Tuesday, March 16, 2010
by Steve Calamars
Miles Black stood in front of a large rectangular mirror hanging from the wall. He was wearing a pair of blue jeans and nothing more.
In the reflection of the mirror he could see Jessica LeMone sitting on the bed with her legs crossed. She had light brown skin and long brown hair. She was in a pair of tight pink panties, a pink bra and pink high-heels.
“I love your back, Miles,” Jessica said.
“It’s just a back,” Miles shrugged, staring at her in the mirror, “I love your thighs.”
“You do, don’t you baby?” Jessica blushed, crossing her legs a little higher, displaying her thick brown thighs and soft almond-shaped calves.
“And your back is not just a back,” she said, “The way it comes out of your tiny waist and gets so wide and thick, it’s like a canvas back there.”
“A canvas?” Miles smirked.
“Yes, a big empty canvas,” she said, staring, “A wide muscular back looks so much more beautiful covered in scratches than a thin bony ordinary one.”
“I want to work a masterpiece on your back,” Jessica giggled and blushed. She fanned her fingers and flashed her long red fingernails like latex strawberries.
Miles turned from the mirror and faced Jessica.
“I’m something of an artist,” she said, sliding her finger in her mouth, winking and sucking deep.
Miles stared at her thick brown thighs and long red nails. He liked everything about Jessica and walked over to the bed.
Jessica ran her fingernails down his chest, along his abs and trailed off on his obliques. She unbuttoned his blue jeans and swallowed Miles whole.
He gripped her long hair. She dug her nails into his thighs and slightly choked herself.
Miles pulled her head back and kissed her.
“Stand up,” he said.
He turned her around and bent her over the bed. Miles squeezed her phat ass and pulled her pink panties to the side.
He slid inside of her. Miles gripped the waistband of her panties and began to pound against her pussy. He smiled as her ass and thighs jiggled. He leaned in next to her ear.
“You know I am going to come on your thighs . . .” Miles said. Jessica turned and kissed him. She reached up and softly squeezed his throat with her fingernails.
He slid out of her and spun her around. Miles pulled her panties down forcefully and allowed her to remove only one leg.
He pulled her panties back up around her thick left thigh.
Miles pushed her down on the bed and spread her legs. He slid back inside and gripped her curvy hips.
“My canvas,” Jessica giggled, biting his neck and running her fingernails down his back deep and slow.
The slight sting caused Miles to fuck her harder. She kissed him and dug her nails in deeper.
Miles squeezed her thighs.
Jessica dug her long red fingernails from the base of his neck down to the top of his waist.
Miles kissed her and pulled out. He came on her thick naked thigh. He stood and looked at Jessica.
She lied there on the bed. Her legs still spread. Her left thigh constricted in her tight pink panties and her right thigh soaked in a sticky white puddle.
Miles turned around and put his blue jeans back on.
“A wide muscular back looks so much more beautiful covered in scratches than a thin bony ordinary one,” Jessica giggled, wiping her right thigh with the panties from her left.
She smiled and stared at Miles’ back.
“Is it bad?” he asked.
“Turn around and look in the mirror,” she said, “It’s beautiful.”
Miles adjusted himself and examined his back in the mirror. It looked like a relief-map of pink strips, red channels and tanned muscular lumps.
“I look like I have been flagellating myself or something,” Miles said, “Like a Catholic Saint doing penance.”
“You’re no saint,” Jessica smiled.
“Well, you’re no artist,” Miles said, walking over and kissing her.
He ran his rough hands along her soft thighs.
“I really love your thighs,” he said.
“I know you do, baby,” she said, “Now turn around, let me get a better look at my canvas.”
Miles smiled and turned.
She began to softly kiss each scratch mark and blow on each inflicted wound tenderly. Jessica ran her fingernails delicately back over her strokes and smiled at the sight of the wet reds almost popping off of the canvas and sticking to her fingertips.
Steve Calamars lives in San Antonio, TX. He has a B.A. in Philosophy and works in a grocery store. His first poetry chapbook, American Violence, will be released April 2010 from New Polish Beat. His first collection of short stories, Six Years of Relative Happiness, is forthcoming from Calliope Nerve Media. He blogs @ dirtywordsoncleanliving.blogspot.com