Leaving His Mark

“The written word is exotic.” His breath was hot in my ear as he traced words on my back with the barest touch of a finger. “There is magic in writing. Words have power. Why else did the magic-makers of old know their letters, and no one else, hmm?”

He brushed my skin lightly, spelling out words and phrases and symbols I could scarcely understand. What I did understand was my body’s response. Laying face down on his bed, I was electrified, my skin a buzzing case of energy, arcing to his touch. My nipples stood tall, my cunt dripped with wanting.

“The body is the perfect canvas,” he continued. “The perfect parchment for writing, for sharing knowledge.” He placed a trail of kisses down my spine as his fingertips ran over my buttocks, down the back of my thighs. “Parchment was originally made from skin, you know?”

Somewhere in the recesses of my mind I thought that perhaps I had known that piece of information, though right now I was too turned on to make any reasonable conversation.

His intellect attracted me in the beginning. His broad knowledge of obscure subjects, subjects that just happened to be my area of interest, too. Of course the light stubble covering the lower half of his face helped with that attraction, along with his piercing gaze, and the shoulder length hair pulled back in a loose ponytail.

It did not take long for him to get me into his bed.

It was one of my main enjoyments in attending conferences out of state; meeting deliciously intelligent strangers, partaking in a few drinks whilst sharing scintillating conversation, then seducing them into my hotel room to explore the pleasures of the body.

This time I was the one seduced. His voice caught me from the moment he began his presentation; deep and smooth, his way with the spoken word almost as impressive as his skill with written text, as he manipulated sounds and imagery. He caught my gaze from the podium, one face in a room of hundreds, and his eyes soon sought out mine, again and again and again.

I felt the heat from where I sat, three rows back, off to the left. His voice made me wet, the heat in his returning gaze had me faking a cough to cover a moan.

And now we were here, in his bed. My usual routine of sharing drinks in the hotel bar was skipped completely as we agreed on sight to share drinks in the privacy of his room.

Over a couple of champagnes we’d moved from light touching to petting to kissing. We’d shared a shower, where my gaze roved over his more than acceptable body, and now he was writing on my skin, his touch an invisible ink that no one else could see, but marked me, none-the-less.

His fingers moved to between my legs, and I widened them, giving him access to my lips and clit. His touch was still soft and yet probing and I closed my eyes as a breathy moan escaped my mouth. He moved back up my body, his kiss brushing my shoulder, my neck, nibbling my ears, and I turned my head to meet his lips for a kiss, all too aware of the heat of his cock rubbing against my backside. I parted my legs even further, reaching around to guide his cock to where I wanted it to go, and he carefully slid in, the whole hard length of him. With that same hand I began to rub my clit, as I grasped his hand with mine. We had skin contact the full length of our bodies and I’d never before felt anything so delicious.

I came, crying his name into the pillow, and moments later he joined me. When he was done he let all his weight rest on mine, and though my body was crushed into the mattress I loved it.

We slept together, entangled in his sheets, and the next day we said goodbye. I abide my own rule — no promise of repeating our moment of pleasure anytime in the future, near or distant.

But I can’t help but keep my eye out for his name at Conferences, my clit tingling at the possibility. I wonder if we’ll meet again. Whether we have the opportunity to repeat our moment of pleasure or not, his delicate touch has left invisible tattoos across my skin. I’m marked, forever.

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