Riviere

Posted by on Aug 15, 2015 in Relationship Sexy

Riviere

 

I am halfway through a four mile hike around our cabin when my man’s text comes through:

I’m an hour away.

He’s in a pocket of cell coverage and so am I, so he just might get the text I compose back:

Sorry, I’m running late but I sent someone to meet you at the cabin and get the party started.  Get this: her name is River.

My thumb hovers over the send button.  Once I hit it, I’ll be committed to the Call Girl role play that’s been brewing in the back of my brain for well over a year now.

I’ve already done my eyes with the purple eyeliner I got at the new Mac store at the Denver airport (Concourse B: go there). I’ve woven small segments of my hair into Bo Dereck-esque braids. Back at the cabin I have a new blue Elle MacPhearson bra with some matching cheeky boyshorts;  a purple lace lingerie dress with a thigh-high slit; elbow length black gloves; heels; and a playlist of sexy music.

All I need now is the courage to hit Send.

I hesitate because my sexy little plan could totally back fire. My man is officially ending his 2014 river season today. Historically this is a tough day for us. I’m always so excited to have him back. He is always sad and already pining for the river.

It never goes well.

But tonight I plan to rewrite that unsexy piece of our marital history.

So even though he might be suffering from post-river season depression syndrome and might not even be in range to get this text, I decide to just fucking go for it.  I release a high pitched shriek as I hit send and start power hiking back to the cabin.  Within a few minutes I hear a ping indicating that I have a new text.

I hope she likes champagne.

My Inner Stripper texts back:

She bathes in it.

I tuck away my phone, cinch my camel back tight to my back and start running.

riviere 4

 

By the time he drives up pulling a camper with five kayaks and a mountain bike, I have become Riviere. I greet him with a French accent and a French kiss . I have a dark purple lupine flower the color of my dress tucked behind my ear.

“Allo! Your wife, she eez running late.  She have me come… how you say…entertain you… until she arrive,” I extend my gloved hand and offer him a glass of champagne with a strawberry in it.  “She tell me to dance for you and to wear my hair down, that you like it long and flowing like a river yes?”

He steps on our weathered deck of a stage and accepts his champagne and his role in this play.

“I do.”

“That is why I pull mine up like so,” I say as I touch my French twist and let my hand flow like water down the nape of my neck, across my breast, around my waist until it comes to rest on my purple lace encased hip.  I raise my champagne glass to his and gaze into his eyes over the rim.

“I make you wait for it.”

The rest, as they say, is history, some super sexy history, the details of which I will save for my erotic memoir.

I make you wait for it.

 

Sexy tip:  I’ve blogged about role playing before.  It’s a bit like erotic photo shoots: every voice in your head will try to talk you out of it.  Don’t  listen.

I’m thinking about writing up a guidebook: C.C.’s Complete Guide to Incomparably Hot Sexy through Role Play.  Anyone interested?

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