Chiaroscuro

He peeled back the fleshy hood to expose my hungry little stem, pink and engorged. And then he began to move his forefinger up and down sliding the barbell, now slick with my juices, along the length of my clit. As he kneaded my sensitive stem, he pressed down gently on the platinum orb until my clit was wriggling against the surface of the curved barbell beneath it. I went mad, my limbs twitching as though suspended by strings from the fingers of a drunken puppeteer. He seemed intrigued by my reaction and unmoved by its intensity. He maintained the exquisite friction through my desperate sobs, through the helpless heaving of my limbs. It was clear that I couldn't expect any mercy. No quarter asked, I told myself, no quarter given. It didn't take long before my clit exploded in an orgasm that seemed to tear my body apart.

He kept his finger on my clit, as though he were staunching a wound as my body twitched in the aftermath of my release. When my body quieted and I opened my eyes, I saw him look at me with a longing so fierce that it made me shiver.

"You are so beautiful," he whispered in a voice husky with desire, "So ripe."

"Oh, God ... Anees," I whimpered, "Come here, baby."

I stretched out my arms to him and he crawled up my body to lie on top of me, my leaking pussy painting a wet trail along his chest and his stomach. I loved the weight of his body pressing into mine, holding me prisoner. I ran my palms along his sweat streaked back and cupped the cheeks of his bottom pulling him against my body. It would be like this when he finally fucked me ... only better ... so much better. Our flesh would be joined and as his hard throbbing cock burned a furrow in my cunt, he would own me.

When our bodies were level with each other, he covered my face -- my forehead, my nose, my eyelids, my cheeks, my lips -- with soft kisses like the trembling of butterfly wings. He sucked on my lips drinking in my soft whimpers, tasting my hunger. When he released my lips, he drifted lower. His palm rose to cup the underside of my breast and gently lifted making my nipple reach for his lips. When he drew the soft sensitive peak between my lips, I almost died. He sucked softly at first, drawing out the puckered flesh until it was so ripe that I thought it would burst. Then he began to chew the heated flesh gently.

"Aaaaah ..." I moaned as my hips began to surge trying to rub my hungry cunt against the muscles of his stomach. He bore down a little more with his body holding me still.

"I think the other one's feeling a little lonely," he said as he shifted his attentions to my right nipple. I arched my back offering him the ripe little berry to be ravaged. He was happy to take me up on my offer. By the time he was done, I was incapable of coherent speech. Soft little noises were leaking from my lips. I barely knew that I was making them. He drifted lower, his tongue lapping at my sweat soaked skin. When he reached the angel in repose ... how could she sleep through all of this ... he planted a soft kiss on her face. I couldn't bear this any more. I placed my hands on his shoulders and pushed weakly telling him where to go. Lower, baby ... just a little lower.

He took the cue and dipped his lips into my steaming slit and sucked my clit, barbells and all, softly between his lips. He babied my flesh letting it wallow in the wet marsh of his mouth. He sensed that I must still be very sensitive. He gentled me for a long time until I was adrift in a sea of quiet pleasure. And then, he began to suck, his tongue pressing my clit against his palate, the metal sliding smoothly over my stem as he worked. My thighs were trembling and my hips were jerking off the sheets, desperate now for another release ... bigger ... better. I was insatiable.

When I thought that the sensations assaulting my saturated senses could not get any more intense, he slid two fingers into my cunt. I felt them curl softly inside my passage in a come hither motion and press firmly, insistently on the knot of nerves and muscles in my upper wall, adding to the pressure on my already over stimulated clit. My tight little ass rose off the sheets. And then he shook his head lightly like a dog with a piece of meat. I was finished. I screamed as waves of pleasure erupted from my cunt and washed over my body. They must have heard me on Broadway.

I was panting, my lungs working like a blacksmith's bellows. He had released my poor swollen clit from the sweet prison of his mouth, but was softly lapping away at my cunt like a kitten with a dish of cream. He licked up my juices from the slick inner folds of my cunt and then dug deeper, his tongue writhing into my hole to scoop up more of my essence. My cunt was obliging, grateful for that sublime ravishing. He shoveled my wetness from my passage with the curved tip of his tongue and then feasted. I lay back drained and let him eat his fill.

And then I felt my legs being eased back, my thighs pressed against my torso. I had an inkling what he was after. My suspicions were confirmed quickly as his tongue washed over the tight quivering entrance to my ass, lapping up the juices that had pooled in my crack. He kept licking softly, his tongue flicking like a serpent's. I wondered idly as I drowned in pleasure, whether it was forked.

When his tongue stiffened and pierced the delicate rosebud of my anus to twist in my innards, I could no longer bear it. I could no longer bear not holding him in my arms. I could no longer bear not pleasuring his sweet flesh.

"Please ..." I mumbled thickly, "Gimme ... gimme."

He slid up my body and cradled me in his arms.

"What, baby? What do you want?"

"I want to taste you again. I want you in my mouth ... please ..." I begged.

He hesitated for a moment and then twisted around to lie on his back. I was too exhausted to move. He gently lifted my body, which he had so mercilessly plundered, onto his so that my pussy was poised over his lips and the object of my desire, his hard aching cock, was inches from my mouth. I leaned forward, gripped his cock in my fist and plunged it into my throat. He moaned and then pulled my hips down to bury his lips in my swollen flesh. His tongue drove upwards into my steaming depths.

I worked steadily, relentlessly, my head bobbing up and down, pulling him all the way out and then plunging him all the way in. I maintained a steady rhythm that was designed for only one thing -- to get him off, to make him spurt his cum into my throat. I knew I was getting to him. His hips were lifting off the sheet with each liquid stroke of my mouth on his cock, urging me to take him deeper. He sensed that he was close and shifted slightly to take the swollen grape of my clit again into his mouth. For a moment, I feared that it would burst like a ripe tropical fruit, spraying his mouth with my flesh.

Could I have another orgasm after the likes of the two that I had just had? It appeared that I could. I felt him peel open my ass with the forefinger and thumb of one hand and gently probe my tight little hole with the forefinger of the other. My hips bucked in their eagerness. As his finger surged forward, impaling me, his thumb curled into the dripping entrance of my cunt. He rubbed his thumb and forefinger together through the thin membrane that separates my two passages as though he were counting a sheaf of notes. I died.

As I rapidly scaled the curve of my arousal, spiraling towards another inevitable explosion, I redoubled my efforts on his twitching member. Just as he began to spurt his hot cum into my throat, my cunt spasmed in release. I moaned around his pulsing shaft and thick streams of cum leaked from the corners of my mouth. That was the last thing I remembered before I grayed out, my mind no longer able to cope with the magnitude of the ecstasy that tore through my flesh.

*****

When I woke up, I was alone in my bed. He seemed to have cleaned me up before pulling a sheet over my body and turning out the lights. Where was he? I wondered. I pulled on my t-shirt and wandered into the hall. He was asleep on the couch, his face innocent in repose. He looked so fragile, so vulnerable, one hand curled softly under his chin ... that I had this sudden urge to cuddle him, to protect him ... though I wasn't quite sure against what.

I sat beside him on the couch and gently brushed his hair back from his forehead. He stirred beneath my fingers and slowly opened his eyes, still heavy lidded with sleep. He gave me a sheepish grin and whispered, "'morning."

"Why did you sleep on the couch?" I asked him.

"I wasn't sure you wanted me to sleep with you. Some people find that too intimate."

I shook my head with a bemused air. I had cradled his cock in my palm and watched him spurt helplessly. I had drunk him greedily as he poured his cum down my throat. His lips had been plastered to my cunt through three of the most intense orgasms of my life. What could possibly be more intimate than any of that? I gave him a playful swat on the back of his head and ruffled his silky hair as I got up to go to the kitchen.

"Rise and shine, sleepyhead," I smiled over my shoulder as I walked away, "I'll have coffee ready in a few minutes."

I was curled up against the warmth of his body sipping coffee, reveling in the quiet perfection of that mellow morning, when my cellphone rang. I smiled an apology at him and shuffled across in my soft mickey mouse slippers, which were one size too large for me, to pick up the phone. It was Maria.

"Hi, sweetie," I shrilled into the mouthpiece, "where are you?"

The voice at the other end was unfamiliar and undeniably masculine. I looked at the screen again, confused, to make sure that I hadn't read wrong.

"Who am I speaking to?" the voice asked.

"Andrea," I replied, now a touch irritated and a little anxious, "who are you? And how do you have Maria's phone?"

"Are you her friend, ma'am? Or a relative?"

"I'm her sister. Do you mind telling me what's going on?" I could feel my throat constrict.

"Sorry, ma'am. I'm Lt. McNeeley of the NYPD." At the other end of the line, I sensed him hesitate. My mouth was dry and the tension was killing me. I wished I could reach across to that man, grab his collar and shake him ... shake the words out of him. "Your sister's had an accident, ma'am. We brought her here to the Emergency unit in Mount Sinai."

"Is she alive?" I asked quietly. I was surprised at how calm my voice sounded. I felt as though I were floating outside my body, looking down at this stranger holding a phone to her ear, her fingers clenched so hard around the instrument her knuckles showed white. If I weren't inside me, I wouldn't have to hear him say it.

"No ... ma'am. She passed away a few minutes ago, shortly after we brought her here. I'm so sorry."

Once again, I was in that long room in La Paz with large windows, the mild warmth of the sun on my shoulders, Mt. Illimani looming in the distance, its snow covered peak glinting in the morning light. Our palms were glued together, slick with sweat. Our destination the two slabs furthest from the door. The walk seemed interminable. The attendant regarded us solemnly for a moment to make sure we were looking, before he pulled back the sheets. I had a brief glimpse of their bodies ... of what used to be bodies ... twisted, charred ... before she pulled my face into her shoulders, into the mercy of darkness and the scent of lavender which would thereafter always remind me of death.

We were teenagers once. And we grew up in a hurry. The noises of life filtered into that room like a distant echo. It was the festival of Gran Poder and later that evening, the streets of La Paz would fill with hundreds of whirling figures wearing devil's masks, an occasional angel struggling to impose order. The drums of the diablada would compete with the raucous calls of street vendors hawking dried llama fetuses and bottled talismans. But I felt as though my world had ended.

And now that hand that had clutched mine so fiercely, that shoulder that had shielded my eyes, those lips that had kissed my pain away ... so softly, so tenderly ... were gone and I stood in the middle of that room, my heart breaking at the terrible loneliness of her final moments. Was she conscious? Did she crave a loving touch, a familiar voice, a face that she recognized before she slowly faded? My nose was filled again with the stench of burnt flesh and I fled, bile rising into my throat.

He rubbed my back as I knelt in front of the pot, retching, my throat tingling with the taste of stale coffee. The next few hours passed in a blur. I remember his asking me whom to call. I remember giving him my little diary with the names of family and friends. We didn't have much family in New York. But friends were a different matter. She had only recently shifted to DC. Her kindness was like a magnet and people gravitated towards her. I had resented that once, resented the demands they made on her time and her attention. I had resented the fact that I had less of her. All of that seemed terribly petty now.

Her face was unmarked. I remember thinking that she looked serene, at peace with herself, embracing oblivion as calmly as she would a friend. I remember hoping that I would look like that when my time came. My voice didn't seem to be working. I nodded, a clumsy little twitch of my head, when I was asked to identify her body. Not identify "her" ... identify "her body." She had already ceased to be a person. She had already become a thing.

He made all the arrangements - the undertakers, the flowers, the memorial service ... the coffin ... How could I imprison her in seven feet of wood? ... How will she breathe? I don't remember a word of what I said at the service. He assured me that it was appropriate. I'm not sure I believed him. He would spare my feelings even if I had rambled like a drunk.

We were gathered in a tight little knot around the freshly dug grave. It was raining again. My brown hair was hanging in wet tendrils over my forehead. My eyes were painfully dry. I hadn't wept ... yet. I felt that people were keeping their distance from me as though I were infected with something ... something they would catch if they weren't careful. I was probably imagining it. I'm sure they were doing their best ... respecting my privacy by distance. We are all awkward in the face of grief. It makes us want to hurry away and resume our humdrum lives with a sigh of tangible relief.

When they had all left and we were the only ones that remained next to the mound that concealed what I had held closest to my heart, he put his arm around me. He had been careful not to do so earlier -- to spare me, I suspected, the embarrassment of proximity on an occasion of mourning, to spare me the need to explain him to the people who knew me - to explain this stranger whose face was tight with concern.

I was silent in the taxi, my hands lying loosely in my lap, my head bowed. I didn't see the city -- its unapologetic normalcy - flash past my window. It was as though today was no different. Perhaps it was not. I didn't register that we had reached. He opened the door of the taxi for me and gently eased me out. He led me -- one hand on my arm -- through the foyer, in and out of the elevator, down that long corridor with gray wallpaper and plaster moldings and into the brooding emptiness of my house. The house seemed to resent that I hadn't brought her back. It seemed to reach out over my shoulder and glance into the corridor to make sure that she wasn't there. I shivered.

"Oh, Andrea," I heard him whisper before he enveloped me in his arms. Hold me tighter ... never let me go. I felt the ice that had grown around my heart crack and melt into tears that ran hotly down my cheek. I reached blindly for his face and pressed my lips against his, to staunch the pain and to deaden the memory. My lips were a wound. His were a tourniquet. I sensed him hesitate, his body stiffening in my arms. My nails dug into his back in my panic and he relaxed, gently consoling my lips with a kiss so tender that it took my breath away.

My fingers were scrabbling on his body, struggling to remove his clothes. More than anything else at that moment, I needed to feel the warmth of his flesh against mine. I needed to be reminded that I was flesh and blood, that I had body and heft, that I could feel and hurt. He scooped me up in his arms and carried me to the bedroom. He gently eased me down on the bed and as my fingers roamed restlessly, ineffectually over him, he quietly, efficiently stripped me naked. I saw the blurred outline of him through the film of tears that hung on my lashes as he stood next to me quietly peeling off his clothes.

The mattress dipped as he knelt between my parted legs and then his weight settled on mine, forcing the air out of my lungs. My lips parted in a soft sigh as his flesh cleaved mine open and he entered my body. He held my face between his palms ever so gently, as though I were something fragile ... something that would smash into a thousand pieces if he were not careful, as his hips surged softly, claiming me, loving me, soothing me. My hands strayed down the firm lines of his back to the clenched muscles of his bottom to draw him closer to me.

I didn't want to be me. It hurt too much. I wanted to melt into his flesh, to become him, become us. I felt his hard throbbing flesh nudge the mouth of my womb, felt him tremble in my arms. "No," I screamed, "not yet." I didn't want this to end. His hips stilled as I whimpered softly and he swept my hair back from my forehead with his fingers, his lips following in their wake with soft little kisses. They felt cool against my forehead.

I twisted my hips to roll us over until I was on top and his golden body was stretched beneath mine. He softly wiped away with the pad of his thumb the wet trails that my tears had left on my cheeks. He looked into my eyes and sensed my desolation and my despair, a despair that was beyond language. And his eyes melted with a tenderness so profound that I felt my heart swell against my ribcage.

"Oh ... baby," he whispered, his voice a lingering caress, "Use me."

He repeated those words again softly, "Use me," as he placed a hand behind my head and gently drew my face into the skin of his throat. My body moved, but not consciously ... It moved like waves washing into a lagoon, like the wind whistling through the leaves in spring. I didn't move against him. I moved with him, our bodies the notes of a single song. I was looking into his eyes when I came. And we saw the same thing ... the vision of my flesh gripping him, caressing him ... tenderly ... as he surrendered to desire that he couldn't help and filled me with warmth. It was only when our breath had settled that I tasted the blood on my lips ... his blood that I had drawn as my body flailed in the storm of its release.

As my eyes creased with concern, he reassured me with his. "It's okay, baby," he whispered. I remembered how the other night ... was it only yesterday? ... he had abandoned me to my dreams and crept away to sleep on the couch. I couldn't bear the thought tonight - of not feeling his body against mine, his flesh against my flesh, the glowing warmth of our embrace.

"Please don't go away," I pleaded. My voice belonged to a little girl ... the little girl that I had almost forgotten I had once been.

He softly stroked the brown halo of my hair.

"I won't, my heart," he whispered, "Ever."

I believed him.

I still do. He has never given me reason not to.

*****

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... fantasy