Carelessly, clumsy, and dripping with sex appeal, my baby walked in through the front door with a dazed look on her face. I went to warm her up; she wanted to fuck. Though the scent of winter persisted on her coat, I could smell her yearning pussy, wet and moist, reeking of sweet, tangy copper on a summer day.
My baby never wore nail-polish, so when she locked the door behind us, I was quick to notice the darkened edges of her middle finger. She was on her period this week, no doubt, toying with herself like a bitch in heat, fingering herself off over and over, leaving her nail with a thick coating of pussy and blood, so much that she wasn't able to wash off the residual remnants stuck to her skin.
Slightly misshapen from the outside drizzle, but all the more beautiful, my lover looked good. Her lips were chapped, accentuating their full, rounded edges, emphasizing the ruby-red color she wore. Today, she was in a form-fitting uniform; Slacks, a silk shirt, heels; clothing I knew she would never be caught buried in. An interview, or an event of some sorts must've retained her in their professional glitz. I almost laughed out loud, but I couldn't deny the uncontrollable swelling occurring in my balls and my cock, stirring me with desire.
Often we'd go days, weeks, without breadth of communication, only the knowledge of a tacit reconciliation keeping us connected. My girl was never one to call beforehand, and definitely wasn't going to leave a message. Sometimes, we wouldn't be having a conversation at all. When she did show up after an uncharted period of departure, she didn't bother ringing the doorbell. Light knocks to a rhythmic tapping of her choosing was enough to grant my baby an invite into my home, imposing her free-will into my life.
You see, my baby is an artist, with plenty of free time on her hand. She doesn't live within the confines of sunshine, but through her hyperactive senses. She lives through her art, often letting it become her, consume her, her accomplishments designed to work as her muse. But most of all, she was slut. A true slut. My slut. A slut that couldn't wait, a slut with a head start; spending days at a time holed up in her studio, watching herself in the mirror, cumming to her fantasies, bringing them to life, spending hours lulling, crying, screaming, laughing, analyzing her feelings through hues and pigments of color. After her fits, she would come back to me, pussy chapped and swollen, an air of disappointment lingering above her. Her indecision gave me a nice, comfortable spot in her life- and between her legs. When she was with me, she was assuaged by my ability to assure her that it was okay to be who you truly were: An uncontrollable, insatiable, undeniable slut.
If I was to choose the thing I love most about my baby, it'd be her devotion. If she had it her way, she would suck my cock every moment of every day, burrowing her senses through my pleasure. When I tell her to play with her pussy, she lies in a puddle of her own juices, like a child in candy land. If I told her to lick my cum off the ground, the intensity in her eyes would pierce through me as she lowered her lips to the floor, tongue searching for every last glob she could swallow. My baby has never said no. I knew how to play my baby like a fiddle; She likes to be stroked behind her shoulder; She likes to be kissed on her neck; She loves to feel my warm, hard cock outline her ass, before slipping into her pussy from behind. Even in pitch black space, I know my baby's every curve and movement. She thrived off my touch, my praise.
Sometimes, she's all rainbows and sugar. Other times, she is stubborn and demanding. Today, she was neither. My woman nonchalantly circled my apartment for a while, fingers lightly pressing up against inanimate objects, as she, lost deep in thought, subconsciously observed the room. Her fingers touched walls, wood, furniture, and I awaited, patiently, her awareness. "Hey," I said after a few minutes of complete silence, but before bothering to greet me back, I watched as her eyes focused from nothingness down to my cock, and a slow, small smile spread across her lips, quickly dissolving into a tinge.
"Happy to see me?" She asked with a hint of condescendence, now circling in place, looking like an inane adult in skillful clothing. My dick ached. I hadn't seen my baby in over a week, you see.
"You look different."
"Professional."
"Sure," I agreed in an attempt to lighten her mood, "What's the occasion?"
She blew air out of her mouth, the slicked-back ponytail she wore now deterred wisps from sprawling all over her face, and sat down on my bed with dazed eyes.
"What's the point?" She asked. I walked over to her, readying myself. I knew some deeper, unnecessary realization was bound to be disrupting my baby's soul, so I sat down next to her and I held her neck.
"What's what point?" I said, leaning in closer, inhaling her shoulder blades. Today, she smelled like lilac.
"This," a gloom had overtaken her, and her eyes went beyond my bed, into the mirror directly across us. My lamp was casting a soft, orange hue onto her pale skin, as she bundled into my chest, and I caught sight of myself leaned over with her neck in hands, fingers toying with the looser part of her hair. I turned away from the spectacle.
As my body shifted, she shifted towards me, wanting my attention, frustrating as all women are.
Spoiled brat
, I thought to myself, both admiring and desiring her infantile humor.
At once, she stood up off me and began unbuttoning her shirt, watching herself in the mirror. First, she ran her fingers across her chest as she slipped off the silk. She gazed her reflection; scrutinizing herself as she would a piece of art, stroking her skin in ecstasy. She unzipped her slacks, and I watched them waterfall off her hips in smooth transition. I weakened at the way she unraveled her unruly hair, and ran her fingers through the roots. I was fixated on her, her lace bra and skimpy thong, until her eyes complied with mine, and she let me into her personal intimacy.
