It's Sunday morning and my prada dresser muse, is still asleep, the channel no5 on her soft skin still floats around, the sweat has gone dry and the storm has passed; its the day after a very long and wild night, a Waldorf Astoria suite was the scenario; fendi satin sheets rest carefully on half of her body, covering her up to the hips, those hips that rise in the middle of a formestelle bed; exposing parts of the naked object of my lust; so sensual and warm, so inviting to repeat the passion that stormed this room just hours ago, when the curvosier was not a chair and not means of pleasure; So inviting, to a feeling in my hand that result from the combination of her tight skin, and a perfectly finish Diamond encrusted tiffany’s necklace, that rests there, in her cleavage, right there, in between her White pale soft breasts, the ones that i can still feel in my hand; as well as the infamous erickson beamon bracelet that we all know she never take off, for a so secret reason and everyboy only knows that has something to do with childhood memories of those of times spent along her mother at bendel's, saks, burberry, Zara and many stores that are the glamour of 5th avenue; maybe is reminder of the lost innocence that faded as she learned the difference between lady manners in Nobu, delmonico's or the four season and the debauchery of a socialite on a hamptons summer house party; I feel kind of pervy to think about her little woman days, as she lies in bed, naked, asleep but then again this is after doing real woman things, after rough passion, and expensive drinks, after channel no5, champagne, skin and strawberries, lipstick and White sheets, sex, alcohol and an innocent looking woman with a sweet and lovely face; My lovely queen, my love mate and dreams maker, trader of destinies and bad companies; The woman that can be royalty and a lady in the Met, and then a goddess of lust in the privacy of this room, the goddess is not afraid of being a screamer for pleasure, that is lover of obscenities, and hair pulling; while on top of a gold treats decorated bed, and a Jackson Pollock decorated wall’s room, this masterpieces that surround us are not match for the art that we did; but now its morning and a Tailored Valentino dress and carefully picked zara shoes are Laying on the floor, in the bed a pleasured and naked girl, while the morning glare barely sneaks in and Manhattan very distinctive own sounds can be barely heard…. its a typical sunday morning in the upper east side in the the city that never sleeps, its the perfect scenario to just want to sit here in the Edge of this bed caresing her hair and moving it away from her face so a very dim sunbeam that shines trough the monaco curtains can make her lips look glossy; I look around, to all the carefully selected things, now messed by our lust and our love, and... i just can’t describe the emotion that fills me, the sensations and pleasures are just physical, but the feeling of completion, is stronger than anything, just to know that your eyes show that glare that only happens when waking up look full of love, and this city's eccentric style can fill the rest of the need, the superficial needs, in its owm way, and so it is that here for this perfect life socialites have brunch, the gracious after party way to deal with hangover or in our case tireness, so and as we eat, every little bite of eggs Benedict, and drink glass after glass of mimosas and every single look every single touch, assure the love between the channel no5 girl and the simple boy.
