Saturday, September 09, 2006

What Dies Is Reborn

We meet in a beachfront boutique hotel in Santa Monica. It is still light out. The room is decorated in shades of white and the gauze curtains allow overcast light to filter through from the balcony. The setting is surreal, moody. Very Truffaut.
He has set out a picnic for us. There are cheeses, breads, olives, and cured meats from a nearby gourmet deli. There is no wine, which is not so surprising. He spends his days and most nights with wine, tasting it, writing it, explaining it.
This evening he has brought lambic, a fruity malt beer traditionally brewed by Belgian monastics. The bottles look more like splits of wine than typical beer bottles. Underneath the bottlecap is a cork.
He spends the meal explaining the history and brewing process to me. I learn about the different flavors and we try several of those: raspberry, strawberry, banana.
I savor the food and drink offering. I become intoxicated by the potency of the drink and the unassuming man who becomes larger than life when engrossed in his passion with wine and spirits.

Dinner over, I extend my gratitude for the meal and the lesson. I drink in his clean smell, run my tongue down his throat and chest. He strokes my face, my hair. He leads me to the bed and stands before me there. I teasingly feign demureness, but allow him to unfasten my top, push up my skirt, sit me down. His pants are undone, and my hand finds his hard but velvet-smooth cock. I gently squeeze and feel him throb within my grasp. My eyes dilate as I pull him toward me and take him into my mouth. I look up at him, savoring his taste, intoxicated by his scent. I run my hands the length of his body. He is smaller-framed, muscular, wiry. I shudder with my desire to devour him completely. His head lolls back, guttural noises forming deep in his throat. He holds me by the hair at the nape of my neck. He shudders slightly.

He gently pushes me to prone, and slowly pushes himself into me. My cunt throbs and spasms as he fills me, leaving me gasping. He moves methodically, intentionally. His eyes are closed; he is humming a tune I don’t know. Then, my ears fill with the familiar buzz and roar of climax and I let out a long low wail and beg him to not stop, pleaseplease, don’t stop. He looks ethereal, fucking me from on high, glowing almost beatifically. Wave after wave of orgasm overtakes me. He continues with his rhythm through my quaking and shuddering, not missing a beat for several minutes. I feel dizzy and transcendent when he finally pulls out and with a moan releases his hot stream across my breasts and face. I feel reborn; I’ve been baptized.


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