JB: Doused in Paint

ebooks erotica by Sophie Iremonger


the best man turns into a brute in his cave.
Especially if he’s a busy brute
a busy brute, a busy young man, young and tastefully attired smooth brute. Busy. Gentle. Brute. The questing childish nose that seeks my tits in the morning, already in the twilight of our affections, his cheeks strange with golden hairs.
Working backwards… The Rue Michel Marcell Lange…
And me walking away from JB
in Toulouse.
Who is he?
Remember him, your lover:
If Disney Princes came in “Bowie flavour.”
He is long, his cock is big and purple, but not overbearing. It is politely big, everything about him is long and polite, his understated French clothes, a beige cardigan, measured rhinestones around the eyes: Ziggy played guitar… quietly… in a library. Because this is how it is now, no stadiums, just people in a town who love skinny JB and want to see him do well. People who feel they all share in his success, and he sparkles, cleanly. Plays the guitar, cheerfully, is confident, but not cocky. Doesn’t drink before the show.
In bed; he is courageous, clit-blind, penetration-centred, expressive, not afraid to make sounds. The soft “o” shaped sounds as his cock is sucked, his body arching over: hairless, thin, blonde as a Johnson’s baby bottle.
Above me with his face crushed in the pillow, all you can see is his big mouth open wide, and rows of rows of perfect waffle devouring teeth usually so politely sequestered, blatantly on show. The big full lips on his melon shaped head, of a Cindy or Linda, upturned at the corners, bulging suddenly in the middle into a strong cupids bow-cupids long bow-big beautiful, but again, not too much. And just slightly sullen. Enough so you could try and kiss it away. Above all else he is… Just so.
Strong eyebrows almost overshadowing green eyes, a deep-set road bound by hedges. As he grows older they will creep lower and lower, grow thicker and thicker, until his eyes are furtive traffic. The right eye when I face him, his left when he looks out from his own, is freckled brown. And the other sounds he makes in bed: sharper euhs euhs as he’s giving it to me, his cock fitting like a stone in a peach, our fleshes clinging. He has never once made me come, I do it myself during or after. And the things he says as his dick gets hard, as we press against each other in the morning, are highly accented, slipping french-wards. Our hip bones meet sharp but shelter one another gently like the polished inside of shells. He whispers, “I am just too hot,” which is the French translation of horny, apparently.
And when I say, “JB your body excites me.”
He says, “aaah that is because I am French.”
Oh baby, just you shut your mouth.

So, back to the story.
I’m walking away from him wearing nothing but brown-brown coat, brown boots, brown pantyhose. Yes, it is the 1940s.
I’m walking away from him, but in reverse I’m hugging him with my face in his ear, kissing his ear and he is impassive, holding me just so. Not too much, so he doesn’t give me the idea he cares, and not too little, so he doesn’t give me the impression he is callous.
I am kissing his ear, I am stopping, I am telling him, “look at me, JB. Look at me.” Like you do to reprimand a child. I am saying, “JB, I don’t want to date you I want to hook up.”
And I know I have pie all over my face.
I am looking into his eyes as I say it, noting the freckle, like a departing tourist noting the topography of land from the window of an aeroplane. You have been happy and sad here, but you will never know the country. These are the lands, etc… of lost content, etc.
The happy hollows that I went.
And cannot come again.

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