Saturday morning drags its way towards me.  Ever since we agreed on a day time has slowed to a catatonic slur and I have thought of little other than having you sit for me.

The wild thoughts, the fantasies, the images have been breeding in my mind.  Crowding out all constructive thinking with noise and energy and sensations all birthed from the memory of our first encounter.

My easel is set up and I have prepared the space well.  The day is laid out before me like plunder.

I suddenly feel ready.

As if deliberately timed my door chime rings.  You’re here.

I come down to the front of the building to meet you.  There is a hug and a peck on the lips which bats at my heart like a kitten with a ball of wool.

We enter the lift.  Silently my hand finds yours and our fingers interlace.  I can hear your breathing change. I can feel mine deepen. The kiss is hungry and quick - a raid, over before the door opens loudly on its rail.

I take your hand and lead you to the flat, opening the door for you.  I watch you as you put your bag on the couch and take in the scene, the easel, the chair draped in a sheet that you will obviously be sitting in.  Your eyes scan the tables crowded with paper and jars of brushes, the large drawing board looming over the far end of the room, the functional nature of my chaos doesn’t seem to escape you.  You get it.  You turn to look at me.

“Best we get started then,” glides from your lips like a velvety secret.

“The bedroom is over there.  You may disrobe in there and come through when you’re ready.” I say, commanding as detached and professional an air as I can. Which, considering what moves underneath your clothes, is no mean feat.

You emerge.  Dressed only in the old flannel shirt I put out for you.  The sleeves are rolled up to reveal delicate wrists, finely wrought arms and the exquisitely formed hands I remember running over my skin.  Divinely realised legs emerge from below the hem and end in the feet I remember kissing and the toes I remember caressing with my mouth.  My jaw clenches like a fist.

The shirt comes off, lying next to your bag and you sit.  The initial poses are flamboyant and loose and eventually the drawings take life, coming more and more easily as the wheels start to turn more freely.  Conversation flows and mingles with the music which pulses gently and warmly in the air between us.

Eyes lock every now and then.  Smiles stake claims on wrapt faces at every opportunity.

Time for the first break.  You put on the shirts and come over and look at the easel.  Pressing yourself against me.  Pressing your hand against me.

Pressing down harder as my cock starts to press back.  You say nothing. You gently stroke and grip me.  Turning your face to mine and whisper that it’s time to continue.

The next poses are longer and more contained.  Every now and then you draw in a leg and put an arm behind your head, revealing the arm pits I kissed so eagerly.  But eventually you sit with the poise and presence of an old world queen.  Something about that pose rings true for you.

At the end of that you come and look again. This time just brushing against me.  Slowly swaying your hips back and forth against me. I’m on fire now.

The last pose is long.  The music has ended.  The conversation gone with it.  The air between us now thick with intent. MY eyes move over your body with the same intensity as my mouth had done.  I can taste you. Eventually the drawing is done. The pose is elegant, fearless, unabashed.  It is so charged with your sexual pull that I can feel it reach for me from the page.

You put the shirt on.  Come over and look at it.  This time you just stare.  Your breathing changes. With one finger you trace the line of your hip on the page.  With another finger your own hip.  You read other parts of yourself like this.

I take your hand and guide it over the drawing, your other hand following on your own body.  I guide your hand further down until you gasp.  Your finger now inside you.  I take my hand and put it over that hand.  We stand together.  Staring at each other. As both our hands now soak in your arousal.

I’ take your hand and put your fingers in my mouth. I love how you taste.  You reach for my belt and take down my pants.  I pick you up and you wrap your legs around me.  And we just fuck were we stand.

Your first orgasm screams from you.  You lie limp in my arms as I carry you to the bed.  Where I thrown you down and just go to fucking town on you.

I pin you down and just enter you.  Hard and deep.  Long slow hard strokes.  Like a giant clock chiming the witching hour.  With each strike you squeal, gasp, moan or scream.

You flood me as you come over and over. Your mouth on mine, more of those bandit kisses.

I flip you over and you go on all fours.  I pull you back by your hair as I fuck you. Hard loud strokes knocking lungfuls of breath from you.  You shove back into me and the orgasm leaves you in a long low roar.

I flip you over again. And this time I don’t stop fucking you.  You keep coming and screaming until suddenly I cannot hold it in any more.

My orgasm blinds me.  I can feel my eyes roll back in my skull as the air leaves my body in a booming baying of satisfaction.  Sticky hot come leaves me in huge spurts and fills you.

We lie there like this, our lust oozing from inside your, our kisses like the tandem breathing of divers at the bottom of some stormy ocean. I am still hard inside you, still slowly rocking back and forth.

The next day I wear the shirt.  Your smell all over me the same way a vivid dream tints the following day.  This is how you stay with me.