Curio Vignettes 02 Craving (4 page)

Rain dries. Heartache fades. The sun shines, whether you’re outside or not. You may as well tilt your head up and enjoy it while it lasts.

Inside my body, the warm sun is setting, a mischievous moon rising. Our sweet kisses deepen and darken and Didier presses close, brushing his erection against my pubic bone. I cup his face and welcome his tongue, dig my heels into his ass in time with the thrusts I want. He gives them, rubbing me through my panties and his slacks, long drags that remind me how big he is, how hard he gets, how it feels when I welcome him inside. How he sounds and smells and tastes. How much he wants me.

He wants me.

I slip my hand between us, letting his stiff length stroke my palm as he keeps his hips working. When I squeeze, the softest moan interrupts our kiss.

He speaks against my mouth. “Let me undress you.”

“Of course.”

He drops back on his knees and I sit up, arching so he can draw the zipper down my spine. I lay back and his dark eyes dart as he eases the dress over my shoulders, down my arms, exposing my bare breasts. His lips part. The stretchy fabric skims my belly and he slides it from my hips. I tuck my legs up and he strips it away along with my underwear. They were cute panties, new ones, but he’ll see them some other night.

He covers my naked body with his clothed one, teasing my skin with a whisper of cotton, the kiss of buttons, the cool press of his belt buckle. The hot, hard insistence of his cock behind his fly.

His lips and tongue trace my throat, his moans hot and low. In French he tells me, “I want you. So much.”

“I want you.” I’ve never
not
wanted him. Even in the moments when he frustrates me, I would never wish I were elsewhere. He’s a hundred things to a hundred women, a different pretty bauble reflecting their unique tastes. But he’s my kaleidoscope. I want to keep turning him, discovering new patterns, seeing him through new eyes.

“Show me the things other women want from you.”
And what you want from them, so I can be everything. So I can maybe, just maybe, be enough.

Without a word he leaves the bed, standing before me in the low light. I sit up. A button is freed, exposing a slice of his chest, then another. Two more and the shirt falls away. My hearts speeds as it always does in the face of beauty, how I imagine a hunter’s pulse races when he spots a buck, how a wine lover’s mouth tingles as she twists the corkscrew. Didier opens his belt with those deft, capable fingers, sheds his trousers and kicks them aside. His cock is hugged in the boxer briefs he favors, a single spot of wetness darkening the cloud-gray silk.

He’s more perfect than any man has a right to be. I suspected as much the moment I laid eyes on a photo of him. Now that I’ve made him laugh, kissed him as he slept, soothed him as he trembled in a crumpled, heaving heap…now I know it.

There’s no show tonight. No teasing strokes of his hidden cock to make me crazy with impatience. He strips his shorts and joins me on the bed, guiding us onto our sides and locking our legs. He’s stiff and ready at the crease of my thigh, but we touch each other’s faces and hair, taste each other’s mouths for five minutes or more. The space between our chests grows warm and damp, and he breaches it to graze his palm over my breast. My nipple draws tight, my breath coming short. He tugs me closer by the hip, belly to belly, then his hand cups my butt. He kneads me there, traces the cleft softly.

“Do as I do,” he says.

I stroke his ass, as firm as mine is soft. When he rubs, I rub. When his nails rasp, mine rasp. When his fingertips slip between my cheeks I do the same to him, and it smoothes the edges of the anxiety I knew I’d feel. He’s touched me there before, just casual glances as he gave me head. I’ve never touched him that way, but when his fingers find the spot, I mirror them. A warm sigh heats my lips and the last of my nerves dissolve. We’re two people, two bodies giving and receiving equally.

His caress turns firmer, more focused. I mimic it. Because he’s taking pleasure in this, I can relax and do the same. His hips flex, stroking his cock against my belly and guiding my touch. His moans are deep and needy, and I let myself imagine the things that unnerve me. I picture how his face might look as someone violates him, eyes shut tight in the pleasure-pain of taboo, mouth open, brow drawn.

It’s not so wrong
, I think. Or maybe it
is
so wrong—so wrong it might be hot.

He stops us suddenly. I study his cock when he peels our sweat-sticky bodies apart, and it looks as hard and flushed as I’ve ever seen. His muscles clench as he twists behind to grab a bottle from the table. With its eyedropper he drips mineral oil onto my fingertips, then his. He’s lost his grace, setting the bottle down with a sharp knock and pulling me close, rougher than before.

“I want more,” he breathes. I’m unsure which he wants more of—touching me there or being touched, but I don’t care. I love when his civility cracks and I catch glimpses of the animal prowling underneath.

I wait for his lead. I feel embarrassed and intimidated by his slippery fingers, roaming in such a
personal
place. But only for a moment. I do the same to him and there’s no spotlight on me anymore. I’m not having things done
to
me. What we do, we do together. When I feel the pressure of his fingertip, I take as deep a breath as I can and give him the same.

I’m grateful my lover’s no roughneck with raspy palms or ragged nails. Didier’s calluses are small and few and peculiar from his watchmaker’s tools, but the pad of the finger seeking entrance is smooth, as dutifully manicured as every other bit of its polished owner.

He drives his thigh deeper between mine, opening us both a little wider. There’s cool air where there shouldn’t be, and a slick, demanding fingertip. But there’s also Didier, breathing heavily, moaning softly. He’s composed for all those other women, a master performer, but for me he’s just a horny, needy man. I flush at the notion, feeling drunk, and drive my own finger a bit deeper.

My breath catches when he starts to penetrate. It feels…strange. It doesn’t hurt, but it doesn’t feel good either. Just…bizarre. He doesn’t push in any farther but moves his fingertip gently with the tiniest of twists.

“How is it?” he whispers.

“Different.”

“It’s a better garnish than a main course, I find.”

“How does it feel to you?” I ask.

He smiles deeply and kisses me. “It feels wicked.”

We kiss more, heavy and hungry and thorough, and he’s right—when it’s not foremost on my mind, the things our fingers are up to aren’t nearly as unnerving.

After a few minutes of play he asks, “Ready?”

For what, I’m not clear. But I’ve learned that he often knows before I do what I’m ready for, so I murmur my consent.

He turns away, then hands me the bottle to hold while he grabs the two plugs from my pile. I watch as he oils the bulb of the small one, and I do the same to the larger copper one. He sets the oil aside and brings us back together in our tangle of legs.

The metal is cool between my cheeks, eerie in its perfect smoothness. I press when he presses and our breathing hitches together. Still no pain, just cold, hard, alien weirdness. He makes a sound, a sharp moan of surprise or discomfort.

“Okay?”

His sigh tells me I misread. “Yes. Keep going.”

He’s more relaxed than I am, and more aroused. With a final push, his body welcomes my intrusion.

“Good,” he murmurs. His hips begin to shift in small thrusts, rubbing his cock against my mound and belly, sliding the sphere at the plug’s base against my fingers. His reactions distract me, turn me on and take me out of my own body. With a sudden, subtle popping sensation, I accept his entrance.

“Ooh.”

His turn to ask, “Okay?”

“Yeah, I think so.” The anxiety of the penetration’s done and now it’s just a curious presence back there. I feel vaguely as though I need to use the bathroom, but I don’t share the thought.

“Now put it out of your mind,” he tells me. “I’ll show you how it’s meant to be enjoyed.”

He pulls away, coaxing me to lie on my back. With a hand towel, he wipes the oil from his fingers and passes it to me to do the same. Next he gives me the sleep mask. The satin blocks everything but the faintest corona of candlelight.

“Now hold out your wrists for me.”

I do as he says and more slippery silk glides across my skin.

“We’re only playing tonight,” he tells me. His voice sounds different somehow, with my eyes covered. Deeper. Closer. “I’m only tying this in a bow, so you’ll have no trouble freeing yourself if you wish to.”

I feel a tug as my wrists meet.

“Put your hands above your head and pretend I’ve tied them down.”

I do, my knuckles resting against the headboard. I fist a bit of the bedding to feel anchored.

For a long moment, there’s perfect stillness and silence. I know he’s there. I’d have felt him leave the bed.

“Didier?”

“I’m just looking at you.” I hear awe in his voice—reverence of the dirtiest sort. For a breath I tense, intimidated. Then his warm hands are on my ankles, calves, my knees, then spreading my thighs. Without sight, every sensation echoes.

“You look like a present,” he murmurs. “Wrapped up for me.” His palms slip beneath my butt and I feel his weigh shift on the bed. The forgotten plug asserts itself as he nudges my thighs wider. In the isolating dark, I feel his breath as starkly as I do his hands. It warms my sex in steaming bursts.

He makes a sound, a small grunt of decadent disbelief. My legs twitch at the first hot lap of his tongue, and when my inner muscles clench from the arousal they find the toy there, with its odd but admittedly exciting resistance. He kisses my clit just as he might my lips. Gentle, fluttery caresses to start, then more aggressive. He moans as he lowers his mouth to my folds. He loves doing this as I’d never guessed a man would, as though it’s his absolute favorite thing. Twice he’s begged for nothing but this—me on my back and he on his knees, his mouth between my legs, his weight braced on one forearm as he strokes himself into a frenzy with his free hand. For some men I imagine it’s a means to an end, an admission fee for access to the main event. For Didier it
is
the main event.

Suddenly he’s gone—cool, dry air where his warm mouth and hands had been. He doesn’t leave the bed, but there’s movement. He’s getting another toy, I think. The paddle? That scares me a little, not having a visual warning before it lands.

But then he’s between my legs again, and when his tongue laps my labia it’s
hot
. I gasp and his lips wrap my clit in the same heat. It fades soon enough, and in its wake my sensitive skin tingles.
Peppermint.
I shiver.

“Do that again.”

He makes a smug noise and I can picture his smile perfectly. “I’m going to set the mug on a book, beside us. So try not to thrash.”

More moving around then finally that scalding kiss again. Jesus, it feels good. A pause, another treat. My thighs tremble and I can feel an orgasm growing with every searing swipe of his tongue.

“You like that,” he whispers between sips.

I start to reach down to hold his head, but I’ve forgotten the scarves that bind my hands.

“No,” he tells me. I put them back down. I can hear the blessed impatience of arousal in his voice and the next time his mouth spoils me, the slick strokes come harder, faster. There’s a cruelty brewing in him, one I trust implicitly.

“You like that,” he tells me again, in a meaner voice than before. “I like that too.” More moving, then, “Tilt your head up.”

I do, and I feel the warm rim of the mug. He tips hot tea past my lips, a bit running down my chin. I hold the rest in, warming my mouth. The mug is gone, more movement, unseen body parts at my armpits. Knees, I imagine. When he speaks, his voice seems to come from high above.

“Open up.”

I swallow and do as he says. The crown of his cock feels cool against my hot lips and I can feel the groan as it vibrates down through his body. The headboard creaks under his braced weight, and he cradles my head in one hand, pushing inside.

“Oh. Good.”

He gives me more, though not too much. Not enough to gag me or obstruct my breath, but plenty to trigger a dark, exciting rush. I felt it a couple of weeks ago, when he pretended to force himself on me. It makes me wish my hands really were tied.

He draws his cock from my mouth, panting. “You’re hot for me elsewhere.”

“Yes.”

The warmth of his body leaves me, and I hear things being set aside and the crinkle of plastic. I picture how he rolls the condom down his cock. I’ve watched it dozens of times now and it never fails to thrill me. His hands on his own body in the candlelight… The very first night we met, he spoiled me with such a sight, the realization of years of theorizing.

More than anything else, I fantasize about men masturbating. It imprinted at first because it was safe, detached from me in every way. I could imagine watching any handsome man I wanted, aroused and aggressive, without ever painting myself into the scene. Until Didier, I’d never touched a cock, never seen a hard one in person, never smelled that curious smell. What he let me watch that night made every speculative show I’d ever entertained pale in comparison, and now it’s his hands, his cock, his excitement and no one else’s, branded forever onto the pleasure center of my brain.

His thighs spread mine, rougher than before. One hand clamps to my hipbone, the other guiding his erection—I feel his knuckles as his head sweeps along my lips. I’m wet from excitement, from his mouth and the tea, everything. My body welcomes him in a single deep push and a gasp flees from my lungs. As his length fills me, the plug makes itself known again. The weirdness of it has gone, and as he thrusts it massages something inside me, intensifying the pleasure of his driving cock. I wonder if he can feel it too.

“Do you wish you could see me?” he asks.

“Yes.”

“Do you wish you could touch yourself?”

Fuck yes.
I nod.