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She gives you that look. “No, forget it,” she then says. She’ll tell
you she’s sad, exhausted, stress is killing her, but in a light yawn
and you detect a playfulness roaming her lips. Comely, she leans
back, arms reaching behind her head. She pulls up her legs,
twitches her feet and plonks them onto your lap. “Go on. If you
loved me you’d do it.” You grumble, and it’s the most pathetic
protest you’ll be making this evening. This is so going to be
rampant temptation and pleasure, and first you must needs relax
her. Remember, stress is killing her, so go easy. You both know the
hard stuff comes in good time.
You go to work on one foot, the other to keep in mind. A line of
dialogue from Pulp Fiction - character Vincent’s opening gambit -
echoes in chambers of your minds...
I’m not sayin’ he was right, but
you’re sayin’ a foot massage don’t
mean nothing, and I’m sayin’ it
does. I’ve given a million ladies
a million foot massages and they
all meant somethin’. We act like
they don’t, but they do. That’s
what’s so fuckin’ cool about ‘em.
This sensual thing’s goin’ on that
nobody’s talkin’ about, but you know
it and she knows it, fuckin’
Marsellus knew it, and Antwan shoulda
known fuckin’ better. That’s his
fuckin’ wife, man. He ain’t gonna
have a sense of humor about that shit.
That’s an interesting point.
She agrees with Jules, and you’re not foolin’ around.
So the footwork’s good done - time taken its time. She’s best
pleased, and now you move toward the bedroom. One seemingly
long corridor later, you enter. The hearts’ beating anticipates the
soundtrack to rest of your evening. Draw the curtains, switch off
the lights, light the candles, get naked, climb into bed. All silk
sheets and enrapture, the play of skin on skin. Cool, bodily warmth.
The art of touch. A deep, moist glint sparkling in her eyes.