black night
Can I pick you up at your hotel?, he asked me, and I said yes under my breath from a payphone somewhere in the city, my feet cold and damp inside the wrong shoes, and he said where are you staying and I meant to say paradise, but I give him coordinates and we hang up after I say around eight. I walk by walls the rest of the afternoon, not sure if they are really made of concrete, the top of my thighs warm against the fabric, and it is not until they burn that I realize I am running and people are looking, and I just throw myself into the first alley I see and rest my forehead against the bricks, smelling the piss and the grease, and take deep breaths to clear my head, and I vomit a couple of times and wipe saliva from my chin with my gloves, the ones I bought in London before almost getting killed on Portobello Road. I walk back to the hotel humming a song in my head, my lips tight against muffled sounds.
He is taller than I imagined after eight thirteen, but not so tall as to intimidate me. He kisses my cheek and I can smell cigarettes and cologne, and my thighs quiver instantly when I imagine his rough chin between them. His hand is gentle on my back as he guides me into the street, and I wonder what those fingers can do around my clit. My lips part and he notices. He smiles under his hat and looks for my eyes, and for some seconds we just look at each other while taxis fly by and snow falls. The city is black and yellow and the cold washes down my body from the opening on my collar. He wraps my scarf closer to my neck and holds my chin with a leather covered hand, raising my face to his, analyzing his purchase. I lick my lips unconsciously and he smiles again. You are prettier than in the pictures, he says, and lets go of my chin. I thank him under my breath, my legs struggling to move as he directs me to the curb and waves for a cab. We make our way to wherever in silence, his hand posited on my knee, my eyes caressing the buildings, and the driver tries to start a conversation or two but he is unreachable and I am mute. I open my own door when we get to wherever and light a cigarette as I wait for him on the sidewalk. He takes the cigarette from my lips and throws it on the floor, and as he steps on it he mutters we can smoke inside. I thought these did not exist anymore, I whisper, and he is puzzled. Smoking bars, I say, my hands cold. He does not say this is not a bar; he just holds me by my arm and leads me towards the building, and I let him take me like a lifeless doll. I don’t think I know the language he used to get the doors to open.
An art nouveau entrance hall, a red, worn out carpet under a round coffee table surrounded by couches, old, golden light fixtures, tarnished mirrors on the walls reflecting a yellowish wallpaper, empty glasses, fake plastic flowers, yellow lights, the smell of cigars, a door that opens, a red room. He presses me against the wall and kisses me, and we still have our coats on and his hat falls as his lips lower to my neck. I close my eyes and let him taste my perfume, while his hands fumble with my overcoat. He squeezes my left breast with a heavy hand and I groan, and he finds my lips with his and sucks my saliva into his mouth. I wrap my lips around his tongue and flicker the tip of it with the tip of mine, and he pushes his cock into my stomach and moans stifled into my mouth. My hands touch the wall behind me and I spread my fingers like roots. He takes my left hand and puts it over his cock, and grunt something like look how hard I am already. I trace his erection from over the fabric of his pants, measuring length and girth, and when I run my palm along his shaft he bites my lips voluntarily. He pulls me into a deeper kiss and then pushes me against the wall as if I had fire branded him, his hand on my shoulder, and reaches for my cunt. His middle finger presses down on my clit until it hurts, and I let out a muffled plea. Are you wet?, he asks me. My head shake but my eyes do not leave his. He turns his back at me and walks into the room, and for the first time since we got here I realize there are people around. And a stage. And a band. He sits on a corner table and I follow him, and for the longest of times I just mimic him in whatever he does, and I talk about movies and listen to jazz and taste the wine and I eat the food like he tells me to, all the time my legs crossing and my clit pulsating between folds, and eventually I squeeze it between my legs praying that he is not noticing. More than once he tells me to stop. The jazz become intoxicating after some time, and I start fidgeting in my chair while he is talking to someone who had recognized him. When he turns his eyes back at me I wipe my lips clean of wine and tell him, softly, I want to suck your cock now. His eyes grow wider. He slowly pulls the napkin from his lap and places it on the table next to his plate. I do the same. He clearly has a hard on when he stands up, and I don’t quite know what to do with my purse, so I just take it with me and follow him towards the back of the bar and down the stairs. My heels land in each step with uneven clicks because my legs are shaking too much. He makes a sharp turn and pulls me towards his body, leaning against a wall next to a pay phone. It is dark, but I can see his buckle reflecting light waves as he pulls it open, already reaching for my hand. When he presses my palm against his cock I am startled because I find skin when I was still expecting fabric. He is hard, fat, and I wrap my fingers around it and start caressing him, his hands driving my mouth into his. We kiss deeper as my fingers brush against the swollen head, and he grabs my ass with one hand while the other covers my breast, and right then he is thirteen and I am older and he is just a boy with a huge cock and an ancient urge. I cup his balls and let his cock rest along the length of my forearm, and when I run my nails along it he pinches my nipple hard and I moan.
Fuck, you are hot, he says, kissing me quickly and turning me around, and my face is pressed against the wall and his cock is pressed against my ass, and I can smell cigarettes and dust and old, stale wallpaper. His fingers find their way inside my pants and over my mound, and when he brushes two of them across my clit the only thing that prevents me from screaming is his hand covering my mouth. You like that, don’t you, whore? rings on my ear, as he rubs his cock on my ass and enters me with two digits, his palm pressed against my clit. I feel tension building with every thrust of his hip making my clit rub against his hand. You. Are. A. Fucking. Hot. Whore. With every word he shoves his dick against me harder and harder, and I cum sharply with his mouth covering my neck, my teeth sunk into his palm. He waits for my body to stop shaking before he turns me around and put two wet fingers inside my mouth, and says suck them, and I do, and I taste myself with my tongue and he just watches as I make a show out of it. He pushes me down with both hands firmly pressed on my shoulders until my eyes level with his cock, and there is no room for me to kneel, there is barely room for me to squat between him and the wall, but my tongue darts for the head before I can even think. I take him into my mouth as further as it can go and I can feel him touching the back of my throat; I stay like that for some time, eyes tearing up, until I can no longer breathe and need air more than I need his cock inside my mouth, and when I pull my head back I leave a trail of saliva that lingers in midair like loose spider webs.
Suck it, he said. Suck it because you said you wanted to. Suck my cock, I want to watch you sucking it. I rest my back on the wall and lick the base of his cock while my hands raise slowly to hold it between my fingers, and his skin is silky and slippery from my spit when I run my fingers to the tip of his head and back. He touches my hair but says nothing. I feel his pubic hair tickling my chin and I smile, and he smiles and grunts when I take just his head between my lips, the tip of my tongue drawing spirals on the sensitive skin, exploring the gap from where precum starts to ooze. Suck it, he says, and I do, hard, feeling the bumps of his veins brushing against my tongue, the soft steel of his cock forcing my lips open. I touch his ass and pull him further into my mouth, and he hisses and says something but I am too busy listening to my own blood rushing through my skull to hear him. He tastes of salt and long lost lands, and I visit my own forefathers with his cock between my lips. Masturbate me, he says, while you suck it, masturbate me. I do, but I fumble, so he takes his cock from my hands and starts to rub the skin up and down, never for a second his eyes leaving my face, never for a second my eyes leaving the dark, glistering skin of his shaft. Open your mouth, he orders, and as I do he stills his cock, head firmly pressed against my tongue, and he shoots sperm over my lips with almost imperceptible hip thrusts. I touch his thighs to steady him, feeling his muscles contracting under my digits, his eyelids closed and lips parted in an oval shape. He cums in my mouth without muttering a word, one hand firmly grasping the base of his cock while the other supports his weight against the wall with spread fingers. When he is done spurting liquid, he rests his forehead on his arm and looks down at me, tracing my cum covered lips with the tip of his head. He doesn’t have to ask; I lick it clean with my tongue, his juices disappearing in the back of my throat. He shudders once or twice as my lips involve his cock and I suck it gently, fingers skillfully caressing his balls. He goes limp in my mouth after some time, and only then he straightens up and pulls his cock inside his pants. I am still on my knees when he zips up, feeling my legs too numb to stand up. His arms pull me up and deposit me against the wall, limp as his dick. My crotch is damp when he touches it, but my hand covers his before he can move. I am fine, I say. Just give me a minute. He stills and looks into my eyes. His shoulders shake. Whatever you say, he mutters, pulling away from me. I look up at the lights hanging from the ceiling and shift from one foot to another, feeling my labia leathered in juice rubbing against each other. My eyes find me in a mirror across the hall, and I fix my hair the best I can with shaky fingers. My make-up is ruined, though, because streams of his cum had left marks on my face that, I know, will still be there long after I wash them off.
December 2012