Strangers in the Night, Part 2

Things were getting rather interesting. There was this stranger. 10 years older than me - give or take a couple. I didn’t know his name; neither did I know what he did. But, I was envisaging an amazing future with him.

“Future”, My mind screamed.
Why? What was it about him that drew me with a force so un-definable?

At that time while making coffee, I’ll say it was his eyes. Actually, I’ll say that even now. It was his eyes. Yes…. There was something about them. They were honest. Totally. Unlike most men I’ve come across. Unlike any man I’ve come across.

He came into the kitchen; put me on the slab; took over making the coffee. As we sipped the coffee, he told me about himself. He was 36, a professor of photography at the nearby University and he added, ever since the past one hour, he was crazy about me.

I laughed. My laughter incidentally, gets to people to the point of irritation. It didn’t seem to have that kind of an effect here.

“I work with an advertising agency as a photographer”, I told him.
“I shoot the stills for all the major campaigns, and I’m totally smitten your eyes.”

He smiled.

His hands lingered over mine for a moment too long.
He could sense the passion getting to me. He looked at me. I looked at him. Neither spoke anything. Neither did anything.

After what seemed to be an eternity, his lips touched mine.
And that was perhaps the last moment of sanity that was left with me.
After which, we were consumed by passion.

His tongue traced the outline of my lips. Slowly, sensually found its way inside.
My hands could have pulled his hair out of his head. But luckily for him, hair, if you notice are rather strong, and refuse to come out, no matter how hard you tug at them.

We stopped. I looked at him. I started un-buttoning his shirt; he started un-buttoning mine. In a few moments we were half naked.

“Don’t you plan on getting out of your skirt?”
“If you want me out of it, help me with it”

I flashed him a smile.
He laughed, and went on to practically rip the fabric off me.
He went to the refrigerator, took out a bottle of Champaign.
Uncorked it.
Poured it on my naked body, as if to anoint every part of me.
To revere me; to revere my body.
I felt like a goddess to say the least.

Thinking about it now, I think that’s a much better use for Champaign, and it does wonders to you, and to your partner. More so, considering I don't quite like the way it tastes!

It didn't stop there. He proceeded to methodically lick it off my body, to nibble every part of it, to turn the entire body into this highly susceptible erogenous zone. Each and every square centimetre of flesh. I never experienced feeling so vivacious, so alive; wanting him to carry on, yet wanting him to stop – all at the same time.

We were all over the house.
The kitchen-the living room-the shower-the bedroom.
No place was spared by us.
We did make use of the real estate rather well.

Passion took over all the more.

We proceeded - like following a well-written script to the biting and the scratching and the holding on to each other. We went on, and on to the point where the boundary between pleasure and pain transcends into being none; to the point where you totally lose control of your body; to the point where the body goes on to dictate terms. Where, you start thinking of ways and means, to make him squeal.... with pleasure. Where your touches and kissed and caresses give him pleasure, and he reciprocates in kind. And finally to the climax of passion and of lust and off all that goes with it – together.

----
“So?”
I was still thinking. I barely knew him, Mr. Professor of photography, or did I?
I looked at those eyes again.
Those eyes, that said nothing, yet said so much.
Those hands; those arms.
I looked into his eyes, and smiled.