Tattooed Moon (20 page)

“Ahhhh….Oh God…” Milan sighed as she fell back against the bed, suddenly aware that she was covered in sweat and hotter than a stolen car on a one hundred degree day. Her body had conked out, and now, all she could do was stare up at the man, who was pounding deep inside of her, making her feel every damn inch of his rock, hard arduous nature.

“Uhhhhh!!! Almost there!” he cried.

“Do it, let me see it!” she urged, suddenly filled with renewed life.

“Where do you want it?!” he screamed, fighting against the clock and his demanding cock.

“Cum on my stomach…”

Julian suddenly pulled out of her and ripped the condom off, causing a popping noise. Grasping one of her breasts, he stared into her eyes and pumped his dick a few, hard and fast strokes, forcing his copious, creamy load to shoot onto her tummy. “Uhhhh! Uhhhh! Mmmm!” he groaned, jerking his dick hard and rigorously, covering her in his liquid appreciation. “Uhhhh….shit!” He sat up on his knees for a spell, his eyes closed, his heavily tattooed chest heaving, and breathed hard and heavy. Ropey strands of sweat flowed down the man’s face like shower water in slow motion as his body glistened and contorted, making those damned tattoos dance as if they had legs, rhythm and reason…

He was…so beautifully made.

Milan looked up at him, her eyes struggling to focus as bits of blurriness took over her vision. During moments of clarity, she gained her appreciation of such a masculine, stunning display. Even if he had not had one illustration on his toned, fit, body, he still would be a walking piece of art that she wanted to study, savor and devour with her mind, body, and now, her tattooed soul. Julian’s temple shook against her, as if having an aftershock. He swallowed hard, let out a fractured breath. She was afraid to blink, afraid she’d miss one glimmer of magnificence. She stared at his dick, now only half erect, trembling at the sight of its splendor, and surveyed the mess he made on her. Dare she admit it, the sight of it turned her the hell on. Following her eyes, he glanced down at her, now reminded of his dick painting… Shades of white…

‡

“Y
ou want to
take a bath together?” he offered, sounding a bit winded.

Milan nodded and sat up slightly, afraid to disturb the sheets too much, lest she get everything sticky. She had no reason to worry. Julian excused himself, and in the distance, she could hear him preparing the waters, tinkling around in the bathroom. She noted the fast moving shadows, but not too fast…no, just the right pace to let her know he was hurrying, but not rushing.

Soon, he was back at her side and lifting her in his arms. Incense smoke bellowed from behind him in lazy clouds, daring to be observed as they waved their flagrant scents for them to enjoy. He carried her away like a new bride, looking lovingly down at her as the incense continued to pet her face and kiss her nose with pecks of Egyptian musk. When they’d entered the blue and black tiled bathroom, she was in awe how he’d taken the time to place on some new music, some funky chill remix of Freddie Joachim’s, ‘Sweep Away my Sorrows’. He’d lit flickering jade tea candles that made the bathroom dance with sensual flames…

So romantic…

He lowered her into the water—at the perfect temperature—filled with glorious clear, iridescent bubbles and ripples that framed her languid form.

I feel so relaxed, so alive…

From the safety of her new wetland digs, she observed him remove two thick washcloths and towels from the slender shutter closet door inside their aquatic retreat. He laid them down on the toilet seat, then turned to her and placed one long muscular leg after the other inside the basin, until he was sitting on the opposite end, his feet on either side of her. The mischievous glimmer in his eye delighted her soul, called to her on so many levels. The drip of the faucet added the perfect percussion sound as they both just simmered, enjoying one another, melting into silence. The exchange remained nonverbal for quite some time, their shared glances saying enough. They said nothing, but said everything. No words exchanged for the time being…

The, he broke the quiet with the simplest and purest of declarations, while he moved his fingers along the edge of the tub, as if trying to remove a stain, or a sticker that refused to budge. “I’m not
through
with you.”

He shifted a bit in the water, causing it to crash against her breasts, now growing a wee bit cold while the rest of her simmered hot and bothered right below the surface.

“When we get out of this tub, I plan to have you again and again, until I’m too tired to do it anymore…and after I rest, I’m going to eat your damn pussy…then I’ll be inside of you again…until…the break…of dawn.” He slicked his long tongue over his lips, his gaze hooded.

“What about what
I
want? What about
my
wishes?” she teased, no doubt looking coy as her pussy throbbed from his commanding words.

“These
are
your wishes. And I’m in the granting business.”

“Well.” She grinned, looking at her toes that peeked up out of the water as they grazed against his upper thighs. “Since you think you know everything, what do I wish for right
now
?”

“I’ve already figured that out, too. You’re spending the night. The groceries can wait until the morning. Your wish is my command, baby…” And before she could respond, protest or tell him that her pussy was wet again but the damn tub filled with sudsy water covered her truth, he rose on all fours, crawled to her like a prowling lion. The water sloshed about, but her gaze fixed on his eyes that were full of deviancy, like the dark smile on his handsome face…

Fuck!

*

“This is called
St. John’s Wort.”

“That sounds like something a Catholic occultist puts in a pot,” Milan quipped as they sat at Julian’s black granite kitchen table, her groceries piled into the man’s refrigerator, making it now at full capacity. She was surprised it didn’t burst at the shiny, black seams. The guy insisted on purchasing them when she was more than capable of getting her own things. He also slipped some of that ‘funny food’ into her cart, the kind with only three or four ingredients written on the back and looked as if it had been pulled up by the root from some old lady’s overgrown backyard. She pretended to not notice as she pulled the strings from his over-sized black hoodie she now wore and lowered her gaze once again to her bowl of cereal…

Cereal…

A nasty taste coated her tongue like prickly pickle juice as a troubling memory bubbled up from the recesses of something hidden and locked away like the long, lost hellacious ordeal that it had been. She hadn’t thought about it since her mother’s passing, yet here it was, filling her mouth with puddles of saliva that made her want to vomit…

Vomit…

Mom threw up a lot towards the end…couldn’t keep any food down. But she kept down the cereal.

The memory had been awakened the day after she’d met Julian, but now, it demanded center stage.

“…It had to be done just right,” Milan mumbled as she ran the spoon through the bowl of vanilla coconut milk and the Captain Crunch she insisted upon, despite Julian’s warnings regarding the dyes.

“What had to be done just right, baby?” he asked as he popped a thin, wheat cracker into his mouth and closed the refrigerator door.

“Her cereal. If…If I had the dried fruit in there, the apples, you know, from the oatmeal, then I had to pick it all out… but she didn’t want the plain oatmeal; she’d throw up that. No, it had to be apple, but
without
the apples, and it had to be a specific store bought brand, not Quaker. She could tell the difference. I had to go to that store, because no other stores carried it…” Milan didn’t understand what she was saying or why, but doing so felt cathartic. So she treaded forward, dragging her internal craziness right along for the ride.

Julian kept mum, just moved casually about, shirtless, his jeans unbuttoned at the waist, like he belonged in the web of insanity of her declarations. He’d unbuttoned them as soon as they got home, giving her more evidence that his comfort level with her had increased tenfold.

He nodded as she spoke, as if she were singing a song that he liked and acknowledged, then casually grabbed a shiny red apple from a ceramic bowl on his kitchen island, leaned against the counter, legs crossed, and bit into the thing. His eyes, so blue, said so much, and that dark hair fell all over his shoulders, now with a slight wave from their mutual shower earlier that morning—the one where he caressed her shoulders so slowly all the while sucking on the side of her neck, and rocked inside of her until she fell apart against the slick, wet wall…

He chewed noisily, his brows dipped in deep deliberation. Transfixed by the sight of him, she felt as if she could just do this—this shit that she didn’t want to do, but felt compelled to. As if sensing her internal struggle, he looked down at his bare feet, strong limbs covered in veins and a small baby toe on each foot that turned awkwardly towards the others as if needing their opinions to simply walk. She grinned at the notion, but the joy was brief, so very brief…

“Keep going…”

His urgings sounded like song lyrics, drifting on deaf musical notes that no one heard, but loud and clear to her.

“The cereal, I’d put it on a tray.”

“What color was the tray?” He took another bite of his apple and looked down at his long hands, nonchalantly studying them.

“Does it matter?”

“It doesn’t.”

“Why ask then?” She turned away from him, shoving her own bowl aside.

“Because you want to tell me the story. So,
tell
me…”

“It was cream colored, an off-white. She had to have the orange juice, too. It had to be in a certain glass I had. She said the glasses were hers, and that they’d been in her family for years. That wasn’t true. I’d just bought those glasses from Macy’s before I moved her in with me. She threw the cereal at me, telling me it wasn’t the kind she liked.” Milan hung her head, scratched at an imaginary itch under her nostril. “Julian…watching her die was the worse experience of my life. Even crueler though was watching her trapped in her own goddamn body, and her brain failing her, every damned day.” Her voice cracked like a fallen egg against the floor. “She was…miserable. She became combative, not herself. I had to wrestle her into the bathtub most mornings. The cereal became my obsession. I’d stand there in my kitchen, before she awoke, and I’d…I’d count each piece of dried apple. It was crumbly, white dust was all over it from the oatmeal flakes. I still remember how it felt between my fingertips.” She ran her fingers together, as if she were carrying a piece at that very moment.