Lesson in Modern Culture

It was a crisp autumn afternoon. The leaves falling from the trees planted between blocks of cement had finally fallen, and made a crunching sound beneath the soles of her black shoes. The sky had a darkening tone to it; grey clouds were billowing in the sky, speaking of rain. She had just made it up under the arch of the museum as the droplets began to splash upon the earth.

The museum added a chill to her flesh, the air conditioning drafting overhead. She had already covered up to the third corridor since her arrival to this new city. Her aunt thought the culture would do her some good, when in reality the culture was the only thing allowing her the chance to feel at home, to feel like she had some friends. At eighteen, her friends were not of flesh and blood, but of pastels and water colors.

She seated herself before her favorite Van Gogh, as she always did upon her arrival here. Except today, her usual bench was not empty. A man sat here, crouched over as he sat, his elbows on his knees, his chin resting in his palms. He seemed bored in this position, but as she drew near, the look of contemplation in his eyes became evident. He had long golden locks that laid wispily about his shoulders, a plain white t-shirt, and jeans with wore out tears in the knees. He was what anyone from her side of town would consider trash, but the way he looked at the picture drew in her attention.

She sat down beside him on the cold marble bench, and he did not move over to allow her more space. He remained in his position undisturbed. She drew out a notebook, and opened up to a blank page, beginning to write in her journal. She wrote mostly about the art that she saw, and the people around her. Today was no different, in that she chose to write about the way he looked at the painting. It was from this angle she noticed his eyes were a jaded shade of green. His flesh was tanned, and his shirt exposed the muscular build of his arms that would suggest hard labor, at least implied that with the dust on his torn jeans. He was handsome regardless of how he looked to the women at the desk who sort of turned their nose up at him.

"I can feel your eyes on me. Why is that?" His voice came deep, he was grown, and of age in his mid-twenties no doughtily.

She blushed at the fact that she had been caught, and then shrugged.

"There is a reason in everything you do." He drew a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, and flipped open the top of the box.

She stared at the box, and the precious painting, "You are not suppose to smoke in here."

"Do you work here?" He looked at her with distaste.

"No, but I enjoy these paintings, and I want others to be able to in the years to come." She sat up more confidently, smoothed her skirt over her legs as she crossed them.

"I see. Then I guess we have a predicament."

"How so?" She raised a brow at him.

"I want to smoke, and you do not want me to." He smirked, flipping the box shut, "But I will submit to your request, seeing as those ninnies behind that desk would get after me as well." He settled the box back into his pocket, and offered his hand, "I am Gabriel."

Her hand slid into his, and took it firmly, shaking, "Miaka, but please, just call me Mia."

"It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance Mia." He drew his hand away slowly, his eyes still holding hers captive.

"The pleasure is mine." She smiled softly, before looking down at the pages she had written.

"What are you writing about?" He stared at the painting as he spoke.

She blushed, but answered truthfully.

"What about me?" He asked with a smirk drawing at the corners of his lips.

"What you look like and how you seem to be studying this painting." She closed the book in her lap, and let it fall into her pack, before standing up. She slung her pack over her shoulder, and glanced at her watch. She would be expected home within the hour.

"It was a pleasure meeting you, but I must go." She turned and made her way to the doors. She started down the stairs, and stopped, reaching for her pack as the rain began to drench her.

Gabriel passed by her, the rain soaking his t-shirt enough to see the outlines of the flesh beneath. "Are you walking in this weather?"

I nodded, "I just live a few blocks and the exercise is good for me."

"Not in this weather. Come on." He moved down to the curb, hailing a cab. It only took a moment before one merged to the edge of the sidewalk, and he opened the door. She held her lower lip between her teeth, considering the consequences as she had been taught in her younger years. He might rape her, kill her... But no, this was a cab, with a driver, it was safe... And dry.

She climbed into the cab, and he followed in after her. He spoke an address to the driver. "That is not my apartment."

"I know." He looked down at her for some sort of objection, and as she went to give one, her lips pressed together. She was curious about him.

It took a few moments, and a few more turns before they reached the south side of town. The cab drew off in front of an old brick building that looked like it had been there since the 1920's, and unkempt in the years since.

He opened the door, and slid out before waiting for her to follow his lead.

She followed him through the rain and into the "lobby" of his apartment building. There was no security man at a desk; there was no elevator, no carpets. The floor had scuff marks on it, and as her eyes traveled up over the walls, she noticed the paint was chipped. The stairway was worse; the railing needed to be sanded, and there were cracks in the steps. He made note of certain places she should be careful of her step. Finally, they came to a door, and he opened it, pushing the door open, and passing through first. He switched on a light, and moved into the room, kicking off his shoes, and setting his keys on the table.

She moved into the room cautiously, as if it might bite her at any moment. It was a little studio, the only separate rooms being the bathroom and kitchen. His bed was a disarray of sheets and pillows, looking of endless nights of lost sleep.

He looked at her, and drew near, brushing a lock of her black hair from her face, and tucking it behind her ear. She looked up at him nervously, and his eyes gave a strange look into hers. "How old are you?" She asked, swallowing a bit hard.

"Twenty-five." He looked into her eyes, as if waiting for her to push away and leave, but she stayed.

"I am eighteen." She looked up at him, as if waiting for the same reaction. But he stayed.

"So what?" He pressed her back against the wall beside his door. One of his hands rested beside her head against the wall, placing her in an inescapable position between his arm and the corner the wall and door made. His free hand slid down her side, and to her thigh, working up the plaid of her skirt, and sliding two fingers against her lace-covered slit. As he felt her wetness, she heard a moan rise from his throat, as a whimper arose from her own.

He bunched her panties into his fist, and pulled them down about her knees, as two fingers moved up, and slipped between the folds of wet flesh, into the depths of her pussy. "You're so tight..."

She held her lower lip between her teeth, trembling as he touched her. Her face flustering as she moaned softly against his shoulder, "I have never felt this before..." She whispered softly.

"Never felt it like this, or at all?" He drew his head back, and looked into her eyes.

She looked up at him unsuringly, as his fingers paused. She thought he might pull away, "Never at all."

This confession only seemed to excite him more. He drew her tightly against him, and took her hand, pressing it to his pants, "See what you did to me?" He said it as if it were a scolding, and took her to his bed. He laid her back, and he pulled down her panties completely as he knelt before her. His hands slid between her closed thighs, and parted them for his enjoyment. His eyes wandered up her skirt, and her face turned red as his mouth found her. His hands pushed up her skirt, and cries of pleasure escaped her lips, as she squirmed, unsure of what to do with her hands, unsure of what to do with herself. Were her cries as inexperienced as her body? What did she sound like to him? More importantly, what did she taste like? Did he prefer shaved women as apposed to her trimmed pussy? She trembled at his mouth, and squirmed as his fingers joined his tongue, helping along inside of her. It was not long before she felt a wave of heat come over her body, her body trembling wildly, as she could not grip the bedding enough to gain control over the pleasure.

He raised his head as the pleasure subsided, and she looked up at him, questioning what had just happened. What was the tremor between her thighs that rose throughout her body causing her to arch like that? Was it the climax she had read of in those trashy romance novels they passed around secretly in the school?

He did not give her much time to recover, before sliding up on the bed, between her legs, and lifting her shirt up over her head. He pulled her bra down under her breasts, and lowered his head, licking and flicking his tongue against her nipples, nibbling and sucking at them. She moaned softly, her hands slowly, unsuringly moving up through his hair, and stroking the back of his neck.

He reached down lifting her skirt, and then undressed before her. He took her hand, placing it on his cock. It was not hard like wood, as they described it in a book, but the flesh was tight, and a soft yet hard firmness. He was large, and she wondered how that fit between her legs. He laid her back, without asking if she was sure or not, and parted her thighs. She looked around scared, unsure of what she was doing, and he took her chin, forcing her to look into his eyes. She swallowed hard as he placed the tip of his length at her opening, before pushing slowly into her. The pain overwhelmed her at first, so much that a cry forced its way from her mouth, and it intensified for another moment as she felt flesh break. He rested deep within her for a moment, not moving, letting her adjust. He kissed her forehead, the first and only sign of tenderness. He drew back, and moved in her again, the pain forcing its self through her body once again. She cried out, digging her nails into the flesh of his back, as if hurting him for hurting her. He moved slowly, but with force, whispering to her how tight she was, and how she was pleasuring him. He began moving faster, and the pain began to subside. His mouth moved over her body, and he moved her into various positions that he liked. He bent her over his bed and took her from behind; he made her sit on top of him as he played with her tits; he made her get on her knees as he took her mouth. Finally, he was resting between her thighs again. She laid upon her back, her arms wrapped around him, letting him lead her into the world of sex. He never kissed her, or held her close, and when she went to draw him in, he only drew away. He drew her legs over his shoulders, and began to fuck her from a vertical angle. She felt the pleasure of heat she had felt before mount again between her legs. She trembled wildly beneath him, as he continued to take her from that angle. And as she settled from her orgasm, a wet heat filled between her legs as he shuddered with a groan. He continued thrusting as this heat filled between her thighs, and then he drew out, putting his cock at her mouth, commanding her to clean their sex off of his cock.

And as the moment subsided, he did not hold her, or cuddle her in any way. He did not kiss her, or help her dress as she stumbled for her clothes. He simply put on his pants, and went into the kitchen. She dressed, and winced as she walked. It hurt, yet felt good at the same time. She looked at the kitchen, and moved to him, trying to kiss him in someway, but he only pushed her away, and handed her a little money for a cab. "You need to go home." He walked her to the door, and kissed her forehead once again, before letting her out. He shut the door in her face, and she looked at the door with a sigh of sadness, before moving down the stairs, and back to reality.