0 comments/ 22677 views/ 1 favorites Tristan By: jacksgirl I have the world’s best job. And the world’s best boss. But then I’ve been in love with him a long time. When we were seniors in high school, Tristan was the bronze Australian Greek god of an exchange student. Ok, you’re going to say he couldn’t be an Australian Greek god, but believe me, it was true. I did everything I could to get him to notice me. At the beginning of the school year, all the girls had a crush on him. But after they all figured out all they’d get from him was a smile and a friendly hello, they went right on dating their old boyfriends. Only I didn’t have any old boyfriends. I loved Tristan ever since. He went out for all the sports and hung out with the right crowd, one of whom was my best friend Marla’s brother. So, every time I was at Marla and John’s house, and John just happened to be on the phone, I always knew where to find Tristan after the game, or on Saturday afternoons. But try as I might, I never felt like he gave me a second glance. It was pretty challenging to try to get him to even notice I existed. By the second half of the year, I was growing desperate. I would lie awake in my bed at night, thinking of different things I could do to make him notice I was around. Funny thing, though, your imaginings in the middle of the night always turn out just the way you plan. In the cold harsh daylight of reality, they never worked out right. For instance, I’d make it a point to be walking past Tristan’s locker just as he was bent over to get something out of the bottom, I flung the firedog open just a little too hard, and it pushed him in the butt, sending him tipping headlong into his locker! I scrambled into the crowd, hoping he didn’t notice who it was who did that. Once coming into the library I stopped suddenly, forcing Tristan to bump into me. Only instead of producing the desired smile, and “excuse me” I expected, he dropped his books and papers all over the floor and when we both bent over to retrieve them, he conked his head on the nearby table. I gathered his things in a pile and handed them to him and disappeared while he stood there rubbing his head. There were many others, but you get the point. By the end of the school year, I was growing desperate, and was starting to think I’ll only have one last shot. I could throw myself down on the tarmac and lie there in the path of the plane as he was taking off to go back to Australia. I bet that would get his attention, and let him know how much I love him. He’s only twice looked at me and smiled and said “Hi.” But not enough of a conversation to get him to realize just how much I love him. After graduation, of course, everyone goes their own way. That summer, I resigned myself to the harsh reality I’ll never see him again. I’ll just go through life an old spinster, never marrying or being serious about any boy again, just because I couldn’t have Tristan. I went to college, moved in with Marla and for years worked at the bank. Then about ten years later, Marla was marrying Steve Something Polish, and the bank was closed and sold to another outfit from out of town and suddenly I was out of work, checking the classifieds and applying for any suitable work I could find. Just when I was at the end of my rope, the rent was past due, and I had a stack of unpaid bills and no visible way of paying them, I spotted the last classified on the page that had nothing to do with being a trucker or a telemarketer. Wanted: Office Manager, Personal Assistant for busy Contractor. Well that is right up my alley. So, I got all cleaned up, borrowed some money for gas, had my updated resume in hand, and drove to the address given. Walked to the door, let myself in to a rather nice house turned into an office, and just as I was ready to ask the man about the open position, I froze. There was Tristan. After ten years, still an Australian Greek god. Wearing a workman’s jeans and flannel shirt and cap, and looking more handsome and rugged than ever I’d seen him. I gulped, oh, god, this must be some kind of cosmic joke. This is a funny thought, cos he had the very same look on his face. “Tristan Hugh! How good to see you after all these years. And you look as good as you ever did. I’m here to apply for the job.” “Uh, you have me at a loss, Miss. I remember you from high school, but I can’t for the life of me remember your name.” “Emily. Emily Cooper.” “Oh, yes, how could I forget?” (That’s what I was wondering.) “You were the klutziest girl around and it always seemed to happen to me. You slammed my fingers in my locker door.” “Uh, well, I didn’t mean to.” “You also turned the water fountain on and appeared to aim it right at my history report. It was all wet and I was ashamed to turn it in.” “Well, I didn’t think the spray would go at a right angle like that.” “And once, I tripped over your foot coming to the top step when somehow I mysteriously fell Up the Stairs in front of everybody and you suddenly disappeared.” “Now, That was an accident.” “Oh, so the others weren’t!?! You’re here to ask me for a job? Oh, this is too rich.” “But Tristan, I was always so in love with you, I wanted to do everything I could just to get you to notice me.” “Oh, I noticed you alright. Enough to want to steer clear. This is pretty tough, though,” He was glancing over my resume as I stood there feeling so uncomfortable. “Yours is the best resume I’ve seen. And I really need somebody.” The phone rang as he spoke. “Here, I’ll get that,” and glancing at the letterhead on the desk, answered the phone flawlessly in my best business secretary’s voice. After the call, he looked resigned, though impressed and said, “Ok, here’s the deal. I’ll give you a try. But don’t screw anything up around here, ok? I’ve worked years to get this business off the ground.” “If I really screw anything up, you can not pay me for that day, how about that? “Well, then, all right. See if you can make sense of the stuff on this desk and answer the phone and I’ll be back in a little bit.” He headed out the door, and left me standing there looking around the office. So, here I am, working for the man I’ve been in love with for over ten years. Who thinks I’m a ditz and a klutz, and I have to prove my worth to him, without acting like a love-sick female who’s just dying to get into his pants. The first week went really well. I didn’t screw anything up, and in fact, the books were starting to make sense. The whole office set-up was being turned around, I was rather proud of myself. Meanwhile, though, Tristan didn’t seem to pay much attention to me. So, instead of pulling the hi-jinx I tried in high school that never really paid off, I tried the other way instead. You know, wearing low cut blouses with the sheerest bra so my nipples showed through. Short skirts with nothing but a garter and stockings on underneath. Sooner or later he’s got to notice me. By the second Friday, I was almost ready to give up, and in fact, had gotten to the point of thinking he just doesn’t like me for some reason, when he stopped in at quitting time and just sat there looking at me. “You’re doing it again, aren’t you?” “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.” “Trying little underhanded tricks to get me to notice you.” There was nothing I could think of to say to that. He was sitting at his desk, and I was stacking some papers, clearing it off for the weekend. Then his hand was running up my thigh. Oh, I had to remember to breathe. His fingertips ran lightly, ever so lightly up my inner thigh, past the stocking top, on my soft skin and to my open, moist pussy. “My god, you aren’t wearing any panties!” “It’s about time you noticed!” “Well, all this time I’ve been looking at your nipples and your tits bouncing around under that blouse.” “What does a girl have to do to get you to notice…” He was pulling me close so I lost my balance and suddenly sat on his lap. It’s about Damned Time, part of my brain was thinking. The other parts ceased thinking and his arms were around me, pulling me close. He was kissing my mouth, and smiling into my eyes. His right hand was holding me close to him; his left hand was up my skirt, caressing my pussy lips. Oh, this is what I’ve dreamed of for the last ten years. I didn’t realize I was thinking aloud. “It is, huh? And how much have you wanted to be in this position?” “Oh, very badly, Tristan. I would do anything for you, you know.” “Anything?” He was kissing me again. ”Yes, and you know I’m the girl who’s always been in love with you. I’d do anything for you.” As I said this, my hand is unfastening his belt and jeans, and in one smooth movement, I had freed his big cock from his pants and he had rolled the chair farther from the desk so I could get up off his lap and kneel in front of him. I stroked and caressed his cock, and then held his balls gently but firmly in my hand, my tongue running up and down the shaft. I gave him kisses all over, and wanting this for quite a long time and finally being in this position, I was determined to take my time and make him feel so good…… Soon I pulled his cock into my mouth, sucking him to the roof of my mouth, opening the back of my throat as if I could swallow him whole. All this time, knowing I’ve finally got Tristan’s cock in my mouth. If he only knew how many times I’ve dreamed of this very thing. He held the sides of my head, and while some men do this and it doesn’t feel very good, there was nothing Tristan could do to me that I wouldn’t absolutely love. His cock was soon getting fatter and pulsing in my mouth and I knew he was about to shoot a load of cum in my mouth. I swallowed as much as I could; proud of the fact I would never gag with him in me. I licked up every little drop as if it came from the gods. He picked me up and kissed me and said, ok, little one, turn over and sees if you can lie across my desk without messing anything up or causing some kind of disaster. I kinda wanted to point out that I’m the one who put some semblance of order to his desk in the first place, but I wasn’t going to say anything with his cock poised at the entrance to my pussy. Man, this felt good, and I sure was wet. His fingertips parted my pussy lips just for a moment, and then his big stiff cock was pushing its way into me. Oh, this was heaven. And definitely worth the wait. As he was pumping his cock into me and holding me, he said, “How would you like to have dinner at my place this evening?” For a while I couldn’t speak. Couldn’t think. But of course it’s what I’ve wanted for a long time. “Yes, I’d like that. Only you won’t get the chance to rest up for Monday.” “Oh, I’ll be rested by Monday, you can count on that. You make sure you’re ready for me Monday.” I said, “Tristan, I’m ready for whatever you want to do to me, no matter what day it is.” I was thinking hopes and dreams and prayers really do come true! And thank goodness he has such a lovely cock!!! Tristan Surrounded by beautiful people, anyone less than breathtaking tends to blend into the wall paper. They are gods who must not be crossed, and everyone else is stupid, boring and irritating. After a few months, when I got used to being ignored and unimportant in my life's passion as I'd been ignored and unimportant in everything else, beauty just became a part of the wallpaper. They were all alike, these beautiful models, each as stupid, boring and selfish as the last. Except Tristan. I was obsessed with Tristan. He had a kind of beauty that made him stand out in a crowd of top models. He was quiet, contained, spoke only when spoken to, and he was only spoken to when absolutely necessary. Things worked smoother when he was in the shot. People talked less and moved faster, and not even the other models complained. If Tristan was willing to do a shot and another model complained, the other was immediately replaced. Tristan became the best selling model in a matter of weeks, and he still seemed oblivious to his own power. I thought he was a god. He was also causing me considerable bewilderment about my own sexuality. I didn't think he'd react well to me throwing myself at him and begging him to take me, but it was becoming more and more tempting to try. Actually, I doubted he'd even react at wall, even if I did it while wearing neon flashing lights that blared "Tristan's willing sex slave." Tristan ignored people as a matter of policy. He walked like he was the only person in the world. He looked at no one, said nothing. It wasn't like the other models, who looked at themselves in the mirror for hours. Tristan glanced at mirrors like he glanced at people, like they just weren't worth his attention. No one knew what to think of him. All he ever asked for were magazines. When he had a moment's break and wasn't in a shot, he'd lounge across a couch and read a magazine. He was constantly reading magazines. Interns weren't good for much else, so except for when they'd occasionally let me take a camera and shoot, I just ran errands. I brought Tristan his magazines. He went through the ones we had in the first few days, and often he'd bring a few of his own, but sometimes he'd even run through those. As far as I could tell, he just liked the pictures. He read Cosmo with the same amount of attention as he read Scientific American. The first week he was here, he asked for another magazine and I handed him one of my comic books, since it was all I had. He didn't say anything, just took it and read it. At the end of the day I found it neatly next to my backpack. After that, I always had magazines and comic books with me in case he asked for one. He never thanked me or even looked at me. I wasn't sure if he ever knew my name. But somehow the books always found their way back to my bag when he was done. It went on like this for months. "Kevin. Kevin. Hello? Kevin?" I look up. "Oh, sorry, what?" It's Marta, another intern, the closest thing I have to a friend. She hands me a phone. I put it to my ear. At some point it drops from my hand. "Shit." "What?" Marta looks concerned. I feel numb. "My flat. There was a fire in the building." "Do you have someplace to stay?" I shake my head. She frowns. "I'd offer to let you stay with me, but I've got cats and you're allergic." "Forget it," I say. "I'll find a roach hotel or something. I don't know." "Stay with me." It takes me a moment to recognize the voice. I didn't even know he was there. Tristan makes himself easy to overlook, when he's not on camera. I stare at him. "What?" "You can stay with me," he repeats. It's the first time he's ever looked directly at me, and I can't tear my eyes off his gaze. It's the first time I've ever heard him repeat himself. No one makes Tristan repeat himself. Marta kicks me in the shin. I recall my manners and stammer my thanks. He goes back to reading his magazine. I have once again ceased to exist. His eyes are purple. I'd seen them before in pictures, where he turned his intimidating violet gaze on the camera, and even in pictures they turned my knees to mush. There was one picture of him I would stare at for hours. The director joked that he wanted to capture Tristan in his natural habitat, so he gave him a magazine and a couch. In the picture, he looks directly at the camera, like the viewer had said something actually worthy of his interest, and you can see the full force of his incredible beauty. His long dark hair, longer than women's hair, tumbles over his shoulder and drifts against the rug. It's black, true black, ebony black, and it shines. He does shampoo commercials, and no other model sells the brands faster. When he first came, they tried to get him to cut his hair. He refused, and later the agency was glad. It gave him a kind of exoticism, they said. Sure. As if it wasn't enough his eyes were purple. No one asked how he got his eyes. It was only known that they were, in fact, natural. In the picture, he wears only black slacks, so that his lightly-tanned chest is bare, shoulders turned so his torso can be fully appreciated. If I had one wish, it'd be for him to look at me like he looks out of the picture at the camera. I could die happy. I go looking for him when I'm done for the day. He's not hard to find, lounged on his favorite couch, reading a Japanese manga I lent him. I stop in front of him, not sure what to say. His eyes flick up at me for a moment, then he goes back to acting like I don't exist. I can feel a blush creeping up my cheeks. I don't know if I've ever in my life felt this awkward. He's completely ignoring me. After what feels like several hours but is probably only minutes, he closes the book and stands up. Tucks the book into the back of my jeans. My jaw drops, but I'm too stunned to actually react in words to his method of book-return. "Let's go," he says, putting on his coat. Hasn't spared me a glance. He even put the book in my waistband without bothering to look. He's a bit like a blind man, the way he reacts to his surroundings without any evident use of his eyes. I realize for the first time why he does this, keeps his long-lashed eyes low-lidded like he's dreaming, and doesn't look at people because he has to: It's so you don't see his eyes. His amazing, commanding purple eyes. I wonder what made him so avoidant. I'm not sure if I dare call him shy. I'm staring at his receding back before his words actually sink in, and I scramble after him, feeling like an awkward, stammering idiot next to him. He takes me home and indicates the couch. We don't talk. I feel miserable, that even once he's taken me home–out of what, pity?–he still doesn't deem me worth his attention. I wonder if he even knows my name. He goes into his bedroom and shuts the door. Two days later he takes me to bed. It's not a surprise. Models act like the world is their fucktoy. I was completely aware when I accepted the invitation, that he would probably take the opportunity for a blowjob in return for my lodging. When I get home, late, exhausted from being sent on useless errands all day, he's on the couch, reading. It isn't a magazine I recognize, but he does have an extensive collection of his own. He doesn't bother to keep most of the magazines he reads, but one whole wall and a couple of bookcases were filled with the ones that caught his fancy. He seemed to have some kind of organization, but I wasn't sure what. I was surprised to find he'd begun collecting comic books and manga from my influence. I sleep on the couch, so with him occupying it, I'm not sure where I should sit. I settle into an armchair awkwardly. His eyes flick up at me. He makes a motion with his chin. I'm confused. After a pause, when I obviously haven't obeyed whatever command he intended, he looks up at me again. This time his gaze is steady. I'd never noticed before, accustomed as I was to all the sensual stares of jaded models, but Tristan's face is emotionless. His gaze is intense, but whatever he might be thinking or feeling is completely obscured. It's eerie. "Come here," he says. His eyes don't leave my face until I obey. I stand and approach him. He pulls me into his lap. I'm not expecting it, so I yelp, getting tangled in my own long limbs. I find myself low in his lap, lying back against him with my head on his shoulder. I'm tall, but Tristan's still got several inches on me in height, and hey, I'm a starving penniless intern, so I can't be that heavy. I feel like a lapdog. His arm is firm around my waist, and–aside from the way his hand has slipped up my shirt to play his fingers over my bare skin–he's ignoring me again. It's clear I'm going to be here for as long as he likes, and I've got nowhere else to be, so I relax, or at least try. I'm ticklish. And he's dipping his hand into the front of my pants, brushing his fingers through the soft hair on my belly, like he's not even aware of what he's doing. I squirm quietly, not wanting to annoy him, but what he's doing is ticklish and arousing. My face is red. I desperately hope he doesn't realize how hard I am. I can tell he's still reading, turning a page every so often, and I don't think he's aware of how his fingers have dropped even lower into my jeans, weaving his fingers through the short curls of my pubes. I wince my eyes shut, trying to pant quietly enough that he won't notice. Finally his hand disappears all the way down my pants, wrapping around my cock. I choke, arching my back. I hear his magazine hit the floor. His breath is hot on the back of my neck, and his other hand reaches around, swiftly unbuttoning my pants and pushing them down my hips. I lift my ass to help him get them off, and his hand on my cock is warm and fast, jacking me off steadily. His head is close to mine, lips pulling scalding kisses from the skin of my neck. I can feel his hair brushing my cheek. His free hand moves up my shirt, grazing over a nipple before starting to abuse it with quick, rough circles of his thumb. I shudder and come, all over his hand. My face feels ready to combust. His nose is still nuzzling the side of my head, and his teeth grazing the ridge of my ear is blurring my brain into mush. He holds his come-slicked hand before my face, and I'm surprised, but I can guess, so I open my mouth, trailing my tongue along the side of his palm. His other hand tightens its grip on my waist. I don't care for the taste of my own spunk, but I do very much like the catch I hear in his breathing as I suck his fingers one by one into my mouth and run my tongue over the inner creases of his knuckles. "Get up," he murmurs, when I've finished cleaning his hand. He pushes me helpfully out of his lap as I'm standing up, and I'm confused again as he walks to his bedroom. I'm not sure if I should step out of my pants or pull them back up, and I figure I've probably got a kicked-puppy expression on my face. He stops in the doorway. "You'll sleep with me tonight." It's not a request. I leave the pants on the floor and follow him into the bedroom. I can only stare when he pulls off his shirt and drops it, then his pants. His hair dusts along the top of his buttocks, it's so long, and when he's clad in nothing but his hair, it's a kind of beauty I didn't know existed. His tan skin is pale in contrast with his jet-black hair. There's not a strand of hair anywhere else on his body–he is a model, after all. My jaw is probably hanging, but I can't bother to care, because I'm staring at him. Nine inches, uncut, and thicker than should be decently possible. I'm praying to whatever gods might listen that he doesn't intend to fuck me with that thing. He pulls me over to him and claims a kiss. It's strange how he kisses, slow and reserved, dominant but pliant, and I can't even tell at first how much passion there is in it. He pushes me down to my knees, and this time I'm glad there's no question to what he wants. I stretch my lips enough to get them around the head, and do it with a grin. I've always enjoyed sucking cock. He watches me, with his low-lidded eyes, as I take it in as deep as I can, bobbing my head up and down, wrapping my hand around what I can't take into my mouth. His hands tangle themselves in my hair, coaxing me to swallow more, deeper. He doesn't warn me before he comes, so I choke on it, coughing, but somehow manage to swallow. He kisses me again and pulls me into bed with him. I fall asleep in his arms, horny, confused, and eager for more. This goes on for about a week. He seems to consider it an accepted fact that my new role is in his bed. He doesn't ask for anything more than quickies, and he always gets me off first, then has me get him off in return. He shows no preference for which of us is on the receiving end of a blowjob, and this surprises me. He goes down on his knees almost as willingly as I do. I've never before known a model willing to suck cock, unless it's for the sake of their career. Once or twice a day he pulls me into his dressing room for a quickie, at any time he likes, ignoring any complaints I might have about actually trying to get my work done. I'm glad, at least, that I've never seen him do this with any of the other interns, so I comfort myself that even if he's just making use of an easy lay, at least he's exclusive about it. It's just a bad day that day. The weather's nasty on a swimsuit shoot, three of the models are having bad hair days, tempers are thin, and one of the photographers is out sick. They've got me perched on a ledge above the water as a replacement photographer, teeth chattering with cold, and I can't focus because all I want is to curl up with Tristan somewhere warm and dry. Even Tristan's short-tempered and irritable as they make him pose in almost no clothing despite the conditions. Someone jostles me, on the precarious makeshift ledge we have set up. I slip, and fall into the surf. I'm lucky it's shallow, because I don't swim very well. Swearing quietly as I find my feet and come up for air, I find myself being cussed out. "Who gave that idiot kid a camera? It's ruined! Don't you know you can't get these things wet?" I stand there and take the tirade without reply. I'm a perfectly competent photographer and I know it wasn't my fault, but I also know it doesn't matter what I say. "Get off the set," he snaps. "You're fired." "If he goes, I go." Everyone stops and stares when Tristan speaks. It's a known fact that if Tristan opens his mouth, it's important. But there's no reason he'd speak up for some useless intern. Interns get fired every day. "That's my boyfriend," Tristan says. "If he goes, I'm going with him." Everyone stares at him, baffled, especially me. "We can finish this shoot tomorrow. I'm going home." He picks up his things and walks off the set. When I don't automatically follow, he stops and looks back at me until I do. There is a promotion waiting for me when I come in the next day, and a nice raise. He walks me back to the car. My teeth are chattering, and I'm dripping cold seawater. "Take your things off before you get in," he says. "I don't need you getting my seats wet." I stare at him, annoyed. "What, strip, in full view of the crew? They're watching us!" He shrugs his coat off his shoulders and holds it out as a curtain between me and anyone who might be watching. It's a full-length coat, so it works, and I strip quickly and wring out my clothes before dropping them on the floor of his car, not in the mood to argue. He drops the coat around my shoulders and I pull it close as I get in, grateful for the warmth. He drives us home. "Go take a shower," he orders. "I'll make us something to eat." Up to this point I'd always gotten home too late for dinner. I get the feeling that is going to change, and that my schedule has just become Tristan's schedule. "What, you cook?" I ask. "Because you weren't perfect enough already?" I think I see the ghost of a smile before he turns away. I go take that shower. The food's ready by the time I come back. He must've been prepared, to make it that fast. It's some sort of chicken dish in cream sauce with mushrooms and almonds. It seems unfair to me, that one man can be this perfect, and I wonder why he bothers with me. "We'll eat on the couch," he says. I think he's said more to me today than in the whole week I've been here. I eat, watching him. He's ignoring me, as usual. I don't mind it so much anymore. "Do you even know my name?" I ask. "Since I'm your boyfriend now." "It's Kevin," he replies, without looking up. "You're 21. Born in Indiana, you have two sisters and your parents are divorced. Your favorite food is pickles, you're allergic to cats, and you have a crush on Orlando Bloom. Do you want me to continue?" I stare at him, trying to somehow form words. "Are you stalking me?" I choke out at last. He looks up at me. I swear he's almost grinning. "I didn't need to. You said all those things in conversations within my hearing. You just didn't think I was listening." "How old are you?" I ask. I've been wanting to know. "Nineteen." He clears our dishes and puts them in the sink. He comes back. "Do you have condoms?" That makes my cheeks go red. "No." He thinks about this. "Are you a virgin?" I wish we could be having this conversation less as an interrogation. My cheeks are burning. "Yes." "Then we'll go without." He walks back out of the room. I'm pretty sure that doesn't count as safe sex, just because I'm a virgin. He comes back with a little bottle of lube and drops it on the couch by me. I have no idea what to say. He kisses me, hands roaming up my shirt. "I don't know if I'm okay doing this without condoms," I tell him, as he pulls the shirt over my head. "Don't worry about it," he says. Easy for him to say. He unbuttons my pants and pulls them from me, then rids himself of his own. "Tristan," I try again, as he puts the lube into my hand. "I'm not okay with this." "Why does it matter?" he asks. His nonchalance irritates me. "Because I'm not letting you stick that thing up my ass without a condom!" I snap. "How do I know you're clean?" "I'm not asking you to," he replies. I blink, confused. He takes the lube from me and squirts a little into his hand, kissing me again as he spreads it along my cock, stroking it up and hard. I stare at him, finally getting it. He looks up and meets my eyes, as if to ask if I have any more objections. I don't. He straddles my lap, kissing me, and I feel him press his weight back against me. I reach around, spreading his ass cheeks and guiding him down. I've read enough porn to know how this is done, virgin or no. He lowers his weight down so that the head slips inside him with a pop, slowly sitting all the way down into my lap. He looks up into my eyes once he's there. His muscles are spasming tight around me, objecting to the invasion. He has that incredibly sexy catch in his breath again. "Tristan," I ask him, taking another kiss. "Are you a virgin, too?" I can read his answer in the smile I get. Yes. He lifts his weight and I pull him back down, grinding my hips into him. He shudders, and I can see the cold, expressionless mask he wears starting to shatter, emotions flickering on his face. I can see he's figured out where his prostate is, so I watch him and figure out where it is a moment later. Both of us change the angle of our movement so that my thrusts bump against it as he rides me. He speeds up, still silent, but he's shuddering with desire, and comes without either of us touching his cock, face limned with ecstasy. I've never seen him so beautiful. The sight of it sends me over the edge, and I come inside him, filling him, taking him. He lifts his head and kisses me, recovering from the orgasm. We just kiss for a few minutes, content. Tristan "I'm not still opposed to reversing the roles," I tell him. "If you wanted to take me." He actually grins at me. "If you think you can take it." I can't help but grin at him as we move into the bedroom. "I'll manage."