Amadeo

I met up with Amadeo, the man from Sunday, a second time last night. He has style.

• His apartment is located on the third floor and is reached via winding stairs from the level below. He followed me up. Because he had mentioned that he liked women wearing high heels, I had worn them, which I don’t normally do. The steps exaggerated the sway of my ass. Halfway up the flight, Amadeo reached his hand between my legs. Fingertips extended to the pubis, his palm cupped the curve of the perineum, while the heel and the wrist rested on the upward swerve of the buttocks. I stopped with the feet on different steps and clutched the railing while he looked up at me from below and stroked my pussy through the tight fitting black denim jeans. When he tugged the waistband of the panties up from behind, the covering over my cunt jammed into the slit. I liked the press of his fingers against the fabric, how the cloth indented and folded and bowed and disclosed to his touch the shape of my furrow. I liked the press of his lips to my ass, how he shook his head from side to side and rubbed his nose at me.

• Amadeo took me on a whisky tour of Islay. Ardbeg, Bunnahabhain, Caol Ila, Lagavulin, Laphroaig: the sounds are as exotic and dark on my tongue as the tastes. Each time, he took a sip from his glass and explained to me what he experienced on his palate. Then he had me drink. Beneath the overpowering smoke and the smell of peat, I recognized the delicate undercurrents of spices and berries and woods and fruits and the scent of flowers and the sea. A drop of water in the dram exposed still more layers of flavor beneath. In the end, Amadeo took an immense swallow of the seventeen year Ardbeg, which was distilled when I was no more than eight and playing made up games with girls whose last names I no longer remember and running from boys who tried to catch me on the playground instead of hurling myself headlong toward them as I would do in the seasons that followed. He tilted my head and kissed me, spilling the whisky from his mouth into mine — along with his tongue, of course. I reclined into the cushions of the sofa, sinking to my side and then lowering myself horizontal so that his massive frame fell atop me. The kisses continued without pause. He gripped me by the throat, the strong fingers depressing the skin and muscle, the clutch of the hand constricting my breathing while his lips muffled my voice.

• When he had finished undressing me, he wadded my thong into a ball and stuffed it into my cunt. He let it remain there, leaving me full inside, while he sprawled on the floor and licked my lips and diddled my clit. I was ready to shatter after a few short minutes of the softly insistent tongue, the silky saliva, the pads of the fingers holding the pubis taut, and the pincers of his nails and his pointed teeth, but, as he refused me permission to let go, I closed my eyes and fought the orgasm back. Hands balled into fists, I beat at the carpet as I restrained the force that yearned to burst. It was a long ten minutes before he gave me his consent. He counted the ticks off one by one, all the while working me with his lips and fingers, until, at last, he acceded to the increasingly urgent pleas, the moans, and the tears. It’s what I deserve for telling him that there are times when orgasm denial causes me to fountain, and though this time it didn’t, the orgasm nevertheless shredded through my insides and ripped me apart. Afterwards, he stole his forefinger and thumb into the ruins of the cunt and ripped the cloth from my pussy with a sharp tug. The movement set me off again. The waters of orgasm had drenched the fabric, turning the vivid scarlet a dark and deep burgundy. He had me hold my mouth wide open and stick out my tongue while he wrung the drops of wetness from the cloth for me to drink.

• He sat on the sofa and stroked my breasts and face with his feet. I tasted the thick skin of the dusky soles, and sucked his toes five at a time.

• Amadeo painted my ass crimson with his bare hand while I stretched myself over his lap and squirmed and sobbed. After the spanking, he bit my buttocks. He ran his tongue over the marks of his teeth and kissed the raw flesh to soothe the anguished nerves. My red eyes and runny nose were artifacts of the past as the lips migrated from the rump to the shadowed valley between the hills. He had me hanging from the sofa, head pointed to the ground, my face reddening with the rush of blood, while his hands stretched my asshole open. Lips teased the creased halo of muscle. Cords of spit lowered into the winking anus. My sphincter gripped his tongue.

All this pleasure he gave me, and I have not once, until now, mentioned that magnificent cock!