In Her Eyes I See The Sea

In Her Eyes I See The Sea

It wasn’t the way it usually happens. You don’t usually meet a lover for the first time and find them naked.

But that is how I met you, Monique.

Well into my 40s I found myself alone, but not lonely. Children grown up and left home. And a messy divorce that was now just a bitter memory.

The divorce meant I bought a small flat. And for the first time in more than 20 years I had time and freedom to do what I liked.

I reduced my work hours to three days a week. At the start I really had no idea what to do with myself.

Then one day I was cleaning up some old school books of my eldest daughter. I came across some life drawing she had done in the final year of high school. The school was progressive and brought in nude life models for the students to draw.

As I flicked through the charcoal drawings I remembered my earlier passion for art. I had been a keen photographer, had tried painted and even a little sculpture. But the demands of work and family meant my passion was suppressed.

I googled ‘life drawing’ lessons and sure enough the university art department nearby were offering lessons to beginners on Thursday mornings. I enrolled on-line, bought the prescribed materials (papers, pencils, charcoal sticks) and waited for the first lesson to arrive.

It was mid-winter when the lessons began. The students, including me, sat at our easels in a semi-circle around a small raised platform. Each week, while the bitter winds of winter swirled outside a new model would disrobe, mount the small platform and strike poses for us to draw.

I wondered whether this spectacle would arouse me. I hadn’t had a lover since the divorce and that was now five years ago.

In the first six weeks the models stirred no sexual interest. Young skinny blond woman – barely out of their teens, middle aged male body builders, woman in their 60s and 70s with beautifully ruined bodies. None of them did anything for me.

Then spring arrived. And so did you.

We sat as usual waiting for the model to arrive. Always a bit of anticipation among the students – who would we see this week?

You wandered into the room and the very, very first thing that struck me was you eyes.

Green. Stunning green. Like the sea.  

Your eyes floated like brilliant jade stones in the drab art studio as you walked to the platform. They sat in your face like radiant stars nestled comfortably in the deep expanse of space. The contrast to your skin was staggering – white and warm and with a delicious scattered of freckles. I found myself inhaling quickly, suddenly, unexpectedly impacted by your eyes.

You gradually disrobed, shedding an old black sweat shirt and black gym pants. Your underwear was so unglamorous: a sensible skin tone bra and Bonds cotton tail undies.

For the next 90 minutes I had an uninterrupted view of pure beauty. As you changed poses I made sure to follow your eyes. My mind was saying: “You might never, ever see anything as extraordinary as this again. Consume it in like it is your last drink.”

I was drawn to your eyes, but gradually I started to study your body. Objectively it was a very gorgeous body – soft and curvy and flowing effortless from one area to the other. The way your neck joined your chest, joined your breasts, joined your tummy and so on was seamless and perfect. Each element, in of itself, was stunning but the whole package was overwhelming.

But I had seen bodies as compelling as yours before: in paintings, photos and movies. What gave you an edge was the confident and shameless way you choreographed your head, shoulders, limbs and torso into delicious shapes.

By the end of the session I had hardly done anything on my paper.

Once, just once, our eyes locked. I tried to look away but couldn’t. The connection lasted less than three seconds. It ended with you giving me bold, sweet smile.

The weeks after this I wondered how I could find you. I couldn’t ask the art school – that was forbidden. I tried googling ‘nude models, green eyes, CITY NAME’ etc. but it did not find you.

Disappointed, I gradually accepted I would never see you again.

But I couldn’t let go. And in my longing something very odd happened: I began to collect the colour green.

Green pencils, green paints, green paper, green fabric. Fruits and vegetable – limes, apples and avocadoes.

I was looking for the thing that best captured the colour of your eyes.  

Then one Sunday afternoon I was walking aimlessly through the big public art gallery in our town.

I walked into one of the rooms to view some impressionist painting I really like. And there you were.

You were alone in this part of the gallery. And you were studying a huge canvass with a vibrant picture of lush grass peppered with beautiful, vulnerable spring flowers.

Gone were the sweat shirt and gym pants. Instead a cool and sheer black cotton dress hugged your body stopping just above your ankles. The neck line plunged but a light green t-shirt worn under the dress hid your cleavage. Your hair- black, deep, lustrous – bounced gently on your shoulder as you moved your weight from foot to foot.

As I approached near, you turned towards me. Your green eyes locked once again on mine.

‘Oh hi,’ you burst forward, shattering the silence of the gallery. ‘You remember me? I was a model at your art class.’

I was staggered and a bit speechless. Beyond our three-second connection I had no idea you’d noticed me or would remember me.

‘Of course,’ I answer trying to be a bit cool. But my heart was racing.

‘I’m Monique.’

‘I’m Simon.’

We exchanged small talk and agreed we’d share a tea together in the gallery café. Over tea, my nerves gradually settled.

At an uncomfortable silence you said quietly, “I’ve done a lot of modelling but – and I hope you don’t mind me saying this – I’ve never been studied so closely as I was by you on that day …”

Before I can stop myself I say, “It was your eyes. It is your eyes. They … they … they’re inexplicable.”

You are genuinely shocked. “My eyes? Mostly it’s my breasts. Or my hips that people remark on … Tell me then, what is it about my eyes?”

I try to explain. It goes badly -  I am not clear or concise or even vaguely understandable. Finally I get to the bit about my green colour collection. And this lasts for a solid ten minutes.

Once I am done, I am exhausted. You say, “That must be the most wonderful thing anyone has ever said to me.”

We end our teas, exchange phone numbers and have vague plans to keep in touch.

And we do keep in touch. Every week or two we head out to a different gallery or art show. Very platonic. And then some interstate trips to catch blockbuster art shows at a State galleries. If it is overnight, we always have separate hotel rooms. Through these outings our friendship and bond grows deeper and deeper.

One weekend we travel to Sydney to see the extraordinary Francis Bacon show on loan from the Tate Modern. It is packed. And charged. The paintings are so powerful (I get a chill down my legs now just remembering).

Maybe it is fear the paintings generate or just the mad crush of people. Either way we find ourselves walking very closely together. Finally the back of our hands brush - our first contact a full nine months after we met in the life drawing class.

Our fingers, with our hands still back-to-back, reach out like little tentacles and gradually become entwined. My heart is in my throat. I cannot bear to look at your face for fear of what I might see.

By the time we leave the gallery our hands have flipped and they are locked in a tender, tender embrace. We do not speak. We walk silently towards our hotel.

Back in the hotel in your room the space is bathed in orange and red light as the sun sets outside. We stand face to face. I reach out to unbutton your top. But you gently grab my hand. “We need to even the score,” you say quietly. “After all its only fair. You’ve seen me naked. Now it is my turn.”

You sit on the couch under the window that is letting in the red-orange glow. Light a cigarette. The end glows the same colour as the sun set. The first time I’ve seen you smoke. “Just now and then,” you answer anticipating my question. “It helps settle my nerves.

“Now, please turn your back to me and undress.”

I do as I am told. As my shirt falls to the floor your cigarette smoke fills my senses. I haven’t smoked in 30 years but now desperately want one.

I kick off my shoes and socks and begin to unbuckle my belt. “Turn around, please.” Again, I do as I am told.

Your legs are crossed and I notice for the first time you are dressed in the same clothes from the day we reconnected months ago in the art gallery. Same black cotton dress. Same green t-shirt. Same black, beautiful hair.

My belt unbuckled, I unbutton the fly on my jeans. I shimmy them down my legs. I am left in by black underwear, which is rather brief for a man of my age. I hook my fingers in to start a slow process to remove them. Partly to tease, but mostly because I am scared.

You are on your feet, cigarette in mouth and coming towards me. You gently spin me around and standing close behind me you whisper in my ear, “I’ll help you with that.”

Your fingers peel my underwear down to my ankles, short sharp nails gently scratching as you go. I kick them away.

Your body, still fully dressed is now pressed into my back. Your breasts press firmly into my shoulder blades. I feel your pubic bone pressed hard against the base of my spine. Your hands around my waist. Chin pressed into my neck. Time stands still.

I grab your hand and lead you to the bed. I undress you swiftly but with great care. Just your underwear remains.

Gone is the sensible bra and undies from the drawing studio day. A matching pair of black, silk panties and bra now wrap your body. The bra straps are impossibly thin. And contrast with your milky, smooth skin is overwhelming.

“Lay down and put your hands over your head, Monique.” You obey. Your breath is coming in short, hard stabs now. It causes your breasts to rise and fall rapidly. “I have a treat, but it requires me to tie your wrist and ankles to the bed. But I will only do this is you agree.” You nod and entwine your hands in the wooden slats of the bed head and position your ankles – with legs slightly spread – over the end of bed. Quickly and gently I bind your wrists together, first wrapping them is some velvet cloth, is soft cool smooth rope. Once bound together, I tie your wrists to the wooden slats. The grip is tight and strong but also snug and warm. One ankle and then the other gets the same treatment.

I leave you and busy myself with some other preparations. You settle into the soft bed. The pillow is soft, covered with a cool, white pillowcase. The sheets are also white. You look down at your body, wrapped in black silk and ankles bound with black rope.

I return. “What do you have there?” Your voice is dreamy and low.

“Six types of chocolates. And a bowl of champagne sorbet.” You look over and see six silver plates each arranged with small, dark spherical chocolates. A silver goblet shows the signs of its cold ingredient – the sorbet – with water droplets forming on the outside. Freezing cold mist rises out of the goblet.

“I’ll feed each chocolate favour to your one by one, Monique. And then we’ll have some fun. After you’ve finished a chocolate, a teaspoon of champagne to cleanse the your taste buds. And then another chocolate. Then repeat. Until you’ve savoured all six.”

“I … don’t really understand …”

“You will. And oh, the chocolates are the very, very best money can buy. Imported from France. Ready?”

“Yes.”

“Then open up.” I place the first tiny chocolate on your tongue. You are a chocolate lover and this little bundle of bliss doesn’t disappoint. Mint. Intense. Creamy.

As the chocolate baths your mouth my hands gently stroke your shoulders, your neck. Fingers work up the back of your neck and into your hair. My thumb strokes you lips. The back of my hands on your cheeks. It goes on and on.

A final swallow and chocolate is gone. A cold spoon on your lips and a dob of champagne sorbet into your mouth. It cleans the mint chocolate away.

“Open again.” A second chocolate. A different favour. Orange this time. As the favour spreads through your mouth so do my hands spread over your body. It is your breasts that now receive my attention. As you suck down the delicious citrus taste my hands drink in your breast. Gently stroking each nipple. Drawing light circles around and around. And as the last sliver of orange chocolate melts in your mouth I clamp my lips around one nipple and then the other. Sucking hard and withdrawing with a delicious ‘pop’ sound.

The sorbet again, and then, “Open please.” A cherry chocolate now. My hands on your tummy and waist now. Down as far as your hips. You are thrusting your groin gently up now, my hands linger just above your pubic bone. Short fingernails scratch you gently. The chocolate melts and is gone.

Sorbet. Now a fourth chocolate. Rasberry. Tangy. Sweet. Wrapped in a very dark chocolate this time.

The voyage of tastes has taken us this far. As you linger on the chocolate, rolling it around your mouth, my fingers gently spread your vulva and find your clitoris. My fingers are moist (more chocolate, you wonder). As you pass the chocolate from one cheek to another my fingertips fall into a smooth and unhurried rhythm. Your body responses – nipples swell, red flush across your chest, your breathing is deep and slow. A low, low moan escapes your lips.

As you swallow the last of the raspberry chocolate you find the cool spoon at your lips again. “This next chocolate will come to you a little differently, Monique.” You look at me, and find me naked. You’d forgotten about my strip tease and me being naked this whole time. I have a chocolate held lightly between my teeth and a small pair of scissors in my hand. As I lean into your lips, the scissors slip under one bra strap. As the chocolate touches your lips, a tiny ‘snip’ and one bra strap is severed. The chocolate is pressed further into your mouth until our lips touch – for the first time. Another ‘snip’ and the other strap in gone. Your breasts swell forth as our lips entwine.

We kiss, tongues and chocolate and lips meshed together. We pass the sphere of chocolate between our mouths, sharing the delicious praline taste. I expertly and carefully cut the fabric on the sides of your panties and they fall away from your hips. The kissing and sharing of the chocolate continues.

My hands now reach for the fifth zone of your body that this chocolate represents – the opening of your vagina. My fingers – moist, smooth, gently –stroke you with the fingertips. I slowly lift my mouth from yours to view your mouth and eyes to detect signs of whether you want this or not. Your eyelids flutter. A chocolate-coated tongue licks your lips. A deep, low moan comes from mouth but has been generated right down in your chest.

It is my first time touching you there, so I move slowly and surely. You are moist and open. Over the chocolate and sobert and cigarette smoke (still burning on a sauce near the bed) I smell the sweet, earthy odour or your sex. My index finger pushes deeper. You grab my wrist and pull my finger in deep.

‘Do the … “come hither” motion … with your finger …’ you coo through chocolate coated lips. ‘I want some stroking just there … my g-spot.’ I obey and you writhe erotically, still roped to the bed.

‘A final chocolate now, Monique. And this is your choice. Tell me what you want as we share this final sweet.’

‘I only want one thing now. Your cock. In my mouth.’

I learn forward and place the final truffle chocolate in your mouth with my lips. Again, we pass the coffee to and thro. Kissing. Wet and warm.

I stand up. My cock is heavy, but not fully erect. You turn your head to one side, mouth open. I guide the purple head into your mouth. Your lips and tongue coat my cock with chocolate. I press forward and your lips clamp firmly over the head. Bliss.

We spend an eternity mixing chocolates and play. You demand an orange and raspberry chocolate and that means ceaseless attention to your breast and clitoris. You demand a praline and mint and my finger are in your vagina again, stroking your g-spot while I run my hands through your hair. You demand a praline and truffle treat and I am between your legs licking your clitoris with two fingers in your pussy.

At this point you moan, “I forget … what comes after desert … could it be being fucked by you?”

I kneel up and smile into your eyes. “That’s what I want too, Monique.” My cock is hard, but still not fully erect. But as I bring it towards your pussy it stiffens and lengthens. The purple tips brushes the moist, warm opening to your body ….

Suddenly – water, spraying down on us and a fire alarm. The sprinkler system is showering the entire room and us. In our quite passion we did not notice the cigarette and tumbled off the sauce. Now one of the curtains was now alight. Mad scramble and confusion. Hands untied. Sorbet tossed on the fire. More water from the bathroom.

After being evicted from the hotel, for smoking and causing significant damage to your room, we finally find rooms in different hotels. We are grumpy and disappointed about how such a perfect evening had ended. We travel home the next day on an early flight.

That evening I am in my flat. My phone beeps. A text from you.

‘Are you free right now?’

‘Yes – of course. Why?’

‘Come to me.’

‘Where?’

‘The art studio.’

I text asking for further details. When you don’t reply I phone you but you do not pick up. I figure my only option is to go to the art studio where this all began.

I arrive and find the entrance door slight ajar. A small note on the door says, “Lock the door behind you and come to me.”

I found you where I first met you: laying naked on the small platform. The room is warm and bathed in the light of about ten candles. You recline on one hip, propped up on an elbow, smoking. As I walk you, you carefully extinguish the cigarette. And double check it is out. “I am certain we will not be interrupted by fires and sprinkles and alarms this time,” you say.

As I reach you, you kneel up. Quickly you have my shoes and socks and jeans off. Again you slowly pull down my briefs with great intent. Meanwhile I shed my shirt.

And then suddenly we are together. Side by side. Skin to skin. For the first time.

My hands through your hair. You teeth bite gently into my shoulders. My mouth on your breast, your tummy and then once again between your legs. Long, smooth strong licks to your clitoris. Your hands in my hair – urging me to keep going and going.

And then back facing each other – side by side. Your top leg slightly raised. I move in close. My cock hard and straining now. Twitching with anticipation. And then …

Bliss. Warm, warm bliss. Still and silent. Our breathing in unison. Just the sound of the wind through the trees to keep us company.

You first, then me. Gradually moving. My cock gradually being withdrawn further out, then pushed back in. You moving with me. Your breathing suddenly changes and so does your movements. More desperate now – both of us. The entire length of my cock now – in and out. Sweat beads on our lips and foreheads and chests. As we move our sweat mixes together.

You come, then me. Deep inside you. We desperately catch our breath. I laugh, for joy. Then you do, too. Noses pressed together. Feet entwined. Bellies, touching melting into one. No need for words just yet.

Or chocolate.