by Jane Brooke
I feel like a fucking mime, unable to do anything but gawk at him.
His thick African lips move, part just a little as he shoots me a small smile as it replaces his hard stare at me. I see sweat covering his midnight body, shaved head, African tribal scars are on his cheeks.
There is nothing sexy about that. More lies as he tilts his head at me, nods behind himself to his loft. He smiles, furrows his eyebrows in a little gesture of.
“Well, what in the fuck are you waiting for?”
Dizzy me, dreamy me, I see a smile, paper white teeth. I melt. He tilts his head behind him again. Like some kina trained chimp I point at myself and mouth. “Who me?”
He smiles nods that I am correct.
I groan and wish the rest of me wasn’t semi paralyzed like my stupid, stupid, stupid brain was.
How fucking old am I anyways?
Behind him he glances at what ever he was chipping rock off on the pedestal which is now covered with shadows and candle light. Looks back at me, smiles, clicks his head, points down stairs.
I point at my fucked up ankle, he gets it. I nod like a dumb donkey, smile and struggle to stand. I nod to him that it would take another 9-11 to keep me from coming, hope he knows girl Morse code.
You know. Jane’s secret code.
ME...WANT YOU...NOW...RIGHT NOW.
He smiles, indicates that he will meet me down stairs. I nod, like in rote, head spinning, turn, hobble across my loft. I throw on some gym socks, my heavy work boots.
Scooting to my stairs, I hop like a rabbit on one foot downstairs lickety split. Clearly manic, I am sure that today is not my birthday.
I don’t move fast, but I’m out the door and there he is.
Towering above me, semi-smiling, serious look in those jet eyes and with out a word, he sweeps me up in his arms, those corded copper wrapped cable arms supporting that is the spinet I am.
With my arms wrapped around his neck, holding on for dear life, he smells like Jasmine, he moves, panther like across the alley through the rain; through his iron security door he goes.
“CLANG.”
Up the stairs we go, my cheek pressed against his shaved head.
Once inside, I gasp, for the place is eclectically stunning, bare, basic and primal like him. There are slabs of iron, rock, welding torches and such everywhere. He’s a fucking artist, no doubt, the stuff is remarkable. He’s remarkable. I’m feeling loopy again, god his scent is savage. He then gently sets me on my boots, holding my non waist in his large, aquiline hands, making sure I don’t flop on my face as he does. Every part of my body aches from all the beating I have gotten over the past few days,
I love unabashedly and secretly love it.
Take inventory, showers, shaved my legs and arm pits, thank god I did that. He just stares at me, his breathing coming heavy now, his pink tongue touching guava lips.
He whispers to me in this ungodly accent. “Are you Ok Jane?
Sure, yes, positive, thanks for the lift, what we gonna do now darling?
I do not say.
So amped, I can barely speak, I whisper back at him through lip trembles. “Yes, I’m just fine, having a great time. Thank you.
I’m an idiot.
He gets a look on his face, like you know. I’m something deliriously desirous to him. While he scrutinizing me, I’m mentally checking the theater program, back to cover. I’m sure he’s got the wrong actress for what ever play he thought he was going to produce for the evening.
Swaying before him, I never felt so fragile, so miniature in body scope. His sculptures power is simply exuding out of him. His babe shoulders are so broad, thin and muscled, I can see every sinew in them, rumbling, twitching in unison along his torso.
Geese, I like the new me, the feminine and fragile me.
Without asking, he leans in, wraps his arms around me, nothing of a girl, draws me in. I feel like I am encased in annealed drying steel. I am wearing my white hoodie and am glad I wore white tights.
It feels to me like my wedding night.
Shelve those thoughts for I am pumping sweat and sex toxins. And, then he kisses me, not once, not short, but a long, long time, no tongue, but with those ungodly beautiful lips pressed against my own.
Glad he’s not politically correct, one of those permission guys, for his hands are now on my tiny rump, which he squeezes. Though his embrace is gentle, it’s strong, and I feel many joints, muscles and bones hurting. What an amazing hurt it is. I’ve always loved pain, a little secret of mine. I think I mention that before.
Then the kisses break and inches away from his face, I see him up close and personal, and I swallow. The look in his eyes is intense, manic, as well. My wet cunt is leaking, which is pressing against his filthy work man overalls and that muscled bod, against my bod. The look in his eyes, well crickey; he looks like a predator black ocelot with one thing on its mind.
ME, I internally gasp.
Tiny tremors, shock waves are squirreling everywhere, mind, blood, veins and cunt.
I think I am orgasmic, or something very close to that. It’s been a long fucking time for this gal, or ever for a matter of fact. You know, incapable of commitment, love, wish for something, it comes true. That never happens to me mostly because until the moment, I have never allowed it too.
Can’t help myself, old habits die hard, smut thoughts, hope what ever the fuck he’s going to do, he doesn’t forget that chisel.
I giggle, sense of humor between the brain hemorrhaging, still intact.
My breathing is static, my cunt doing something, probably drowning by its own accord.
Then, oh my, here comes the melting, as he kisses me gently. I swoon like a southern bell. He lifts me like a white flake of snow, turns and carries me across the loft to where his bed is struck within the wooden planks of the floor.
Gently, he layers me like a shaking dollop of white Jell-O across the black cotton sheets of his bed. I want to be obedient.
Good girls do that, don’t they?
OH REALLY?
Am I good girl, I do not know as I cross my arms on my pre pubescent breasts, and simply stare at him staring at me.
He is a quite tall, muscle on muscle man, so powerful, I like that. Yet, still I hope he can’t hear my cunt murmuring, my breath swelling each time my stomach seemingly presses against my back bone. I am so constructed of nothing but bone, skin and muscle, and what about the cuts, bruises all over my torso. I close my eyes and feel like Frankenstein, sans bolts in the neck.
I just can’t go there.
He is wearing those damn over alls, I like those. Internally, I am weeping secret time and praying, no god, not that mumbo-jumbo so late in the game.
I am hoping that besides a bare chest, well, I hope the rest of him is naked, this carved man seemingly cut out of a slab-of-black obsidian.
It is, so beautiful the way he looks at me.
He’s not an impatient kind a Zeus like guy, as he bends to my work boots. He slowly unties them, and disregarding my wincing in pain, pulls them off of me.
I groan, my gym socks are yesterdays. I am such a thug. Off come my socks.
For a few moments he simply stares at me scared and glass cut feet. He touches my swollen, black, blue ankle, lays his long, black fingers on it. He closes his eyes, opens them, smiles at me. I smile back.
I’m being good. I like that.
My feet are tiny for such a tall girl and I wince in pain, lovely pain from him holding them. He doesn’t seem to mind my tiny winces of hurt.
I love him for that.
There is no pity in his eyes, just passion and, then he stares at my face as I look at his facial tribal scars. I’ve got them too.
He gets it, reaches out, touches’ my bruises. He seems to be purring like a p
anther. Me too.
Purr, purr, purr, puurr-fect.
He parts his lips, pink tongue wetting them.
Fuck are you kidding me?
Taking my feet in his elegant fingers, he closes his eyes and presses them against his sky high cheekbones. He simply grows more silent, if that is at all possible.
A foot fetish, I can go there.
Whatever he’s doing, internally I don’t want him to stop.
OK.
Clearly manic, I again go through a litany of girl cosmetic stuff I did or did not remember to do.
Atom bombed every blond hair off my body below my eyelashes. Good.
Cleaned the special place, little used, no tattoos, already resisted that urge. Arm pits, legs shaved, no eyebrows really, I am a fare blond. Brushed my teethums earlier, hands covered in bruises, bloody scabs on my knuckles, beat down with Eddie, used deodorant, that’s good.
Every time I look at him, my breath grows heavier, my cunt grows wetter. I hope he can’t feel my body vibrating for I am terrified of the look on his face once he strips me naked.
Are you kidding, who am I? Or who am I for the moment?
These thought erupt in flames and blasts in questions through my bent head.
I’m wondering if he likes them thin, seems so. I haven’t had a decent meal since my girl died.
Maybe the dead kid created a road map of my transformation from a beauty queen and a drama queen, to something a little more real.
Feet time over, he lowers them to the black cotton sheets.
Reaching forward, he kisses me gently on the lips.
He smells like a working man, pungent, beautiful as a drop of sweat from his high forehead falls onto my lips. I moan.
It is salt, the mother element of the earth much like him. I imagine his cum if he were to give me that gift must taste similar. I still am in turmoil at what exactly o and what is going down here, but can’t wait for it to do so.
Slowly, he pulls my white tights down and down and, then strips them off my pallid skin. I wince in pain.
He smiles, as I clinch my eyes shut, embarrassed, for I am nude now, hip bones trying to break out of my skin. My pink cunt is exposed, ribs struck evident as if they were bleached by desert time, just skin cut across them.
My tiny tummy is hitting my backbone as it rises and falls. My mind is going haywire, my body pulsating and sparking as if a fallen power line.
Wincing, I am wondering about the scars on my face, hands, body cuts and welt’s everywhere.
I am vanity sure and pure and what about those purple etches on my body?
I almost weep in shame, for I feel so fucking self centered and vain.
I didn’t ask for this. Or, did I?
I have to check my Astrology chart later, call Madam Bingo and get my cards read. I’m usually a ball breaking Arises, but not now, not here.
I know I’m no physicist, but my eyeballs feel like a neutron beam and my brain like an atom is being spilt, as he, like an orthopedic surgeon slips my Hoodie off.
I wince in pain, feel alive as he smiles as shy me lays back onto the black sheets naked.
I groan from the delight of the pain. Somehow he seems mesmerized in his artists mind as he focuses on my naked child’s body.
It’s as if he is creating images, lines and perimeters of something he might soon create from his gifted imagination. In my girl mind I certainly hope so, as I again think of that chisel. I almost giggle, but don’t.
I have full lips, white teeth, a sharp nose, yet small, wide set blue eyes and they are frozen in fear. I have never, ever felt like this.
You know, just give it up and for the first time let someone else do all the heavy lifting. I like it. Let’s see where this goes, even though I have a good idea where it is going.
The WHY, well we’ll figure out that later.
Black fingers, he moves them from my lips, down my no breasts, along my tummy and, then the journey begins.
His head tilts, his forehead crinkles as he stares at my whiteness, bruises, cuts and the color indigo, magenta cat gut too. There’s that cold blue color again.
His fingers touch my lips, my quivering chin, trail down, dancing past my erect nipples, tummy and my jutting hip bones. They make a landing, you know where.
Oh fuck, what was that fissure in my cunt?
He felt it I’m certain as his eyes lift, their black, like a coal mine fire. He stares at me, smiles and stands, eyes riveted on me.
Oh goody goody, it looks like something remarkable is about to begin.
He seems to hold no doubt in his mind of what he is about to do. I like that, a gentle, take charge, talented, drop dead sex encased beautiful artist. A man in every sense of the word who seems to know what he wants and I just can’t shake the thought.
Why me?
I’m sure his thoughts are filled with something better than my own, or is this a mercy fuck?
Am I being punked?
I can just see it now, TV cameras suddenly appearing and some director yelling. “CUT.”
The MTV set howling at home.
Nope, it’s just real.
Anyhoooo, my body lays there as a line of white powder, one that a breath of wind could scatter. His eyes haven’t left my body yet, and I am positive that I have just seen a tear fall down his cheeks. I want to weep, seeing it. I don’t. Not just yet anyways.
Oh my gosh.
His overalls free fall down his muscled bod, puddle around his bare feet. I gasp and cringe and gasp again seeing him nude, exposed.
OMG, his cock is huge and beautiful.
Black, curved, jagged keloid scars, winding snakes of something horrible that had happened to him, darker than his skin cover his huge chest, ribs and ridged stomach. He sees that I see them and yet he says nothing, just smiles at me, which incinerated my heart with sadness.
Turning, he moves to a small table where a pack of cigarettes are struck on it.
Taking one, he flicks a Zippo, ignites it, inhales and allows the smoke to curl from his sharp nose. I gasp even more, for the same scars are everywhere on his back.
It is as if he were lashed as the bigots and racists had done to the Africans a century ago along the great slave plantations of N. Carolina, Georgia and old Mississippi.
He just stands there looking at me through a plume of smoke.
We are communicating, brazen eyes, minds locked on minds and, then a clip of a smile breaks his lips. He knows and I know we are similar, head liners in some galactic freak show.
That we are odd periodic human beings and, then I can not help my self, I glance below his waist at his cock again.
Are you fucking kidding me?
I swallow my breath back past my quivering lips. It is black, huge mind you. I am not complaining.
I can see the veins bulging along it and think of Subway and those foot long thingys they sell there, tee-hee. I stare as it melds into his long legs, flat tummy above it.
It is all quite gorgeous, thank you.
He sees that I see the liquid spilling down my inner thighs. I gulp again. He holds no shame as he moves to the side of the bed and sits. His sculptor callused hand are lying on my swelling tummy, me staring at his growing dick like it’s an oxygen tank and I am deprived of air.
With out asking, he tilts the smoke to my lips, which I accept.
Having seen far too many French Bardot, Denuve and Belmondo flicks, where they smoke while they eat, fuck, swim I am right there. I am such a hopeless romantic and I am hoping that this film never ends.
I inhale and find the feeling of the haze lovely in my mouth, my lungs. He smokes more, looks at the tip of the burning ember, inhales once more. I take a drag too. He smiles and flicks the cigarette across the loft, not
caring where it comes to rest. I can barely control my teeth from chattering. I am so stoned crazy excited, wowed by everything that he is.
I peek at his dick, he notices, smiles. I can’t help myself. I blush, he notices, take’s my hand, presses my thin white fingers around his cock.
COME ON, REALLY?
My vagina is drenched, he smiles. Christ I have to blink for the heat from his dick is savage, hard and so sexual. I can barely get my fist around it or my mind for that matter. I want it between my lips and, then he moans. He closes his eyes, opens them and stares at me, which crushes me to whispers.
“ooooooooh.”
Never have I seen anything so sexual, so erotic and so beautiful. He leans over to a small end table, opens a drawer and grabs a little jar of Japanese aloe. I saw it written there right on the label; won’t need it though, well maybe. He smiles at me. I blush. My eyes go rigid as he smiles and graces my lips with his cock.
Huuum. Maybe that aloe isn’t that bad of an idea after all?
He presses his dick harder against my wet fingers. I can barely breathe, for I am stoned with excitement. I am wondering how that dick will break apart my aching body and my small torso. Normally, no probIema, but I am aching big time at the moment.
I am saying my prayers and hoping that maybe he will vaporize my usual recent denial attitude from its pinions.
Fuck, I don’t care, for once he does what ever he is going to do with me, once he decides to do it, let’s begin, I almost verbally beg.
Unable to prevent my self from doing it, one hand holding on for dear life to his cock, I reach up, trail my finger along his chest scars. He winces, not from pain, but from some distant memory he remembers in his artistic past.
Moments move, it is warm in his loft. We are warm, naked and nude as the rain pounds his skylights and lightning cracks in the sky.
His eyes open. Leaning in, he kisses me, which I accept, want and need.
He is a savage, I mean really. He is.
Tee hee.
I’m more of a savage than he, as I kiss his cock, swoon and push my lips, then my mouth around it.
UUUM, WOW, OMG.
