and tan polished
The night is as dark as you are.
The champagne is abundant,
the cigar smoke in the air drifts to arousing spice.
You slip your arm around my waist, leading the other arm,
towards the dance floor.
The vault ceiling oozes atmosphere through its cracks and planks.
My pussy is as golden as the grape, graciously patiently pulsating.
Eager for this seduction.
Not sex yet.
This evening is not about romance but of a slow dance.
And all about enjoying Reim.
Like cut glass with Crystal Ro-se,
Reim is abundant with indulgence.
To walk these streets is to feel
the weight of kings who were crowned here
incense and the city lights, effervescent, pulse perpetually rising.
Below the pavement, though the world shifts.
The Crayères ancient and cavernous.
Roman chalk mines cradle bottles in cool, damp silence.
Down here time is measured not by clocks but by slow fermentation.
The roof bleeds black oiled residue to temper life beyond.
The city is a masterpiece of duality,
the soaring Gothic buildings reach for the heavens above,
and the dark quiet revelling of the soil and its nightclubs sit below.
They are fused by the alchemy of the traveler, and the loyal local.
We are both and neither.
As we meet the dance floor under disco lights.
With one firm move you pull my body to yours and press.
My heart rate reacts. My mind too.
Taking my one arm into hold.
The other hand so low in my arch that a finger to my ass is telling.
We move synchronised, alchemised in the music, bodies connecting.
Lingering lust in the sweet stale hum.
This energy is a sophisticated slow burn.
You find it in all the crowded, dimly lit bars here
where skin brushes skin in the narrow aisles, and in the secret,
clandestine vibes of champagne cellars turned into dance floors.
Conversations are hushed,
punctuated by laughter that feels as bright and sharp as the bubbles.
We are cheek to cheek as we sway,
your stubble just noticeable in feel if not shadow.
I drink your breath like the finest wine and it has notes of citrus.
My leg sliding through yours,
our thighs meet in gentle friction.
I want to devour you
but I can’t let you see it.
I stay composed even when you breathe,
caressing my neck
so provocatively my pussy contracts in gentle convulsions.
I feel it’s erotic flex.
As if inviting your hard cock to dance
Or at least tease
from toe to tip
I’d have you stroke my pussy lips
over and over with your finger?
……your tongue, seconds off, licking my ear lobe.
We dance but not romance.
In Reims, the night feels like a beautifully kept secret
shared between strangers,
a heady mix of French elegance
and a primal, pulsing urge to stay awake
until the limestone walls turn pink with the dawn.
And we sit to sip,
clink glasses and laugh, exchanges staccato.
We agree we shall dance again,
as the music melts, one song into the next I let you know,
we won’t fuck tonight.
Soon but not tonight
which has been blissful but is over.
