The sculpted man

He was so perfect that it was almost as though he had been sculpted from the imagination of someone wanting to create the ultimate male Aryan specimen. Six feet tall, blonde, tanned, with broad shoulders and well-defined, but not over-bulging biceps. When his pale blue eyes fixed on me, I felt myself purr with anticipation.

The only down side was that whoever sculpted him did not have much clay or bronze left for his brains. Poor Garth (we will call him) was not the sharpest tool in the box, but he knew how to hunt and gather – hunt down female prey and gather what treats they had down below. His words were few but not wasted. And it turns out that I was 20 and in an unhappy relationship at the time i.e. looking my best but feeling a little low.

Wearing a white t-shirt, just tight enough to show off his pecs, he flashed me a dazzling smile, came over to me and whispered in my ear: “Your boyfriend doesn’t deserve you. If you were mine, I would treat you like a princess.”

What he said was of little consequence to me – I was quivering at the mere sensation of his warm breath in my ear.

He walked back to his mates and I watched the pert rear end encased in denim as it retreated. He looked over his shoulder with a cheeky grin.

“Who’s that?!” Asked my friend, Molly, who hadn’t failed to appreciate the stunning view. “Just Garth,” I replied. Just Garth? Just the most beautiful man in the room. That was our only exchange that night, but it ensured I thought about him regularly for the next fortnight.

Then I had a Friday night out with friends in a local pub I knew Garth often visited. After an hour or so, sure enough, he walked in. I played it cool and didn’t get up to acknowledge him until I needed to walk past him to use the loo. Then, I flicked him a quick sultry glance. On my way back, he beckoned me over.

As I stood before him, I felt small and feminine next to his solid muscular frame. But he looked a little agitated and concerned.

“I can’t stop thinking about you, but I know it’s wrong,” he said. “But why?” I had at this point totally forgotten I had a boyfriend. Garth, his presence, his form, his smell, completely filled all my senses.

“I want you so much, I’m crazy about you, but I know you are with D.” He looked genuinely anguished and put his head in his hands in a slightly dramatic way. I squeezed his arm and felt him shudder. It was the first time I had touched him. We were silent for a moment, then he composed himself and said: “Do you want to go back to my place and listen to some music?”

Without giving it much thought I found myself with him on the train back to his house. We were sitting opposite each other, not having made physical contact since the arm-squeeze.

Neither of us spoke more than a couple of words between getting on the train and going to his bedroom where he went through Bjork and Kate Bush records – his two main musical obsessions. He had said I looked a bit like Kate Bush, but this was largely down to my long dark hair (I didn’t flatter myself in thinking it was any more than that).

He then sat on the floor in front of me while I was on the bed. He still seemed a little tense. I just wanted to touch him again. The conversation was not exactly flowing, but his soft blonde hair, his broad shoulders, muscular torso were all crying out to be caressed. I shuffled to the edge of the bed, moved my legs so that they were either side of him and started stroking his shoulders and back with my fingertips. He leaned back closer and my strokes became firmer.

After five or ten minutes, just as my hands were beginning to ache a little, he turned around, held my hands and climbed on to the bed next to me and kissed me softly. I felt his perfect smooth lips and his firm body against me. My heart was beating so loudly that I thought it would jump out of my chest.

The kisses turned frantic and he had by now climbed on top of me. He was solid and throbbing and I was almost exploding with the excitement of him being this close to me after weeks of wanting. He must have felt the same, as within seconds he was tugging off my jeans and pants and sucking and licking my inner thighs all the way up to my quivering labia and clitoris. I had barely had chance to grab his penis.

As I writhed on the bed, I was in total bliss and just wanted to taste him and feel him inside me. We had barely spoken; everything had just happened through a mutual want and synchronised body language. When I finally summoned up the strength to pull off his jeans, I was grateful that the sculptor had saved a generous amount of clay for his dick. It was thick, long and beautiful. “Oh yes!” I almost cried. I was living in a moment that I wasn’t in a rush to put behind me.

I licked, sucked, stroked, rubbed and licked, sucked, stroked and rubbed again. And again. And again. I kissed his taut stomach and all the way up to his solid chest, his perfect mouth, his eyelids, his forehead and tousled hair. I wanted to drink in every inch of him.

When he entered me, I let out and involuntary gasp. This was the most stunning specimen of manhood I had ever lain with. For a while I forgot I was me and imagined I was someone spectacular and worthy of this experience. My skin was a creamy white next to his tanned body.

We rolled over and I went on top before he took me from behind. Still he was firm, showing no signs of exploding. We did it sideways and reverse cowgirl, standing up against the wall, back on the bed, then all over again. In fact we had sex solidly for over four hours, just with a few cuddles and kisses in between. We would probably have gone on for even longer if daylight had not interrupted us. And my worries about getting home.

I walked out into the cold, stale morning air – dishevelled, happy, bewildered and shell-shocked at what had just happened.