Salami drenched in sauce.
I
The stairwell smells like last night's takeout and the faint, bitter tang of turpentine clinging to my jeans from the last life class. I'm already late—again—because my flatmate Jaz borrowed my bike to "just pop to the shops" and left me scrambling out the door of 2/2.
Adjusting my scarf on the landing, I smack straight into a shopping bag.
I see male hands scrabble at torn brown paper, unable to stop two peaches rolling down the stairs to the landing and a double soft splat.
I only hear the squish. My eyes follow a thick, veiny salami stick, flying up, defy gravity briefly, before it hits the bannister and nose-dives to the tiles in front of the apartment mailboxes.
"Oops," I manage, catching startled blue eyes, holding a broken breadstick.
Brown hair, two days' stubble, was carrying an artist's canvases; Jaz's description was accurate, the new guy in 3/2. Typical dyke, she left out the smoking hot part.
He's blocking my descent, but that's okay. My eyes are occupied with his shapely buttocks.
Well, he's gathering cans of sustainably sourced salmon and a quality brand of taco shells. His glutes are frickin taut.
"I owe you two peaches," I start.
"Maybe more," as he turns, "I was looking forward to dipping that salami in…"
Checking my watch, "Christ, I'm Hope, by the way, 2/2, gotta run, work, catch you late, bye."
Skipping slowly past two lush, destroyed peaches, I stare back up the staircase.
"Hope—hope to catch you soon, it's Sawyer, 3/2."
Past the salami, flying out the apartment's ground-floor door, a decent piece of meat, wasted.
II
The life class is stifling, the air thick with the scent of oil paint and sweat. I'm on the platform, naked, holding a pose that's making my left thigh scream without the right sort of attention.
The students are the usual mix of serious and shy, their pencils scratching, brushes dabbling, the odd rubber working furiously. Life classes, too many amateurs don't know how to deal with trimmed pubes.
Christ Titian and Rubens have a lot to answer for.
There's always a late arrival. Fuck, they let a draft in too, that cool waft over my sensitive nipples and chill to my inner thighs.
No way—it's frickin Sawyer. Satchel and a damn fine beret.
He takes up his position at an easel at the back of the room.
Monsieur Cadoux, with a list of letters after his name, Académie Royale, aged somewhere beyond seventy, whispers to me, the chaise lounge.
A tad easier pose, my skin in contact with velvet. I get to pose like Boucher's Miss O Murphy, hands under my chin, legs spread from the buttocks.
Geez, is Sawyer slapping the paint on at a furious rate. Probably annoyed with me, turning my cute curves cubist.
God, the way a girl gets to pass two hours. Still and silent. Naked yet unused.
As they start to pack up, I slip carefully into a white robe. Hit the urn and a shot of black coffee.
Then realise, Christ, I need the ladies' room first.
On returning, the studio is empty. Except Sawyer.
"I'm locking up for Cadoux," he explains.
The tilt of his beret suggests —the more.
I look for my bag behind the chaise. It's not flipping there!
"Looking for these," Sawyer said from behind me.
I spin. The prick is twirling my pink thong. He aims it slingshot style and lets it flick across the room.
III
"You owe me two peaches."
I drop my robe, beside my thong, "Are these okay?"
"I was hoping you would say that. I'll need a closer inspection for firmness and taste."
Fuck, did the dude understand boobs. He snoggled and nuzzled his face, chin, lips and then tongue in every soft indent before his teeth grazed my pebbles of pink tautness.
"Ah, yes, aahh, mmm, ooh, yes, mmm."
"Yep," between nibbles, "a classy, succulent pair."
Yep, two hours of stillness, replaced by instant pace. I was on my knees. His pants dropped by moi. He's packing decent salami. Veiny and thick, hard and with that flexi stiffness. Cute pink head. And his manhood slotted perfectly between my titties. A generous titty fuck.
What followed is studio insider truth, dirty master techniques.
His fingers dig into my hips and lift me onto the French Provincial chaise. It creaks under us as he pushes my thighs apart, his breath hot against my pussy.
"Oh. As pretty as a picture, salmon pink," he offers, along with a finger dip, and "Christ, you're dripping."
Sawyer's mouth is on me, tongue dragging through my folds. I gasp, my hands tangling in his hair, knocking over a bowl of plastic grapes beside us. They scatter, rolling across the floor like purple marbles.
"Aahh, oohh, my, right there. So good. So good. Mmm. Mmm."
He's in the centre of my flesh palette. Tongue inside. Wicked curve and curl. An awesome flick, flick of tongue moisture, meeting girly velvety, tacky saturation.
"Aaahhh, Oohh!"
Well, he ramped the speed. Then, he alternated the pattern. Long, slow strokes and faster finger work.
The trills commenced. The wavy warble of anticipation. My release valve unleashed. The tingly jolts from my clit arching up, down, inward and over my pussy, curling through my thighs, racing to reside in my mind. Resting in my breath.
Happiness expressed as, "Sawyer, fuck me now."
"Louder," he demands, voice muffled against my thigh.
"Doggy me please."
Damn, that beret's still in place.
He flips me over, my chest pressed into the chaise, my ass in the air. I get the slam I need, he's into me in one thrust, filling me so deep I see stars. Okay, the ones painted on the nearby wall.
"Orrhh, yes, yes, don't stop. Ugh! Uuggh! Ugghh!"
My buttocks roll with his hardness, jagging into my slit between my peachy, heaving rear cheeks.
A guy this good deserves the special. I roll over and sit across him.
Slowly, in the slickest sensual way, I slide my wet girly lips across his erectness, from the base to the tip, from his knob to his balls. A signature sexual gesture. Silky, clammy softness graces stiff, rigid hardness.
He groans. He damn well ought to. This is a girl sharing her private slick in the most intimate way possible.
I ride him. His cock chases my enveloping, up and down. Minutes of rollercoaster ups and downs. A hedonistic Carnivale of rapture. Rio never had it this good.
I arch backwards, allowing him to see my lower lips scrunched like Valentine's gift-wrapping paper around his pecker.
His fingers trill, a thrum strumming, a tune of aching rising pleasure across the nub of my clit like the longest guitar riff. A linger in my cute pubic fuzz.
"Oh Christ, I'm gunna squirt," I warn him.
My jetting arch, a Niagara vapour spray, drenches his face—a girly geyser gush.
"One healthy taco with extra sauce," he offers, smacking his lips and shaking dripping locks.
He grabs my hand, "Get dressed, fresh salami at my apartment."