August

Implacable Icarus Copyright 2003

Not for children.

It was one of those hot mid august days. A day when you sweat in the shower and the grit collects on the back of your neck the moment you leave your apartment.

I was on 79th and Lex, just emerging from the subway when I saw her. Just to clarify, there are many beautiful women in New York. But she, well she was something else. Something more. Striding down the avenue on tall open toed sandals, passing under awnings head straight forward, seemingly uncaring of the attention she received. She was wearing white, her hair; auburn, pulled back pony tail swinging freely, and only a hint of lipstick. She was tall, but not lanky, enough hips to count, her thighs seemed authoritative, muscular from a lifetime of wearing heels. And her breasts, swelling, curving, moving slightly with each stride, rode high, like a cry to heaven.

The white of her body blazed forth in the late afternoon, rendering all around her drab and inconsequential. Almost like an angel. If I only knew then.

She passed by me, the crisp sound of her heels on pavement contrasted with the tinkle of her bracelet hanging low on the hand grasping her bag. Her icy blue eyes flicked to me for a moment, then away, and she passed leaving the smell of oleander and rose.

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A high and terrible queen amongst women, more than enough to break a man.

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So imagine my surprise when she sat down next to me half an hour later at the café, telling the attending waiter to bring her an ice tea. She studied me for a moment.

“That’s a good book.” She said.

I was reading Anais Nin. I smiled, and lit a cigarette. “Yes, it is. My name is Jonah.” I extended my hand; she took it, her palm warm, and a fleeting smile on her lips.

We talked for some time, her face open, seemingly honest. She was inquisitive; we talked of the weather, politics, love, lust, and lost lovers. I revealed some of my recent heartbreak, betrayal, and my subsequent wanderings. In turn she told me of herself, her experiences in life, her lips now and then gently embracing the glass of ice tea, my eyes feasting on the sight. Her eyes were wide, not quite probing, but almost as though she were ready to be shocked, perhaps pleasantly, by anything I revealed.

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My heart pounding, I accepted her offer to see her apartment.

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Her place was nice, and I said all the usual complements about art, furniture, and the design. She offered me water, and with a mysterious look recommended that I sit. Casting about I found a white Le Corbusier chair and sat, the air-conditioned leather welcoming me as she strode around the apartment, closing shades, and taking off her necklace.

She fixed me with her blazing blue eyes. “I like men, and I like you very much.” The statement lingered in the air, its echoing ramifications in my head. I nodded, breath in my throat, I was more than a little afraid to fuck this up.

“But some men,” she paused, running her tong briefly over her bottom lip “lose control.” Her eyes narrowed, “Are you one of those?”

Almost unable to speak, I murmured a small noise of dissent, and slowly shook my head. I sipped my water to hide my nervousness. She moved closer to me, took the glass from my hand, and throwing me a searing look, drank the remainder down. She leaned over me, my eyes automatically plumbing the vee of her shirt, caressing the pearlescent curves of her breasts. She stood back up, and in each hand was a white rope. She waited, and I nodded, placing my hands on each armrest. She moved slowly, and languidly tied me down, her breath sighing in my ears, her scent surrounding me. I accepted this, my heart pounding, a cool sweat on my forehead. I was at a loss to understand what this woman was about, why she had chosen me, or anything of her intent. Sinking slowly to her knees, she smiled, cleared her throat, and whispered “Don’t worry,” as she slipped one sneaker, then the other off each foot and placing them quietly sided by side.

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Later, when my prostate was aching, gathered like a tightly held secret, I would understand that she did everything in this slow, methodical way.

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Undoing my belt, she delicately slid my Diesels off, and I followed her bidding to raise my ass off the chair. My underwear went with them. Some men will tell you that they would have “raging hardons” at a moment like that. I don’t know about them, but I felt a deep sense of trepidation, and was more than intimidated by her beauty. A wicked look passed over her features as she considered my cock, and she looked up at me. Something must have responded in my features, some look of a trapped animal, because she snorted.

“And with some men, control must be established.”

With that she reached forward and with slim, cool, practiced fingers grasped my cock, her thumb placed just below my head, her fore finger above, laying just below the rim. I gasped as she pulled gently upward, stretching my cock, as the fore finger of her other hand played gently over the slit. She gently pulsed her grasping fingers, and as my cock began to grow, she anchored her left hand around the base of my cock. Looking up, she made eye contact and nodded as she began to rthymically move the upper hand, bringing life to my stiffening cock. Almost fully hard now, my breath once again caught in my throat as she said “You will not cum until it is time to!”

The pleasure flashing through my body, I managed to blurt out “How will I know?” Quickly she squeezed her hand around my head, and pulsing it a few times, forced a tiny glowing drop of pre-cum out. Reaching out a furtive finger she smeared the precum over the tip, sliding back and forth, a low chuckle emanating from her throat.

“You will know.”

Then, holding the very tip between the fingers of one hand, she began to methodically jack the shaft with the other, like some otherworldly piston. I emitted a long, low, guttural sound, as some small pressure began to grow in me, my burgeoning cock now grown to its full hardness.

“Does that feel good?”

I grunted my assent, my body growing tenser, and my world slowly narrowing down to one point. She paused her hands for a moment and said “breathe,” and when I did

She pumped both hands up and down, both hands twisting slowly, avoiding too much friction. I let out a moan, struggling to keep my eyes open, determined to see as much as I could as she changed techniques, plunging her hand down, followed by the other, on the heels of which the first quickened down the shaft, brushing over the corona, making it feel as though my cock was sliding down a long tight, warm tunnel. Then, without warning she switched again, each hand dragging up the shaft, one after the other, tightening on the way until they literally jerked off the tip.

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I began to tense, all ambivalence destroyed by my desire to cum. I gasped it out, in half-English, my slitted eyes contacting hers, my message becoming sub vocal.

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She stopped, adopted a churlish grin, and said “Tut, tut, tut.” Simultaneously tapping her finger down on the crown of my granite like cock. For the first time I began to struggle against my bonds, my eyes open wide with shock, until the feeling ebbed away the physical urgency fading, though the mental remained.

Eyes twinkling she placed her hands on me again, placing her thumb of her left hand below my balls, and her fingers above my cock, where my stomach and cock met, she slid her right hand up and down, fast, then slow. She established a rhythm, then broke it, coaxing precum, sliding it, her eyes seeming to penetrate my very mind, and guess at my wishes. Increasing pressure when called for, slowing the pace when it built too quickly.

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“Maybe you are wondering she asked, why all the dramatics? Hmmm? What’s in it for me? I don’t know. My therapist says it’s about daddy. I think I just like to make men do tricks for me.” Hissed laughter. “You know, I could hold you here all night. Way past the point where its fun, believe me. If I thought you were special, I wouldn’t let you stop cumming. All night I’d work you. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Somehow, this reincarnated my ambivalence, though not enough to dissuade my pleasure, but informing on it, etching an emotional turmoil over the experience which would last long after the pleasure faded.

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Sensing something in me she increased her strength, grasping me tightly, her thumb extended upward, increasing the friction across that most special place below the slit. I was on the edge. My impending explosion weighed in my mind, a large heavy stone, or perhaps an opaque bubble, poised to burst.

“I need you to hold it, right here.” Her fingers pressing down on that sweet spot behind my balls in time with her other thumb, itself poised on the ridge below my glands, milking me.

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I shuddered all over, my thighs and calves aching from the effort. Unable to tell if I wanted to hold back, or wanted to detonate. My back hunched, my chest grew red, and heaving with each futilely deep breath I took, struggling to recall some half learned yoga technique.

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She stopped for a moment, and I let out a long plaintive wail, any restraint long since departing the apartment. She half smirked as she brought forth a red cloth from underneath the chair, and placed it across her knees. My cock wavered there, my heartbeat pulsing through it, my heavy sack fully drawn to itself. And below that, the tense place, gathering itself, in that particular place of needy readiness.

Grasping the shaft fully in her right hand squeezing it tightly she said, “I’m going to make all that cum boil out.” Then she gently tugged on my balls, “From here,” then pressing on my perineum, “through here,” finally making a circle of the fingers on her right hand, sliding them up the shaft, pulsing on the way “And up until it flies out, up to the ceiling.” I growled, having no reserves left.

She began to stroke, up, down, again and again. Somewhere between a caress and a fearsome pulling. She was inexorable, and my body knew that there was no turning back. My hands turned to claws, my teeth gritting. “That’s right!” She crowed. “Its mine!” And then I was there. In that delicious place where cumming teeters on the knife point. Between doing, and having done, between needing and wanting, between thought and deed.

“Let it go, let it go for me now!” Her murmur touched that place inside me, as her hands touched the special place on my cock that I thought only I knew. The flood gates opened. I lifted my ass off the chair, and my searing cum shot out, a fountain, geyser, I heard horse yelling somewhere in the background and realized it must be me. Each shuddering jerk released more as her thumb found my perineum and pressed savagely, delicate fingers milking the last of me, never passing over the rim, just working the shaft, making sure I could hold nothing back.

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When I regained some sense of myself, I found that I was weeping silently. She nodded as she folded up the red cloth, dampness staining it a darker color. My hands were untied.

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“You can see yourself out.” I nodded, collected my wits, drew on my pants, and went to the door. I looked back and caught her holding the damp cloth to her nose, a far away look in her eyes. “Out!”

I took the elevator out on week legs, and slipped into the stream of humans in the early summer night, sweltering, and more alone than ever.