Sex with a New Lover

Take a breath. Breathe, dammit. The hands on my throat push me down, but I rasp a breath anyway. Breathe! I can feel my pulse in my ears. My head hits the wall with force, and I wonder if it will ever stop. The lustful agony is incredible. From what seems like miles away, he orders me to hold on tighter. He pushes between my breasts, and the violence ends in a warm wash on my chest. Would that I could spread it over my whole body; I love it! I feel it on my skin and rub it into my nipples. I trepidatiously savor its mild sweetness, half worrying that just tasting it could give me a disease.

He’s painted himself as the dying breed of man: the Lover. He describes his conquests to me and I eat it up. Part of me realizes that I could never date someone like this, with such id and so very many partners. The other part feeds on it.

Have you ever had to face a blank canvas? It frightens me. No matter what the oeuvre, I need a starting point. In fact, when I write, I always overwrite the last file I created because I can’t stand the blank page. My own canvas is blank; I can barely muster the concentration to give myself an orgasm these days. Nearly effortlessly, he has strolled into my dust-choked studio, pulled the brush from the solvent, and smattered the canvas with deep, thick strokes of red.

I remember meeting him. I had stepped out of a rainstorm and we crossed paths. I tried to cheerily hide how mad I was to be caught in the rain, but my fervor showed through the effort. I barely looked in his eyes, but he seemed different. I left and forgot his name. Again and again I’d see him, trying to remember his name. Trying to write or paint, I’d close my eyes, but I couldn’t see his face. The only thing I could recall was the richly dark honey of his voice. I could hear that voice smolder through my head, pour down my throat with a smoky sweetness that was unforgettable.

Still, I thought him mostly common. He played into my hand when I smiled at him. I knew what I was doing. I held my purse in my left hand, crossed my arms coquettishly, watched him try to avoid looking at the low cut of my camisole. Then, as expected, he asked to date me. I acted unaffected, maybe even too cool, and I left him to deal with his embarrassment. But then something unexpected happened.

I sat down at the canvas that day, this time to brew an ale. Food and drink have been the only art I am capable of handling lately, but I can already feel a surge of new creativity. I went for some honey to add to the pot. It was rock solid. Warming a pan of water, I watched the rock of syrup melt and then tasted the hot sweetness. The entire time, his voice was on my mind. This was not part of the game. For days, his voice was there. I couldn’t quiet it. I realized I was weakened by my own muse.

I hesitate, feeling his mouth graze me through the silk. I pull it aside, wordlessly begging him to taste me. I can’t take the thought of never knowing. I press his mouth to me. His sweet, full lips taste me. His tongue licks me coarsely, and already I can feel the aching melt away, like honey crystals in warm water. I pull him back, beg him to be gentle. As he gently asks me to take off my underwear, I shamefully comply; open to him, vulnerable but wanting so much for him to kiss me. He lowers his full mouth onto my wetness. Even kissing me, he reminds me that most other women aren’t so sensitive. I really don’t want to hear about most other women, and mercifully he puts his tongue to better use. I’m melting again, and I never want it to end. I wrap my legs around his shoulders; his hands curve toward my breasts. Waves of pleasure start to envelop me. I’ve wanted to come for him since the first time I recalled his voice. I’m coming, I’m coming, his mouth is incredible. Still I hold back a little.

When we were finally together, sharing a drink, he touched the back of my neck. I actually shivered, much to my chagrin. Normally, I can control myself much better. But this is different. Why does it have to be different? Why can’t it be easy? Why does one kiss from him ease the creaking in my soul more than anyone? I drive home, thinking crazy thoughts. This man is so intelligent and witty. He has this magnetic quality that attracts me to him. I realize too late that this is not just some sexual attraction. This is touching my soul. Still, when I reach to taste myself that night, I can remember his name, his hands, and that honey-colored voice, but not his face.

I hesitate as I reach for his hard cock. As much as I’ve wanted to touch it, now that I’m here, it’s like being a teenager. I’m fearful that I can’t handle it as well as the others who’ve had him. I’m painfully aware of those who have come before me. His latest story of conquest still stings my ears, I don’t want the inevitable comparison. I shy away from him, but not before feeling its shape and the silky nest around it. My god, I want that cock inside me. I realize that I’ve been contracting myself with longing for him.

Okay, now this makes no sense. How can a person I barely know color my every thought? The amber aura lights my days now; every thought coated in the sweetness of knowing him. Every conversation pulls me closer than before. The hesitance of stark white is gone. The next time I see him, despite any attempt on my part to be less involved, the creative process begins. His hand on my throat and clavicle, thumb pressing just a little; with each kiss my hunger for more grows. The canvas is smattered with the cacophony of my creativity. My mind paints a picture of me, standing stripped at the canvas, fervently working as his hands feel my body, as he kneels before me to kiss my open quim. The paint hits the cotton with even more vigor. I open my eyes and am conscious that he still sits before me in reality. He fascinates me with the everchanging colors of his aura.

With a satisfyingly loud smack, his hand makes contact. I lie still, bracing for the next hit. It stings more, and I shudder. I want to be punished. I want to feel shame. Whack. I want him to feel that no matter how he hurts me, I have no desire to leave him. Whack. Please hit me harder. It feels so good when he controls me. Lustfully, he presses his freshly hard cock against me. I want him to rape me gently. I can feel myself trusting him, surrendering my power in such a frighteningly quick manner. He stops, curls himself around my naked body, and I feel safe with him. I feel so much for him.

As I leave him, incredulous that we’ve only met briefly and kissed a few times, my soul is on fire. Adjusting my rearview mirror, I see the hot color in my cheeks and mouth. I smile through the heat. I sing a vapid pop song, singing the syrupy lyrics as though I’m singing to him. I arrive home in a wave of creativity. As the house sleeps, I write, I draw, I sing in French poetry that comes from my mouth in a stream of consciousness. Despite all of my efforts to the contrary, my mind and body react to him.

I lay him on his back, trying to contain my emotions, my lust. As I straddle him, I put my warm wetness slowly on to the tip of him. I want him to know me. I want him inside of me. With a deep breath, I pull off my shirt, and I’m naked before him. Can he see how much I’m willing to give him? The cold streetlight shines brightly, cutting a bright strip on my white skin. I touch his face and watch his eyes search me. Does he like what he sees? I rock gently on his cock, teasing it, and thinking of just thrusting down on it. I want the raw, insane passion of his bare cock inside me. Am I moving too fast? At once, I’m sorry that my ardor for him has overtaken me. I lean forward, my breasts brushing his chest. I crouch over his ear and whisper the bitter conflict I feel. He freezes under me in shock at my cruelty. I kiss him tenderly, but I can’t undo the malice. How can I resolve feeling so much for him? Collapsing, I close my arms and legs around him.

Eagerly, every day, I check to see if he’s made contact. I know he has lots of friends- and I think he was dating (read: fucking) someone when we met- so every time I check my messages and he hasn’t called, I hurt just a little. I fancy myself so confident but still allow myself the indulgence of this dramatic relationship. As a kitten to spilled cream, I lap up what little affection he offers. I start dressing better, wanting him to notice me. I start exercising to be better fit in bed. Even if I never lay him down the thought of my own prowess makes me desire him more. I can whisper his name and shivers of excited happiness shoot through me. I have lush fantasies of taking care of him. I want to prepare a fabulous meal for him. I want to light a hundred candles and massage his whole body. Under three big down comforters, I want to watch television with him on a lazy Sunday afternoon, throwing pillows at him and laughing. I want to scratch his back after he’s had a bad day at work. I want to know everything about him and accept him for the amazing man he has already shown me he is.

One more time, I tell him I want him to go down on me. This time, his tenderness is amazing. Every touch of his hand, every lick of his tongue, and the ecstasy overwhelms me. We both eagerly reach to satisfy each other. He wants me to come softly and slowly as I please; I want him to feel my orgasm from the inside. He licks and kisses me, easing his fingers inside, telling me how much he wants me. Slowly it builds and this time I don’t stifle it. I let myself contract, let myself come. As gently as I can, I ejaculate and look at his glistening mouth. The freedom of how wet I am now emboldens me. I show him how much I can control my quim. I tighten around his fingers, and they slip inside so easily. I push into his fingers, bolder still. I am so hot for him. I can feel the heat build. I stop trying to control anything; I just let myself go in front of him. I want to come for him. Rhythmically, I thrust his fingers into me…I stifle a scream and come a third time. Once more, we curl into each other. I stroke his back with my fingernails; he nuzzles into my chest contentedly. I could stay here with him forever. It’s almost like falling in love. Love. I love you.

I wake up the next day worried that by allowing my passion for him so quickly, I’m just a common whore. This is not different from any other girl falling for any other boy. I tricked myself into thinking I was somehow different. My countenance has fallen, my skin is milky. My whole self is subdued. Where is my muse? Am I doing the right thing? I don’t want to hurt him. I care about him so much. What if something happened to him? I’d be the last to know. I don’t want to be the last to know. This was supposed to be flirtation, not obsession, and most certainly not caring or any sort of compassion. Yet here I am. I’m so afraid of being so open… but the painting has started and I don’t want to stop.

I pull on my clothes and already, reality grabs me by the neck. I don’t want to leave this room. It was the nightingale, my love, not the lark. With his hand reassuredly on the small of my back, he opens the door of the room. The light pierces my vampire eyes. I don’t want to see the outside world and worry of it.

Seeing him now is so different. We share something no one else can touch. Every look at each other now reflects our knowledge of each other. I can’t look at him any more without melting. I can’t return to who I was. I’m better now. My care for him is crazy, stupid, and completely incomplete. But I can’t deny it any more: no man has ever made me feel so much so quickly. Merely touching his elbow makes us both smile. Quite simply, I love to make him happy. And if we never know each other any better, or see each other more, this will still be enough.