The second I enter his apartment; a sharp smell assaults my nose. I recognise it as his smell, a concentrate of nicotine both sugary and bitter that sticks to every object like a stamp. The apartment is small and narrow. The meagre entrance, where he raucously abandons his coat, leads to a cramped living room. Two dusty armchairs sit in front of an old cathodic television. Against the opposing wall, a great library looms all over the space, filled with books to the brim, so much as it cannot contain them all. Some books spilled out in protest, pouring on the floor in an anarchic display of independence. The only window of the room is serrated, covered with heavy curtains. On the floor, a thick parquet made of dingy and chipped pieces of wood has clearly been there for too long. A door on the right opens on a dim corridor. "A home for prisoners", is my thought, "where even the air is not free to circulate."
We stand in the centre of the living room, and he looks at me sideways, as to weigh me. - Something to drink?- he asks without conviction. I shook my head as I move close to him. He pulls me in for a kiss, awkwardly pushing himself up towards my face, and his stinking breath invades my nostrils. I reciprocate, pushing the body against him and sensing the roughness of his lips against mine, as my skin is pierced by the sparse beard.
He gets to unpack me like a gift, and he starts by lowering my skirt and unbuttoning my blouse. I'm proud of not having worn any underwear that night, as I can gloat from the surprise flooding his face, followed by a knowing smirk as all his suspicions are confirmed at the same time. I am all naked now but for a pair of black tights, mounted by a garter belt of the same colours, and my black shoes, like those in the photo but not quite uncomfortable. In his rush to undress me, he unties a suspender, that is left hanging against my thigh. He kisses me profusely, while his hands are searching all over my body to find the best points to squish, to pull, to wring out. I let him, moaning softly into his ear every time he begins to pull too hard. He plunges his face between my small breasts, squeezing them out and torturing my nipples to harden them. A hand descends over my belly, reaching between my legs, and forces an enquiring finger through the lips of my pussy.
When the assault is over, he retires, leaving me to recover my breath at the centre of the room. I watch him light himself a cigarette and crushing on the old armchair with a huff of dust. His eyes wander all over my naked body, and I do nothing to stop them. He offers me a cigarette and I take it, as I sit on his lap, feeling his stiff cock pushing through his pants. I kneel and start to unfasten his leather belt with slow, deliberate movements.
I unveil his swollen cock, red as a ripe tomato, and I take it into my mouth with a moan. A powerful smell flood my mouth and nostrils, primitive and intense like a well-aged cigar. I take my time to appreciate his presence in my mouth before I start sucking him with confidence. I pause just to take a puff from the cigarette, exhaling the smoke through my nostrils while I fix my gaze onto him, then I plunge my head back on his cock. I am very conscious of being naked on the cold floor, in that room foreign and unknown, and, as always, it excites me, sending heated vibes from my stomach all over the body. My skin is traversed by small waves of goosebumps, like wind through a grass field.
He abruptly stops me, and I separate myself from his cock, a trickle of drool wetting my chin. But it's too late, and with a groan the man comes, spraying his sperm on the armchair and on my lap. The hot liquid on the cold skin makes me shudder. He lies there, seemingly exhausted, a look of shame on his face.
As I rise up, I cannot stop to look at him. He is abandoned on the armchair, limp and pallid, the pants still lowered. His energy before convinced me that he was younger, but now I realize he's much older than he looks. He keeps his eyes shut and his mouth folded downward in a disdainful look, as he seems incapable of moving of a single centimetre. With a slow gesture, I try to wipe his cum from my legs, but I see that some drops have landed on the thin fabric of my stockings, so I desist. Finally, I manage to divert my eyes from him. Leaving him in his pitiful state, I go looking for a kitchen, as I am thirsty.
The kitchen is cramped at the end of a dark corridor, narrow like the rest of the apartment, practically a thin space between the counters and the fridge. In the sink the chaos reigns, plates and cutlery piled up over pots and pans and glasses, and from the mound comes a distinct rancid smell. It looks like nothing colourful has ever came out of that kitchen. I lean on the counter to open the fridge, enjoying being naked in that foreign environment. Inside, lighten up by an ailing light bulb, vegetables and packed meat and moldy cheese and milk, everything seems to belong to a different geological era. The cold emanating from the fridge gives off an aura of desolation and loneliness, like everything else in that apartment.
As I lean into the fridge, reaching for a bottle of wine forgotten on the bottom, I feel the sudden urge to get inside it with my entire body. I estimate that I would be able to fit inside the fridge if I push my head on the side. "Yes, I want to climb inside this desolate fridge and to close the door behind me, with my stocking and my shoes on and my suspender untied and the stains of cum", I catch myself thinking, "There is nothing in the world I want to do more". The yearning that closed space exerts on me is so strong that I begin to make space by throwing out all the inedible stuff when I hear the steps from the living room.
- What are you doing?- ask the man with a flat tone. In the dim light of the kitchen, he looks like he just got ten or twenty years older than before.
- I was thirsty,- I explain. That spectral mockery of a man brings me back to reality, and I am able to fight the urge. I confront him, naked in his house. His eyes are still wandering all over my body, but without the intense lust of the moment before. I feel like I am a dream, materializing in front of him, to which he doesn't know how to react if not rationally.
- You better leave,- he says finally, and I nod in agreement. My steps to the living room and my gesture to pick up my clothes from the pavement are sluggish and reluctant. "I would love to stay in this cramped apartment for a long time," I ponder. As I put my clothes back on, I feel his heavy gaze on my back.
When I leave the apartment, I don't look at him and I don't say another word to him. I feel like I'm leaving a piece of my life behind me, and surprisingly I realize I already forgot his face. I'm not able to look over my shoulders, as my life exists only in front of me, in the night crowded with people that want to touch me, kiss me, and devour me. I close the heavy wooden door behind me and, as I begin to walk through the colonnade, I feel like I'm levitating over the rest of the world.
