Coco du Mer
When seduction grows from a well-defined point — a central axis — it only has to obey the laws of nature. From this axis, it blooms like a flower, fractalizing into Order masquerading as Chaos.
Defining the Axis
He said he had a “first kiss parameter” he wished to express in person, and he proposed the first IRL meeting without a prior photo exchange. At least he wasn’t boring.
That May was perpetually rain-soaked, which made sitting on the outdoor patio risky. Inside, the cafe was moderately busy, yet delightfully jazzy. With her back facing the wall, she studied the swirls of the latte art in a cup so vast, it might as well have been a soup bowl. Three unaccompanied men perched along the high bar table, while everyone else was engaged in their own conversations. He could be any one of those three guys, but it felt unlikely.
He walked in with purpose, and glancing at his watch, he scanned the crowd. There. She looked up. He smiled. She squinted.
“Kalla?”
“Yes.”
“Yousef.” He tapped his black paisley tie with his fingertips.
He felt familiar. They settled into a winding dialogue following a mutually answerable and noncommittal progression from “weather” through “family and friends” to “travel”, arriving at a less conventional talk about outer space. She learned, for example, that Uranus had rings as well, like Saturn, and that it tilted ninety-eight degrees so they looked vertical. He sent her a picture. It really was a pretty planet.
“You mentioned a “first kiss parameter” before,” she said during a clipped silence. “What is it?”
His eye contact sharpened as if probing underneath her question.
“It is how I wish to experience the beginning of intimacy. My forwardness is not laziness. Rather… a pursuit for clarity and order.”
“Straight through the front door, aren’t you?”
“Not exactly.” He didn’t smile, and his eyes went deeper.
At least he knows what he wants. Not boring after all.
“Go on.”
“With your permission,” he said, while taking his phone out, then swiped something short onto its screen.
Her phone dinged.
That weirdly immortal dad-joke! Uranus - Ur Anus. How original. Ugh. She expected to see a mischievous smile on him. Instead, he was leaning back and watching her, stroking his lower lip with his index finger. He could even be for real. Still... could be a game.
Her thumb answered him.
“I’m intrigued. However, this is not consent, you understand,” she said, placing her phone next to a half-eaten croissant.
“Naturally. You will give your consent at any future date of your choosing. When you’re ready, come wearing no underwear and inform me of that promptly. Take as much time as you need. I trust I don’t need to say that you can refuse entirely and end our endeavour at any time.”
Even though he spoke softly, his crisp diction carried his words further than their table. She noted a glance of disapproval from a nearby redhead. Fucking prudes everywhere.
She watched his mouth as he spoke, and the small of her back arched involuntarily in response. A soft spill of warmth between her thighs. A held breath.
“Kalla?”
“Hmm?”
He was asking her something.
“I expect you to inform me even if you decide not to proceed seeing me any further. Agreed?”
“Agreed.”
He walked out with the same purposefulness, but a spring added to his gait.
The language of the wet linen
Her attention had never been so glued to a man’s mouth before. Their schedules aligned rarely, though when they did, the time they spent together was generous. Touch deprivation proved to be a fruitful challenge. Strolling without holding hands. Cinema without shared snacks. In the restaurants, he reached across the table occasionally, only to retrieve his hand back. She wanted to run her fingers through his hair, but settled on watching it move in the wind.
August brought unbearable heat. Its clear-skied days begged for some rain. She wore a white dress, one of those knee-length frilly numbers. Not her usual. They were at some food festival, or rather. Music and people. But she didn’t care because he leaned in close to hear her better.
“Sorry?”
What was she saying? That she wanted to kiss the wrinkles formed near his eyes when he smiled? No. Not that. To rip those perfect buttons off his shirt? No.
His hand brushed the air around her arm. A static formed. That electricity of unresolved contact.
“It smells like it might rain,” he said. “Let’s find some shelter.”
The clouds encroached from the minute they arrived. She nodded. The sudden thunder stirred everyone into more chaos than was necessary, and they almost got separated. The rain did not need anyone’s permission to ravage the streets; it was craved for, waited for, prayed for. Her dress clung to her body hopelessly, and she wrung some parts of it out on the black-and-white tiles of a diner they ran into. Looking out the window, he said:
“Thank-god for that... Are you hungry?”
The delicate white linen becomes rather sheer when wet. Her bra strap was clearly on display, yet nothing else interrupted the transparency of her dress. He put his hands in pockets. Away from what would have been a hundred percent automatic caress of that coveted curve just below her waist. She watched him stagger from behind her shoulder. There. No words required.
“I am hungry,” she said.
His eyes dug into her, like that time at the cafe.
“I propose we take separate cabs. To my place.”
She smiled and smoothed the wet fabric tighter around her hips.
I intend to
His place needed no introduction. Dark walls, no clutter, grey sheets. Facing each other, it seemed the air between them aspired to compete with molasses in its viscosity. The image of that pretty planet he sent her in May invaded her mind, and her breath oscillated faster. He folded his tongue and held it against his palate. Releasing it made a deliberate click. Her thighs twitched.
Watching her, he rolled his sleeves down and buttoned them with the precision of someone practiced in delaying his gratification.
“Any allergies to nitrile?”
“No.”
He removed his watch and pulled a pair of thin black gloves on his hands. She swallowed. Should she tear her dress off now? Standing before her, he folded his hands neatly together and pulled his shoulders back.
“Remove your clothes.”
She did, but she kept the heels on. He glanced down, possibly with an instruction, but skipped it.
“Please kneel on the bed, back to me.”
Spine beautifully lengthened, she sat on her folded legs. Her buttocks rested on the backs of her heels, spreading that sacred cleft wider. She knew he was behind her. His was an even and controlled presence.
“Yousef?”
“Yes.”
“Wear your black paisley tie.”
His hard-on didn’t wait a moment to reply to that gorgeous recursion she just offered him. He rolled his tongue and retrieved the tie. She waited. She would wait an eternity for this first contact, knowing it would wreck her in ways she couldn’t even predict. He sat down.
“When ready, lower your face in the pillow, but keep your knees close, and bring your hips up as high as you can.”
Was she ready? Yes. But that moment was fragile. The pillow invited her face; the sheets wanted to support her breasts when they finally pressed into the mattress. He studied the two koi fish on her back. One swam upwards, and the other aimed down, toward the depths he was already tasting with his imagination. He counted forty-six scales on the fish before she lowered herself into THE POSE. And it matched his design perfectly!
Coco du Mer. Intoxicating. Precise execution.
Now.
No. Her trembling was obvious, and he watched her wetness betray her slowly. He would get to that in its own time.
“This is excellent. I am pleased.”
He said this in a tone that felt like a rough entry into a thoroughly prepared space. She gasped. A loud moan, unapologetic and overripe, escaped her throat. He thought to spread her buttocks wider with his hands, but decided her rosebud was already quite accessible. And nothing could spoil the purity of which part of him touches her first.
Now.
His face just a palm-width away, he studied the micro movements of her desperate sphincter. It waited so patiently, and he contemplated stretching that wait even further.
No, it’s time.
The perfect kiss of the first contact - his lips embraced her pink star, tongue pressing its centre. Fuuuuuck! Smooth and cooperative. Pulsing, inviting him in.
The pillow garbled her moan, and her knees almost buckled. His gloved hands, meant to stabilise her, sent her further into ecstasy. The depersonalised touch of nitrile did things to her mind, things that dissolved her thoughts and distilled them into two words - “Own me”.
He pressed his tongue further, insisting on entry. Stretching her wider, he closed his eyes and allowed himself a long rhythmic series of licks and presses. She lost her control a while ago. The “oh my god’s”, and the “holy fuck’s”, and the “eat me’s” punctuated her ragged breath. She moved to open her knees wider, but he corrected her to stay without lifting his face from her ass. She’d learn. For now, all he wanted was to claim her fully.
He held her thighs together in a silent command to obey his design. She wanted his hold tighter and wiggled, and he increased his force. Now it hurt properly.
The flat of his tongue travelled from the savoured spot up towards the forty-six-scaled koi, and his tie pressed into the slow waterfalls between her lower lips. Moving back, he passed by the pink and dipped into that red delectable valley, so swollen one might imagine it was freshly pumped by a machine. Her taste and texture hit both his palate and mind, waking something behind the structure he’d created for this encounter. His fingers dug into the flesh of her thighs, and she screamed from the pain-induced orgasm, shivering, helpless, melting, her eyes rolling behind their lids as if trying to witness the paradise her body was sent to.
He didn’t stop. No. Rest would be a silly thing to provide her now. He steadied her hips again. Riding on the previous wave, he exposed her ass wider. Even wider! His cock demanded entry, but that wasn't within the current parameters. Mmmm, sweet-sweet control. Another hard press of his tongue, and her rosebud opened. Kiss. In and wiggle. Out. In and swirl. Raspy moan.
“I want to feel like this forever,” she muttered. “Fucking hell!”
With his face travelling between her ass and pussy, his tongue, lips, teeth… all had a turn. She remembered nothing of where she was or who she was. All she felt was her body diffusing and reconstructing with each growl that he made.
His gloved fingers sent her into another surge.
More savouring. His licking and sucking were just as precise and intentional as his diction. And when he reached her clit, she groaned:
“Fucking own me.”
“I intend to.”
And she came again at his words. They scrambled the last remaining sense of what she knew of herself. Fucking Uranus. Gods, who knew space could harbour such ecstasy?
Hours, maybe minutes, went by. Neither of them was certain. His tongue ached and his lips throbbed. He still didn’t kiss her anywhere else. For that, another design was required. She thundered through five? Six? Maybe eight orgasms? In the passion-soaked sheets, there she was — thought-free, for the first time in forever.
By the time he took his gloves and his tie off, Kalla was asleep. He settled on the couch. Sleeping alone was always his preference, and he would sleep here for the rest of his life if she stayed in his bed.
How the flower bloomed
He still keeps the tie. In a box. Preserved.
