by Mia Allen
My mind kept drifting back to James. No man had ever touched me like that before. The way his hands would rove all over my body made me wild with excitement and animal lust. The way he would push me up against wall, whispering in my ear, “Is this what you want? Is it?” He was the sort of man I dreamed of when I first came to city. Someone who would appreciate my creativity. Someone who would help nurture me and provide for me financially. He was the kind of man my parents had warned me against; the kind of man who try to keep me dependent on him in order to control me. But now he was gone, stolen away from me. I had two days to pay the rent, or else I would be out on the street, or couch surfing from one apartment to the next. I didn’t want to go back to my old Bohemian life. I was sick of it years ago. That’s part of why I fell so hard for James. I wanted something stable and secure.
I could ask Samantha for the money, but that would be too embarrassing. The artist going begging to her well-paid lawyer friend. I wanted her to believe in me. I didn’t want her to see me as needy and desperate, crawling to her for money because I was stupid enough to believe that I could trust a man to take care of me. “Why do you let them treat you like that,” she would say, shaking her head, disappointed with how naïve I still was. I could go back to waiting tables at Nobu. The manager, Marianne, had always considered me one of her best waitresses and she was sad to see me leave. That job had helped get me through grad school. Going back to it now would be admitting defeat. It would make me just like so many other wannabe artists who come to New York seeking fame and fortune, but only ended up working one dead end job after another, returning home after work with no energy left for their art.
But hadn’t so many of my former art school classmates, especially the women, given up? They had expressed their wild, creative sides during two years of late night orgies, group fucks and other art school shenanigans. At the end of two years, they had gotten all that rebelliousness out of their system and they had the good sense to settle down and marry men with promising futures in finance, law or medicine.
I could always do the nude photo that had been offered to me a couple weeks ago by EDGE, the city’s hottest magazine for young artists. I didn’t think it was fair that female artists had to expose their bodies for public judgment in order for their work to get any recognition. I still had forty-eight hours to decide. If I accepted the offer, the money would probably sustain me for the next few months. If I didn’t, I was screwed.
I wanted to be a star. Maybe it was stupid, but I could at least admit it to myself. But taking my shirt off for a photo shoot didn’t seem like the way to go about it. The thought of having to submit to that, to have my body as the subject instead of my work made me sick. It was time to admit I’d been wrong, call my mother and tell her that I had failed, that she had been right. “You’ll never be able to support yourself,” she had said. “What you need to do is settle down and marry a lawyer. What’s your back up plan”? One time she even suggested that I start submitting applications for law school. We hadn’t spoke for a week after that.
I thought about my mother who had given up her dream of becoming a photographer in order to have a family and raise my brother and me. No way I was going to be like her. “Megan, why don’t you get married? You’re almost twenty-eight. You remember Sarah Peterson who lived on Watson Street. She just got married last week. The pictures in the paper were beautiful!” That was back home in the Midwest, Dayton to be exact. It was one of those places where the people who couldn’t make it in the big cities returned. I didn’t want to be just another young naive girl who went to the big city and couldn’t cut it. I didn’t want to have to admit that all those people who told me I wasn’t good enough were right.
I couldn’t take my mind off that mysterious patron I had met the other night at the exposition. The way he peered into my eyes nearly made me faint. I felt his hands roving up and down my body. I wanted to paint him, every muscle bulging in his powerful body. He could crush all my previous boyfriends. What had I been missing up to this point? What was I thinking? I looked around my apartment at the stacks of art books, the empty paint cans scattered everywhere, brushes, easels lying on the floor. I looked out my window onto the street below. How would I ever grow if I stayed in this city? I couldn’t even afford to pay the rent. And now I had no one to help me. I knew this wouldn’t be the last time I found myself in such a difficult situation.
What if that mysterious man became my patron? What if he made me an offer that I couldn’t refuse? He could possibly be the man I had dreamed of: a man to whisk me away and help support me as an artist. But maybe I was falling back into the same trap. I felt my body aching for him. I wanted him inside my swelling cunt.
***
That night I stayed on the couch sipping red wine, eating potato chips and flipping through the channels.
“Bang, bang.!”
A powerful fist banged on the front door.
“Who is it?”
“It’s me, James.”
Why the fuck was he coming back? Even though I was drunk, I knew that I shouldn’t have let him in, but I did anyway. He slammed me up against the wall, then got down on his knees and thrust his head between my legs. His tongue was hungrier and more passionate that in had ever been. He was usually such a lazy pussy licker—the kind of guy who did just enough to merit a blowjob. But this was different. He tongue fucked my clit, slurped up my juices. He jammed two fingers in and out of my swelling pussy. He took the two fingers out and sucked on them. I threw my head back and closed my eyes. He thrust the two fingers into my asshole. I gasped. He worked the fingers deep inside me. We fucked passionately for the next three hours, then passed out in each other’s arms.
I woke up the next morning with only my panties on. My mouth was dry from all the alcohol and cigarettes from the night before. My body ached from the intense fucking James had given me. I rolled over, reached out for his lean muscular torso. The other side of the bed was empty. I looked at my phone: three messages. I tapped the screen. They were from James. I froze. My heart sunk. I couldn’t believe what I was reading. He was really leaving. He had just come back for one last fuck, and a good fuck it was. After three years, three years of making promises and plans for the future. He couldn’t even wait until the morning to tell me to my face. What an asshole.
I got into the shower and let the warm water stream down my body. As the water came down, I began crying, then sobbing uncontrollably as I remembered everything that I thought we would build together. How could he leave me like this? It was all over. Everything I was afraid of was coming true.
As the water streamed down on my body, I began to relax and fantasize. I imagined Thomas, wrapping his hands around my neck, squeezing me, pressing his hard dick into my back, smacking it against my ass. Twice my size, he could crush me if he wished. I imagined him pulling me by the hair, kissing my neck, then cupping my breasts, sucking on the hard nipples as my fingers rove up and down his chiseled body. Every one of his muscles glistened with water. I felt my pussy tingling, aching, opening, hungry for his strong cock. It was the most muscular cock that I had ever seen—so strong and thick with huge veins running through it. He could impale with it, leave my pussy aching for days. But he was so gentle with it, a skillful lover, powerful and graceful lover. With the water still streaming over us, I got down on my knees and begin working his cock two vigorous hands. When wrapped around his anaconda cock, my hands looked like those of little girl. I marveled at the dimensions of his beautiful dick. It continued to grow. With one hand I worked his cock while the other clasped his balls. I took one of them, then both of his balls into my mouth. I looked up at him and smiled. I jerked on his cock forcefully while at the same time shoving two fingers up his ass. He’s would be comfortable enough with his masculinity to let me do that; he actually encourages it. James was never like that. Even though he was a good fuck, he was really uptight with doing anything that didn’t seem normal. I had always hated that but I put up with it bec
ause I loved him. But this was something different. Thomas made me feel that I could express all my desires with him, no holds barred. He leaned his head back, closed his eyes and groaned. He shot hot loads of come onto my face and began to jerk him even more wildly, pulling and pulling and pulling until every last drop had been extracted. I felt cum and water running down my face. He leaned over me, stared deeply into my eyes, then kissed me. I wrapped my arms around him and held him tightly. I was determined to never let him go. He would be mine, all mine. That’s what I hoped.
Chapter 3
Over the next few weeks, I spent several days with Thomas. I felt myself falling under his spell. He told me that he understood why I didn’t want to do the nude photo shoot, which several other up-and-coming female painters had decided to do. He told me that I had made the right decision by not compromising.
“But I still have to make money somehow,” I said. He smirked. Maybe he has a plan, I thought, an idea of how I can raise some money. But I didn’t want to ask him, didn’t want him to think that all of the time we were spending together, the late night walks through Central Park, the talks about where we could travel, and even talk about moving into together was all about the money. It wasn’t. I felt safe and secure around him—this powerful hulk of a man who would always be able to protect me, unlike James, or any of my previous boyfriends in the city, who I never felt quite safe with. He put his hand on top of mine, his big muscular hand. There was no ring on it. He had gotten divorced two years ago he said. He and his wife had grown apart. They had two kids together. Every two weeks he went up to Westchester to pick the kids up and bring them back down to the city. We he had been dating for the last three weeks, but he had yet to ask me to meet his kids. I didn’t really worry about it, but maybe I should have. What did worry me was that we couldn’t see each other as much as I wanted. He was always busy and frequently canceled dates.
I chalked it up to the fact that he was extremely driven and ambitious. He was desperate to make his name in the art world. While I admired his drive, it did bother me that he seemed so into his work that at times he forgot about me. I was also worried about him working with other young artists. I wasn’t the first pretty, young girl that he had taken under his wing. From what I had heard around town, and I swear I wasn’t going around digging up info on him, but from what I had heard he had carried on a brief but torrid love affair with the artist who had been killed a few weeks ago in her West Village apartment. There were even whispers, mostly by people who were jealous of his success, that he may have been involved. I knew that could not have been true. Not my Thomas, there was no way that he could be involved in something like that.
Thomas came out of the shower, sauntered across the room. He knew my eyes were on him. He let the towel drop to the floor. His large cock dangled between his legs. I got off the bed, got down on my knees and grabbed the thick slab of meat. It was fucking huge. I swirled my tongue around the head, jerked it with two hands. His god-like body rippled with muscles. I took one hand off his cock and started fingering my wet pussy.
I loved the taste of his mouth. It was different from what I was used to: the burnt out cigarette smoking, beer drinking mouths of the hipster man-children I often dated. And his full lips were unlike anything I had ever experienced. I was used to skinny lips, but his were so succulent, so full of life and passion. They were the lips of a man capable of kissing a woman to orgasm, and I’m not even talking about kissing my pussy lips. His lips on my mouth and his tongue jabbing in and out of my mouth and swirling around my tongue would make my pussy drip with excitement. The first time I took him inside, guided his huge cock into the hungry, wet pussy I felt as if his massive girth would kill me. It felt like I was being impaled on his rod. He had been so gentle though, rubbing its huge head against my clit, then slowly sliding that huge anaconda cock into my slick cunt.
Oh that first time! I grasped and screamed and kicked and cried for more and dug my nails into his back and begged for him to fuck me and fuck harder and harder. He squeezed both of my small pale butt cheeks in his muscular hands and hammered into pussy, kissing me, staring into my eyes, fucking me deeper than any man had ever gone. Before that night, I would not have thought that I was capable of taking so much cock. I would not have known that so much cum could shoot out of one man’s dick. His load, thick and creamy, was like that of three, four, maybe five guys. His body would shake just before he was about to bust his massive nut and I would be ravenous as it splashed on my face and lips and eyes and hair. I would lick it clean as it softened between my fingers, sneaking a glance up at his face. His eyes were usually closed at this point, head lolled back and he would grunt and sigh, until that beautiful cock had been drained of its seed, and flopped like a big piece of kielbasa between his legs.
His thick pulpy lips would swallow my cunt lips, while his machine like tongue whipped and stroked my pussy into a frenzy. I felt my juices overflowing and flooding his mouth. He wouldn’t stop there. No, his mouth was ravenous, his desire for me unlimited. I had never experienced the pleasure of a man so enamored with me, so driven by lust that he would feast on my asshole, licking it, slurping, driving his tongue deep into it, until I felt myself on he verge of coming, all of my nerve endings on edge, body shaking uncontrollably from the ecstasy and my hips flying up and the air and his powerful, forceful hands holding in place while his tongue buried deeper and deeper into my ass. It was so primal, so animalistic, so much different than anything I had ever experienced.
I felt my whole entire body quivering with desire, quaking, melting under his touch. So firm, so powerful. I felt moistness, dampness, a wetness in my panties. I squirmed. I blushed, my breathing got heavier. He told me that he admired me and that I was just the type of artist he was looking for. He didn’t want me to ever have to prostitute myself in order to promote my art. He wouldn’t allow me to do that to myself. He said he had a plan. A plan that would allow me to make money, become famous and travel the world.
“What is it?” I asked completely intrigued, hungry for change, hungry for fame and fortune and naïve enough to believe that this mysterious man could bring both to me.
I pulled my hands away from his, crossed my arms across my chest. I had to resist. I had to. I couldn’t allow another man to put me under his spell. I had to figure my life out on my own. But still how I could turn down his offer, how could I refuse his guidance, his love, his money. How? He was offering to whisk me around the globe to all the world’s art capitals: Rome, Paris, Barcelona, Berlin. There was no way I could possibly turn down such an opportunity. And he was offering me something even more precious than the bright lights; he was offering me his love and compassion and support. I felt the walls within me breaking down, felt his spirit, his energy, his strength invading my body, destroying any last resistances.
He was offering to take me out of the city, away from the smog and high rents and petty art world squabbles.
His eyes were so dark and penetrating. They were the eyes of man accustomed to seducing women, who knew how to melt a woman’s defenses with the heat of his passion. I wondered how many more women he had seduced before me. I knew then and there that I would not let him go, he would be mine for as long as I could possibly keep him, nothing would stand between our love.
The perfect man. My perfect boyfriend. But maybe I should have known that something was wrong, should have suspected that it all sounded too good to be true.
Chapter 4
It had been a week since I’d seen him, a week of wandering the streets in a daze, yearning for his touch, unable to paint, unable to think about anything except him, his touch, his taste, his smell. I pictured him lifting me in the air, pressing me against the wall, pumping me with his huge cock. One day during that week while walking through the Lower East Side I passed a playground, a playground with a basketball court one that I had probably passed hundred of times without giving it a second glance. But this time instead of walking past, I pressed myself up
against the metal fence surrounding the park and watched. Sweaty men in their twenties and thirties ran up and down court, wrestled for the ball, pushed, grunted, jumped. Their muscles glistened with summer sweat.
I imagined these men returning to my apartment, stripping off their clothes, stepping into the shower one after the other, their bodies fatigued, muscles sore, cocks dangling between their legs. I smiled, licked my lips. I noticed a few of them staring at me. “What’s that girl doing over there,” I imagined them saying. I placed one hand over my pussy. Wet. I began rubbing my clit through the thin fabric of my summer dress. Within in a few minutes my panties were completely soaked. I licked my lips again, closed my eyes, parted my lips, lolled my head back. When I opened my eyes I noticed several men staring at me lustily. I teased them for another ten minutes or so, and then quickly moved on as if nothing had happened. I would have to go looking for Thomas at his office. I couldn’t wait any longer to see him. I needed him inside of me, or else I was liable to fuck the next stranger who even remotely resembled him.