I blinked. My eyes were curiously moist. I gestured to my body. “So this is your masterpiece?”
“As close as I'll ever get. And really, it's not my masterpiece. It's yours. I just helped you see it.
Weakness threatened to send me to my knees. “My masterpiece?” This foreign vessel, broken and repaired and suddenly overflowing with my soul?
He nodded. “The life of the vase is here.” He brushed his hand over the porcelain, the barely visible seams of gold catching the pads of his fingers. “Your life is here.” He reached out and placed those same fingers on one of the golden scars on my skin and I shuddered at the contact.
“Nothing remains untouched by time,” Malcolm said. “Maybe we all start out pure, but the passage of our lives leaves us with our own unique wear and tear. Every scar and flaw is beautiful, because there will never be another one like it. You are unique. The sum of your life has led you to this moment.”#p#分页标题#e#
There was a lump in my throat so large I could hardly breathe. I licked my lips and groped for words. “And what am I in this moment?” I whispered.
He smiled, sad and hopeful at once. “Perfect,” he whispered.
Like little silver drops of my soul, now too large to be contained, tears rose and spilled from my eyes as he led me over to the dark backdrop and handed me the vase. Without needing direction from him, I held the vase against me, kissing it, caressing it, cradling it in the curve of my body. I let my inner eye be my guide, and before me and above me, in and out and all around, Malcolm snapped a hundred pictures, a thousand pictures. No, thousands.
I posed for what seemed like hours, thinking of a hundred new poses as I transitioned between each one—the vase in my lap, covering my pussy, my face against it, my eyes closed, the vase in my hair, my gold streaked arms reaching for it as I tossed it in the air, my whole body straining upwards—until at last Malcolm said, “Enough,” and enfolded me in his arms.
Exhausted, my eyes swollen from crying, I leaned into him, and he kissed me, so sweet and soft I thought I would shatter all over again. He carried me down the stairs, just as he did when I couldn't walk on my own, and when he washed me in the bath, this time he let his hands and fingers linger on me, in places I once thought he might never touch again.
First, he ran warm water from the faucet and filled it part way before turning it off and setting me on my feet in the tub. “Kneel,” he commanded.
I complied, turning my back to the faucet, my legs trembling. I bent my head in submission, giving him complete access to me, and I was rewarded with a warm gush of water over my back from a soft sponge. Gently Malcolm ran it in circles and spirals over my back, around my ribs, down over the flare of my hips. Then he abandoned the sponge entirely and used his hands.
There was an urgency to his touch this time, a swift, anxious nervousness, as though he were trembling on the precipice of remembering something very important, as though words that could change his life stood at the tip of his tongue, waiting to be said.
His hands swirled down and around the round cheeks of my ass, slipping into the valley between them, gently massaging away the paint. Again he picked up the sponge and gushed warm water over me, this time over my shoulders, so that rivulets ran down my collarbone, trickled over my breasts and fell from my nipples like raindrops from branches. The whispery caress of water flowed through me and in me, and I shuddered with desire.
Beneath me the water ran white and gold, brilliant and beautiful, milk streaked with honey. Malcolm lifted the drain and let the water run out as he turned the faucet on again, letting more warm water run out. This time he didn't turn it off, but swept it over my body, sweet and seeking. The sponge scraped against my skin, removing pigment, revealing the tattoos beneath. I felt as though he were hiding me again, and the real me, the one underneath the ink and the attitude, was a secret we shared.
I trembled as he moved his hands over my body, his fingertips scraping up my abdomen, his palms gently rubbing over my nipples, squeezing my small, perfect breasts, until the water ran clear and I panted from the heat spiraling through me. The pain in my side had subsided and now seemed far away. All that mattered was Malcolm. Long, strong fingers probed between the cheeks of my ass, and he let the tub fill with water again as he tipped me forward onto my knees and elbows. I bowed my head, letting my hair fall into the water, and as he massaged a sweet circle around my puckered entrance with one finger, I closed my eyes and gave myself over to him.
Sensation. The warmth of the water lapping at my forehead, the heat of the steam caught in the cave of my bowed body, the harshness of the iron tub biting into my knees and elbows—all of it whirled together in my head, creating a perfect moment as Malcolm gently probed me and my pussy answered his exploration with a gush of warmth and wetness. One finger pushed its way inside my ass while his other hand reached under me and cupped my breasts, rough and possessive. My mouth went dry and I had to force myself to stay still as he began to gently push and retreat into my ass while his fingers tweaked my nipples, pinching hard until I cried out. My core quivered, aching and needing, and when Malcolm transferred his mouth to my ass I groaned. He was so close, so close to where I wanted him to be...