by Vee Cannon
(01/27/10)

I couldn't believe my luck: I woke up Saturday morning with my period -- two days early. I prayed for a light trickle, but by mid-day the crimson tide was in full flow and my hopes for first-official-date sex with Jeremiah were ebbing. Jeremiah. He looked as biblical as his name suggested. An Adonis-like body, long black wavy hair streaked with subtle gray, which he wore pulled back in a ponytail. He welded, making stainless steel sculpture for a living. When I met him on the Artist Studio Tour and shook his hand, I felt a shock of electricity, literally, like I was some hapless scrap of metal ready to be fired and molded by him. And he smelled like what I can only describe as some crazy, sexy synergy of salt water, grapefruit and metal filings. I told myself the circuit must have fired in both directions, because chatting led to coffee that led to drinks, in a short space of time, sans familiarities. Jeremiah didn't stand on too much preamble. On the phone last night he'd suggested wine and Indian take-away at his place and I had a feeling, from the sound of his voice, that the curry might be an afterthought.

I rang his buzzer, suddenly hoping I didn't seem too overdressed and slutty in my short black pinstriped skirt, pointy spiked heels and vintage corset, topped by a men's tuxedo jacket. But truthfully, I didn't care, and I smiled to myself. He opened the door and somehow managed to take in every inch of me, turn me over his knee with his eyes and still maintain the composure of a gentleman.

"Katie. You look stunning. Come in."

He opened a bottle of Zin, poured us ample glasses, and offered me olives and goat cheese that to me always tastes like suede, but I managed to wash it down with the wine. He chatted amiably, almost distractedly about his latest commission, inquired with interest about my work, and refilled my glass without missing a beat. His demeanor was more off-hand than intense, and I was beginning to wonder if I read the signals right. I remarked on an unusual small graceful sculpture that sat on his mantle -- pure white Italian marble, translucent and curvaceous, like some sort of capped, wild, Henry Moore mushroom. It had a sensual beauty to it. He said he just carved it out of a leftover scrap from a larger piece. I gave him my theory on "happy accidents" and we laughed easily. Just as my head was starting to vibrate with a buzz to equal the low hum that was pulsing between my thighs, he took my glass from me and said, "Let's go upstairs. We have some things to do before dinner." My nearly breathless reply, "OK" was followed roundly by my belief in full disclosure.

"But I have to tell you -- I just got my period." It tumbled out before I could brace myself for what I was sure would be the inevitable face fall and muttering of feeble excuses. I was not expecting this:

"I have Advil if you need any."

"Oh. Thanks," I replied.

With that he turned and I followed him upstairs. The surfaces of his room were pristine. A tasteful Japanese motif revealed a paper patterned lantern, a large mirror opposite the bed, silken sheets, a bottle of water placed thoughtfully on each bedside table, candles already lit. A little presumptuous, I thought, and turned to see him grin slyly as he registered my reaction and seemed to read my mind. Before I had a chance to say anything, he ran his hand through my hair, slid it behind my neck and brought his mouth to mine. He tasted earthen, of red wine, and the tangy faint aroma of his sweat made me want to ride him into the sunset like some sort of post-modern cowgirl. After one deep exploration of my mouth, he pulled back and let his lips gently graze mine, barely taking his eyes off me the whole time.

In all my eight years of marriage to Michael, he had not once touched me with anything more than a sisterly pat when I had my period. Never mind that my hormones had me climbing the walls and I would have fucked the dog if I didn't have to face his forlorn eyes the next morning. This, I thought, as I slid my hand down Jeremiah's jeans, releasing the zipper as I went, was a man of another order. In a sort of reverential paean, I sank to my knees and smiled up at him as I took him in my mouth and paid homage. He stroked my hair, tugging on it slightly as I licked and sucked, teasing my tongue around his rim and massaging his balls. He groaned and pulled back on my hair a bit more, tilting my face up towards his. I averted my eyes in a defensive move. I wasn't used to such presence in sex.

"Look at me. I want to see you." This made my already wetness a near flood. "Where have you been all my life?" I mumbled into his cock. Thankfully, he didn't hear. As I sensed he was getting close to bursting, he changed course and scooped me up and laid me down on the bed, where somewhat magically, there was already a terrycloth towel laid out.

"Don't move," he commanded gently.

He proceeded to remove my heels, my skirt, and my tuxedo jacket, in some ethereally effortless maneuver that made me begin to wonder if he was actually mortal. I lay on the bed, propped on my elbows, in my thong and my corset as he spread my legs.

"Let me look at you." I complied, feeling oddly at ease despite this unknown territory. "You're beautiful." My flow, which had seemed so unstoppable only a few hours earlier, seemed to part for him like the Red Sea, and I could feel nothing trickling down my now completely swollen lips, nothing dripping onto the white towel beneath me. He slid one, then two fingers inside me and began to play.

"Mmm...swollen," he whispered.

I pushed against him as his thumb found my clit and began to circle it. His other hand traced my body every so lightly, making every pore, every microscopic hair on my skin stand on end. I arched toward him, afraid I would come too soon. He leaned in and traced my nipples with his teeth, then nipped at them, biting a little harder, before releasing each and starting again with the other.

I couldn't stand it any longer. "Just fuck me please!"

"No, not yet. I have something for you."

He produced, from somewhere, the white marble mushroom-like sculpture from the mantle downstairs.

"For me? Wow." Yet I thought, why now?

"I made this with you in mind. With it in you...in mind. Would that be okay?"

"What?" I giggled nervously.

"I want to fuck you with it."

"Oh my God. Okay...I guess."

He glided it in and it was cool and smooth and ever so hard. I thought to myself, how bizarre, I'm -- fucking -- art. A piece of his art, a piece of him -- that he made for me -- is inside me. He teased it in and out and I bucked toward him, reaching for more, wondering at the strangely perfect fit it seemed to occupy in my cunt. What would his dick feel like after this, I mused? And then I came, in a huge thunderous convulsion in which I think I beamed to the outer rim of Saturn and back, yet all the while I was locked in his gaze, his hand inside me with the sculpture, his other hand laced through mine and pinning me against the duvet.

He gently pulled out his handiwork and held it up, the white marble now streaked with red, and smiled. He wiped it off with the towel, set it to the side, and flipped me over onto my belly, pulled me by my hips to his groin. He leaned into me and said gutturally into my ear, "Now Madame, the rest of me needs to fuck you disrespectfully, if you don't mind. I'm going to take you on all fours and it's going to be hard."

His gentlemanly warning of wantonness was curious and hugely titillating and I was already wet again. I pushed my ass back at him by way of response. In one swift move he thrust deep inside me. He grabbed a handful of my long red hair into his fist and pulled as we rocked back and forth, and he fucked me hard and deep, true to his word, sending further shudders through my body. After several moments, I felt the warmth of his come shoot into me and him explode in a final convulsion. We fell into a heap on the towel and silken sheets. I looked at him as he lay still, yet pulsating next to me. Despite the abeyance of my flow, I noticed his hands looked as if they'd been stained with red finger paints. He seemed oblivious. He finally turned to me and smiled.

"Shall we take a break for that Indian take-away? I'll call it in."

"Sounds divine," I replied.

"The shower's just down the hall. I'll join you momentarily."

I headed to what I imagined to be my first purification ceremony of the evening, completion of chapter one, as he reached for his cell and began to order lamb jalfrezi and chicken tandoori. It was going to be a long night. We needed sustenance.

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