Lola Montez and the Poisoned Nom de Plume Read Online Free PDF

and there I’d be, hung out to dry with desire for this man of whom everybody wanted a piece. I wanted more than a piece. I wanted, suddenly, more than anything, to know what made him breathe hard, what he liked, what his thoughts were, the way he’d cry out, what parts of me would make him harder. I’d been without for such a long time, and my body could hardly wait to give and feel delight.
    “Where is the bed?” I asked.
    “Through that door.”
    We began moving slowly towards it as I undid his neckerchief and he loosened my hair. It was a slow dance towards nakedness that I liked very much. As it was revealed, bit by bit, I could see that all of his skin was incredibly white, as if he stayed strictly out of the sun; he was without an ounce of fat, and yet not bony. Just enough flesh covering the muscles to make him strong, keep him flexible. Usually I like to laugh in the bedchamber—it releases tension and keeps things light—but with Liszt, there was silence and grace instead. One part of my aroused mind noted the ease with which he sat on the edge of the bed to remove his trousers. Usually, with men, this was an amusing exercise in disencumbering themselves of awkward tubes of fabric, turned inside out and yanked from the foot in lusty haste, but Liszt slipped out of them like a snake its skin.
    He rose again—and there it was. Standing hard, for me. Long and pale as the rest of him. By then I was shivering with anticipation of delights to come. I turned around so that he could unlace me, and as he stood to do so, I could feel his prick nudging the middle of my back, first through folds of fabric, then against bare skin. I’d never made love with such a tall man—what would that be like? Would I feel crushed against his chest, would it be difficult to breathe? He turned me again to kiss me, bending like a stork to reach my lips. I urged him to the bed, where we lay down, and where any worries about our differences in size were forgotten. I found myself overwhelmingly excited, and, for a change, had to try to slow to meet his pace. I was so thrilled and ready that, as his hand stroked and circled my breast and his lips tickled my belly, I came with a loud cry and a voluptuous shuddering all over.
    He propped himself on an elbow. “I’ve never seen that before,” he said. “Or—to be clearer—not when I am doing so little.”
    I was about to apologize, or something ridiculous, but he added, “That was very beautiful, Lola Montez. I thank you for trusting me, and be assured, I haven’t finished with you yet.”
    Mon Dieu , what a wonderful afternoon. Franz Liszt was a very thoughtful lover. His fingers seem almost to be able to disjoint themselves, to spread apart more widely than would be believed. The pads of his fingers are flat and broad, and—as one would imagine—he is very skilled with them, and not just upon the piano. “Your legs are so fine, Lola,” he told me, moving one hand higher and higher, and going on kissing me. “How round, how lovely your thigh is…” His fingers slipped inside my satiny, wet lips, and our mouths were also glued together; he was playing me like a sonata. Soon enough there was more of him inside me, and the sonata became soulful and deep—almost to the point of pain, for his member is very long and he is a very intense man. These moments, though, as all lovers know, are so engrossing in their deliciousness… They defy description, they simply melt and flow, amid murmurs and short, sharp cries of rapture. In the warm bed, absorbed in sensations, not another word passed between us ’til he had spent, with a soundless force.
    “Oh, too quick, too quick,” he breathed then, “Lay still.” We kept together in our fleshy conjunction; I tightened my muscles to keep him inside. We lay that way, and before too long, little stimulus was needed; our spends, separately, had only made us want it again, together, if we could manage it. How wonderful it is when the