Scintillectually Yours

The well-worn shammy felt like an old friend in the palm of my hand as I rubbed out a midtone on the light gray Canson paper. I selected the firmest charcoal from the box and looked up at you sitting in the oriental, octagonal armchair that I covet, one arm on your upper thigh, the other draped across the wooden back. I began to rough out a gesture of your pose as you held still but watched me intently. I felt your eyes upon me every time I bent head to paper.

It had been years, more than a decade actually, since I had drawn from life. This was my one true passion and the one thing I had left behind, neglected, when my son was born. But I was inspired by your own passion for your art and the warmth of your studio—inviting me in to pick up the tools that would satiate my desire to capture a moment of you. Now that I had the basics down, I took a white conté crayon and began to work out the highlights; your defined angles and symmetrical features thrown into sharp contrast by a single bulb in the corner of the room. I began to lose myself in the work. My eye roaming every inch of you, my charcoal tracing your jawline, jutting collarbone, slight curve of your small breast, hint of your nipple hardened under my gaze. You smile when I catch my lower lip between my teeth in concentration and I admonish you not to move.

Finally, I have worked out the shadow in your jeans, thrown into bas relief by the cock I had asked you to strap on for the piece. I wanted to catch your true androgyny. The softness of your eyes and the fullness of your lips. Ripe. Delicious. The slight giveaway to your biological gender visible through your thin ribbed tank. The bulge in your jeans that calls my name and knows the deepest parts of me. Your strong, calloused hands, masculine and yet oh-so-graceful. I realized my breathing had become shallow, more rapid. The drawing was done, but I was not.

I set the work aside, leaning it against the wall facing away from you. I wasn’t ready to show it to you yet. I crawled across the floor as you studied me curiously, half smile crossing your handsome face. I pushed your legs gently apart, leaving black handprints on both thighs, and knelt between them. More marks of me upon your white tank as I pulled it over your head. You grinned and my brow furrowed. This, this, was serious business. I wasn’t done drawing. I reached over and selected a very thick, soft piece of charcoal. Your eyes followed my hand as I resumed my position and began to very slowly and deliberately draw a dotted pattern on your skin, evoking Maori tattoos. My line moved from the hollow in the base of your throat down your chest to circle one nipple. I made swirls within swirls that outlined your ribcage and moved across the flat of your torso. I drew the charcoal down until I was stopped mid-line by your belt buckle. I looked up at you, questioningly, and you understood and complied.

Your hands deftly undid your belt, and then, at my urging, you carefully and quietly unbuttoned your fly and pushed your jeans aside like the flaps of a circus tent, leaving me an opening to what I really wanted. I resumed my line, briefly, and ended in an arrow pointing to your cock. Now I tossed away the charcoal and wiped my hands clean upon my own jeans. I leaned in and caught your lower lip between my teeth, eliciting the perfect moan before I pulled at your boxers slightly. I grasped your cock, freeing it from its confines. You moved down in the chair, gaining the advantage of a better viewpoint…

and I descended upon you.

I started at the base of your shaft, running my tongue the full 7 ½” length of you. You made a noise, small and gutteral, and your fist clenched in my peripheral vision. I took the head of your cock into my mouth and looked up into your eyes. Oh, I love knowing that you are watching me and knowing how much it excites you. I’m not daft. I may pretend I don’t know the effect I have upon you, but trust me, I do. I so do.

My lips part slightly so that you can see the head of your cock resting upon my tongue. In that second, though, I dip my head downward and swallow every inch of you and you groan loudly. I toy with you for a bit. Tease you. Make you truly want it. My hand cradles your balls and every time I take you down the back of my throat, I increase the pressure, pushing your balls into your rock-hard clit and easing off again.

Now you grab a fistful of my hair (as short as it is) and put one hand upon my shoulder. Your thighs quiver and I reach up and rake my nails down your torso smearing charcoal across your flesh. Your hips grind into me and you squeeze my arm, urging me to pick up the pace. When I sneak a glance at you, your head is thrown back, your eyes are shut. You speak of how it feels (you can feel it, you can feel it). Soon you push my head down hard and tremble and shudder, moan and say my name over and over. Your orgasm is powerful and protracted. You open your eyes and I am watching you. All you can do is play in my hair and hold my face and you are completely open and vulnerable and happy.

I climb upon your lap and kiss you deeply. I pull my sweater over my head and now my breasts, pressed against your chest, bear marks that mirror the design I had drawn upon you. Marks that echo the one you’ve etched upon my heart forever.