Canvas

There was nothing that she had read in any of her Women’s Studies books that would approve of what she was doing. But Cleo had needed to do what she had done. 

Clarissa her best friend in most of those classes was a staunch feminist, and would have been particularly appalled, but naked except for her leopard print matching bra and thong? Cleo was satiated and heavy, curled in a half fetal position on the strange bed.

She did not know the name of the man who had a towel about his waist and let her sleep in his bed. From the stickiness of drool she felt dried on her cheek, she supposed she had slept hard. She watched his reflection in the bathroom mirror shaving, and she felt herself throb inside from where he had entered her body.

She needed him, her nipples hardened and she threw the covers off of her and leaned naked against his bathroom door. He took his time with the process of his grooming, and she was completely absorbed until he spoke to her.

“Your nipples are hard,” he said, after a while of her watching him. 

“They are not alone…” 

He put down his aftershave, and touched himself. He touched himself, and she felt like he had touched her. She touched herself mirroring him, and he stalked her. The darkness in his eyes, and the darkness she knew he was capable enveloped her. That was what Cleo had wanted. Someone who was not Oscar or Cadmus. A man who like herself, just wanted to be covered in the night with another person. Someone who was a blank canvas albeit dark to paint with passion.

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