The first time I took her, she wore nothing. Whether by chance or intent, I stumbled upon the room where she stood nude, surrounded by bare floors and walls. Perhaps there wasn't even furniture. Without time to register what I saw, I can't say for sure. Without thinking, I was on her, in her, all gnashing teeth and claws, leaving my marks on her throat and breasts. Territorial, of course. There was a hammering in my chest, a feeling that this was wrong. I paused, long enough to decide if she was protesting or encouraging, and I can not recall what I decided. Only that when I was finished with her, neither of us remained asleep long enough to know if it was all a dream.
In my dreams she wears mini-skirts and thongs, thigh-high stockings and stilettos, blouses only half buttoned, hair falling down around her shoulders like molten gold, eyes burning into mine like sapphires. She all but commands me to take her, the very antithesis of that erotic innocence she wields like a dagger in the real world. She needs me here, buried up to my hips, thrashing, screaming, my name falling from her lips like a curse or an oath to some high god. And yet, even before the shudders have subsided she lies folded carefully in my arms, a precious thing that I would see the world burned to protect.
I recall the first night in clips and bits of sensation, all out of order. The feel of denim beneath us, the soft ground, the smell of fallen leaves, the way her throat tugged on me when she swallowed, the way her cries of pleasure were soft, but insistent, like spurs in my flanks. There was darkness.
Most of all, I remember the bruises I left. Biting and scratching until your back was a mass of blacks and blues, hues of yellow and purple and red, swolle welts scattered angrily about skin that was, just a few hours before, pure and white. I remember why that night taught me never to vent my fury with a lover, regardless of how much she deserved it.
I remember the couch, and how I wondered when I awoke if she was ever there at all or if my mind had somehow made a nightmare out of a blowjob.
In all my fond recollections of her, she always seems more skilled than anyone should be. Its romantic, in a way, how I forget the awkward change of position, the occasional, unintentional collision of heads, the sharp intake of breath when something became suddenly painful. Instead I recall fluid motion, the rocking of hips in steady circles, rising and falling down the length of me, the oddly attractive wet slap of flesh on flesh, the way my fingernails looked when they raked down her back and dug into her thighs. The way her lips tasted.
The taboo here is delicious, in a way. I find it exotic, somehow, like making love on bleached white sand without the risk of syphilis. She can never be the things I dream of her, and I would never ask those things, despite the often overwhelming desire. Instead, for once, I am content to push boundaries, to explore, to be patient. All things I thought unattainable. Attachment does strange things to a man.
The images of her are burned into my retinas like tattoos on the surface of my eyes. Lying naked, vulnerable, entirely at my mercy, flushed from the neck up with desire, fingers absently wandering over her breasts. I remember watching as my cum settled onto them and wondering if I would ever see something more unbearably pleasing. I remember the need that washed over me in the wake of another orgasm as it littered her back, her ass, her legs, as if even that part of me felt some intrinsic need to touch her everywhere at once. And suddenly I felt both supremely satisfied and insatiable at the same time. A paradox, if ever I have been one.
I am still sorry for all the times I pulled her hair. She claimed to like pain, and a man that young does not understand the finer points of sadism.
I clawed at her throat as if she were more enemy than lover. An idea that there is some degree of truth to, I think.
She left gouges in my back that bled like mortal wounds or the beginning of stigmata. I, in turn, left her. Not for the pain, which was dulled with the aftermath of coming, but for the simple, undeniable, disgust.
I would take her as if nothing in the world mattered, and when I was done, not even the world she knew would remain standing. I mean that not as boastful, wishful thinking, but as the word of a man who knows nothing of failure.
Erotically Yours,
-S.R.
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