Four writers for the price of one blog
A Daydream & Distraction by Redbud
She finishes red wine while she waits for his return. He brings a two cups of tea. He sets hers down with the clink of porcelain on wood. She smells mint. The tea’s faint vapor is visible in the candlelit warmth of the dining room. Just beyond the table are French windows overlooking 6th Avenue.
There are still half unpacked boxes in the corners.
None of the boxes are scavenged. He bought them new and folded them after emptying them. She likes what that says about him. Framed drawings lean against one of the boxes, penciled nudes of women. His own cup of tea is next to hers and his hands are on her shoulders. Her stomach tingles. She knows what his touch means. His fingers feel strong and welcome.
“Did you draw them?” she asks.
“Yeah,” he answers. “I minored in art.”
“I could tell.”
“What about you?” he asks.
“I could tell.” His hands move downward, fingertips pressing below her shoulder blades, to the soft beginnings of her breasts. She sighs and gently wraps her fingers around his wrists. “How?” she asks.
“The way you speak. Your timing. The way you persuade a jury.”
“Jury… they are an audience.”
“And how did you know I was an artists?” he asks.
“You describe,” she answers, “like a painter.” The final word becomes a whisper as his fingers brush her nipples. He can feel them through the layers of clothing, swollen, aching to be touched. And now he’s feeling her breasts, for the first time, kneading and pinching her nipples as she arches in the chair.
“I want you,” he whispers in her ear, leaning over, finally speaking his thoughts.
“Tell me about the pictures,” she answers, her voice languorous.
“What do you want to know?”
“They are your girlfriends, no?”
“Some of them…”
“They are splendid. You have an eye for the beautiful.”
His hands move downward, fingers tugging her sweater upward. “So are you.”
“Yes, I’m sure, at this moment, I am very beautiful to you…”
He lifts her sweater and undershirt over her breasts. Her hands continue to gently rest on his forearms as he weighs her breasts and thumbs her nipples. “The most beautiful woman…”
“Yes,” she smiles, “you are the luckiest man alive…”
“Why not draw men?” she sighs, stretching her reach upward, drawing downward for a kiss. “They are also beautiful, no?”
“They are ugly.”
“Ugly? I see why you have not become an artist.” She kisses him. “It is not possible that you should be an artist and think such things. If you hate men, then it is right that you become a lawyer. But what about you? Do you think you are ugly? You are also a man, or do you forget? Perhaps I should be, as you say, gay. As I am so beautiful, why should I not be with a lover as beautiful as I? Perhaps that is why you use this funny word gay? Who would not be gay to be with someone as beautiful as themselves?”
“Yes, then I could make love to you both.”
“I think you do not understand what the word ‘gay’ means.” She lifts her arms as he pulls her sweater and shirt, up and off.
“I think I’m glad you’re not gay.”
“But perhaps I like women too…”
“Then we have one more thing in common.” He pulls her up. She stands. He pushes her gently back against the table’s edge until she sits. He moves between her opening legs and presses himself, still clothed, against the crotch of her linen pants.
“You are engorged,” she says.
“I want you.”
She reaches, unbuttons his jeans, and takes him thickly in her hand, pushing the slide of his skin back. He leans forward, drunk with the pleasure of her touch, and kisses her hard, reaching for her slacks but her other hand stops him. “No,” she says.
She stands, still holding his cock. “Take off your shirt.”
And as he does, she slowly kneels, kissing his chest, then downward, his muscular abdomen, his belly button, and downward until her knees find the floor. His fingers knot in her hair. “Suck,” he says.
She smiles, tonguing the underside of his cock, then slowly moves her lips over the tip, and sucks him inside. He groans. She watches him as she moves him slowly back and forth, tasting him. His eyes rise upward and his fingers tighten in her hair.
She lets him slide out. “Do you wish to draw me when I am like this?”
“I can barely think when you are like that.”
“Have you never made love to any of your models?”
“Yes,” she answers. “Haven’t you ever wished to sketch a woman when she is making love to you?”
“You’ll make a pornographer out of me…”
“Why do you Americans think that a woman who makes love is pornographic? She is never so beautiful…” She takes him back into her mouth. She holds him by the back of his thighs and then, when she feels him begin to tremble and tastes the first twitchings of his cock, she stands. She pushes off his shirt. He reaches for her slacks but she stops him. “Not yet…” she whispers in his ear. “Not tonight.” She can feel his disappointment but she moves behind him. “You Americans think that sex must always be the man inside the woman, but I am not an American. You drive quickly, you drink quickly, you eat quickly and you fuck quickly, but why must life always be such a hurry? I can make love to you, and you to me, a little at a time. Tonight, I wish to learn about you.”
She presses her breasts against the skin of his back, smells him and can still taste him in her mouth. She wants to lick his underarms and inhale. Instead, she reaches round and with one hand, take hold of his cock and with the other gently holds his balls. “Is this now you do it?”
“Yes. And do you stand up like this?”
“Sometimes…” He reaches behind him and presses the flat of hands against her hips, wanting to touch her.
“And have you already imagined me?”
She squeezes, hard and he inhales, pain and pleasure mixing.
“You must tell the truth,” she licks his back. “We are making love. Lovers hide nothing from each other.”
“And you have masturbated thinking about me, like this?”
“Yes,” he shudders.
“Then tell me, my artist…” She releases his balls and digs her fingernails into his thighs. “What have you imagined doing to me .”
“That is pornography,” she breathes. “No. I want you to make love to me. Make love to me with your words.”
“Like you were…”
“On my knees, sucking you?” she asks, her hand beginning to stroke him.
“Sometimes when I watched you, when you weren’t looking.”
“And did you look at my tits?”
“Yes,” he moaned, thrusting his hips forward with the pleasure of her stroking.
“And you looked at my ass too, and then what?”
“I imagined bending you over…”
“While you masturbated?”
“Yes, and sometimes when I wasn’t,” he answered, voice tight, “I imagined bending you over… what you would look like, what you would say or sound like as I slid my cock inside you.”
“In my pussy?”
“Yes, as I shoved it in your pussy…”
“Filling me,” she groaned, her hand moving more quickly.
“Yes… as I held your hips. I imagined you gasping each time my hips slapped yours. I imagined holding you by the hair…”
“Yanking my head back…”
“Making you arch and spread your legs…”
“Yes.” He moves his hips forward and back. “I want you on your hands and knees.”
“And when I was sucking your cock? Did you feel as though you dominated me?”
“Because I knelt in front of you?”
“Because you were on your knees and you sucked my cock,” he groaned. “It makes me want to fuck you, like you’re giving yourself to me, like your admitting that you’re a woman and you need my cock.”
“Yes, I agree. It is very symbolic, no?” Her strokes move more quickly. Her grip tightens. “I am on my knees. Your cock is in my mouth. I am showing you what I want with my mouth. I give up words. I give up speech. I willingly submit my being, the ability to express my intelligence, my power to speak, to your cock. The position is a bestial. Yes? The position is… her obéissance. Submission? Yes? She submits. When a woman takes a man’s cock in her mouth, she… what is the word… sublimé? Yes, she sublimates her being, her identity, her individualité, to the man’s cock. It is what a woman is for, no? The species must be perpétué… perpetuated? Every woman must accept man’s penis. We are meant to receive it. We resist. But we cannot resist. We betray ourselves. We are more like you than we admit. We are also driven by our nature. We resist but we kneel, we take your cock in our mouths, we surrender to you. As you are driven to dominate us, we are driven to submit ourselves.”
“Sometimes I imagine coming in your mouth…”
“Yes, this is also symbolic. We swallow you, no? Your effluent is the bread and wine of your body. We accept your role, your place for us, completely.” She sees a first preliminary spurt cross the dining table. “But I make you speechless? Tell me. You are masturbating, You imagine me. What do you do to me when you masturbate about me?”
He moans again. “Sometimes I imagine on a desk. You’re not wearing underwear….”
“Yes, because I have accepted my place.”
“Because your place is to be available – to be fucked at any moment .”
“Because when I masturbate to you, I imagine you bent over, on your hands and knees, taking my cock, because I want you so much it hurts.” He gasps when she bites his shoulder. “Because I’ve never wanted a woman as much as I want you. I want to hear your voice when you’re coming. I want to taste your mouth after my cock has filled it. I want to smell you after we’ve made love. I want to hear your breathing at just the moment I open the way to your belly. I want your hair in my mouth. I want everything about you. When I think about you I masturbate. I do it in the morning, when I wake up. I do it when I come home, after I’ve spent the day with you. I imagine filling and waking up with you.”
He arches. The movement of his hips stop. He reaches up, behind him, hands in her hair.
She continues to stroke him, quickly, the nails of her other hand marking his thigh. She bites. She licks. “Go ahead,” she hisses, breathless. “Show me how you come in me. Show me how much you put inside me. Show me what it will be like when my legs are submissively open.”
His orgasm spurts across the table. Long, silvery jets leap upward and spatter the floor. She feels him on her hands, she smells him, and she imagines it’s herself, her own cock that finally releases such passion. And she imagines what his orgasm will feel like inside her. The powerful convulsions wrack his body, his muscles and powerful abdomen. For a moment she wants to be like him and then, the next minute, he wants to be under him, receiving him, feeling that powerful explosion in her belly.
She presses her hips against his ass, feeling the fading spasms.
“Will you stay?” he asks.
“Yes…” She nips his earlobe as his orgasm drips from her fingers. “How can I resist?”
☼ William Crimson
December 27 2010