Favorite Actress

She unlocked the door with a modest smile. With the fanfare of trumpets in her head, "This is my home. I know it's not a lot, but it's mine." He loved the way those impossibly blue eyes lit up the room. They didn't match her hair or the rest of her appearance, striking, haunting, beckoning. It didn't matter what she was saying; it was just about the iricandescent glow of her eyes, as she said it.

He stopped at the bookshelf. He saw his weakness, the same one he always had from childhood, a book about baseball. Seeking consent (as he always did), he asked her ever-so-graciously if he could peruse the book. It was a book on baseball and the thing he loved most was the pictures. For a moment, he was lost in baseball history. Nothing else on earth mattered. Oblivious to what was going on, there were pictures he'd never seen before, stories of players he loved and then-

He felt a gentle hand on his shoulder. So engrossed in the book, he grew oblivious to what was transpiring. The other face in the room enjoyed watching his impossibly blue eyes light up when she saw his childlike wonder diving into the history, her empath sensing joy. Any other woman might have repaid that with anger. She took delight.

He turned around to see her ready to transition to the next part of the night, putting it mildly. Before him stared his date, elegantly and tastefully nude. Her dark hair, almost glowed from the reflection of the moonlight. Her skin was a beautiful tan color, natural, not cooked in a facility. Her face, he reflected when he met her, reminded him of one of his favorite actresses and while her face was distinct, still, he saw his favorite actress' face. Honestly, it made him smile to know that this was THE face he was about to kiss. The breasts, his favorite playground of the upcoming night, beckoned, beautiful, lovely, the perfectly right size.

One only gets the chance to see their lover bare for the first time. In the myriad out of all the people in the world she could show her body too, she has chosen you. As a result of this huge, mighty honor, our main character took a long look. He was not staring at his lover. He was staring at a sculpture of the finest art. He was about to make the choice to begin to "appreciate" the art in his own special way. But not yet. He wanted to look and wonder at the work of art before him. This is the best form of Stendhal Syndrome ever.

Finally, she thought, as he leaned in for a kiss. And it was a good kiss. He listened to her body during the kiss, oddly in tune to all the impulses and communication she offered non-verbally. As the kisses multiplied in intensity, the hands began to wander. Not wanting him to feel out a place, she began to remove his shirt, button by button, slowly, deliberately, making eye contact. She slid off his shirt, the undershirt underneath it, and she unbuckled his belt, pulling that out of its loop, throwing it to the side for later. The looseness of his pants now made it easy to slide down.

She produced a bucket from her kitchen, wrapping the belt around it. Coyly, she bent over her couch, motioning to the bucket. The world's most silent negotiation began as he began to caress her glorious, amazing ass. In a brutal whack, the impact echoed, surprising even her with the level of force applied to her body. This was no ordinary top and he did not hold back the first time; he only knew one speed. He only knew one way to hit and she was not going to relent. After the hand, he moved to the bucket. These were pretty tame as far as implements went: wooden spoon, spatula, wait is that a meat tenderizer? Thus the world faded away. After the last item in the bucket, she only had the strength to whisper one word, "Belt."

Finished, he turned her over, naked before him, intimate. Funny, as a writer I keep trying to find synonyms for this feeling; that is all I can think of. This moment was intimate. A brief face checking for consent and her eyes confirmed, a weak nod, all to accompany it. When you first touch down in the Jamaican airport, the first sign you see says, "Welcome home." This is how he felt that moment of penetration. He had found his home.

He felt it close, very close, leaning into her ears to say, "Cum for me now." With the sweet release, he felt the expanding and the contraction, reminding himself why the proper word for it is climax. Satisfied, he repaid her climax with his the fresh jolt of happiness and joy filling her inside. Collapsing, he laid down next to her. Throughout the night, they talked one million things, secrets of the soul, sweet mysteries of life. He stroked her back as he would now frequently every time given the opportunity. He reached down to rub what he had so ravaged with the variety of weapons. She was now his no questions needed.