erotic blue

(dear reader, it’s quite a long one, so I hope you manage to get through it all x)

It was the blue artwork that struck me about his room, I couldn’t take my eyes off it, even when completely engrossed in the moment, a moment of utter sexual release. My eyes kept catching its blueness, imprinting on my retina, my brain, this experience coloured by blue, beautiful blue, electric blue, erotic blue.

How I got here was unexpected, seeing old friends, a chat, a drink, another, how many of us there were I couldn’t say, numbers welled and numbers thinned as hours flaked off the evening. He invited me back to his room in the Halls of Residence, the ‘he’ in question being one of many faces I’d shared conversations with these past several hours and counting. The fourth floor, what a surprise, I’d never been this high before being that this floor was for the more prestigious of us academiacs, those with PhD level access, and as such the rooms were far more palatial than us mere mortals off the lower decks; and as an added bonus were seriously impressive views, and now here was little ol’ me feeling somewhat of an honoured guest to one of their brightest and best. What had I done to deserve this, I wondered? My conversation can’t have been that sparkling or insightful.

The first thing I noticed was the view, and the second was every wall had, not the plethora of blue-tacked posters and hastily-pinned postcards as was common with the usual student room, but instead carefully arranged proper artworks. Most were prints being that those I knew for a fact the originals were in some national art gallery somewhere but there were others, more abstract I didn’t recognise that I later discovered are originals from artists not well-known yet he either knew or just bought on a whim. Who knows, they may be worth a fortune one day. Known or not, it would still have cost him and I for one was not one with spare cash to part with for such things.

Another obvious thing about the art was most seemed to have a theme, erotica.

He was tall, just over 6 foot so tall for me being  only 5’3.  His skinny black jeans, lithe, shoulder-long black hair tufting on his head, dark almost black eyes, quite pale-skinned, which chimed with mine,  a smile that filled his face. Long fingers.

We had tea, very civilised, lemon and ginger for me, chai for him.  This man has taste, I thought.  More chat, more tea, then whisky, ah yes, the nightcap, so to speak. I’m half Scottish after all and it was, as he told me, a Highland single malt. Who was I to say no. It stung the back of my throat but after that initial surprise, not being a regular drinker of such the next sip settled more readily. I leaned back in the squishy armchair against my bomber jacket I’d discarded, in my black lace-sleeved v-neck blouse and a A-cut flared skirt wrapped around my thighs, while he settled for a rather art deco swivel chair.

It was blue, vividly so, almost surreal and painted as though by an artists who saw the world slightly out of focus, though not enough to affect form and perspective. Such almost rough brush strokes, perhaps a little careless and yet perfect at the same time: so blue. I asked him what it was called, he replied asking what I saw when I looked at it, first impressions. I said water, flow, or not water, intangible, something that wants you to reach for it yet at the same time remain out of reach; sensuality, of a kind, more questions than answers. He smiled. I couldn’t tell if it was approvingly or mockingly, in that way some snooty art people can be.

Returning from a bathroom-call I chose for no particular reason to sit on the edge of his bed as, perhaps to get a different perspective of the space, impressive as his rooms were, it was largely open-plan, but for the bathroom with bed and sitting space and small kitchen in the same space.  I hooked my legs up leaning on one arms with the whisky in my free hand.  He moved from where he sat and joined, beside my feet and began lightly touching my leg while we talked, mostly about the manifold meanings of blue. His hands rested easily on my bare ankle and calf.

Minutes moved into minutes and I’d laid back now, stared at the ceiling and pondered blue. This painting did have quite an impact, not to mention having become our main talking point.

His hand grew more animated as I did so, more adventurous. He sat closer now, against my fingers now investigating above the knee playing along the hem of my skirt.

He leaned over. We kissed.  Just like that, just the one, lasting a minute or so. It was all-consuming.  A hand gripped my thigh, squeezed, moved up to my hips, my waist. Our lips fed on each other while the urban lightscape outside the fourth floor window twinkled.

Shifting his weight he got between my legs which parted without question. Our lips met again.   Warm shivers unravelled wrapping their tentacles around each limb, binding us. A hand caressed my breast ruffling my blouse. The air felt suddenly thin, perhaps it was the altitude, my head gently swam. Perhaps it was the whisky.

My skin felt flushed, his hand slipped beneath my blouse and fondled my bra, fingering its lace edging. As though losing patience he pulled my top over my head then off both arms. He was all over me on his bed, feeling like he was claiming me, he was a shadow against the light emanating from two lamps in the room. I felt him touch my nipple, he’d slipped fingers into my bra and pulled it down far enough, then his lips, sucking, biting, I threw my head back onto the bed as his teeth sank in and his tongue licked my nakedness, my black bra no longer offering any kind of modesty layer. His hand moulding me, shaping me to his will, extracting my essence with sheer audacity.

Unhooked my bra fell away, he had me, all over my flesh played his lips and hands, his shadow, his breathing now feverish. It was stifling, overwhelming, it seemed to happen fast yet it wasn’t quick at all. It’d taken all evening, hours to get here, to a place unplanned for either of us, or at least it wasn’t mine. I found myself laughing then as quickly gasping for air, it tickled and it didn’t. I grabbed his face and pulled him into a kiss, our bodies pressed firmly to each other’s, mind beneath, somewhat contorted. I sucked his tongue into my mouth, why I don’t know, I too was now hungry. I wanted him and it seemed he wanted me and was going to have me, whatever. 

Not a word passed between us now for all the non-stop chat up until now as we were creating our own moving art. I saw blue, as though the hues from that painting were glowing, bouncing off everything. I was bathed in blue, him too but in a darker shade. He was topless. How had he managed that without me noticing? A battle was being fought inside and outside of us both.

He flipped me over and kissed my shoulder blades, pressing down on me with my head turned to one side. His lips travelled all the way down my spine until he reached the waistband of my skirt which instead of unzipping which would have been simple now he edged it up to expose my underwear, pink with tiny flowers. His fingers kneaded my buttocks taking his time as though drinking all of me in, the pale backs of my thighs which I can be so self-conscious about. His thumbs dug into my skin until he grabbed the elastic and tugged them away, accepting no option to this course of action; even if I had reached down to stop him he wouldn’t have allowed it. I was naked but for my skirt gathered around my waist as he forced my legs open for a view I knew would be very revealing and intensely intimate.

Massaging my thighs, particularly along the inside, momentarily brushing my bare vagina now on full view, flushed pink and moist. Bizarrely, I felt his teeth bite my left buttock making me yelp. He spanked me, one side, again and then again. I yelped again, he spanked again as the heat on the spots he hit felt increasingly hotter. It also increased my arousal to such a point I wanted him to do it again and again, keep spanking me until I had an orgasm, which was entirely possible at this point.

His hands left me for a moment while he unzipped his jeans and along with his briefs pulled them off, all the while I didn’t move from my face down, legs apart position. I could have but I didn’t, not that it took him more than a few seconds. He spread himself completely over me, our legs touching, his face against my neck, hit chest against my back, his hips to mine and his erection now rubbing between my buttocks as he moved up and down seductively. I was pinned to the bed as his hand grabbed mine and stretched them out.

We lay like that for several minutes, hearing his breathing, feeling his lips on my shoulders, his erection seemed to growing livelier, slipping this way and that and I felt stickiness of his precum smearing my skin. I could smell his masculinity, no doubt he could smell me too. He was strong.

Pulling back onto his knees he grabbed my waist and lifted me onto all fours, my arms and knees and kept a firm grip while he aimed his erection between my thighs until I felt its tip parting my sex, feeling more precum. I was in no position to refuse as he pushed himself into me, at first stretching my tightness as I held my breath and braced myself  until he slipped inside me an inch, another. I was guessing, for all I was sure about is he was inside me, how much of him I was yet to find out. Again he pushed and again it felt deeper, tighter still. Again he did it, again and again, fingers buried almost breaking the skin on my hips. He grunted, animal-like,  and thrusted again and again, each time felt deeper though am sure it couldn’t have been. He was thick, of that I now knew, he was also as hard as it must have been possible to be.

Again and again until he found his rhythm aided by me joining in as natural as it’s supposed to be, pushing back and he pushed forward. I looked down at the bed feeling so excitedly out of control and felt my body shake withy every jolt, my breasts hanging also moved in unison. His hands reached around and grabbed them and again, again, using me for leverage he forced his way deeper, or so it felt. Then he grabbed my hair and pulled my head up. I didn’t mind, I’m not hair-sore, in fact it felt even more arousing.

His stamina was amazing, his strength, his size. How many inches of him now were inside me, I couldn’t say having not had a good look before he decided to put it inside. Now he had me; or, I had him. He pulled my hair with each up-thrust, again and again until his other hand went to my neck to caress at first and then wrap his fingers around, bringing his face closer to the side of mine, I could feel the effort he was making as his hips became relentless thrashing against mine. His grip tightened around my throat but not too much, but also not too little. I felt some constriction while at the same time felt my first orgasm flood through me like magma.

I felt my entire internal structure collapse and then my arms and legs could no longer support me and too began to give way. He noticed and at once his cock was no longer inside me as he flipped me over again. I was now staring up at him and once more noticing the blue hue that filtered the light in the room. Before I could compose myself and still feeling my orgasm subsiding he had my knees up high and was again pushing into me, easily this time on the slick mess we had already made; I had already made. I smelled our sweat, it was intoxicating.

I caught the look in his eyes, wild, and then he thrust hard and my entire body convulsed almost breaking my back, and he kept on like this slamming into me again and again, then again and again. It almost hurt but was just on that edge. My skirt would be ruined at this rate, which was such a strange thought to have right then.

He was vocalising a lot now but made no sense, or no words as such I could translate. He didn’t relax for a moment and any breath I wanted to get was hard-won on my part. I was going to cum again, I just knew it, felt it, how tender my thighs had now become. I held back but didn’t last long before once again I shook with the release, the relief. Except, there was no relief, even when I asked him to slow down he didn’t and again I was skimming the edge of pleasure and pain.

I could never have thought earlier in the evening that he, of all people, would be like this, so frenzied, so unleashed. I had imagined he might be gentle and quite conservative in his love-making but no, here was the proof. A dark horse perhaps, but then, wasn’t I as well?

Does he ever cum? I wondered as we fucked ourselves into a sweat bath, my hair sticking now to my head, I even felt him drip from his face onto me, and yet despite this my whole body was still alive and willing and wanting more.

He gave me more and I was turned again onto all fours and felt him enter me over and over having still not cum himself. He was still so hard, harder I guessed. He must have amazing will-power or he’d taken something. His cock was siding easily inside me now as my body has totally surrendered to him and what was to come. He again grabbed my neck and levered my semi-upright which forced my hips against his pushing him deep into me as again he sort of spoke but any words that were there made no sense. All I heard was me saying, yes, Over and over, yes. I couldn’t help it, it felt as if it was all long out of my hands.

His voice grew louder and as such my own did, though what else I might have said I can’t recall in the fire of this moment. A gentel squeeze on my neck and inside my sex I felt him twitch, it was subtle but there, like a change in pitch of a song. I opened my eyes and saw blue and then for the third time I cum, and just as I did he also finally, finally released himself and flooded my hips with his semen, with what felt like an unreal amount which, even before he was done, was trickling down my thigh.

He kept fucking, we kept fucking, my body was exhausted but didn’t stop, He must have been drained but didn’t stop, not until I imagine he was sure he was done, that all of his cum was inside me. It was, except for what found its way out.

We froze, like a statue of lovers suddenly cursed by the gods turned forever to stone, or amber, upright, him behind me, still inside me, my face towards the ceiling, one hand around my throat the other my waist, my nails having dug into his arms. Then we collapsed, or I did and he let me tumble onto the bed, a husk of what I was hours ago, skin still feeling the entrails of embers, and that tinge of blue suffusing the room.

I looked up at the painting again, now I knew what shade of blue it was: erotic blue.

© 2021 Emmaleela

8 Comments

  1. thanks so so much, I loved writing it, feeling it flow and I do keep writing as much as I’m able, having got quite a lot here and I always hope I’m getting better at expressing myself 🙂
    thank you Bob x

    Like

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