moving against her erect nipples. And she liked the wildness of the thick chest hair in contrast to Drake’s neatly trimmed beard and mustache, his short-cropped hair. He had a tattoo on his left shoulder, a short formula, she thought, numbers and Greek letters, curiously beautiful.
His cut abs looked good enough to eat, and she hoped for a chance to nibble them later. Again, not a real surprise, though she hadn’t imagined quite this level of excellence. A Greek god, not an overbuilt hulk of a fitness model, but the well-defined, useful muscles of an actual classical Greek statue. Not a kouros, a pretty young man just past boyhood, nor an aging-warrior Zeus, but an Apollo, sexy and strong and smart. She couldn’t resist letting out, “Whoa, I thought you had a desk job.”
“I do martial arts,” he said modestly.
“I guess so.” She was going to ask more questions. She was genuinely curious about what form he did and how long he’d been doing it.
And then he unzipped his jeans, and all thought fled, or at least all thought that wasn’t directly related to sex and the body of the man in front of her. Her breath hitched in anticipation. Maybe Drake was deliberately drawing out this part, teasing her, or maybe time actually slowed.
His cock was nothing like a Greek statue’s, and thank goodness for that. The marble statues carved for temples and other public places were never erect. You only saw that on private art, things like pottery and wall frescoes where naughty satyrs pursued and sometimes caught graceful nymphs or those boyish kouros. Drake was definitely erect. Thick and hard and rising from a tangle of curling hair a slightly darker, redder shade than his head and chest.
Jen would normally say something cute and coy like, Is that for me? but it seemed inappropriate. Drake was living art, and silent visual appreciation was more fitting. Otherwise it was like making wisecracks in front of Michelangelo’s David. Though David, a beautiful statue of a beautiful boy in pure, cold marble, couldn’t hold a candle to Drake, a handsome man in his prime, in all the colors of life.
“What color rope would you like?” He waved his hand over one subset of the rainbow array, so she deduced the thinner ropes would work best for what he had in mind. She picked a deep crimson. It would clash with her hair but match the patterns of lust in her head.
“Good choice. Now put your hands on your head.” The rope was doubled, with a wrapping of black string to mark the middle. Meticulous, she thought. Then she stopped thinking as he began to wrap the rope around her rib cage, below her breasts. “Watch in the mirror when you can,” Drake said, his voice deep and rich.
The rope transformed her as Drake wrapped it above and below her breasts, hitching them together with a kind of rope corset. Her breasts looked fuller, pushed together and enhanced by the rope, but it was more than that. She stood taller. She wasn’t sucking her gut in, wasn’t self-conscious under her new lover’s eyes. The soft curve of her belly looked as perfect as the curve of a ripe apple or the lines of the Venus de Milo. She noticed the muscles of her thighs, firm from all the biking and walking in Ithaca’s hills, as if she saw them through someone else’s eyes. The rope, and Drake’s hand guiding the rope, guiding her, made her dreamy, compliant, but at the same time aware of every inch of her own sensitized skin, every inch of Drake’s body.
“Look at yourself,” Drake said—no, ordered—spinning her around to look in the mirror. He clasped one arm across her upper chest, another at her hips, holding her against his full length. His cock toyed between her legs in this position, sliding teasingly over her slick pussy. Jen wanted to grind against him, wanted to defy common sense and engulf him now, despite the lack of a condom. Here, in front of the mirror, where she could see the play of his muscles and appreciate the lines of her
His cut abs looked good enough to eat, and she hoped for a chance to nibble them later. Again, not a real surprise, though she hadn’t imagined quite this level of excellence. A Greek god, not an overbuilt hulk of a fitness model, but the well-defined, useful muscles of an actual classical Greek statue. Not a kouros, a pretty young man just past boyhood, nor an aging-warrior Zeus, but an Apollo, sexy and strong and smart. She couldn’t resist letting out, “Whoa, I thought you had a desk job.”
“I do martial arts,” he said modestly.
“I guess so.” She was going to ask more questions. She was genuinely curious about what form he did and how long he’d been doing it.
And then he unzipped his jeans, and all thought fled, or at least all thought that wasn’t directly related to sex and the body of the man in front of her. Her breath hitched in anticipation. Maybe Drake was deliberately drawing out this part, teasing her, or maybe time actually slowed.
His cock was nothing like a Greek statue’s, and thank goodness for that. The marble statues carved for temples and other public places were never erect. You only saw that on private art, things like pottery and wall frescoes where naughty satyrs pursued and sometimes caught graceful nymphs or those boyish kouros. Drake was definitely erect. Thick and hard and rising from a tangle of curling hair a slightly darker, redder shade than his head and chest.
Jen would normally say something cute and coy like, Is that for me? but it seemed inappropriate. Drake was living art, and silent visual appreciation was more fitting. Otherwise it was like making wisecracks in front of Michelangelo’s David. Though David, a beautiful statue of a beautiful boy in pure, cold marble, couldn’t hold a candle to Drake, a handsome man in his prime, in all the colors of life.
“What color rope would you like?” He waved his hand over one subset of the rainbow array, so she deduced the thinner ropes would work best for what he had in mind. She picked a deep crimson. It would clash with her hair but match the patterns of lust in her head.
“Good choice. Now put your hands on your head.” The rope was doubled, with a wrapping of black string to mark the middle. Meticulous, she thought. Then she stopped thinking as he began to wrap the rope around her rib cage, below her breasts. “Watch in the mirror when you can,” Drake said, his voice deep and rich.
The rope transformed her as Drake wrapped it above and below her breasts, hitching them together with a kind of rope corset. Her breasts looked fuller, pushed together and enhanced by the rope, but it was more than that. She stood taller. She wasn’t sucking her gut in, wasn’t self-conscious under her new lover’s eyes. The soft curve of her belly looked as perfect as the curve of a ripe apple or the lines of the Venus de Milo. She noticed the muscles of her thighs, firm from all the biking and walking in Ithaca’s hills, as if she saw them through someone else’s eyes. The rope, and Drake’s hand guiding the rope, guiding her, made her dreamy, compliant, but at the same time aware of every inch of her own sensitized skin, every inch of Drake’s body.
“Look at yourself,” Drake said—no, ordered—spinning her around to look in the mirror. He clasped one arm across her upper chest, another at her hips, holding her against his full length. His cock toyed between her legs in this position, sliding teasingly over her slick pussy. Jen wanted to grind against him, wanted to defy common sense and engulf him now, despite the lack of a condom. Here, in front of the mirror, where she could see the play of his muscles and appreciate the lines of her
Similar Books
