His sweat smelled softly of different alcoholic drinks, and it was so good, I could have drifted on it, like a leaf on a summer breeze.
Long of limb, and very thin, so tall and with a nerdy, innocent look. I finally understood what makes his face look so much younger: he doesn´t look truly younger but childish because his face is more rounded, with a soft structure which is not consider the ideal of an adult male, but rather of a child and Young male. This makes him deceptively cuddly, innocent looking, even youthful. Despite his White skin, he sports a very smooth skin for a man in his early forties in a tropical country, so the trap was set.
Much to my dismay I found him as soft as I am. His flesh was not hard and toned, but rather soft and lacking of any muscle, like someone who avoid physical activities of any kind; not that I don´t relate to that, I am extremely lazy myself, it is only that I have met men older than him and with much more muscular tone.
I should have heeded my tarot cards and not tried to test that man. Besides his drinking and clear depression, there is a compulsive liar, even if to himself besides the world. His eyes are lifeless, and even when they hold your stare, they are shielded, clouded, hazy, without a spark of empathy.
His skin, scent and touch were insanely good, however, and that was puzzling. His cock was awkwardly small, considering his height, and his level of excitation varied with his level with intoxication, and I was determined not to let him come, and I didn´t. I, anthropologist of my own desire, should have backed off, and let that one curiosity go unexamined. I am a cat which, though not yet killed, is pretty injured because of explorations.
There is something about me that I have a difficult time controlling: I respond, nervous involuntary reactions that rake my skin, brain, sex, until I am too drunk to oppose anything, completely devoted to a moment and therefore exposed in my most fragile side. That´s when I reach ecstasy in even unusual ways, because there is this overload of stimuli… and his eyes sparkled when he first pulled my hair and played dominant. And I tried as best as I could do stand my ground. And when he pinched my nipples, first softly, I was caught off-guard by a rush of pleasure that coursed through my body, from sex, nipples to brain, stealing my breath, and he was alive, older, more himself perhaps.
Not the pain itself but the connection and the intoxication of his scent, voice and dare. I upped the stakes so easily.
When I could take no more, he rolled to the side and fell into his shielded self. I needed something different, the pain wasn´t enough, I wanted another rush, and his brushing his fingers on my skin was just awesome. I was truly naked then, and that was unbearable. He cuddled and snored softly and that brought memories of someone else, whom I still have feelings for, and I hated him and myself, understanding that I don´t like that vulnerable place myself and I had to run, to escape, to be on guard.
Sex is easy, I can have the most amazing orgasms, and be really happy in bed, however there are these few occasions when I feel vulnerable, for no rational reason, and at least at these moment and I must run. In that sense self preservation is an instinct I thoroughly trust. Run, I thought, and run I did.
Yes, I should have heeded my cards and not have tested that man, I´ve been going too far in search of my weird version of prince charming. At least now I get him… I think I do… or should I try and peek a bit further?