raininjuarez:She waited for him at the gallery, as he had asked, in a small room full of large can
raininjuarez: She waited for him at the gallery, as he had asked, in a small room full of large canvases. She stood as he entered; she was smiling, expectant, a little nervous. As he advanced, she expected to fall into his arms, but instead he turned her to the nearest painting and moved behind her. With his hands on her shoulders and his lips at her ear, he whispered “tell me why you like this one.” Surprised by the request, she started to describe what she saw — the uneasy balance of juxtaposed, repeating blocks of color — and as she spoke, he drew the hair back from her neck and pressed his lips to her warm flesh. When he kissed her there for the first time, she drew a sharp deep breath and halted, but only for a second, and then continued as he had asked. She began to put the canvas into the abstract expressionist tradition —where the artist fit between Gorky and Kandinsky — and as she did, he tilted her chin up, one finger on the tip of her jaw, so that the tender flesh of her neck was stretched and exposed to him. His teeth scraped along this soft pale opportunity, and his lips and his tongue and his teeth then embarked on a slow, deliberate journey along her jaw, beginning just below her ear and traveling to her chin. She gave him a long, rich sigh. A sigh of desire released, of deep pleasure that came from something buried inside her escaping after a long confinement. And he fed on this sound. Traveling in parallel, the fingers of his right hand slipped effortlessly around her neck. He squeezed. She whimpered. When she sighed, she was telling him “yes, there, do that.” But the whimper … the whimper was about both need and reluctance. Both id and super-ego. When she whimpered, the “not here; we shouldn’t” message coming from her brain and the “god don’t stop” coming from between her legs married in her throat. The whimper was a compound sound of pleasure and surrender, of control over her body slowly slipping from her to him. As he slowly tightened his grip around her throat, he felt the rhythmic struggle of blood beating beneath his fingers, and his own pulse quickened at the labored, raspy constriction in her voice. After a time, he released his grip on her throat, and his hands began working their way down her body. His hands fed on her, feasted on her, devoured her, kneading and pulling and pinching and seizing her through her clothes. His mouth returned to her neck and the flesh from her shoulder to her collar bone, and his hands slipped down her shoulders to her arms, his fingers trailing lightly along the gentle taper along outside the edge of her breasts. She purred and leaned back against him, as if the sensations racing through her had robbed her legs of resolve. His fingers now curved along her rib cage, slipping in an arc at the bottom of her breasts, and he closed tightly around her frame. His hands moved with a purpose now, his fingers digging into her skin through the fabric of her blouse, working their way, slowly, south. His fingers fit into the slots between her ribs, then moved to her waist, where he made the power in his hands evident. He grabbed her, tightly, and pulled her hard against him, and when he did she could feel his stiffness against the small of her back. His hands worked their way down to the top of her thighs, and she could feel his finger threaten the hem of her skirt. She was aching — she was so wet — and the wild beast in her hungered for him to lift the hem, slip his fingers under her panties and then dig inside of her. But at that moment, they heard this meek “excuse me” from behind. And they saw that they were not alone, that a docent had joined them in the tiny room. The look on the docent’s face was a pained combination of revulsion and envy. “We’ve had complaints,” she said. “I’m going to have to ask you to stop.” [Please do not remove the text from this post. Thank you] -- source link