Literary Fiction
by Lord Malinov

I don’t remember when we met. It was years and years ago. Obviously, it was at a show in Albuquerque. I haven’t been there for any other reason. Maybe we met earlier in the day but our encounters have always been after the show. I do a show in Albuquerque about once a year. I always look forward to the gig.

The audience has changed over the last decade. The distance between us has become greater. I’m almost afraid of the intensity of the fans. They seem as ready to tear me apart as to love me. They scream their adoration but it isn’t really me. They chant for a mythology that has ensnared me with a sequence of words and chords and notes, amplified and dazzling. We all know what happens to the May King. He fucks and then he dies.

I entered the darkened hotel room with a key given to my manager before the show. He used to make jokes but it’s become too routine for comment. She sat on the bed, barely lit by thin gleams of streetlight through the shades. She was beautiful, in a shadowy way. I could sense that she was older in the way that I am older but in the blackness she was ageless and so was I.

She rose and I kissed her hard on the mouth, hungrily, feasting on contact, in the delicious aggression of my wanting her wanting me wanting her wanting me. I touched her face and hair with my hands, feeling the symmetry and chaotic warmth of her lengthy curls between my pawing fingers. I wanted her as I never wanted anyone. I loved her in the intensity of a moment, pure and furious, craven and given. My hands slid down past her shoulders to her arms and breasts.

I cupped her warm breasts in my hands; her nipples hardened in a second and I felt the liquid weight with soft strokes and gentle squeezes. Everything beautiful resided in the heft of her bosom, the golden ratio given life in the erotic charges of lust to breast. She moaned and I pushed a nipple into my mouth, to kiss her gain in the sizzle of her chest electrifying down through her loins.

I parted her swollen labia with my finger, sliding and gliding along her thickened vulva to stop and rub sideways across her clitoris, taunting and teasing and thrusting and tickling from hood to vagina, fingers joined and separated to fill and press the spaces, hills and valleys that formed her essential sexuality. The waters of life gushed from her cunt to wetten my wrists with the drip of her desire. Fuck me, she moaned and fuck her I did.

She reached across finally to find my still swollen prick and she kissed my exuberant cock with a lazy glee, her tongue tracing patterns before she savagely, rapidly, repeatedly shoved the length of my dick deep into her throat, caressing my shaft with her loving lips, taking everything I have from the core of my being into the spasms jets of cum into her happy lapping kisses.

I don’t have anything to say, not any more. We used to try to talk but it never went anywhere. So now I get up and dress and kiss her goodbye.

I’ll always love Albuquerque.

About David Cain

David Cain, literary author, bon vivant, rogue romantic poet - author of Witch, Song of Songs, Journals of Lord Malinov, Erotic Romances and others ...
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