His Inspiration

by Ava Lore

  I moved his trousers over his hips, taking the opportunity to finally run my hands over his ass, letting my fingers take an illicit squeeze before moving on. He wore boxers beneath his pants, and his erection was now full and hard, straining against the fabric. I swallowed, wanting to take it into my mouth, just to taste him. I wondered what he would taste like. Would his precum be sweet or salty? Would he leap and harden further in my mouth? Would he grab my hair, or let me lead him?

  I untied his fine leather shoes and helped him slip his feet from them before gently peeling his socks off. He had startlingly beautiful feet, I realized. Well formed, not hairy. Warm. Well taken care of. I let my fingers wander over his toes for just a moment before assisting him out of his other shoe and sock. Then I slipped his trousers from his legs and he stepped out of them, standing before me only in his underwear, his cock beneath his boxers hard and ready for me.

  I licked my lips and reached up, grabbing the waistband of his boxers and dragging them down his hips.

  His cock leaped out at me, proud and tall, long and thick, and I almost moaned at the sight, imagining it inside me. He was well-groomed down there, and I found myself smiling. The dark, clean smell of his skin hit me, and I leaned forward and buried my face in the soft flesh of his testicles, inhaling deeply. He smelled good, like soap and cock. I opened my mouth and took one ball past my lips, sucking on it gently, and above me he cried out, his strong, muscled legs trembling.

  I reveled in my power, nipping and licking his balls, feeling the weight of them on my tongue, but avoiding his cock even as it strained toward me, aching for my touch. He'd kept me away from him for quite long enough, I thought, he could stand a few moments of teasing. Payback is a delicious bitch goddess from hell, and she gives great head.

  His fingers wound through my hair, but he didn't try to guide me, only cradled my skull in his hands, as though he wanted to reassure himself that I was real. I smoothed my palms over his straining thighs, and then, finally, I sat up and licked the clear, gleaming jewel of precum from the head of his cock.

  "Oh," he said. "Sadie." And there was such wonder in his voice that I was afraid to look up into his face. What intensity of emotion would I see there? I wondered. And was I ready to confront it? Ready to accept it?

  I'm a coward. Instead, I opened my mouth wide, slid my tongue under the head of his cock, and forced myself to swallow all of him.

  God, he was huge. I felt the soft head of his shaft pulsing at the back of my throat even as I fought not to gag on it. He was long, and wide, and when at last my nose came to rest against the base of his penis I was trembling with the effort of it. I could only hold it for a moment before retreating, but it was enough for Malcolm, it seemed. When I reached the base of his cock, he groaned, his fingers tightening in my hair, his legs faltering, and when I drew back he did so as well, popping his thick cock out of my mouth quickly as though I had already overwhelmed him.

  Reaching down, he pulled me to my feet, his dark eyes burning, and then he put his arms around me and pulled me to him, skin to skin. His flesh burned against mine, his cock pressed into my belly, wet with saliva and so close to my aching entrance that I thought I would die if he didn't push his way inside me right now. I slid my hands over his hot body, feeling the quiver of his muscles and the sweet, tight tension inside him.

  This was going to happen. Like, really going to happen.

  His lips found my ear. “Let me fuck you,” he whispered gruffly. “Let me come in you. Nod if you consent.”

  I couldn't have shaken my head for the world. Mouth dry, pussy wet, I nodded and closed my eyes.

  Malcolm kissed my earlobe, then let his tongue gently tickle the inner folds of my ear, his breath hot and harsh inside my head. My skin dissolved into shivers as he gave my belly a nudge with his cock, clearly wanting to be inside me now, but under my hands I felt him trembling, holding himself back. He wanted to fuck me badly, but he wanted to do it properly.

  A hot kiss landed on the pulse point in my throat, where my jugular leaped with anticipation. Quickly, frantically, he placed burning kisses down my throat, drawing moans from my mouth as he reached up and cupped one breast in his hand before descending upon it and sucking my nipple into his hot, wet mouth. I cried out, holding on tight to him, as though I would fall apart at any moment and he was the only thing keeping me together. "Malcolm," I moaned as he nipped and nibbled at me.

  He made an indistinct grunt of pure desire before dragging his fingers over the flesh of my back, massaging the muscles there and releasing the tension imprisoned in them. I cried out and quaked as his hands found my ass, squeezing and massaging, molding them together and pulling them apart. My quivering pussy lips opened and closed, and I ached deep inside, needing the pressure of his cock.

  Then he broke away and twined his fingers with mine again, leading me over to the pile of clay beneath the wet towels that kept it pliable. Turning me to face him, he lifted me up onto the clay as easily as though I were a child, and I suddenly realized what he meant to do. He meant to fuck on the clay.

  Clay as a medium is alive. Every push, every pull of it is recorded within the clay. A true record of the artist. And we were going to fuck on it. Whatever we did would be recorded forever on its surface.

  The thought inflamed me and I opened my legs wide. Malcolm reached between them and ran his long finger over my slit, probing my wet, slick entrance. Then he reached around me and laid me back, gently letting me splay out across the clay. The warm air of the room caressed me, the warm damp towels beneath me were delightful, as though I were at a spa, about to be pushed and kneaded into bliss. And I was, I realized. Malcolm bent his sandy head to my pussy and gave me a lick and a kiss, as though saying hello to an old friend, then slid his hands over the backs of my thighs and lifted my legs into the air.

  "Are you ready, Sadie?" he asked. "Nod if yes."

  I nodded vigorously. I ached and quivered, needing him. It was almost surreal in that moment, knowing that I was going to get what I knew I had wanted from that first moment our eyes met across a crowded room. So corny. But true.

  I closed my eyes and bit my lip as I felt him move between my legs. The soft, wet head of his cock slotted against my entrance, as though it were made for me, and then, slowly, he entered me.

  It was bliss.

  I cried out as he did it, my body curling and twisting, and I had to force myself to hold still, to relax and take the full girth and length of him. Three times he had to pause and pull back before gently pushing forward again, filling me up slowly, letting me become adjusted to his invasion. I wanted him to fuck me fast and hard, but I also didn't want this moment to end. I wanted him to enter me for the first time forever. I felt him inside me, and nothing else was real. In, out. In further, out. In, out, slow, steady, until at last I finally felt his pelvis run up against my soaked pussy lips and he was buried inside me.

  For a long moment, we stayed that way, trembling with the sensation of each other. I was full to the brim, his thick, long cock brushing against something inside me I'd never felt before. It felt strange, but also delicious. I didn't want to move, because I knew if I moved we would fuck, and I knew that when we started, we would eventually stop.

  But I wanted him inside me always. I wanted this feeling, this fullness. I needed it. I hadn't known I'd needed it until this moment.

  At last I moaned and twisted, impaled on his body, my hands reaching up to my hair, tangling in it as I tried to comprehend the fullness of him.

  "Ah, Sadie," he whispered. "I love to see you writhe and thrash. Let me make you scream."

  "Yes," I begged back.

  It was a surprise this time, when he flicked my nipple with his finger, but the pain and pleasure speared through me and I shrieked, my hips thrusting into him, and then he pulled out and pushed in, and we were fucking like animals.

  His hips pounded into mine, small grunts escaping the back of his throat as he fucked me, and I was helpless under his ass
ault. I moaned and writhed, my hands scrabbling for purchase on the clay, the towels slipping and sliding under me. I reached back and tried to dig in, feeling the clay give way under my grip as he plunged his cock deep inside me. Each time he bottomed out inside me the tip of his cock brushed over that sweet little spot that I hadn't even known existed and I shrieked. My head tossed as his fingers dug into my hips, my back arched. Beneath me the clay became more volatile, moving and slippery, like mud.

  Then, reaching down, Malcolm began to rip away the towels, exposing the warm clay to the air, and I reached out and dug my fingers into it, feeling it cake beneath my fingernails as I held on for dear life while his thrusts became wild and uncontrolled.

  "Fuck, Sadie," he grunted. "You feel too good."

  I wanted to tell him there was no such thing, but I felt the same way. He was too good, frighteningly so. Humans weren't meant to feel this way, I thought, the part of me that hid under all my brashness, my crudities, my artistic flairs whispering its insecurities in my ear. Something this good can't last. Something this wonderful is not meant for you.

  I bit my lip as Malcolm abruptly pulled out, and I felt the loss of him inside me so sharply I almost screamed No, but I didn't. He didn't want me speaking. I wanted to give him what he wanted. Everything he did to me was exactly what I needed, even though I hadn't known what it was.

  Tugging on my hips, he pulled me from the block of clay and removed the last of the towels before assisting me back onto it, on my hands and knees. His hands were large and warm on my skin, and as he took up his position behind me I braced myself. The clay moved under me. It resisted, but it moved.

  Oh, I thought.

  His cock found my pussy and slid inside again, an easy entrance this time. His hips picked up a quick, sharp pace, and I cried out, my limbs suddenly trembling with the effort of staying upright on the slick clay. Streaks of red earth traced paths over my skin when I slipped and fell, scraping my elbows and arms over the clay, but Malcolm didn't let up. Within minutes we had worn a groove into the sculpture with the force of our fucking and my arms and hands were caked with clay.

  Sliding out again, he helped me down. My pussy pounded with my heartbeat and I felt the sweet beginnings of a powerful orgasm building in my belly. God, he was beautiful, I realized as I stood and watched him climb onto the clay himself, settling down on his back, his cock, slick with the juices of my cunt, jutting proudly in the air. He looked like one of those Greek statues, well balanced, perfectly proportioned, ready to leap into battle, throw a javelin, triumph over Persians or whatever, I didn't care and I could barely think as he extended one hand toward me, his beautiful dark eyes smiling, burning into my skin, his fingers awaiting my own.

  I put my hand in his, and he helped me up onto the clay, bracing me as I swung a leg over his hips and stared down at him, stunning and mysterious, flawless and obscured. He was a work of art, too, I realized. Very much so. We were two very different kinds of art, mating and making a third. A sacred coupling, a symbolic procreation. My heart hurt for some reason, thinking of the clay beneath us as the product of our union. Had he thought through those implications, or was he only pursuing me in his own roundabout way, unsure how to deal with the things I inspired in him, putting a layer between us as he tried to connect with me?

  His hands gripped my hips and guided me over his cock. Slowly I slid down onto his erection, panting and trembling as he filled me again. When at last we were flush with each other, he reached up and smoothed his hands over my ribs, trailing his fingertips up my spine. He lingered on the ink in my flesh, sending shivers out over my body, but he didn't seem to be startled by the scars I had hidden well with my designs, and he certainly didn't remark upon them. He was a gentleman like that.

  Streaks of red clay traced across both of us now, and I felt tiny balls of it rolling between his skin and mine where he touched me. The smell of wet, sweet earth and fucking surrounded us.

  I licked my lips, waiting for him to instruct me.

  "Sadie," he said at last. "Ride me until you come."

  He didn't have to tell me twice. Bracing myself on his shoulders, I angled my pussy over his cock and began to ride him. Under me, he arched and thrust in time, a perfect partner in our dance. His legs rose up, pushed down, and beneath us the clay began to give way, molding around us as we fucked.

  His hands were everywhere on me as I rode him, squeezing my ass, cupping my breasts, scratching down my arms until abruptly he took over again, turning me under him, but by now the clay beneath us had been fucked away into a new form, and we twisted and braced against it, our hands scrabbling for purchase as I moaned and he plunged into me over and over, driving me relentlessly toward the release I needed. I didn't know what to do, my toes curling, my body winding up into a ball of pure need. His cock in my cunt pounded out a raw, primal rhythm, but his body as it arched over me, thrust into me, was poetic, classical. His muscles quivered under his skin and I ran my hands over them, feeling them bunch and pull, shift and slip. My core tightened, drew in, and I bore down on him, straining and reaching for my orgasm as the wet clay slipped and slid beneath my back. I groaned, pushing back, clinging, aching.

  "Come, Sadie," Malcolm whispered to me. "Come and take me with you."

  I cried out, my eyes flying open. I saw everything so clearly—his sweat-sheened face, his hard, pumping body, the play of light and shadow on the ceiling, the bright streaks of earthy red slathered over our skin like war paint. The sea wind rattled against the windows, his flesh slapped against mine, his breath grunted in his throat as he fucked me, and his eyes...

  His eyes were dark and vulnerable and so achingly needy that I had to look away. When I did, he bent his head to my throat, opened his lips against the flesh there, and sucked my pulse into his mouth.

  I came.

  I felt as though my body sucked him inside, bearing down so hard I was afraid I would hurt him, but instead of pain he grunted in surprise and pleasure, and then his hips stuttered in their rhythm, bucking wild, and deep inside my core gushed hot spurts of his seed, pushing into me, his seal, his brand, his mark, his signature on me, making me his. I came silently as he pumped into me, my mouth an open sob of pleasure, and this time instead of breaking apart I felt as though he were putting me back together, his arms and legs curling around me as we orgasmed together, and together we slid down the mound of clay and he strove to wrap me up inside his body, even as my legs hugged his waist. His face was still buried in my throat, his breathing ragged and harsh on my skin, and I reveled in the feel of it dragging over my flesh.

  At last he pulled away, but he only pulled back far enough to rest his forehead against mine. We still breathed in time with each other, our hearts in sync, and I closed my eyes, still trembling around his softening cock.

  "Sadie..." His voice startled me in the quiet room, and I opened my eyes again to see him looking at me. Leaning in, he kissed me, lightly, then pulled away again. "Thank you," he said.

  "Oh," I told him. "Don't mention it. Any time."

  He threw his head back and laughed at that before pulling me close again and covering me in kisses, and I wrapped my arms tight around him and reveled in it.

  *

  We were a mess, covered in red clay and sweat and pussy juice and cum. Malcolm led me to the bathroom next to the studio room, and together we took a long, luxurious shower. He soaped me up, his hands smoothing over my skin as he gently cleaned me, and the water ran dark with clay as it sloughed from our skin. His fingers found my sore pussy lips and soothed them gently, stoking the fire inside me that burned for him until it was blazing once again.

  I couldn't get enough of him. I hungered, dark and deep, for him to fill me up. I certainly didn't love him. I'd only known him for four days. But I wanted to love him. I wanted to fall in love with him. I hadn't fallen in love with anyone in years. And Malcolm... he was so promising. I almost believed he might love me back.

  At the very least, however, he made my
body sing, and I made him laugh. It was enough for now. When at last he turned the water off, his cock was hard as a diamond again, and he led me out of the bathroom, dried me in a towel as though I were a child, then scooped me up and carried me into the master bedroom. It was white walls and splashes of blue and dark wood floor, but I really couldn't be bothered to note it all as he tossed me down onto the down-filled comforter and slid my legs open, his eager mouth descending on my quivering pussy until I begged him to fuck me, which he did. The chill of the winter outside had crept in through the windows of the bedroom, and together we snuggled down and screwed, our muffled moans a soft duet beneath the covers.

  I don't know how many times I came, or how many times he came, only that eventually I fell asleep, cradled against him, my thighs slick with our coupling. The last thing I thought of was how much I wanted to bang him on the terrace outside of the living room, and then I passed out.

  *

  Sex is a powerful drug. I slept hard and soundly until the sky was darkening with the coming evening, and when I awoke I found myself reaching for my bedside table again. This time, however, I remembered where I was and turned over.

  Malcolm was still wiped out. He slept like a baby, deep and serene, and when I realized I was watching him sleep I had to shake myself out of it. What was I, some mooning teenager? Slipping out of bed, I peeked in the closet and found a huge fluffy white robe. Wrapping it around myself, I padded back down the hallway to the main part of the house. I didn't look at our work of art. I wanted to imagine it a little while longer.

  Stepping into the dining room, I winced as my stomach rumbled. I hadn't had anything to eat in... forever, it seemed. I moved to the refrigerator and opened it, but was disappointed to find only a few fine bottles of white wine.

  Well, I thought, it's probably after five, right? I drew one out, located a corkscrew in the drawers, and opened it. The tang of alcohol tickled my nose and made my mouth water. I smiled as I pulled down a glass from one of the cabinets. I was pretty sure Europe was all about the wine, so when in Dubrovnik, do as... well, whatever. I was going to be in big trouble with just wine in my stomach, but I couldn't really bring myself to care. I poured a glass and moved to the windows, staring out at the quiet city and the iron-gray winter sea. I sipped wine, then gulped it. I've never been known for my moderation. I poured another glass and started on that one.