Purple

For Nya

He always wanted her to wear purple. But she never would.

She would dress sexy for him -- tight skirts that showed off her ass, or sleeveless tops cut low that teased and hinted, or long, willowy dresses that made her look like one of those British models from the 1960s. But they were always red or pale yellow or a blue print, and never purple.

"Why won't you wear purple for me?"

She would smile and kiss him lightly on the lips. "It's not time for purple," she would say.

•

They had met six months earlier. He was in Mexico City to lecture on American fiction; she had attended the second talk, called "From Poe to Post-Modern." She hadn't worn purple then, either, but a white, lacy corset thing that showed her midriff, and a print wraparound skirt. Her brown hair must be shoulder length, he thought, even though it was pulled back in a pony tail. She was wearing a soft red lipstick, and would lick her lips every once in while. Her noticed her because she took notes when almost no one did. She would look up every once in a while, her black eyes shining, and shake her head in agreement with the point he was making.

That she talked to him after the lecture seemed perfectly natural. She had waited patiently until the crowd had thinned, walked up, introduced herself, and said, "I don't think you give Poe enough credit." Her English was excellent, and she spoke with confidence -- most students who spoke to him after a talk were either hesitant, afraid to ask anything, or annoying, as if the whole thing had been a waste of 90 minutes.

That was the first time he thought she should wear purple. He saw her eyes and her cinnamon skin -- canela, he remembered thinking -- and her black eyes, and he said, "Can I ask you a question?"

She nodded. "Do you ever wear purple?"

She laughed, and her eyes sparkled. "That's not very much to do with Poe, is it?"

"No," he said. "But it seems very relevant to our discussion."

"Maybe it does," she said. "Why purple? And why should I wear it for you?"

It was his turn to smile. "I haven't asked you to wear it for me -- yet. And, for one thing, because it's a badge of courage. Which you seem to have in abundance."

She was quiet for a moment, and he wondered if he had gone too far. But then she pursed her lips, and he noticed how soft and well-shaped they were. "Yes, courage," she said. "The courage to try to be someone you haven't discovered you can be. But I'm not ready to wear purple yet."

•

They had dinner the next night, at a neighborhood place she had suggested. She wore black linen pants, hip waisted, and a green, pullover sweater. Her hair was down, just touching her shoulders. The top two buttons of the sweater were undone, and he realized she was letting him see just as much as as she wanted him to see. He flashed on her then, in a purple sweater and no bra, and had to take a sip of wine.

"The wine is good, yes?" she asked. "Very good," he said. He learned she was a film student who loved American literature, came from a traditional Catholic family, and wrote poetry. She learned he liked wine and had a dog, and that he taught American literature when he wasn't writing -- and that he hadn't done much writing in a while.

By then, the restaurant was almost empty. A couple of waiters stood at the bar, sipping something and arguing about Mexican football. "Why did you agree to have dinner with me?" he asked.

"Why do you think I did?"

He leaned over, gently touched her cheek, kissed her softly on the lips. "Because you wanted me to do that."

"Maybe I did," she said. And she reached over and teased his hair and kissed him back. "And maybe because you have those blue eyes and that gray streak in your hair and you know all about Poe."

•

She put her head on his shoulder in the cab, locked her arm around his. He could feel how soft her body was, felt her seem to shiver when she pushed her breast against his arm. Neither of them said much; it seemed enough to sit and just touch while the driver took them to his hotel.

They got a couple of looks in the lobby, which pleased him. So he put his hand on her ass as they walked into the elevator, and he was sure they got more looks.

He punched his floor. She was standing next to him, so close but not touching. "Did you see the looks we got?" he asked. "Did you like them?

"Maybe I did," she said, and she took his hand and put it on her ass. He felt her shivering this time, too.

•

The hotel room was dark, save for a light he had left on on the desk. She was standing in front of him, mostly in shadow, and waiting. He felt a tingle as he watched her standing there like that for him.

"Are you ready for this?" he asked.

"Maybe I am," she said, holding out her hands.

He took them, pulled her to his body, and she wrapped her arms around him. He could feel her body press and move against him, and when she found his cock she rubbed slowly and longingly. He nuzzled her neck and her ear, his hands on her ass, and she smelled of cinnamon and honeysuckle and he had to take a deep breath or lose himself in her.

He pulled away, arms still around her, kissed her softly, felt her tongue meet his.

"Slowly," he said

"Oh please yes," she said, and then said something in Spanish he didn't understand.

He led her to the bed, sat down, positioned her next to him. "Stand there," he said, "and do what I say."

She nodded, took a breath. He told her to take her sweater off, and she did. He told her to undo her bra, and she did. She was still in the shadows, and that she was seemed to make the entire moment something much more than it should be.

He told her to touch a breast and to tease the nipple, and she did, moaning ever so slightly. "You're gorgeous," he said, and he raised his mouth to her breasts and she leaned over, feeding him one and then the other. He took each nipple in his mouth and closed his eyes and let the sensation he felt when he tasted her run through his body. She was shivering harder and speaking softly in Spanish and her hands were on his head, twisting his hair.

He lifted his mouth, looked at her face, flushed and full. "Take off your pants and your panties," he said, and she did, and stood there next to him naked in the shadows. "So gorgeous," he said. And then he kissed her pussy, lingering over it, tasting how wet she was. She was speaking Spanish now, too quickly for him to understand, but he sensed what she wanted, and he slid a finger in and then another, and she twisted and arched her back and said, "Oh, Papi." And he pushed them in deeper and then pulled them out and did it again. Her body moved with his fingers, and he knew that if he didn't stop, he would cum, too.

He managed to pull away and tasted his finger. It smelled of her cum and the cinnamon and the honeysuckle, and he looked at her and she smiled and leaned over and kissed him. "Can I taste, Papi?" and he fed them to her, first one and then other, and she sucked each carefully but greedily, and he knew how hungry she was for him.

He didn't get a chance to tell her what to do next. It's if she knew what he would say. She took his hand, kissed his palm and licked it. She pushed him down gently on the bed, slid off his pants and shorts. She was speaking softly, a mix of Spanish and English, and he watched her take his cock in her hands and lick the tip and sigh, and say, "Ay, Papi."

"Does Kitten want Papi's cock?" he asked, and she didn't answer. Instead, she climbed on top of him and her Spanish was fast and loud as she pushed down on him. He moaned as she forced her pussy on his cock and she laughed and pushed harder, and the Spanish was even faster and louder. Her pussy was wet and slick and slippery, and every time she pushed down it felt better than the last time. He tried to keep his legs together so she did all the work, but it wasn't easy.

She had the rhythm now and he watched her face, her eyes shut tight and her mouth barely open, her tongue flicking her lips, saw the orgasm start to build. He could feel it coming in him, too, how hungry she was and how hungry he was. He was moaning now, too, and they both knew it was close. Her Spanish was mixed with her moans, and then she was pushing down and lifting up and then one more time, the final time, and he finally let himself spread his legs to take all of her, his cock so hard and full and thick and then cumming inside her. Somehow, she pushed down one more time to take all of him, his cock and his cum, and she was moaning and begging, and then more Spanish and English, and the words broke up and then just her noises, keeping time with his moans.

He held her close, his cock still inside her, kissing and stroking her hair. "My Kitten, my kitten, my kitten," and she rocked slowly and kissed him back.

And he knew, then, that maybe she would wear purple for him. And maybe not. And that it was her choice, and he wanted it to be.