Image Credit: Marta Dahlig

A perfect reflection stares back at the man in the mirror; the marble face could have carved by angels in their own image. In ancient times he may have been mistaken for one of the immortal Gods or at the very least a mortal with ichor in his veins. His visage is a marvel of angles and planes; on any other the high cheekbones, aquiline nose, and chiseled chin would have been sharp and hard, but on him they suit - at once haughty and heroic. Those with no sense of poetry call his hair black and his eyes blue. Black yes, but with the rainbow sheen of a raven’s wing. Blue, yes, but a blue that would make sapphires weep with envy at their lack of depth. His lips quirk up in a smile as he gives the waves of hair a final tousle: structured messiness he calls it.

He turns back into the strange bedroom to stare at the woman, still sleeping, face down in the sheets, limbs everywhere. He’s careful not to frown too deeply lest the wrinkles that form become permanent.

‘Another disappointment.’

The woman, by every standard but his, is beautiful. Long, shapely legs attached to a tall creamy body and crystal ball breasts, with just enough heft to bounce without the telltale sag of falseness. Rich sable hair and deep eyes the color of rainy seas. Perfectly pert nose and heart shaped lips.

‘This is what goes for a supermodel these days?’ he sneers to himself as he walks out the door.


The night, like most others, began at some hot new lounge for cocktails and hors d’oeuvres, he can’t recall the name - it’s never important - men in designer suits and women in Jimmy Choo’s - predictable.

He can feel their stares on him the moment he walks through the glass and wood doors. It’s the same everywhere he goes - the burden of beauty weighs heavy in the pit of his stomach, though he’d never admit it or give it up. He was never one to be accused of false modesty; he has always been aware the effect his visage has on those around him, regardless of social standing, race, and even gender.

The hostess sees him and rushes over: "Good evening Mr. Kostas! How can I..." she trails off as he heads straight up to the balcony, reserved for the elite, or for those with arrogance enough that their bank balance or social connections are never questioned. A lone server braves his wrath long enough to inquire about his beverage preference. Scotch on the rocks, the finest they have. The server informs the young man that their establishment carries a number of fine options and proceeds to list them; he is silenced with a look. The server nods, the finest they have, right away.

As the server scurries off, glancing back surreptitiously at the Adonis in the corner, the man’s gaze sweeps across at the multitude of patrons and potential bed warmers. They’re all he same to him: blond and tall or brunette and petite; rarely has appearance been a factor in choosing his bedmate. His gaze falls to an odd pairing at the main bar. A silver fox has engaged a young beauty in conversation, much to the dismay of the lady. It doesn’t show in her face, quite the opposite: she smiles becomingly and laughs appropriately. It’s her body language: the hand placed against his chest, holding him at arms length as he uses the noise as an excuse to speak into her ear; the body shifted towards the bar face only slightly turned to him. The older man is clearly trying to hard and she knows it. She’s pretty enough: tall and lean, but with curves enough to entice a man, rich brown locks falling in waves down her back. She’s wearing a cocktail dress the color of burnt honey, a striking contrast to her pale skin. The server sets his drink down on the glass-topped table, placing a napkin underneath it.

“Can I get you anything else sir?”

“No; but you can make sure this table is empty when I return”

“I’m sorry sir but I cannot guarantee...” the server stammers as the man gives him another glare.

“Right, of course.”

The man finishes his drink in one swallow, letting the fiery liquid burn his throat and warm his belly. He makes his way down to the main bar, the crowd parting as he strides towards his mark, confident in his approach.

“I’m so sorry I’m late darling.” He places his arm around her silk covered waist and places a chaste kiss on her cheek.

“Oh, um hello,” the older man is flustered, “we were just…”

“Thank-you for keeping my darling entertained. A woman like her in a place like this...”

“Right of course, well.” The man clearly doesn’t know whether to be relieved at his obvious obliviousness or insulted at the assumption that an older man couldn’t possibly have a chance with the lady in question.

“Come sweetheart, the gang’s all here” he steers her towards the stairs.

“I wasn’t in need of rescuing.”

‘Christ another feminist…’ he thinks to himself. Well he can play abashed white knight just as well as charming rescuer.

“Really? Well than allow me to escort you back to your suitor.” he looks at her all guileless innocence.

She sighs, “no that’s alright, you have great timing; thank-you.”

“You’re welcome.” He pulls out a chair for her and seats himself across from her at his corner table.

“Let me buy you a drink.”

“If you insist,” he waves over the same server.

“I’d like a dirty martini with a twist and the gentleman will have…”

“The same as before.”

“Right away.”

“And put it on my tab Tom.”

“Of course ma’am.”

“You know the wait staff by name…?” He’s intrigued.

“As well I should. I come here most every week after a show.”

“Show? Are you in entertainment?”

“You could call it that; I’m a model trying to make my way in big bad New York.”

“Ah…I see.”

“So, does my knight in shining armor have a name?”

“Nikolas…but my friends call me Niko.”

“Lucky me. You’re Greek?”

“My parents were.”


“They’re dead.”

“Oh I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright, it was a long time ago. I don’t remember them.”

“Right, well, I’m Carolina…Lina actually. My parents aren’t Latino, my mom just has a thing for Latina designers.”

“The model thing is becoming a bit more clear now.”

“Don’t I look like I walk the runway?” he slides his hand down her waist, fingers resting at her hips.

“Not with those curves, but what do I know. I don’t pay much attention to the fashion scene.”

“Could’ve fooled me.” Her eyes gaze appreciatively at the charcoal grey slacks and jacket, paired with a pale pink shirt, open at the throat, no tie. “ Let me guess, Armani, custom made, cashmere blend?”

“You have a good eye. But I wear what I like, not what I’m told to like.”

“Well what you like looks good on you”

“You’re looking pretty delectable yourself.”

“This old thing? I raided the Vogue fashion closet last season and managed to pick up some choice samples. One of the few perks of working in the industry and being nice to the interns.”

“So your motives are not completely selfless.”

“Honey no one in New York is selfless.”

“Well said…”

Their drinks arrive and Tom the waiter blushes as Lina’s attentions. ‘Like he’d have a chance in hell’ he smirks.

They sip quietly staring at each other over the rims of their drinks, analyzing, wondering, coming to their individual conclusions.

She looks at his hand circling the tumbler: strong fingers, tanned and manicured. She can picture them on her flesh, dark & light. He could bruise if he chose to; the question is would he?

He’s too perfect. There’s a flaw, she can feel it, but at the moment she doesn’t care.

“I’m not much for crowds.” He leans over, brushing her fingers as he takes her half finished drink.

“No I don’t suppose you are.” There’s the flaw: no real connection. A few minutes of impersonal conversation, exchange some quick flirtations, and then wham bam thank-you ma’am.

“I was thinking maybe we could catch a late dinner? I don’t know what eating schedule today’s models are on, but if you’d like I know a place. We could talk and I could see if the rumors are true?”

‘Well that’s different.’ She nods her head, “what rumors?”

“That models are secretly exactly like the rest of us.”


“You’re putty in front of a big bowl of pasta.”

“I guess we’ll have to find out.”


She'd expected a trendy Manhattan restaurant with a line around the block not the elegant SoHo bistro, tucked away on the quiet side street. He held open the door, something else she wasn't expecting. The maître d’ smiles at Niko, greeting him as a regular and leads them to an intimate window booth.

"Come here often?"

"Once in a while. Would you mind terribly if I ordered for the both of us?"

"Please; I'd like to see what you come up with."

The sommelier brings over a bottle of champagne and offers him a taste.

"I'll defer to the lady's better judgment."

The man pours a taste into her glass and she sips the bubbly wine. It's delicately sweet with a hint of floral and the telltale tang of vintage foam.

"This is lovely."

He nods and the flutes are filled with golden effervescence.

"Would you like to order right away Mr. Romanos?"


"Very good. I will send Marie to you right away."

He'd surprised her; he can see it by the slight widening of her eyes, her lips parting just a touch as he responded with easy familiarity to the wait staff.

‘Women are so easy, so typical; keep them guessing and they’re begging for more.’ He smiles.

“What’s so funny?”

“Nothing, just admiring.”

“Anything in particular?”

“Your eyelashes?”

“My eyelashes…” she’s thrown of her stride again: what kind of man notices eyelashes?

“Hmm yes; I can’t tell if they’re gold tipped brown or brown tipped gold…fascinating.”

“I’ve never heard myself described as fascinating. I like it”

“I aim to please.”

A short plump woman walks up to their table and greets him with ease:

“Nikolas, caro, como sta?”

“Va bene Marie, grazie. Avermo l’insalata caprese e carpaccio per iniziare. Nonché la pollo alla cacciatore e zabaglione.”

“Buono Signor Nikolas.”

“You speak very good Italian.”

“I travel a lot. It’s given me an ear for languages.

“How many do you speak?”

“I lost count.”

“A jetsetter are we?”

“Just a man with varied interests”

“I can imagine”

He confuses her. One moment he’s charming and pleasant, yet the next he’s aloof and acerbic. She can’t understand if he’s playing a game with her or if it’s simply the way he is and that has her thinking of getting up and walking out the door, but their first course arrives: wafer thin slices of raw beef with a creamy mustard sauce and a bed of basil leaves, vine-ripened tomatoes boccocini mozzarella drizzled with olive oil and balsamic vinegar.

“All of a sudden I’m famished. This looks amazing”

“Please go ahead.”

He watches her as she consumes the antipasti, eating little, observing her enjoyment and the subtle shift in her attitude towards him. She’s wondering what to make of him but she’s beginning to trust him. The relaxing of her posture, the unselfconscious enjoyment of the meal - she’s his for the taking.

He walks into the Manhattan apartment behind Lina. It’s slightly bigger then a shoebox, but then again he didn’t expect much else. Before she can go through the mundane routine of offering him a drink, he walks towards what he knows is the bedroom. She follows, hesitantly, entering as he takes off his jacket and drops it to the floor.

“Come here.”

“Look I don’t know what you’re expecting…”

“Come here.”

His tone compels her, knowing there isn’t much point in resisting she walks to him. He traces a finger down her check and throat, slipping a finger between her breasts. She holds her breath waiting for him to continue. He takes a step back:

“Take off your dress.”

Lina reaches behind her neck, expecting him to come around and help, but he continues to stare. She lowers the zipper after a slight struggle and lets the dress fall to the ground. Black lace covers her intimate parts and she knows she looks good in her La Perla. She lifts her gaze expecting him to be smiling or appropriately appreciative, instead he looks bored, as if waiting to be impressed. Sufficiently uncomfortable she begins to bend to retrieve her clothing when he takes her hand and pulls her upright. He slips a cool hand under her bra and brushes the tip of her nipple. His other hand caresses the outside of her panties and to her surprise she feels herself getting wet. He withdraws both hands and looks at her:


She unsnaps her bra freeing her breasts to his scrutiny. She’s proud of her body: lean and athletic, but lush in the right places. Her body is roses and cream, with no hint of a tan. She hooks two French manicured fingers onto her panties and pulls them down; she’s kept up her beauty regime, even without steady partners. He comes up behind her, pulling her hips towards his still clothed body. He’s not aroused. His hands come up to her chest and pinch her nipples bringing them to erection, breathing on her neck, the cool air adding another layer of sensations on her body. He caresses her back, fingers trailing down the cleft between her cheeks, probing slightly, then continuing to her slit. He slips one finger, then two and begins rubbing his thumb against her clit. She bites her lip, stifling a groan.
Liquid heat travels down his fingers as he strokes her g-spot, bringing her closer to climax. He gets her to the edge and before she takes the plunge, his withdraws his hand and she whimpers.

“Quiet. I want you to be completely silent. Crawl onto the bed, but don’t lie down; rest on your elbows, keep your legs spread, and your ass in the air – don’t move, don’t speak.”

His voice is harsh, and she’s afraid, but somehow she knew he’d be exactly like this and she’s craving it. She does as she’s bidden and waits, her muscles beginning to quiver

He removes his clothing, stroking his penis to a semblance of readiness. The only sound in the room is her shallow breaths. It’s just as well he can’t see her face, she isn’t nearly as attractive as he needs her to be. He climbs onto the bed behind her, positioning himself level to her creamy bottom. For a moment he’s tempted, it would violate her, and that thought excites him, as he’s certain she’s never been taken that way. He pulls apart the flesh in front of him and the tip of his member brushes her anus and he feels her stiffen beneath him, but remains quiet. No, he’d rather a wet sheath around his cock, then a dry tight one. His arms reach under to fondle her breasts, squeezing and pinching roughly, his member moves up and down her nether lips causing unpleasant friction and a building crescendo, but no release. He continues to play with her, alternating his fingers and his penis, prolonging her agony. He smiles as she struggles to hold herself up against his body, but her body continues to respond and at one point he’s able to slip every digit into her puckered opening. He decides she’s suffered enough and with one long thrust he fills her to the hilt.

Her orgasm is instantaneous. Her inner walls tighten around his rod, milking him, but his control is absolute. He pounds into her with long hard strokes pulling her into him, increasing the tempo and force, fingers digging into her hips, making her gasp at his violent ministrations. Tears fall down her cheeks, yet she can feel herself accommodating his need as her skin becomes taut and her breathing labored, signaling another shattering climax; this time she cannot contain herself and just as he’s reaching his own pinnacle, while her orgasm ripples around him, her voice shatters his reverie:

“Oh my God!”

He jerks, his satisfaction ruined, and while his body cannot stop from finishing, he feels no pleasure. She collapses underneath him, bruised and sated, while he kneels above her, disgusted.


Lying on his couch in his own condo, he thinks back to Lina and shudders. The Brooklyn hovel that he’d first bought has been transformed into a glamourous loft thanks to his smooth-talking charm and weapon-honed attractiveness. A voice interrupts his thoughts:

“Tell me what you want baby”

Of all the girls that he’s been with there has only ever been one who feel like a man – his Echo.

“Talk dirty to me...” he begs.

“What if I take you in my hands, squeeze and stroke until you’re unable to help yourself?” the voice made for sex whispers in his ears, terrible & wondrous all at once.

As she continues her litany of sexual perversions, hands caress his stiffening cock, fingers burning against his flesh. His eyes close savoring the agonizingly slow movements; the tempo quickens as the husky voice continues to detail the elaborate fantasies meant for his ears only. The contrast of silken murmurs and urgent stroking bring him to the only satisfying climax he’s able to have as he groans, spilling his seed into the waiting hands.

Across the wire, at the other end of the conversation, gnarled hands tap the ashes from a burning cigarette; red nailed fingers bring it back up to wrinkled lips and yellowed teeth:

“That’s it baby, let mama give you what you need…”

Thanks to a certain few for their unwavering support as I try to make this work; much love! -BR 
© Briar Rose

No comments:

Post a Comment