Like Wildfire

"Yes. That's it." he spurred me on as I took more of his cock into my mouth. "Oh fuck yes."

I had this incredible urge, the desire to have him want me. To empty his mind of everything but my mouth, to be the only thing tethering him to earth. Sinking down further onto his member, I let him bottom out in the back of my throat and hummed in desire around him.

He released my hair and gripped his cock where my lips met him, his touch probing at my lips stretching around to accommodate him. I wanted him to feel even an ounce of the same wild desire I felt mounting.

I was a selfish lay, usually. I wanted to take my pleasure, tear desire out by the roots and explore it, experience it fully. In that point of time, I prided myself on knowing what I liked and that usually meant being fairly intolerant of sex that didn't get me exactly what I wanted. That's not to say I was a lazy lover, I wasn't. I would please my partner if it pleased me. That was what I thought it was to be self-assured.

Later, in hushed excited whispers I'd admit that I was a manipulative submissive. I would give a man only so much, revel in them wanting me, but only if it served my need to be needed. Otherwise, I was a ghost. If it stopped being fun, I stopped being present. And that was where I lived when he found me. I wanted what I wanted, but I didn't realize how hollow that felt until I felt his insistence and regard, his cautious care and his stark independence from me, giving me room to exist separate from him.

Looking up from between his strong legs, I forgot to feel admired and felt a spur of anxiety to inspire that look of pleased anguish on his handsome face. I wanted to live in that moment of his hips thrusting up involuntarily to claim my throat. His pleasure clouding his game plans of patronizing tone and peppered-in praise. Instead, he became this truer sense of self right on the edge of his orgasm. We locked eyes, and I felt caught. I almost pulled away from him but received an almost imperceptible shake of his head.

He forgot his words as I accepted all of his cock into my mouth, feeling him grinding up and forcing small gags of surprise around him. Tensing, for a moment, almost in apology, as though it were just him knocking around inside me like he was learning the confines. It was the sweet, almost-innocence of learning each other's bodies, of learning what was out of bounds. He felt me welcoming his unyielding thrusts despite the momentary struggles and pushed on. It was a wordless negotiation, operating on instincts and body language, and I thrilled for a moment at the realization.

I wanted to taste him, the accomplishment of his pleasure. That selfish need to feed my own satisfaction mutated into something else altogether. It was a desperate feeling, and the estranging sensation of such closeness to a stranger masqueraded as something else. I felt a swell of pleasure at enjoying him, and at being enjoyed and the pure carnal joy of meeting in this strange place of mutual desire in the chaos of our new-ness to one another. I didn't know him, and I didn't have to. In a way I already did.

I met the rhythm of him thrusting into my mouth, taking the face-fucking he wanted to give and sensed him tensing. He looked down at me, searching me for a hint of reluctance. I met him with ardor, sucking eagerly, begging him in moans and whimpers in sloppy morse code. Communicating, crystal clear, stating: I want this. Pushed past the anxiety of wondering, immersed fully together, he pushed deep into the tight, slick suction of my eager mouth. I felt him erupt and swallowed continuously, pleased at the taste of his musky thickness announcing his orgasm. I hummed my approval, low and sensual, telling him-I can take it all.

He had pulled me to him after and let me listen to the humming-bird heart rate he adopted.

"You are . . . really something." He peeked down at me, with my head resting on his chest.

"Yes, and you are something else entirely." I smirked up at him.

"Okay, I hear you. You are quickly becoming one of my favorite people." He laughed with a warmth that pried me open.

"Only one of your favorite people?" I scoffed, giggling.

"Top five, easy." He rubbed my back.

"This is so weird." I broke the spell of instant intimacy. "It's been, what, 5 hours?" I pointed out the absurdity.

"Something like that. Six, seven hours, but who's counting? Why is it weird?"

"I mean, is this is normal for you?" I challenged, hearing a defensive note in my voice and hating it.

"No. Not at all. It's is very unusual for me to connect with someone like this, and so immediately."

"Me neither." I admitted. It felt a kind of miraculous to feel so intensely attracted to someone in that way that I wanted him, but the nerves of it all being unrequited kept batting those feelings down.

From there, the words we spoke were blurred and crushed and warm in the dozing half-sleep state. The easiness of that moment had me dreamy, turned into him. Strangely safe. He continued on, telling me a story whose details I wanted to hold onto, but instead felt his words lilt and hang in the air as I drifted out of consciousness. In those last hazy moments of that first night together, I felt his lips press to my forehead. In my faulty memory, with that I was out.

* * *

To wake was disorienting. It took some time to process I was alone in an upscale hotel suite, curtains were black-out thick to protect me from the harsh overcast sky and the city quietly brimming below me. I lay back on the white sheets and tried to make sense of the whirlwind the night before brought. I felt a twinge of relief for his absence. It gave me some time to re-group. I felt on-edge in his presence, even if I was drawn to him.

I searched the room, finding the robe hanging on the back of a chair and pulled it on. There was no hint of him having been there with me save for a letter written on the hotel stationary, penned through a ring of red wine staining the white paper. It was weighed down by a white lucky rabbit's foot key chain holding a single brass key

I read through it, confounded. A brief message greeted me, mostly in cursive save for an address which was carefully printed.

In case you want something more comfortable than a couch to crash on tonight.

Good luck on your interview.

- Eli

Re-reading it again, I felt like I had walked into some sort of alternate dimension.

I spent my time getting ready for my interview alone in his hotel room, and carefully re-packed my backpack with essentially all of my worldly possessions. I artfully applied a layer of lipstick in the small, powder-dusted compact and ruminated on the night previous.

There was chemistry, I bargained with myself. Of course, I was attracted to him. But more than that, I felt drawn to his demeanor and the easy way he swept me up into a dynamic that I knew I enjoyed, but hadn't yet fully explored. I wondered what it was about me that made him confident I wanted to be treated that way, and why it pricked at this deep sense of satisfaction in me when he did.

On the other hand, he was a perfect stranger. I didn't even know his last name, and yet, he wanted to share his luxuries with me. It had all of the potential for disaster, even if I did feel a connection to him.

Moments before walking out the door, I checked my reflection. Adjusting my blazer and skirt just so, and fixing my stockings in the mirror. My hair dried in wavy curls that would have to do. I turned the handle of the door and paused. Thinking better of it, I slipped the key and note into my purse, feeling a searing sort of warmth at the possibility alongside the trepidation.

* * *

That evening I slowly sipped black tea in a coffee house brimming with students. I watched them chatter in clusters, feeling a stab of jealousy. I loved learning, and it was with great despondency that I had withdrawn from my courses that semester. I figured I'd save up money, work for a while and promised myself I'd return to my studies as soon as I could.

It was difficult not to overthink each of my answers and mannerisms apart from my appointment that early afternoon. Normally I was pretty unaffected by the pressure that came with an interview, but I wasn't sure if I was able to seem unaffected by my circumstances. I couldn't help but turn over every nuance in my mind while I waited for a message that I wasn't sure was coming.

Darkness covered the city list a mist and I refreshed my email in a compulsive, frantic way. I had messaged a friend to see if I could stay with him the night before, and It was a long-shot, but I had to try. Zach and I had a rapport that made for long stretches of silence that went forgotten the moment we were back in one another's proximity. We had trouble staying in touch, terrible pen-pals. The wild chemistry I felt in his company made up for the time and distance. That is, when he answered his messages.

The cafe closed at what felt like an outrageously early hour for the city. I was running out of options and running the numbers for rates I looked up for cheap motels. With my savings drained dramatically, every moment I didn't have some sort of stable action plan was a moment I felt near-sick with dread.

It was stupid. I knew it was, even in the moment, to put myself in such a vulnerable position. I tried to rationalize whether the panic I felt thinking about taking up Eli's offer was a gut instinct that I should follow for my own safety and well-being, or if it was the high-grade anxiety brought on by the cocktail of low serotonin, adrenaline, and the threat of near-homelessness. Still, my options were limited, and I had walked around getting lost with the exhilarating memories of the night before.

* * *

I was almost surprised that the key fit in the lock. But then, I was as it appeared, living in some bizarre fantasy world. With each tooth gliding in without resistance, it called up obscene imagery: the simple mechanics of positive filling negative. I tried to contain myself when I pushed the door open.

Standing in the threshold, I took in Eli's Condo.

"Hello?" I called out, to no answer.

I pulled the door shut behind me and immediately saw that there was an older-looking telephone with an answering machine connected. 1 message blinked, unread. I almost had to laugh at how antiquated it was. It didn't seem like something Eli would own, but then, I didn't know anything about him. Not really.

There was a distinct echo of my boots on the hardwood floor as I checked out his apartment, preternaturally nosy. It was barely furnished, but had modern fixtures. As I made my way around his place, my mind wandered to whom the message would be from. Maybe it was from a former tenant. Or maybe this is where he kept his mistresses and it was something more incriminating.

The living room held only an uncomfortable-looking leather couch and a fireplace that looked like it was never used. There was one bedroom, furnished with a queen sized bed flanked by two night stands. I searched the drawers, both of them empty. Every room was like the last. Empty, characterless. There was a pinch of voyeuristic thrill in searching his place, despite the fact that it held no clues about who Elliot was.

Back at the entrance, my curiosity got the better of me. I hit play on the answering machine and was greeted by the voice of Eli himself.

"Hi Sasha. This is. . . strange, isn't it?" I heard a tinge of self-consciousness in his voice that seemed uncharacteristic for him. I listened to him clear his throat and continue. " Anyway, I'm hoping you found the place okay. And. . . I hope your interview went well. So. I'm going to be back here on Friday night. Please, make yourself at home. Get settled, and then we can set some ground rules. First rule, Sasha-" his voice lowered, as though he didn't want to be overheard. I wondered where he called from. "You can touch yourself all you like, but I'm going to be the next one to make you cum. Understand?"