The Phantom

Preamble

I will be writing mostly about personal memories. Each story will tell (or not!) a personal experience. Maybe it will turn you on, who knows. It may be gratifying to some people to read sex stories without involving their blood relatives or work colleagues.

This is a distant, almost fading memory, and one that almost took more from me than it deserved. I kept it buried for a long time and I tried to forget it for good. But I can't, or I don't want to forget it, still cannot distinguish which one of the two holds true.

There is a German walking in this world, carrying good part of my sexual fantasies... a phantom who is alive. This story evolves slowly, years passing until we realized what was boiling deep inside.

[Accompanying music: Lovespirals]

Before I met you

Since early age I was fascinated by foreign languages. My family comes from different places in the world, and I got exposed to different languages when I was little. When I reached a good level of English, I started to learn German. After some years I discovered that, in addition to the language itself, there were many things about the Germans that made all my hormones start bubbling and my mind start wondering... I realized that different accents awoke my sexual self, and when I started hearing native German voices, I discovered that a foreign language could have a prominent effect on me.

Not without effort I saved money to allow me to go to one of the best German as foreign language schools. There I expected to meet "voices" that could lend me good nights with no sleep. I rented movies there frequently, and those stupid media to enhance listening skills.

One day, visiting an exposition, which I don't remember what was about, but something German, of course, I saw my first prey. Young, happy and innocent face, my type of target. Speaking in my language with a strong German accent. The inside part of my low abdomen smiled. I approached with a smart comment to what he was saying. Introduced myself. Asked his name. Philipp, he said. Good enough. Kept conversation going, engaged. It was as easy as it usually was. At first.

He was living in a church. It was his military year, and he chose to volunteer in social services. In a church of my poor country. Poor of us, in need of his Samaritan soul giving his time and charity.

I took him to parties, theater, night clubs, and nothing. Not even a kiss. He clearly was trying my patience. While watching an evening play with him, feeling cold all over, I was almost regretting to be so horny curious.

To make this long and boring story short, I succeeded. One more to my record list and as so sudden as he appeared in my life, he disappeared. Not even a letter from afar, zero. For your entertainment I could have written how I convinced him that what he and I wanted to do was absolutely nothing against God's will and we were not committing any crime for having fun during his social services year. It felt like I was tricking a mouse into a trap. For not much in return. It was a learning point in the curve. Now, up to better memories.

Then you appeared

After this pathetic incident, it was clear that German was something useful to expand chances on the job market and that was all. All I wanted then was to live in Germany until I could become fluent on that crazy difficult language. Made it an objective and in two years got a scholarship to study there.

It was the first time I travelled far from home. Fear, excitement, anxiety, and many more emotions were mixing inside me, and stress levels were reaching the sky together with the airplane which took me there.

Had a good welcome at the research group and the secretary took me to a tour in the building. Despite the fatigue, I was doing my best to absorb everything, feeling so lucky to finally be able to practice (and hear!) German 24/7. Yes, once a nerd, always a nerd. And a proud one.

We were going up the stairs when I looked up. Seven steps higher, there he was... Like a big, tall statue. Legs so strong hidden in jeans, the typical checkered shirt with short sleeves, a pair of strong arms exposed, wide neck, and I could hardly notice the face, that Nordic white face, because his eyes were looking straight at me. It was like a fog invaded the building and went up the stairs, covering each and everyone around. The only thing left were those greyish blue eyes, staring, carving into me. I just stopped where I was, in need to catch my breath, and not simply because of the steps.

He smiled. Just a little, slowly and slightly rising the right corner of his lips. I think I even gasped. In my underpants it started pulsating and my body started pulsing. It was a unique image of beauty that will stay with me forever, as I am sure time stopped for a few seconds allowing this image to be engraved in my mind.

Somebody, somehow, was able to re-start time again and I could hear: Hey, dear Bert, this is our new student. She comes from far. He greeted me in English, to what the assistant said: no need to talk in English, she is eager to practice German with us! Then it was my time to smile. A polite, cautious smile. The way I was feeling was so overwhelming that I am not sure how it resulted.

I introduced myself with the best I could say at that moment and hurried up to join the assistant upstairs for the rest of the tour. Not without noticing that he seemed puzzled. "Surprised, hm?" - I thought - "I am not whatever you expected me to be!"

A couple of days passed, and I was in a rush to prepare for the experimental part of my work there. I went to the print room to get my pile of articles for evening reading. The lights were on and there were no windows in that square room. Just a bunch of printers, tables and chairs. And Bert, he was there too. Not sure what he was doing there, probably reading something himself, but could not say for sure because the fog then covered everything once more, leaving him and the chair where he sat surrounded by yellow light. He gave me what would become his usual look on me. His eyes, his half smile and his arms stretched to the sides of the chair, inviting, pulling me on his direction.

The sexiest thing of our encounters, now that I had sufficient time to think in retrospect, was how comfortable and controlled he appeared in those thrilling situations. And how, together, we reached high peaks of electricity. If a loose cable were there, we could electrocute the whole building.

He asked how I was adapting, some small talk we were following but not paying much attention to. I was paying attention to him (and the printer!). He was moving side to side on the chair, following my nervous movements. Until he said, bluntly: "you are very pretty. What would you say about me?"

I think my jaw dropped. Never, ever! someone was so straightforward. "What the fuck is he thinking?" - I thought almost angry on how he spoiled that lustful tension. Could he not handle it for a few more minutes? Was he afraid of what we could do in that windowless room? Was there a key to that room? Because if it were... I could go to the door, locking us in, while looking at him. I would turn my head behind, while curving my spine to the side just a little, to tease him. He would see a small smile, my lips somewhat apart, while my eyes would be a bit closed, as if I were aiming a crossbow at him. I doubt he would smile then. He would be astounded, and his devil smile would disappear from his face and let him in awe.

"And now, Bert? Does this answer your question?" - my heart pounding with audacity, while I would open my clean white shirt button by button, with each button opened a step, walking slowly at him and dropping the shirt at his feet.

His hands would hold tight to the arms of the chair, involuntarily spreading his legs, not much though... unsure... maybe even a little, just a little... afraid. He would not say a word, in expectation of my next move.

"You haven't said anything, is it not clear how I think about you...? What about now?" - I would add, while sitting with my legs spread over his pelvis. At the time we touched, the withheld sexual tension would finally be released, flowing through our bodies, starting from the hips, spreading to the legs and toes, arms and fingers, we would become light-headed as if we were drunk with desire. He would inspire profoundly, taking my breath with his... letting go from the sides of the chair, bowing forward swiftly and putting his strong, big hands on my waist. I would feel his hard member stroking my hot vulva and I would make him feel myself putting even more pressure against his cock. Like a man trying not to drown in the ocean, he would make a profusely movement up, catching my lips into his. That would be the kiss that would dissolve reality... The yellow light over us, surrounding us, blinding us from anything else. We might be still in that room, or we might be on a sunny beach, as far as fantasy goes.

I stopped those racing, irrational thoughts that were pulling me to him. Arrogance is acceptable after some intimacy and depending on the context. There was our first cultural clash.

After some reflection, I replied: "I believe I cannot give you an answer for this question and keep the professional setup adequate for the University." Or something close to that. To which he assented: "Nice and diplomatic answer, I can live with that..."

"For now," is the last thing I heard, or think I did, as if his voice had spoken inside my head. This guy was dangerous, above record level. Somehow, I managed out intact. Intact from outside. Every time I saw him, he would stay with me for hours, usually until I went to bed. And there we would meet again, and provoke each other some more until I came, sleeping exhausted afterwards.

Those months of adaptation were hard. Working extra hard during the day, and harder during good part of the night. I decided not to surrender to him. In fact, I promised myself. Such an arrogant jerk would never put his hands on me! But oh, he had more than his hands on me... inside my head. To the point that I pondered if maybe he was indeed in my bed all those nights? If I had the impression that he could speak directly into my mind, what else could he do?

Some distractions helped me to forcefully ignore him. Except after lunch, when he was off guard. Talking to his friends, he didn't notice how I savored all of him. That was the sweetest time of the day. Drinking coffee, hearing others talking and pretending I was listening to them, while my eyes were running up and down his body. Starting with those magnificent eyes, his raised cheeks, hearing his strong and hoarse laugh, swallowing as if I could drink his laugh and then going down his strong neck, following the contour of his shoulders, through his developed biceps. There I had to stop and look somewhere else. My desire for him was so strong that I feared I would just walk over and kiss him. I would not allow me to do that. Only a glance at his waist and below it. Every time my eyes travelled there; it was enough assurance of a later orgasm.

He stopped provoking me with his questions. Probably he understood that I didn't like it. Time passed and one day he came to tell me about an exposition at the museum of the University, not very far from where we passed our days. He invited me to go with him. I accepted. It seemed like he was trying to be friendly. It sounded like he was really trying to have some time with me, on a lighter tone.

It was a delightful afternoon. We went from room to room, all pieces were interactive, and we were playing with them, taking all the time possible, as if we didn't want our kind-of-date-but-not-a-date to end. Sometimes he stopped at a certain distance and stared at me. I kept smiling and enduring that atypical sensual torture. I would exaggerate some moves, as if I was posing to his eye camera. When we could not handle the tension anymore, we moved on, like nothing happened. All the afternoon was up and down on a rollercoaster or a training for a climax contention. That day it became evident I could come only by the spell of those eyes.

We used all the time we could, but at some point, we had seen it all. We looked at each other, none of us wanting to go part ways. I don't remember exactly what excuse he obviously made up to invite me over. Despite of my promise, I accepted. Truly I was no longer in control of my rational brain.

We walked side by side, speaking about the many differences between our lives. He had an organized life, mine was chaos. He grew up in a village, I did in a megalopolis. He had his future planed to the details, I was taking opportunity by opportunity and dodging the bad news. He was hungry for me, and I tried my best to hide that hunger could not even start to describe how I felt in my belly.

He had a room in a shared flat and we went straight to it. He invited me to sit next to him on the floor. A little before we had discussed about fantasies (lapsus révélateur!) and role-playing games, and he had a lot of books of the genre. We were sitting next to each other, our arms touching from time to time, and we kept focusing on the topic we were discussing. We were getting used to be close to each other without succumbing to that unbearable tension, since it seemed we had settled for a friendly relationship.

Not an entire hour had passed until we start failing at our veiled pact. Silences started to fill the space of words, and we could hear our breaths in and out loudly. A warm sweat was building between my tights, between my breasts, on the palm of my hands, my temples... he swallowed more often. We were so close, I could smell his scent... activating all hormones, invading me as I breathed deeply and suddenly my eyes were clouded.

Sensing what could come next, I caught a glimpse of his bed. On top of the bed head, a picture of him with a woman. "Who's in the picture?" - still not believing what I was seeing, the question interrupted his explanation about dark elves of Forgotten Realms. "Oh, that is my ex-girlfriend. We broke up eight months ago."

All I could think of was "what the f**, man!" My eyes follow to the left on the wall, covered on pictures of his girlfriend, ooops, ex-girlfriend. Politely I deviated the conversation to more neutral topics. Upset, angry, insulted. I left after some minutes. Ready to break everything that crossed my path. Second strike, there would be no third one. Arrogant bastard!

After this another! pathetic incident, I decided to fuck easier targets. Men who could at least give me pleasure without secondary effects. And then I was free from him. For a while.

During our friendship season, so to speak, I counselled him about a French girl he was in love with. She was not in love with him, and she messed with him good. My heroine, giving him the taste of his own medicine!

One afternoon I was preparing some coffee in the student kitchen, and he came in, perspiring despair and anxiety. "I need your help, please". I looked at him, while he sat on the chair. This was the first time I looked at him from a higher angle, literally and figuratively. He needed... yes, my help. So, help I would give, what else I would not give if he asked me just like that? Good that he didn't know it.

I was in love with him and despised him at same time. His eyes were covered in dark circles, and he looked like he has not slept well for days. The anger melted, I felt pity. I served two cups of coffee and sat on the chair close to his. I stroke his arm, as lightly as I could, fearing that if my hand completely touched him, I would regret later. "What can I do, Bert, what happened?" He almost started crying and explained what he was suffering by the French avenger.

"One day she comes to my flat, sleeps with me, the next day she says she does not want to get involved, I don't know what to do!", he said. Such an easy solution. Walk away, as I did with you. Just fuck her in your imagination, as I do with you, every other night.

I envied and admired her. I bit my lip, imagining myself in her place. Going to his apartment in the middle of the night, only dressed on my heavy blue winter coat. Ringing the bell of his flat and awake him from sleep. Surely, he would be surprised to say the least.

Without waiting to be invited, I would come in saying: "Let's go to your room, there is something I want from you". And he would be so startled, he would not even manage to speak, following to his room after my hasty steps. I would open the window and tear off all those fucking pictures from the wall and throw them out of the window. "Now, much better!" - that would give me so much satisfaction!

"Why did you do that?" - oh, poor Bert, he got confused!

"How am I supposed to do this while these pictures are in here?" - I would say while opening the heavy coat, which would fall like a stone on the carpet.

At that time, I looked indeed pretty good, a bit skinny, but mostly athletic. I exercised almost every day, and everything in me was well sculped in good proportions. To complete my luck, I was born with a provocative smile and deep scrutinizing eyes. Men usually feared me, they still do. Bert, on the opposite, would be amazed, but no sign of fear in his eyes. He was not a usual man.

And there I would stay, dressed only in heavy snow boots and nothing else. Looking victorious at him, waiting for him to come and take me. Which he would do, not before taking his time. He would stop moving, admiring me, from the door of his room. After a few seconds, he would close that door, so silently, as not to disturb the magic of the moment. He would give me his back for a second, probably hiding his happiness.

From the moment he would turn, the pace would be another. As if there were an urgency, a fire to extinguish, he would move quickly at me, take me under my ribs and push me into his bed. He was an affirmative man, not violent. He would stop again and have another look at me. Lying on his bed on the most sensual position I could, legs bent to the sides, showing a bit of behind and a bit of the front. Which side would he choose? My breasts exposed and facing him, aching for those strong fingers' touch.

Once pleased with my plea, he would take his shirt and shorts off, and then he would be as naked as I. Taking care not to jump on me, he would haste to the top of me, not yet touching below my waist. Placing his hands one at each side of me, he would smile at me openly and completely. Finally, he could have me. Flexing his arms to approach my lips and give me the wettest, hottest, sweetest kiss I ever felt in life. He would enjoy each kiss, caress, and movement as much as I did. We would stare at each other, as to confirm that we both wanted it... fast and hard, slow and soft. We were the best candidates to complete each one's fantasies about the perfect sex.

"How could she do this to you? To you!" A moment of weakness, as I almost continued to say: "how can any woman in healthy mind refuse you, this is impossible!" He looked at me confused, sometimes I made mistakes on his language and had to rewind and explain myself with other words.

And then, back to reality, I did help him. I did the best I could, describing what he could do to me to win me over. But she was not me, not even had we the same culture. It was me, advising a German guy on how to win a French. Naturally that was a total disaster...

It is over. Is it?

Some months after I went back home. To my old life, missing everything I left behind. Including Bert drinking coffee after lunch. Bert crying over the French woman. Bert smiling at me...

We started messaging each other (you guessed right, these are in the "old times"). With an ocean between us, we got daring. Some extracts of our messages were like this: "I was thinking about you last night but cannot tell you what it was about...", "why so, maybe we were in the same dream...", "that would be magical", "not so magical as if I were indeed there with you", and so on.