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Sex with Owen

by Mike Kimera © 2010


erotic fictionOwen always brushes my hair first, his large, scarred, sculptor’s hands accomplishing the task with a patient, graceful thoroughness that calms me, distracting me from our nakedness and the hard hot proximity of his presence.

My red-blonde hair is long and thick and heavy. It is the seat of my femininity; the only sexual flourish that my small androgynous body has gifted me with. My hair says more about who I think I am than any other part of me. Lazily bound in a bun with pencils pushed through it, it is my companion as I work on the pen and ink drawings that pay my bills. Tightly braided, it is the emblem of my controlled professionalism when I journey into corporate land to sell my work. Left loose, to fall down to my arse, it is my declaration of sexual intent.

We both know that, when he kneels behind me, the brush in Owen's hand is not there to groom me, but to claim to me; to shape the heart of who I am into who he needs me to be.

By kneeling here, naked, my back to him, my hair in his possession, I signal that I am his to take tonight.

When he is satisfied that the slow rhythmic brushing has settled me and focused me, he puts the brush aside and slowly wraps my hair around his left fist, like a rider gathering in the reins of a skittish horse, until the tightness of his grip forces my head back, exposing my neck, straightening my spine, holding me in the first position of our well-practiced dressage.

After a second’s pause he moves forward until my back is pressed into his belly and my head is held motionless against the broad expanse of his chest. He lowers his head to mine and inhales the scent of my hair in a slow, deep intake of breath. He holds the air inside him, possessively, until it seems that he must breathe or die. At last, he exhales, pushing a stream of warmth across my vulnerable neck, making the short hairs there rise as I imagine myself like a log in a fire, burning brighter as he feeds oxygen to the flames that both consume and illuminate me.

Still holding my hair in his left fist, Owen slides his heavily muscled right arm down my body, between my small high breasts, until his hand finds my sex and his thick fingers spread out on either side of it, claiming the territory as their own.

In an act of practiced surrender, I place my arm over his, push my fingers briefly across my hardened nipple and move up, over my shoulder, until his lips capture the tip of my index finger and hold it there.

Slowly, methodically, he works his fingers into my flesh, He does not force his way inside me, nor does he seek out my clit to hasten my arousal and make it march to the rhythm of his own testosterone-driven need. Instead he kneads my flesh as if it were dough. He works in circles and spirals, summoning my blood and its heat to where he wants me to be.

I try to remain still and silent even though I know his relentless actions will make this impossible. From the first time he took me, Owen has been an unstoppable force, overwhelming me, stripping away flesh, ripping apart bone and tendon in a ruthless quest to free the woman he sees behind my eyes.

Before Owen, my struggle had always been to live up to the mind-shattering, soul-liberating, consciousness-changing orgasms that the heroines of the romantic novels I am addicted to had each time their dashing-but-dangerous lover pushed himself into them.

The men who had pushed themselves into me with various degrees of skill and enthusiasm, had always seemed to find the release they sought. As they sweated above me, corded forearms holding their weight, hips banging out the rapid percussive tune of their lust, there would come a point when, eyes closed, faces twisted in apparent pain, their condom-covered sex buried as deep in me as they could manage, they would leave me for a few seconds.

It seemed to me that this departure, these moments of not being with me, were the most important part of the act to them.

As I lay looking up at them, my own rhythm disrupted, my desire falling away like the arm of a child stretching for but unable to reach the next monkey-bar, I understood that I had failed, again, to be the woman I was supposed to be. Even while I was preparing to smile when they returned and tell them that they were wonderful and perhaps encourage them to push into me once more before sleep claimed them, I was cursing my small, under-developed, childish, sexless body for leaving me hanging rather than letting me achieve a departure of my own.

Sex with Owen is not about departure. It is about struggle and surrender and release.

It used to be that the only release I found was at the end of my own fingers. Alone in my bed, between freshly laundered sheets, I would lie on my belly, arm trapped beneath me, fingers pressing against but never needing to enter, my sex. It seemed to me that, whereas men beat upon me as if I were a drum, I played myself as if I were a violin. Pleasure grew from the steady slide of resined bow over tautly stretched strings, until I brought myself gently but firmly to a dizzying cliff-edge that I would teeter on for a moment before plunging away from myself, into the warm embrace of the waves below.

About a year ago, I stopped bringing men into my bed. I did not want to be their point of departure, I wanted to be their destination.

I allowed my sex life to became an accomplished violin solo and took pride in my own skill. Yet part of me knew that this bowing, this fiddling if you like, was not enough. The voice of the violin was too thin, too close to a cry of pain, to bring any real joy.

I needed the crashing wall of sound of a full orchestra to smash against my consciousness, annihilate my will, erase my sense of self, free my spirit from the bone cage that binds it, until I become the sound, pure energy, pushing past the silence of my life.

Instead, in my loneliness, I told myself that I preferred the silence and I let it swallow me. I wrapped myself in a blanket of celibacy and convinced myself that it gave me heat enough.

Now I know I was slowly freezing to death.

Owen rescued me from that slow dying. He is still rescuing me from it.

Owen’s fingers on my sex mimic my fiddling but the tune he plays is completely different. My fingers pushed me gently towards a release, his fingers demand that I surrender to my lust. Held immobile against his body, I am defenseless against the assault he makes upon me. My sex is moist, my nipples are hard, my body is demanding to be fucked.

I struggle to defer the moment of the first surrender but I know I am lost when he lowers his mouth on to my neck and gently bites me. A line of heat travels down my spine and ignites a fire at the base that he fans by pushing my labia together, rolling them against one another so that they slip and slide. I thrust my hips forward and surrender with a single word:


His fingers hook into my sex, spreading me and filling me as I fuck the air. Cleansing tongues of flame lick across my belly. I close my eyes and, for a moment, a long delicious moment, I am no longer there.

As I return to myself, I am aware of Owen lowering me to the floor so that I am lying on my back. I keep my eyes closed, happy to let him arrange my limbs, which feel loose and not entirely mine to control, any way that pleases him.

Gently, he bends my right arm at the elbow and places the palm of my hand over my left breast. Bending so close to me that I can feel his breath against my skin, he lifts the back of my head, gathers my hair in one hand and arranges it so that it flows like a river over my right shoulder to come to rest just above my sex. He leaves my left arm at my side but lifts the forearm across my hip, so that my hand holds my hair in place against my belly. Finally, his strong hands take hold of my legs just below the knee. I expect him to spread me wide. My hands flex against breast and sex at the thought of being held open beneath him, waiting to be devoured. To my surprise, he pushes my knees together. I do not understand what he is doing. Then there is a moment when he is not touching me. The moment becomes two, then three. Even though I know that he often does this, I rush to open my eyes the way a diver rushes to regain the surface before she runs out air.

Owen is kneeling beside my shoulder, back straight, hands resting on his thighs, looking down at me with a smile on his lips. The smile calms me. I smile back.

“Welcome back, Venus,” he says, and at once I understand the placement of my limbs. He has posed me as Botticelli's Venus. I blush, both pleased and embarrassed by the comparison.

Looking up at Owen, I am reminded once more of how huge he is. He has the build of a peasant, born to hard labour: tall, wide-shouldered, deep-chested and wrapped in heavy slabs of muscle that are a functional statement of the strength he uses to carve stone, rather than a narcissistic display of gym-won beauty. I let my eyes track down the firm barrel of his belly to his sex. His erection is substantial, pointing upwards from a thick nest of pubic hair at an angle that seems to salute my nakedness. The foreskin has rolled back to sit like a collar behind the smooth fat width of his glans. I want to wrap my hands around his shaft and use my tongue to glaze his flesh, working him until the tip of the penis stretches upwards but I know that Owen would not allow this. He does not want me to worship him. He wants to awaken the spirit he sees inside of me.

I first met Owen in an art supply shop. I was squatting, searching a low shelf for iron gall ink for a Victoriana piece I was working on. Owen blocked out my light. I looked up to find him looming over me. He was so large, he made the store seem like a scale model.

Perhaps it's because I'm so small, a few inches below five foot, but truly large men have always fascinated me. It's not that I find them particularly attractive, none of the men in my life have ever been the behemoth type, what catches my attention is how alien they are, almost a different species. It's not just the difference in scale, the fact that one of their hands could swallow both of mine, or that I'd have to climb on them like a tree to steal a kiss, it's about presence. Big men move with confidence. They radiate a sense of power and entitlement. They expect space to be made for them and they occupy a great deal of it, with expansive gestures that instinctively claim territory. They look at the world from the top of the food chain which makes the rest of us prey.

I squatted further down, tucking my bum against my heels, making room for the big man to pass. He stayed where he was, looking down at me.

“That's almost perfect,” he said. “It just needs...”

Moving too quickly for me to avoid him, he reached down and removed the two pencils I'd used to hold my hair in a loose bun. As my hair cascaded down my back I felt as if the giant above me had stripped me naked. A tiny tremor of arousal greeted the idea.

“Wonderful,” he said. “Feral and fey at the same time.”

The language was unexpected, his voice was rich and easy to listen to and his eyes were full of light. I almost did nothing. But, the man had violated my space and I couldn't let that pass. I would not let myself be prey. So, I told myself that he was an over-sized lout who was treating me as if I were a netted butterfly, waiting to be dropped into his killing jar. And he'd taken something of mine.

I stood. My eyes were on a level with the base of his sternum. I took a step closer to him and looked up.

“Give me back my pencils.”

If he had laughed, I'd have kicked him in the balls and forgotten all about him. Instead, he held out the pencils in one hand and slowly squatted in front of me until he was below my eye level. I grabbed the pencils and reached behind me to gather up my hair. He watched me intently, registering every move. He stayed silent but his eyes blazed so brightly I felt my skin warm under his gaze.

“I have to sculpt you,” he said.

His desire made my anger impossible. He reached out and touched my cheek, gently but confidently. The warmth of his touch made me aware of how cold I had become in my months alone.

I smiled at him and said, “That sounds like a line to see me naked.”

He smiled back. “In my mind, you are already naked. That's why I'm smiling.”

And now he is smiling at me again and I know exactly what I want from him.

I roll onto my side, facing away from him. Slowly, I move up on to all fours, my arse towards him. I tilt my head to the right so that my hair falls to one side and look back at him over my left shoulder. Then I dip my head, letting my hair close like a curtain around me and I wait.

Silently, Owen moves into place bend me. He presses the tip of his cock just below my arsehole. He has never taken me there, but that does not mean he will not. I stay perfectly still, waiting on his decision. He slides downwards, parting my labia in one firm stroke and pushing forward just enough to keep me open. I want to push backwards, to impale myself on him, but I make myself wait.

“Down on your elbows. Keep your arse high.”

I follow his instructions swiftly, careful not to lose contact with his cock. I let my head rest on my hands and keep my back arched.

Owen's hard hands grip my hips as if they were smooth bone handles that he had carved for his use. He pulls me upwards as he pushes into me. He is squatting behind me, feet firmly on the floor, knees spread wide, upper body bent over me. My sex is his fulcrum and his cock is the lever with which he will move my world.

He is neither gentle nor quiet. He slams into me in short, shallow strokes, too rapid to count. He pulls me up so high that my knees leave the floor. All my weight is on my elbows, He holds me suspended as he pistons into me, like a dog on his bitch. He keeps at me and at me, never slowing. His sweat starts to drip onto my back. I am too breathless to moan.

Then he stops, cock buried inside me, still hard, still holding my hips in his hands. He lowers me so that my knees are on the floor and then he kneels behind me. I am breathing hard, focusing all my attention on my battered sex and the hard heat inside it.

Owen bends over me, his sweat-covered body sliding against mine. His hands slip upwards to my breasts, cupping them firmly. Then he starts a slower, deeper penetration. At the apogee of each thrust he squeezes my breasts, releasing them as he pulls back, and then he leans backwards, taking me with him, pivoting me on his cock until I am leaning back against his chest. I cannot decide if I am horse or rider or if we have both become the ride.

“Put your hands behind my head,” he says, at the peak of one of the strokes.

As soon as I obey, his right hand slides down my belly and his broad thumb finds my clit. My hands still behind his head, I pull at his hair, I squirm on his cock, I shout at him and call him names. His thumb carves through all my resistance and shapes my arousal into a sharp spike that pushes up into my brain, until there is nothing but light behind my eyes and my second surrender is complete.

When I can speak, I say, “Let go of me, you ape. I want to see your face.”

Owen, lifts me off his erection, as if I weighed nothing at all, which is exactly how I feel. I find my feet, a little unsteadily, and turn to face him. His body is slick with sweat. His hair is matted to his head. The smell of him fills my nostrils. Best of all, he is still hard.

I extend one finger and push against his chest. Grinning, he pretends to let me drive him backwards until he is on his back with me standing over him.

I straddle his hips and then squat above his erection. Owen knows how the next part goes. He makes no move to enter me. I reach between my legs and finally take hold of his cock. I squeeze as hard as I can and am rewarded with a sharp intake of breath from Owen. Slowly, I lower myself onto him until he is all the way in and my knees are either side of his hips. I lean forward, position my right hand over his heart and then take my weight on it.

Concentrating on the shape inside me, I use all the strength I have to close myself around it. Once. Twice. Owen groans, I grin, enjoying the power I have over him.

I dip me head forward. My hair is lank with sweat, but still heavy enough to fall over Owen's chest and shoulders. I put both hands on his chest and then I start the rhythm that will end our dance: I rotate my hips, right, then left, grinding into him. I let the motion flow up my back, working my shoulders in counterpoint to my hips, while my head moves from side to side forcefully enough for me to whip Owen with my hair. I stop shaping my thoughts and become nothing but movement. I flow over Owen like a tide climbing a beach and sliding back down again, never letting go.

When it feels right, I stop moving my head. At this signal, Owen's huge hands close around my arse, pressing me onto him as his hips drive upwards at double speed. Our eyes lock. His pace increases. There is a surge of heat inside me that feels like a tribute or a blessing. But the real prize is that Owen's eyes never leave mine. He does not depart. He has just arrived.

© 2010 Mike Kimera. All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or part without written permission from the author.

Bio: Mike Kimera was raised as an Irish Catholic living in England and now works as a management consultant living in Switzerland. At the age of forty three he started writing stories about sex and lust and the things they do to us and ten years later he's still at it. Mike has had stories included in fifteen anthologies and has published one book of stories: Writing Naked. The title story won the Rauxa prize for Erotic Fiction in 2005. "Toying with Lily" was short-listed for the John Preston Short Fiction Award in 2008. You can find Mike's stories at:

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