I thought you might ask. Well, she has a name, another name; and that will remain between us two, for now. But I can tell you how I happen upon the object ténèbreuse. Just promise me not to report me to the thought police, OK?

It was a few days, maybe a fortnight, after the coffee invite. I took the initiative, and on a foggy Sunday evening, I invited her, by means of a little paper note slipped through her door, to a glass of wine. I tidied up my place, had a shower, made sure the white wine was suitably chilled, and the red at the right temperature. I committed myself to behave as a gentleman. I dressed appropriately.

At the suggested time the door bell rang. There she was, wearing a skirt – a skirt – and a red pullover, flat shoes, her hair in a bun. We sat on the sofa, I poured the wine, and chatted amiably. She asked about my life, said she observed me every morning – was it so? – as I went down the street to my gym. We joked. Then we talked about photography, and I made my pitch, saying how much I’d love to do some pics with her.

“Ha!” she then said, “I have shown you one side, maybe this is the time to show you the other…”

And she stands, turns round, and kneels on the sofa, her delicious bum in the air. Now wait, this was done quickly, and I had no time to adjust. She wore no panty, I was now standing behind her, admiring the perfect globes of her buttocks, and, o Lord, the perfect small black disk of her asshole: perfect is less than it was, a marvel, a small circle of total black, above the tuft of red hair and the delicious lips… The spectacle of this, the white thin thighs, the round bum, the small lips… I dropped the jeans, silently knelt forward and licked her – everywhere – then stood up, seized her hips and plunged: she moaned a little, and as I seized her, lifted her up, and dived further, she cried. She was perfect, tight, absorbing, in full control of her muscles, and, soon, mine. I was as good as I promised myself, and held out for a very long time, while she came, again, and again, then asked me to enter her, now from the front. I cleaned myself up, and went back to her, now free of her clothes, the perfect woman, white thighs above her head, wide open, facing me with her beautiful smile, her clever face, her red lips, the perfect cunt, the perfect fuck.

And the small circle of deep darkness.



Image:  Kees van Dongen, 1927 – via                           colin-vian