Jessica's perfect form hung just inches from the floor at the slightest of angles, facing the skylight of his loft. Her back was gracefully arched, arms drawn back and down. Her inner wrists were joined behind her, two fists kissing each other, thumb lying beside thumb, and a series of well-spaced, ornate knots linked them to her secured ankles. One set of ropes supported her upper back, gathered above and beneath her breast—accentuating the flawless, full roundness of their form and the ripeness of her hardened nipple without stress, meeting in the center of her chest and looped into the rope that extended from a pulley somewhere above her.
She was balanced by a separate group of roping extended from the same pulley, looped to create what could be described as a simple harness that expertly left her inviting ass bare and available. Her knees were stretched apart and an intricate pattern decorated her lower leg. Her body was a work of art perfectly showcased by veins of rope elaborately placed and knotted seemingly for beauty more than comfort. Aesthetically and asymmetrically perfect, it was Kinbaku-bi at its most mesmeric.
The words happiness and contentment were too shallow to describe how her presence before him felt.
The moon laid its light perfectly across her, and to Arturo the vision was holy. Because of her his demons were silenced and angels whispered in his ears and the words came. They danced across the screen as the tips of his fingers played a series of steady notes; he typed as if he was obsessed for as long as he could.
His desk faced her, and he sat at it naked. His strong legs were spread open, his long cock hard, angry and erect. His lean body glistened, not from the regulated heat of the room but from his simmering lust.
She whimpered.
Arturo's cock twitched.
He swore out loud in the language of his father as he leaned back in the leathered chair and pushed himself away from the desk. His eyes lifted and narrowed as they took her in. The natural fibers of the rope were pale against the smooth, creamy chocolate of her skin. The contrast highlighted the tension, the curve and line of every detail. Heaven to him was both in the journey and the destination equally. He never rushed anything, not with his life, not with his art, not with her or even this.
Reaching down, he curled his fingers around the root of his shaft and roughly gripped himself. He began a long, slow, upward tug—over the labyrinth of veins sprouted along his length. He kept his cock close to his belly as he drew his hand upward. At the top of his stroke, the hollow of his fist met the jutted ridge that encircled the rim of his helmet. He massaged that gathering of raw nerves, that notch at the underside with the knuckle of his forefinger. An opalescent dribble of pearly pre-cum pumped from him and he smeared it over his crown with his thumb.
She was the one on display but he felt every bit the exhibitionist. He wished that she would open her eyes and turn to him. But he knew that he would dissolve under the amber glint of her eyes. She was the source of power here tonight in this room.
Images flashed before him. He could feel himself pressing within her, stretching her tight nether lips wide with his bulbous head as she coated him with her slick heat. More semen emerged from him and ran down his hand. He dragged his fist downward, letting the side of his hand press down on his scrotum.
His Jess, his wild, exotic beauty liked to ride him in reverse. He liked to watch the cleft of her ass as she rode up and down his shaft. She would rise up, letting her rim massage his plinth, teasing with the threat of losing him only to fall back down over him with more urgency.
He angled his cock away and worked himself ever faster. He thrusted himself into his firm hand, felt the weight of his balls swing. His torso was so tight that it hurt. When he rammed his fist down his shaft for...the...last...time...
"Oh shit," he grunted out, his cock jerking in his hand, thick cum forcing its way out across his keyboard and screen.
He could not stop watching her as he came in pulses. It spewed out, shorter and shorter, until it finally just dribbled over the back of his hand unto his belly and settled into the black hairs of his nest.
"I'm not attracted to white men," she had warned him from the start-always as fiery as she was sweet, "especially the arrogant ones."
They were continuously thrown together socially. She was the gifted among the offering. But, on that particular night he could not just watch her from across the room. He stayed close, so close that he could feel the heat of her body as she spoke to him. Her words were a desperate attempt to delay what they both grew tired of fighting.
Arturo had laughed, welcoming the challenge in her eyes. She would not easily forget his coldness.
"Of what importance is that to me?" he had taunted. "I am Brazilian."
In Portuguese, a sweet and gracious language, he whispered in her ear.
"You feel my spirit as I feel yours, right from the start."
His voice was like silk and dripped sex. His lips, light like a feather, briefly touched hers for the first time.
"My skin is touched by the sun Gods. Their heat is what keeps my blood hot, but that matters not," he said, letting his finger play with a curl of her hair.
He gently placed the palm of his hand at the base of her back, just short of where it curved into her lovely bottom. He applied no pressure. And, he continued, "When I claim you, when I fuck you, when I bind you to me, I could be purple with a snout and you would still beg for my attentions."
"What are you saying?" she asked, breathless.
He smiled down into her upturned face. "Dance with me?"
That was truly the last time he had the upper hand.
Arturo held himself, squeezing gently and watched the last well of cum seep from his slit. His release gave him some relief, but it was only momentary. His cock, still thick and turgid under his hand, was still more than aware that she was near. It would demand attention again.
She did this to him.
He had not fucked her tonight. Arturo had decided early that day that he would not. He told her that he would not. He needed to write. He needed for her to give him that. If he fucked her, he knew that he would be good for nothing for the rest of the night. Once would not be enough. He thought that he could somehow control the magic his muse gifted him with by exercising more self-control.
His Jess had sounded hurt when he had first informed her.
"Then why should I even bother coming over?" she had snapped and then laughed.
He met her attitude with silence.
"Arturo," she whispered after a while in defeat, unable to hang up the phone.
He had been holding his breath. Deep inside he knew that writing was only a small part of what being with her gave him.
Arturo gave her detailed instructions. He always did. Jessica was new to this. She needed to be led.
At first he was subtle. It took some time for her to understand what he had immediately recognized in her warm brown eyes the first moment she looked into the vast darkness of his own. The muscle in his jaw had tightened. He grimaced at the honest sincerity of her smile, creasing his brow and setting his lips, as they were introduced at the faculty welcoming.
"I am so honored to be a part of your writers' workshop Mr. Salazar. I won't lie and say that I've read all of your books, but I've read enough to know how important this opportunity is," Jessica, the first of the graduate students bold enough to attempt a conversation with him had said, trying to not sound intimidated.
The sound of her voice, the light, velvety wrap of it slipped down his spine. Arturo straightened his shoulders, steadied himself with a slow sip from his cocktail and took in the beauty of her features.
Jessica had to shift the glass she was holding to her left hand before reaching out to shake his. She was nervous and just a little awkward.
Arturo watched as she did so, not missing the line of condensation streaming down the side of her cup and dripping to the skin on the back of her hand. He watched it crawl and dissipate.
