“Do you like my cock?”
David asks me for what seems like the millionth time since we slept together for the very first time. And it was only four months ago. Tonight is no difference from our previous dates.
He stands in front of the ceiling-to-floor mirror, admiring his lean-and-chiseled looks. The body of a professional surfer; which he’s everything but.
While I am lying on the bed, stripped down from my formal dinner wear to my birthday suit. Cuddling a fluffy white pillow, half-covering my lower part, looking at his arse.
“Hhmm ...,” is my only response, before trying to change the subject by asking, “Don’t you think this room is too cold?”
David took me to his penthouse in City Central after having dinner at The Bistro with the Smith-Kleins. The look of this unit really fit in with his bachelor lifestyle.
The impressionist paintings, the handwoven foreign-made rugs, the personal gym-corner, his large two one-seater couches – a couple of Lazy Boys, my guess – facing this huge plasma TV. His home theatre set.
I simply could not imagine him living in a nice house in suburb with a family of his own. He just does not fit in for such picture.
What I think does not match with this whole picture of his bachelor style apartment is, surprisingly, ... his bed. It surely feels comfortable enough to lie all day and cuddle with him on it. It’s the linens that keep bothering my mind. As if he borrowed them from any expensive hotels around town. Have you ever noticed that all hotel linens are always bleached white, no matter where you go?
“No. It’s just fine with me. You know well I can’t stand heat.”
“But it’s just last weekend we went to the beach and there you were soaking yourself under the sun.”
“Well, that’s different. What else you’re gonna do on sunny beaches?”
“Hhmm ...,” is the only voice comes out of my mouth.
“You haven’t answered my question, dear. Do you like it? Do you like my cock?”
His left hand touching his lower part.
“Oh, yes,” I whispered in such a low voice, yet adding some adjectives to please him. “It’s so straight and beautiful and pink and warm in my hand.”
“You want it, don’t you? You know it can give you pleasure, don’t you think?”
He walks closer to bed. I almost feel like he intentionally wants to shove his cock in front of my face. So I raise my head, now supporting it on my left hand. My head tilt a bit lower and I smile.
I want to shake him out of his consciousness. I want to stare him straight in the eyes and ask: Why do you always ask that question? Why do you need, constantly, of my approval? You’re a successful businessman. You have the power to move millions with a single phonecall. You are one of the most sought after bachelor in this state. Why, then, is my opinion of your penis so important that you must ask me about it twelve times in half an hour?
“Oh, yes. That’ll be fantastic.” My hands start to become busy giving him the job, something that David said I have a talent of.
What talent? Can you say jacking off someone until he comes is talent?
Ask any teenage boy. He would definitely laugh at the mere thought of it.
“You know my thick warm cock would feel so good inside you, fucking you for hours, until I cum on you,” his breath is getting harsh, which is a good sign for me. I’m hoping for speed on this one, simply so that we can be done with all the cock-talk, and I can finally rest. The dinner we had hours ago somehow drained me out of vitality. Must be because all of the political pep-talks.
He reaches and pulls me upward. He has this habit of pulling me way to close as he gets excited, so that it feels like he breathes on my face. Somehow, the way he does it, always exarcebates my irritation. “Oh you know damn well I’d fuck you for hours.”
Splendid!
I believe he surely thinks that’s the only thing I want in this world right now.
“Oh, yes. That would feel so great,” I say, starting to calculate how long will it take for me to get up, get dress, take the elevator down to the lobby, and ask the concierge to get me a cab and leave, once this is all said and done. But it’s Friday night. It should take him longer to hail a cab for me. The concierge, not David.
“Slow down, darl. I don’t wanna come yet …”
Damn!
“Oh, no. I don’t want you to come yet, either. Your cock feels so good …”
The hands of the clock on his bedside table show it’s almost midnight. How time flies!
David and I have seen each other for about four months or so now. And each time what he did overwhelmed me. We go out to dinner at least once a week at some fancy restaurants and then up to his plush penthouse. Even though I’m not into him physically, the conversations and experiences are enjoyable enough that overall I’m glad to be in his company.
It’s a pretty interesting, consistent, house-free free gig. Besides, David seems pretty serious about “taking care of my future”, whatever that means to him.
But on the contrary, I am not greedy enough to accept such a thing, even if I could. However, when he keeps looking deeply into my eyes, telling me how smart and talented I am, I realize that I’m falling into the pattern of seeing him as a walking ATM rather than a person. And how I hate that.
Deep down, I know that at least part of my irritation with him is really irritation with the person I’m becoming when I’m around him.
Almost an hour later.
I stand at the window looking down at the scenery. The city lights always impress me, who spent earlier childhood at backwater area. Noting how different the City looks from way up here, as if I’m in a different city. This place of skyscrapers, grouping into close proximities, almost like competing to dominate each other. Or like the pecking order I often saw back then in grandma’s farm.
This City of orderly lined skyscrapers of endless white linens. The one I learn to love. Which is a hard task.
It’s David’s city, and of people not unlike him, a city of the kind of money that I can’t even imagine that they throw around like that they throw around like Monopoly’s money.
Looking down at their City, and feel like a complete crap that is trying to climb the social ladder. Or mountaineering, as once I and David heard of being in use in that period movie, when an old English lady referred to Becky Sharp.
David gets a bit fussy when I gather my things and starting to leave. But I really need to get out of here.
The last time we had a quarrel about me refusing to stay over, I ended up spending the next two following nights at his place. Which turned out ugly, as I barely sleep when he’s around. And when I’m staying at his place, he simply refuses to leave the unit, choosing to work from home.
That was a mistake. For me.
It made me feel trapped in a golden cage. And now when he expects me to do it again, I back out, giving him hundreds of excuses.
Staying over is not something I plan on repeating often.
After one single moment of fussiness though, David walks me to the elevator door. He kisses my cheek, whispers, “You know I’m going to Paris this weekend. But I’m going nuts thinking that I might leave you behind.”
“Don’t worry,” I say, forcing a wide smile. “I can wait.”
The elevator entrance tinged open, I stepped in.
“See you soon, darling.”
