Tete de Negresse
So tired of diamonds. Diamonds and the occasional ruby, emerald, pearl, peridot. Diamonds, though. They were the worst. And the most repetitive. Only so many ways that you could cut one, rearrange sparkling stones in circles, ovals, oblong tear drops.
Leaning back in his chair, he tapped his pencil against the drafting paper. The same whirl of flowers, imitations of patterns of natural, spiraled from the page. Closing his eyes, he rubbed them, then his temples. Making beautiful things shouldn’t be this hard. The designs had once flowed from him.
Looking over at the dancing flame atop the candle, he let his hand drift over the paper, long curved arcs mimicking the flow of wax. Ah. There was a curve he could work with. He sat up, leaned over the board, copied the fat curve again with more of a twist in his wrist. Now it was beginning to look like something. Something familiar. Maybe that’s where he’d gone wrong; by trying to do things more exotic, more what had come before him.
He was hunched over his desk now, barely mindful of the way his knees bunched against the underside of it. He added an angle to the drop – and, leaning back to take a distant view of the new shape, laughed. That’s why it was familiar.
His drop of wax had turned into the conical shape of a breast.
And not just any breast. With a few more curves…there it was. He ran his fingers over the line, barely noticing the smudge left behind. She had the most divine breasts he’d ever seen – from the orange blossom gossamer white of the nobility to the strange glimmer of peasants covered in soot and dirt and animal shit, no, they, hers, were something that had been carefully crafted. Proof of God – only something holy could have created them. The nectar of her pomegranates, indeed.
They had molded themselves into his hands, taunt flesh, firm, heavy where they curved against her chest. He’d traced the half moon of them, his favorite spot just so, right where they began their gentle swell from the arc of her arm. Through the tangle of dark hair under her arm, bearing her strong musk even under the dusting of rose water, oily and slick, he let his fingers wander, his face buried in the crook of her neck, tasting her sweat, the heavy oil of perfume, the lips of others. Her fingers threaded back in his hair, the pillows of her full lips, free of rouge against his temple.
He tilted his head back, memories washing over him like smoke. His left hand, unoccupied by the pencil, drifted to his thigh.
How he’d worshipped them!
If he closed his eyes, exhaled long enough, he could feel the silk smooth skin – smoothness, brown like the froth on his cup of chocolate stopping at the dark mahogany of her nipples, silk giving way to the sight bumps of the skin of her areola, puckering under his fingertips into the sigh of her erect nipple. Against the roll of his casino oyna fingertip, her nipple firmed, a sleek pebble. He always resisted the urge to pinch right then – he waited, toyed with it, marveled at the feel until her breathing grew heavier, her French slurred, her fingers in his hair tightening.
In the real world, the air growing warmer about him, his left hand wandered further to the burgeoning bulge in his breeches. He dropped the pencil, tilting his head back, he raised his fingers to his lips, pushed past them until his graphite stained fingertips were in his mouth. Ignoring the bite, he began to suck them, his left hand indolently stroking himself.
His own fingers were a poor substitute for her darkness, but here, he could imagine, remember, letting go of her from behind, cupping her breasts in his hands, placing one last kiss to the tremulous pulse in her throat, letting his hands run lower, down the plane of her chest, to the dip in her navel, but, ah, one hand always had to stray back, to cup a breast again, to, now, allow himself that teasing pinch, that pull, her breathy little gasp. Rolling the nipple between his fingers, gently, then firmly, he tugged on the flesh, watched as her breast reluctantly followed the pull of his fingers. Her dark skin, so rich, blossomed maroon under his hand, and for a moment, he had to let go to admire his handiwork; slip around to the front of her, letting his hands trail over her, the work of the hand of a neglectful God.
Undoing the front of his breeches, he leaned back further in his chair, parting his legs. Through the dense thicket of his pubic hair, his cock was alive, his foreskin sliding easily back from the deep pink of his head, slightly purple under the dancing light of the candle. A tentative grasp at the base of his cock, he hissed as it throbbed in his palm, his hips involuntarily bucking into his grip. A few careful, slow strokes, and his moan was stifled by his fingers.
He’d knelt in front of her, more than once, slipped his hands under her garish skirt, past the ratty petticoats, up her bare legs, across the high rounded mound of her ass, lingering there, tracing intermittent circles, pressing his cheek against her bare stomach. Lifting higher, the crown of his head brushed against the undersides of her breasts, welcomed by her throaty laughter. Turning his face into her, he pressed his nose into the roundness of her stomach, the ridge of her ribcage against his cheeks. Inhaled, exhaled, his breath damp against his face. Her fingers against his shoulders, impatient now, biting into the sides of his neck, digging into the curl of muscle. His tongue darted against her, teasing, savoring the taste of grease, sweat, the tremble in her stomach fluttering to her voice, the taste of her, only her. Lazily tracing the pattern laid by his fingers before, he angled his head, savoring the fat half-moon canlı casino of the underside of her breast. Here – it tasted more of her than anywhere else, even more her than the humid black forest between her legs.
Precum, clear, and sticky, beaded between his fingers, slipped down the bell head of his cock. He bit at the fingers in his mouth now, stifling another groan.
Finally, he would reward himself – closing his lips around her erect nipple, he exhaled against her, luxuriating in the calming stillness of her hands. They were always still on his shoulders when he did this, she held her breath too, as if she was standing on tiptoes. His tongue flicked against her nipple; across the bumps of her areola. He recreated her areola now – long strokes, using only the tip of his tongue, around and around, slowly, drawing the perfect circle of her, before “filling” in the deep brown of her with broad strokes now, lapping across her breast, before, always, as a finishing touch, he left his signature, a single, playful tongue tip tap to her nipple.
“C’est magnifique,” he always said, as she pressed his face between her breasts. “C’est magnifique,” he’d repeat softly, into the swell of her. She’d laugh again, lift him from his knees, guide him to the ramshackle bed with the once fine blanket. She laid down before him, languidly stretching her arms over her head, her breasts sliding up with the gesture, the candlelight casting strange shadows on her. She tilted her head down, casting her gaze up. Midnight black under the arches of her brows, an odd little smile on her face: humoring, distant.
His strokes were faster now, his right hand slipping from his mouth to run down his chest, digging into the skin of his pectorals, mimicking her burning touch when she was astride him, dangling her breasts, irresistible clusters of grapes, over his mouth, laughing and twisting out of his grip when he reached up, tongue outstretched, begging for the slightest taste. If he begged hard enough, if he pushed into her hard enough, so hard that she arched her back, sat erect astride him, she’d lower herself to him, nearly smother him with her bounty, warm and soft and with the bite of their mingled sweat, and somewhere, buried beneath her musk and rose water and grease there was the taste of burnt sugar cane, an earthy sweetness that clung to her here better than anywhere else.
She held her breasts to his mouth, offering them like a cup of water, tilting the yielding flesh into his mouth, hissing at him when in his excitement, he bit too hard, or carving scarlet lines into his chest with her blunt nails as a correction, and he would lighten the grip of his tongue, his teeth, his lips, back to the lazy nursing that she allowed, the weapons of her fingers back into the kindness of caresses.
In the real world, wrapped by the acrid smell of burning chemicals, the kaçak casino heavy scent of his cologne fading, his balls tightened against him, and he shuddered, fisting himself harder, carving the memory of her into his chest, pressing hard enough to make sure that the welts stayed this time.
Her flesh blossomed maroon again here astride him, when she wrenched her torso away from his mouth, held him down with a slender hand and took her pleasure from him, her hips slamming powerfully into him. He would have faint bruises the next day, intimate blooms of blue and violet before wilting into yellow and green. Unlike the others, she never howled his name, screamed false endearments. She came around him like an unwinding sheet, tight, gripping, with a full body shudder before her cunt spasmed about him, a little cry slipping from her mouth, faint as a whisper. And always in that moment, he would have a fit of cruelty – he gripped her hips until she sighed, slammed her into him, harder, over, and over, bathing himself in her cum, until her erratic clenching, the aftermath of her orgasm, spurred him into his own, and he would always snarl himself hoarse, holding her tighter, harder, firmer against him, so she couldn’t move, so she couldn’t spill him, so he could pull her down to him, so he could lick and suck at her breasts until their sweat stung his lips.
Here, in the real world, alone, he came with a sudden sob, not bothering to try and stem the long arcs of heavy cum onto his table, onto the paper. Spent, he let his hands drop by his sides, tilting his head back, remembering. Remembering that fat curl of wax, the manipulations in pencil.
“Monsieur, they are beautiful!” She admired herself, turning this way and that to catch her reflection in the glass.
They were the wrong color on her – the vivid yellow of the gold made her pale skin look sickly. And against the carefully arranged sloppiness of her Merveilleuses hair, they were brilliant drops of sun. But still, he held up the glass up, tilting it so she could find the best angle to admire herself. Her body was near washed out by the sheer white chemise she wore, clinging to her body by way of rich perfume.
“I am pleased that Mademoiselle is pleased.” His voice was rough – enough so that she stopped in her preening and looked at him closely.
“You look quite pale; the skin under your eyes is nearly blue. Did you stay up all night to make these?”
“I had to ensure that they were perfect.” The lie slide with ease from his tongue. They had to be perfect, perfect for her memory. He’d carved the individual bumps, the prominent raised nub in the center had to be just so. Perfection in gold. Immortal.
“They are. de Beauharnais will have an absolute fit and then will ask you for a pair. Don’t you give them to her!”
He watched her, a practiced smile on his face. “I will not tell a soul that I made them specifically for you.”
She smiled. “What do you call them, then? I want to know what to tell everyone when they admire them.”
“Tete de Negresse.”