I’ve been called wicked before, by a failing artist who can thank me he’s alive and thriving.
It was a rough night, but it was Saturday, so that was good, and I was wearing my rainbow colored wide thread wool dress, trust me, I look amazing in it, but it’s not easy to describe, the backs revealed, and the thread is wide enough to see through it.
I wore a bright green bra, in the blue light of the club, it popped like diamonds in desert sun.
The mother fucker left me days before he was going to take me to Morrocco, I’d never even gone to Morocco so one may say that moving there on a whim is insane. I don’t think so, I’ve done more ludicrus acts. I once fucked an artist so well and for so long he made a 12 metre canvas with my name on it. Then I fucked him again and he made an exact replica but in black and white! Mad man, he called me wicked for that, but hey, I say “you’re welcome”. After all, my pussy was his muse and my viperine tongue kept him from making it even longer.
With Morocco off the table, and artist in sever depression, I guess I needed a new drug, a new way to feel alive, and bam… right on cue:
“Hey, excuse me, I just wanted to tell you you’re bra is showing.” I’m not going to lie, my first reaction was to tell him to fuck off, but he’d already gone. Disappeared into the crowd! He really just wanted to tell me that my bra was showing! In actual fact, a third of my nipple was out, but he was too polite to mention it.
So my second thought was: I need to find this guy. He was dancing to today’s music with yesterday moves. Good moves, well rehearsed, but still… not today’s. He was cute in a clumsy kind of way.
I approached him with a drink, I assumed he was drinking vodka, on the rocks. I was half right. He looked shocked at why I was coming to him.
“Why did you tell me about the bra?”
“If I were you, I’d like to know.”
“You wear many bras?”
“You didn’t like what you saw?”
“No, it’s not that its-“
“Are they soo ugly they need covering?!”
“No! Of course not.”
He stumbled for words, he nervously laughed. He’d never encountered someone like me. He was shocked, and curious, but not intimidated. I liked that. It was adorable, it turned me on. He wasn’t lacking confidence, yet he couldn’t find the words to reply.
“The problem is they weren’t exposed enough, and I rather have nothing, than just a taste.”
Uhhh.. feisty… yawn… But I’ll play along.
“What if you could have it all?”
What does all look like?
The cheeky fuck grabbed me and kissed me. Ok, that took me by surprise, I didn’t think he had it in him. I pulled away, smiling. And boom, the connection was made.
The blur to my flat was as it usually is on this kind of night -we discover as much as we can about each other’s bodies, but as it goes with other feeding frenzies, you don’t really care what part of the cow you’re eating when you’re ravishing. To be honest, you don’t even stop to ask if it’s even cow.
We got in bed, the fucking was hard and clumsy, as if you were trying to show off all your gimnastic moves in one routine. He stayed ontop of me, just observing me, eyes wide like a freshly made Anime character. He pushed the hair off my face, he’s thoughtful, I like that, maybe next time he can think about making me cum rather than showing me the 30 different ways to eat a pussy yet still not hit the spot.
He slid his hand under my head and under my pillow; I looked at him expectingly… and there it happened, swift and sharp…
Fuck! What the fuck!?
He pulled his hand back swiftly, a couple of drops fell on my face, his little finger was bleeding profusely. He coiled back. I smudged the blood drop over my cheek, like warrior paint, I took some of the cum left in my belly button and smudged it inside of me.
He was in the bathroom still trying to figure out what had just happened. He asked me if I was ok, he was concerned about the fact that he’d just bled on me, he didn’t care as much for the other fluids spread like butter on toast.
I took the knife out from under my pillow, and slowly walked to the bathroom. I turned the light off. I sensed him turning around, and a moment later, his innings curled around my grip, warming my hand and wrist.
Loves a wicked game, and I’m in no mood to be on the losing end.