La Lectura

Not any poetry I’d ever heard, but poetry to me. The words of love I’d longed to hear for a lifetime, that I’d never even heard in Havana.

He had lifted his head to me and he was kissing my nipples and my sternum. His lips went up my chest and into the pit of one of my arms and he was licking and snuffling me in there, inhaling my essence.

“So young, and beautiful and perfectly formed,” he was whispering. “And so tight and deep and warm inside. I want to possess you—to the quick, moving as one.”

He was stroking my cock with his fist, and I was sighing and moaning for him, lost in his attentions; awed that he was making love to me with his rich voice and his throbbing cock.

When I had cum in a great spouting of pent-up cream, he turned me on my belly on the cot and covered me closely with his body and began a rhythmic stroking of his cock down into me between tightly encased butt cheeks. He was growing larger and my channel was more constricted than before. The full circle of my interior walls felt every vein and tremble of his moving cock. And loved it, remembering, remembering.

I was so fully focused on the waves and waves of pleasure rising up from the center of me that I have no idea when he’d begun reciting again in whispering lips at my ear lobe ” . . . Kissing with golden face the meadows green; Gilding pale streams with heavenly alchemy . . .” Surely Shakespeare again.

I melted and drifted off into another, more beautiful world.