He is God.
Just in from the dark, wet streets, he stands with his
back to the door, coal-black hair studded with raindrop
diamonds. They bead along the lenses of his sunglasses,
collect in wet spots upon the carpet as his black leather
trenchcoat—the one that doesn't have the slit to
his ass, the one that means business—sheds the
water like so much unnecessary snakeskin.
His fists clench, then unclench. His head turns toward
me, lensed eyes betraying nothing.
Naked on my knees before him, I start at his clunky,
round-toed boots, working my tongue into spaces between
the chains, lavishing the leather as if it were his skin
itself. It is his skin. It is him. The trenchcoat's hems
brush and caress my flushed cheeks as I lick up the zippered
sides of his boots, finding my nose buried deep within
his leather pants, where boots end and the sensuous back
of his knee begins.
He pushes his leg back against the door, crushing me,
and I slip out of the vise. I understand. I kneel before
him again and stare up into the dark voids of his eyes.
His long, pale hands produce gloves from an inner pocket,
slipping them on as careful and sensual as condoms, idly
flexing his hands once they are encased within the leather.
Two of his sheathed fingers press into my mouth. I open
willingly, staring into his lenses; he presses further,
till the knuckles are at my lips. I start to pull away,
to gag, but his left hand comes in to cup the back of
my head steadily. We look at each other for a moment,
his pale thin lips twitching, my eyes telling him to
continue, and his hand tightens on my head, his fingers
pressing even further down my throat. His knuckles rest
just inside my front teeth. My saliva, uncontrollable,
drips like rainwater from the wrist of his glove.
He steps slightly away from the door for leverage, the
coat swaying with the motion. His fingers press deeper
into me, his hand pulling me toward him with steadily
increasing force. His head inclines, lenses staring deep
into me, watching my every reaction.
I will do anything.
I have passed some test. He bends his knees now, stooping
slightly, and instead of reaching for my tonsils his
fingers begin to thrust into my mouth, sexual, forbidden,
his hips making subtle rocking motions in matching time.
His dry, pink lips open just enough for me to see the
line of slick white teeth that might mark my skin later.
He takes another step forward. He is using his fingers
as his cock now, his arm an extension of the erotic,
utilized if only for the amount of force and accuracy
he can claim from it. My back bends to accommodate his
close presence, fingers deep, thrusting, pressing the
saliva out of me, hand pushing me against him, afraid
to let me go.
I can hear his harsh, almost ragged breaths above me,
the frantic actions of his body stirring up a confusion
of emotions too powerful to sort out. His hips press
his hand further into my mouth, a direct connection,
and when his fingers tighten in my hair, I can't stop.
I squeeze at my cock just before it spurts, orgasm rocking
me even as he continues to thrust the leather against
my tongue, my mouth bruised and sore from the treatment.
My come covers his boots.
When he is sure I am done, he withdraws his fingers
carefully, catching his breath as I lick my seed from
the black leather of his skin.
I straighten my kneel, and he drops the gloves between
my damp thighs. I look up into the blank voids of his
lenses, and he gazes down at me in return. His mouth,
previously nothing but a firm, straight line, twitches
downward at the corners.
Then he is gone, the taste of his leather still hot
on my tongue.
© 2005 Kal Cobalt - Contributor's
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