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The curtains in the bedroom of our suite at The Standard whispered violently as I pushed them open. I closed my eyes and allowed my skin to swallow the warmth of the sinking sun, through the pollution, and the buildings, and the glass. I felt a delicate finger trace the tendons of my neck, a body press strongly into my back, and, in Mandarin, a voice inquiring softly into my ear if I had had a good flight.

I was visiting LA from Honolulu for three days to attend a design conference. My on-again, off-again lover, The Painter, was in town from San Francisco for a client presentation. (Apparently, we were “on-again”.) His other arm had embraced my chest by this point, pulling me so far into him that I could feel his muscled length grind lewdly¬† into me from behind. He whispered again, this time in English, as my head rolled lazily back onto his shoulder.

“Did you do what I asked?” he inquired, drawing the final “S” out into a seductive hiss.

“Yes,” I drawled softly in return, my hand reaching up and behind his head to run my fingers through his hair.

(A few days before our departures he had requested during one of our conversations that I remove all of what little body hair I had, that it was for “a surprise”.)

He curled his fingers into the blond curls at the nape of my neck and tugged my head back harshly, making my lips part in a gasp. His head bent down, his lips parted, his mouth hovered over mine, not touching but close enough so that I could smell wine and cigarettes on his breath.

He smiled. “Go take a shower,” he laughed. “And make sure you’re completely dry afterward.”

I re-emerged into the bedroom clean and completely dry as requested, the sun a mere memory through the window. It was dim in the room, with only candles burning (where had he gotten those?), but I could see that the bed had been turned down, could see him moving about at the foot of it. He was naked.

He looked up, smiled widely, and said, “Come. On your stomach.”

I could see an ashtray and my cigarettes and a glass of wine and a book from my carry-on on the far night table, so I stretched myself languidly toward them across the bed. He pushed my legs apart roughly, all of me splayed before him. I showed no sign of pain and lit a cigarette, opened my book, began to read. I heard the metal locks of a wooden box behind me being opened, the sound of a bottle cap being unscrewed.

I had just finished reading the first paragraph of my book when I felt his first wet brush stroke on my back: he was painting on me, writing on me. I had been hard already but I instantly became harder, as there are few things that turn me on more than writing on a body. I tried to focus on my reading while my thighs flexed slightly, attempting to surreptitiously hump the bed’s coverlet.

His strokes began slowly, between my shoulder blades (touch and go, touch and go), before he straddled my hips and began drawing characters that were bolder down the curvature of my spine. He pressed his brush more firmly into my flesh with each stroke of his black ink. There were other strokes, as well, of course; between each stroke of the brush I also felt a stroke of his dick between my ass cheeks (paint, stroke, paint, stroke).

I inhaled sharply and looked up from my book, saw the winds blowing the curtains into the room, and took another drag from my cigarette, its white smoke mingling with the white sheer curtains on the downtown breeze.

He leaned over me. “Keep reading,” he whispered huskily, breathing hard. “I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

I flicked my cigarette into the ashtray and bowed my head again, reading the words in my book as he painted his own on my back, the only sound in the suite that of air: through the window from the street outside, and our mutual increased breathing of desire. When he reached my coccyx, his strokes slowed. I felt only the smallest of brush points. Until I felt his hot breath, and then the tip of his tongue, on my asshole.

I threw my book to the floor and whispered hoarsely, “Fuck me. Please. I need it.”

“On your knees,” he breathed. “Spread your thighs more.”

I was beyond insane as I felt him, his head between my thighs, stopping after each character to run his tongue along the length of my dick, sign his name down the inside of each of my thighs. I felt the bed shift with his weight, heard the clink of the brush against a water glass, and felt his strong hands grip my hip bones fiercely. “Ass up,” he said. I quickly obliged.

I moaned as I felt him press his head against my hole, relaxing my muscles so that they could swallow his length. A low moan emitted from my throat as he exhaled air in a whistle between his teeth behind me just as his head slipped in. My muscles were moving quickly, almost of their own volition, wanting to impale myself on his flesh. But I knew he liked it: liked taking a moment to look down at just the tip of his dick inside my ass, as my hole worked its flesh around him; liked reading whatever story led down my spine to his dick in my ass.

He began pulling me slowly onto his dick. I opened my ass to him as I moaned into a pillow and reached around behind him to push him into me with one hand on his ass. He took it slowly, savoring each second of flesh meeting flesh, each inch of his dick being enveloped by my interior, until his thighs finally came to rest against mine, and I could feel his balls on my ass.

Then nothing was slow.

He fucked me hard, up above my body, pounding it into the bed, pounding his dick into my ass. His fingers splayed across my lower back, positioning my hips exactly where he wanted them in order to fuck me the hardest, slowing only to curl his hands through my hair and pull me up to him so that he could whisper into my ear, “Do you like that dick?”

“Yesssss,” I said, squeezing his dick with my ass.

“Do you need that dick?” he whispered, lower this time, and flexing his dick inside of me.

“Yes,” I hissed, trying to kiss him. “I need that dick.” (Squeeze. Squeeze.)

“Do you want my cum?” he whispered. (Flex. Flex.)

“Yes,” I whispered, desperately. “Yes, I need your cum.” (Squeeze. Squeeze.)

As he almost growled and pushed me back down onto the bed, repositioning my hips, I could feel droplets of the black ink that had smeared between my back and his chest fall like sweat from my body to the bed below. But I didn’t care because that was when my vision clouded, and all I could focus on were the guttural sounds he was making, the feeling of his hands clutching my hips, the violent thrusts of his dick, the feeling in my own dick as he reached below me to pinch one of my nipples.

And then I was coming. I couldn’t speak, I couldn’t see, I couldn’t feel anything but my orgasm except the fact that my ass was making him come, too, nearly yelling, above me, pushing his cum deeply, violently, into me. After one final thrust, I felt his muscled chest slam wetly onto my back, felt his hands caress my arms until they had reached my own hands. He entwined his fingers between my own as cheek against cheek we tried to catch our breathing. We stayed like that, thighs quaking, for several minutes, before he extricated himself from me and we both rolled over, smiling.

“Fuck,” he breathed, smiling sideways at me.

“Right?” I said, smiling wryly back at him. “Dinner?”

“Oh, hell yes!” he laughed, bouncing his lithe body off of the bed and into the suite’s bathroom.

I rose from the bed, noticed my book on the floor, and bent down slowly to retrieve it and a bookmark from a long-forgotten bookstore in Manhattan that had fallen out of it. At the top of the bookmark, in my handwriting, was written, “Ananke = Necessity”.

“Oh. My. God.” I heard him say behind me as he emerged from the bathroom. I turned quickly and my eyes immediately followed his, to the nearly destroyed white linens, now soaked in ejaculate and sweat and black ink.

I laughed.

“Housekeeping is going to be so pissed.”