Authors: Jane Nin
I walked up to him, lifted my hands to his shoulders, leaned
in to kiss him softly. “I’m not, really, though.”
He broke off the kiss, smiling slyly. “Are you hungry?”
“Eventually,” I answered.
He kissed me again, through my grin. Reaching up he ran his
thumb along my ear, then raked his fingers back into my hair. I silently
congratulated myself for having showered at my apartment—in the midst of the
chaos, it hadn’t seemed critical—but then was reminded of how I was dressed—in
baggy sweatpants and an old button-down shirt I’d stolen as a trophy from some
unfortunate one-night stand.
Then I reminded myself that this man had seen me hanging
from the ceiling in a sling, and sucking an old fat man’s cock, and nearly
drowned, and setting my car on fire… and that pretty much put the sweatpants
concern into perspective.
He began to unbutton my shirt—gently, and pausing with each
button to stoop, and spread the fabric open, and kiss my chest. As he reached
the bottom he got to his knees. Kneeling on the ground, he kissed my stomach. Then
he took hold of the drawstring on my sweatpants and tugged.
The knot came loose and he eased the pants down past my
hips, down my legs. With one arm he reached up to hold my hand as I stepped
carefully out of them. Then, as my feet were firmly planted again, he continued
his kisses, over my hipbones, down the front of my thighs, kissing and nibbling
and giving me goosebumps.
He placed his palm against my inner thigh now, urging me to
a wider stance. As I complied, he leaned forward and kissed my inner thigh.
Then downward and around, to the back of my knee, just a trail of kisses,
gentle and feathery and warm. My head was swimming, and I wavered a little,
almost like I was drunk. He put his hands on my hips and held me firmly in
place, then stood again and looked me in the eye.
We both looked over at the fur coat on the floor in the
corner.
Then, just like that, Jack picked me up and carried me into
the little kitchenette, setting me down on the tile counter. I yelped a little
at the feel of the cold tile against my ass, but he silenced me with another
kiss. He eased my shirt down off my shoulders as he gently sucked my tongue,
then reached around to unfasten my bra.
My breasts freed, he gently cupped them in his hands,
bending to run his tongue softly across my nipples—first one, then the other. I
gasped, whimpering for more, but he withheld it, instead straightening up
again, leaning forward, catching my lower lip between his teeth.
I reached up and began to unbutton
his
shirt. He kept
biting and sucking my lower lip as I worked my way down to his belt. Then he
broke the kiss and finished my task for me, untucking his shirt and shrugging
his way out of it, then tossing it aside, then unbuckling his belt and kicking
off his shoes and socks before stepping out of his pants.
I reached for his cock, visibly hard through his boxers, and
wrapped my fingers around it, relishing its heat and firmness. His breath
caught at my touch—then he pushed his tongue deep into my mouth.
I’d been doing an awful lot of fucking lately—spent a lot of
time wet in anticipation of whatever stranger would be touching me next, a lot
of time surrendering myself completely to what my body wanted—so maybe it seems
strange that now I was being sent into ecstasy by a simple makeout session. But
that was what was happening. Jack’s touch was deliberate and attentive, like he
was drawing me with his hands—the curves, the shadows, all lovingly rendered.
Moreover, as much of our acquaintance as I’d spent naked, I hadn’t seen
him
that way much at all. So I was enjoying just watching him move—the muscles in
his arms, his back, as he roved over me, kissing me, kissing me… kissing me
silly. I truly did feel like I was melting, all the hardness in me, the fear,
the cynicism—all grew watery and soft and then slid away in an enormous, slow
movement, down into the vast, glassy ocean that was my new self, powerful and
deep.
But I wanted to look at all of him. I hooked my thumbs into
the waistband of his boxers and slipped them down and he stood before me, naked
and vulnerable as all of them, desirous as all of them… but also adoring, which
none of the rest of them had been.
“Come,” I said, reaching for him, sweeping my hands down his
ribs and down his waist and then around to grab his ass and pull him closer. He
in turn reached for me, pulling me closer to the edge of the counter, then
tugging my own underwear down and slipping them off my legs and letting them
drop to the ground. Then he took me by the ankles and draped my knees over his
shoulders, bending toward me, bringing his mouth close to my pussy.
Then he didn’t touch me. Just stayed there, breathing,
breathing. I squirmed, trying to press myself to his warm, wet tongue—but he kept
himself just out of reach. He tortured me like that for a good minute, then
swept his tongue just once across me, from the soaking entrance to my vagina,
up along my labia, with a firm little flick passing over my clit. I cried out
and he stood and locked me again in a kiss, hard and urgent.
With his thumbs he played with my nipples and pleasure
rippled down through me in a delicious, squiggly line. I continued to buck my
pelvis forward, my hungry pussy searching for contact, but he would not let me
have it. I moaned into his mouth, desperate, and then again he broke off our
kiss and stood back from me.
I gazed at him, breath coming quickly, glassy-eyed with
want.
“Please, Jack. I can’t wait any longer,” I whispered.
He took his cock in his hand and stepped back into me. He
placed the head of it against my pussy lips and slid it over me—up, down, in
little circles over my clit. Each time the ridge at the base of the head passed
over me I let out a little, irrepressible cry. And still I lifted my hips to
meet him, angling my vagina to receive his lovely cock which I had wanted to
feel inside me for so long.
Finally—finally—he took mercy on me. He nestled the head of
his cock just outside my aching hole and inched forward, and I felt it slip
inside. I squeezed my muscles, tightening down on him, assuring myself that he
was really there. Then he looked deep into my eyes, and took a breath, and
drove his cock all the way into me.
I gasped. He stayed deep inside me for a moment, completely
still.
“Sylvie,” he breathed, blinking. He looked like a swimmer
who after miles had an edge to hold onto.
Then he pulled back and then pushed deep into me a second
time, and this time along with my gasp came silent tears. They rolled down my
cheeks and into our mouths where we were also joined in another long kiss. He
began to thrust rhythmically, slowly, as I began to moan and giant, happy tears
continued to slip from my now-closed eyes.
Then, with our bodies still locked together, he reached
around and lifted me off the counter.
He carried me to the corner where my fur was. The feeling of
being supported by his strength while his hard cock was locked deep inside me—I
felt safe and secure in a way I never had before.
“Put your feet down,” he whispered.
My legs had been wrapped around his waist so now I carefully
lowered them to the floor, standing on tiptoe on the hardwood.
“I don’t think I’m agile enough to get us all the way down
there,” he said, “but I need to put on a condom, anyway.”
In that moment I practically didn’t give a damn if he got me
pregnant a thousand times over, but getting down onto the floor with him still
inside me did seem impossible. He withdrew himself from me and I stood there,
empty, and watched him go back to the kitchen to rifle through the pockets of
his pants.
He returned with a condom.
“Don’t you think bringing a condom along was a little bit
presumptuous?” I asked, teasing.
“Get down on the floor before I change my mind,” he
countered, smirking as he unwrapped it and slipped it on. I laughed a short
moment and then his face went serious and hurriedly I got down and laid back
onto the fur coat. As plush as the fur was, the floor was hard and unforgiving
beneath it.
He quickly knelt between my legs and then positioned himself
over me and in another heartbeat he’d slipped into me once again. He began to
thrust more quickly now, though with difficulty—his hands were planted on the
floor, but the fur and I were sliding around with each movement.
I reached my arms upwards and back and placed my palms flat
against the baseboard to stop myself from shifting out of place. With my bare
feet I searched for a grip on the floor. Found it—better—he continued to
thrust.
Now that I was not moving away from him as he plunged into
me I could again appreciate the sensation of his cock. He wasn’t just pumping
away like some dog or frantic teenager. He rotated his hips as he moved into
me, so that the head of his cock pressed the inside of my vagina in a multitude
of pleasurable angles. I closed my eyes and just lay there and felt him and for
a minute or two there was no sound in the room but our breathing and the sound
of the slick, perfect machinery of our bodies intersecting.
And what work was it that we were doing, anyway, we this
dual machine? It seemed somehow more than simply obeying biology’s commands. Not
seemed—
was
. I looked into Jack’s face and saw it there, too—some transcendent
thing. We were turning something necessary into something beautiful, that most
human of efforts. Our species had turned shelter into architecture, food into
feasts, language into poetry. In all these forms we spoke to each other about
beauty—about what was fleeting, about this strange quality that glimmered
momentarily through everything and then was gone. As we ourselves would glimmer
and disappear. All lovers die.
All lovers die but in love they feel beauty coursing through
them, and I understood that now, I felt it, and I could see as Jack fucked me
and watched me that he felt it, too. The floor was hard against my back as my
body yielded to him, as the immensity of time pressed down on us and made every
second feel perfect, precious.
My orgasm was beginning to build, and I sensed that his was,
too. I kept one hand braced against the wall and reached down to play with my
clit as he quickened his movements. At the center of me I felt some little glowing
sphere of pleasure appear, then begin steadily to expand. I felt it burning
deliciously as it traveled outward from its center, moving through my insides,
growing brighter and brighter, as if I contained nothing—no muscle, or flesh,
or guts…
“Sylvie,” said Jack again, and I knew he was on the verge,
and so was I—the exterior of that strange, electric sphere had nearly merged with
my skin, and I felt it arriving at my every extremity—the crown of my head, my
toes, the tips of my fingers—and as it did so, something arced across me—some
bright shock that began where Jack and I were joined—and I screamed, and my
skin prickled all over as my orgasm lit me up like a lamp.
My cries startled me as they echoed back from the
furniture-less room, and alongside them I was vaguely aware of Jack’s soft
moans, rising now. He had slowed and was performing his final thrusts and his
whole body was shaking—mine, too. My knees were splayed wide and joined we were
a butterfly, his hardness inside me like some divine pin fixing us forever in
the moment of this one act.
And then, his face twisted from the pressure of this
mounting ecstasy, Jack came. He released a long, ragged moan, then stayed
inside me, bringing his knees up and leaning his forehead against my sternum
and simply coming to rest, and in this position we fell into a sweet and oblivious
sleep.
When we swam up into wakefulness a little while later the
floor felt harder than ever. Jack gently disengaged our bodies and sat beside
me, rubbing his knees. My stomach growled.
I also sat up, and he pulled me to him, and kissed me on my
temple. “Will you let me buy us dinner somewhere nice?”
“Oh yes,” I said, glad I at least had my single suitcase of
clothes.
“Good,” said Jack. “Maybe if I can get you drunk I can
convince you to stay in a hotel with me for the night.”
I grinned, and kissed him, and we wasted no time getting
dressed. My hair was all awry from our lovemaking but honestly, that gave me a
little, private thrill—it made me feel like I belonged to Jack, somehow. Like I
was created partly for his pleasure.
He was looking at me approvingly.
Fifteen minutes later we were seated on the balmy,
twinkle-lit patio at a tiny restaurant and a waiter was pouring us champagne. I
eagerly took a sip—I had to admit, I was developing a taste for it.
“I want to show you something,” said Jack, and only as he
reached for it did it register with me that he was carrying his briefcase. From
it he extracted a manila envelope, and out of that he slid a handful of glossy,
black & white photos.
They were from Anne’s. Of me: bound, and masked, and naked.
I blushed deeply, looking at them. They were beautiful
photos, and my body looked beautiful in them—gleaming with oil, and lit
dramatically, straining against the rope. Remembering those sensations—the
lights, the tension—I grew aroused again. And yet, this woman in the photos.
She both was and was not me.