One Night With Brazil
by Joshua Silva

    A dying man has a need to feel alive.  A lonely man needs to feel a warm touch.  For her, the hole that needed filling was far too vast and deep for him to fill in any physical way.  He knew it the moment he set eyes on her.  Her beauty masked her suffering.  Her actions did not.

    She was dark, stunning, radiant, beautiful, perfect.  The darkness and length of her thick black hair accentuated the lines of a neck that beckoned him closer with every turn of her head.  Her Brazilian accent was not heavy, but it was not light, it was like a song in the evening which brought immediate comfort to his restless soul.
   
    Some short words and small talk were made on the way to the bedroom.  He wasn't sure if he was stumbling for something to say for her sake or for his.  It'd been a long time since he'd been nervous about fucking a woman.  In his life, women came and women went.  They were mostly whores abscent of any beauty, inside or out, but his satisfaction always remained the same.  Always empty, hollow, cold.  He was a shell of a man; broken by a past he could barely remember.  He preferred it that way.  The not-knowing was a comfort only a person of his nature could appreciate.  It gave him the freedom to be whatever he wanted to be.  Deception was his safety blanket, his mother's bosom, his feeling of life, his warm touch.  Somewhere inside him a familiarity stirred when he looked at her, he knew it was her blanket too.

    She turned to him and cut him off mid-sentence.  "Do you want to make out," she asked.  Her voice, her accent, her words, together they moved like a symphony playing in the seat of his pants.

    "Maybe a little," he replied.

    When she pushed his lips against his, he stirred again.  They were soft like like a lamb, yet moved on him with the ferocity of a lion.  What witchery was this that could move such a cold mountain he wondered to himself.  The thought was soon forgotten as instinct took over and his hands moved to explore her body.  The seduction of her flesh began to overwhelm his senses.  The curves of her ass and the softness of her breasts reminded him of a distant place and time before the emptiness.

    She led him to his bed, pulling him down next to her.  Her shirt had pulled up just enough to reveal her belly button.  For a moment he admired the simplicity of it.  He touched her stomach with his fingertips, and then his lips.  Her skin was intoxicating him like a sweet wine he had never tasted before.  Clothing began to come off piece by piece with the careful consideration a child would give to a long anticipated gift on Christmas.

    The scent of her womanhood wafted over him from within her womb.  Intoxication had turned to drunkenness as he set his lips to her thighs.  Drunkenness to euphoria as the sweet taste of her pussy played on his tongue.  He wanted to please her.  He wanted to give her what he knew she wanted, what they both wanted, temporary release from their pain.  A small moment of satisfaction however fleeting it would be.

    Her body writhed in ecstasy against his face.  Moans of pleasure and gratitude escaped her lips.  She filled his mouth with the nectar of her desire and he took in every bit of it, committing every sensation to a place in his memory where he would never forget her like he had forgotten so many others.  Her pleasure became his.

    "You're crazy," she said to him.

    "Do you like crazy?"

    "Yes...yes I do," she replied as she pushed herself harder against his lips.  The moment felt dangerous to him.  He risked losing the comfort of his loneliness should he allow himself to feel anything for her, but he couldn't help himself.  Something had pierced the veil he protected himself with.  Her body was a dagger that would come to wound him deeply.  For the moment, he had no idea how deep that wound would be.

    "Come here," she called out to him.  He stood up, his face drenched by the wetness of her.  He removed his pants and moved closer, kneeling down beside her.  She took his cock into her hands and then into her mouth.  He almost came at that very moment so he pulled her away.

    Having grabbed a handful of hair he pulled her head so that her eyes met his.  "I want to cum in your mouth," he said.

    "Really," she asked in a very nervous manner.

    "Yes."

    "You can cum on me," she told him, still nervous.

    "How about I fuck you.  Do you want me to fuck you?"

    "Yes," she replied.  Her voice was heavy with lust and want.  The nervousness had vanished.  He wondered what memory or stigma she must carry that the idea of cum inside her mouth could immediately alter her disposition.  Perhaps she had a gag reflex he considered, but soon he forgot all about it.

    He removed the condom from the packaging with the precision of a surgeon preparing his tools.  After applying the latex cock armor, he turned her over onto her knees.  He took another moment to appreciate the simplicity and beauty of her well formed ass before he moved himself inside her.

    In a matter of moments he had came, little to her knowing.  The physical release was far from an orgasm for him, however.  The orgasm, for him, would be the entire memory of that night.  His body, mind and emotions did not function like many others.  To him ecstasy was a collection of pleasurable moments and memories and not bound to the physical release of ejaculation.  His orgasm was to become one night with Brazil.

    "Come here," she said, "I want to be on top of you."

    They repositioned themselves, but as he tried to move inside her he realized he had already begun to grow flacid.  Soon she realized it too.

    "Did you already cum," she asked, almost with concern.

    "Yeah," he replied awkwardly as he began to search for words to explain it off without revealing himself.  Those words didn't come in any way he wanted them too.  He instead tried to convince her that in a few minutes he would be good to go again.

    They laid side by side for a few moments.  His fingertips delicately brushing the skin of her back.  She was a small revelation of perfection in that moment.  Evidence, in his mind, that God had not abandoned him to his misery as he had often felt.  They idley exchanged a few playful words as the awkwardness grew inside him.  He did not want to disappoint her, but he felt that he had.

    She must have sensed his nervousness.  They both moved from each other in the same moment.  He stood and asked, "Would you like to come to my smoking room?  I need a cigarette."

    "Yes, I would," she answered.  She did not seem as turned off by him as he expected she would be.

    Together they dressed and moved down the hall towards the porch where he spent many countless hours in the past smoking and drinking and burying his thoughts in poison.  The conversation began small between them.  Nothing of great significance was shared at first.  Soon, however, they began to reveal to each other memories of their lives behind them.  What seemed to be intimate conversation was soon offset by the notion stirring in his mind that she may be as deceiving as himself.  He did not know what to believe in the words that she spoke.  Words of her past, her friends, her loves, her struggles.  He only knew that inside she suffered as he often does.

    They spoke for nearly an hour or so.  Everything from religion to drugs to sex to memories of the past were shared.  He appreciated the moment.  It'd been a long while since a woman of her beauty and intelligence had engaged his mind in such an unexpected manner...however deceiving it may may have seemed to him.  For the moment, he suspended his disbelief in her.  If the moment was a lie, he did not want to remember it that way.

    When it seems that all was shared that they were willing to share with each other, she turned to him and asked, "Do you want to come lay with me again?"

    "Yeah, I do."

    They made their way back through the darkness of the house toward his room where they would find themselves locked in each others embrace once again.  The passion burned between them like a raging wildfire that threatened to consume anything it touched.  For the moment those flames engulfed him.  She had once again taken his cock into her hands and began to work her tongue against the canvas of his manhood with the delicate brush of an artist creating a masterpiece.

    "Does that feel good," she asked.

    "It feels great," he replied.  He remembered at that moment that he was usually quiet while fucking.  She, on the other hand, was very expressive.  She needed the feedback, the appreciation.  He wondered how many men came before him who did not appreciate her.  He wondered how anybody could not appreciate her.  He struggled for more words to show appreciation, but they mostly came out as heavy breathing and the occasional moans.  The spoken word was a difficult endeavor for him.  His life was experienced in emotion and sensation, not in words that are spoken.  He only wished he could share with her what he felt at that very moment.  The warmth he felt, the touch, the scents, the stirring.

    When she was done, and it was apparent he was not going to cum again, she moved on top of him.  Her pussy was wet and ready for him.  He slid right in like a perfectly tailored glove.  The movements of her body were beautifully feline as she arched and moaned with every stroke of the body.  Euphoria began to take him again.  The moment began to feel like a dream.

    "You don't even know my name," he said to her between heavy breaths as they moved against each other.  "I know yours, Maria."

    She laughed, "What is your name?"

    "Frank," he replied in jest.  She had told him to lie to her and so he had, about many things.

    They fucked hard and furiously until he became too tired to keep going.  He wanted to keep going.  He didn't want to end this experience, but the limits of his body refused him that.  Perhaps he had been abandoned to his misery after all.  The moment was a taste of Eden, but no man can stay in Eden forever.  He knew that.  He knew the moment was ending and soon it would all be merely a memory amongst a sea of memories.

    When the sex had ended, they lay there once again.  "My name isn't really Frank."

    "No?   What is it then?," she replied in playful curiosity.

    "Hmmm.  Jason."

    "Jason?"
   
    "No, not really.  It's Joshua."

    "That's a very biblical name," she told him.

    "I know, coldest motherfucker in the Bible.  He had to be.  Commanded by God to exterminate an entire country of its people.  Women, children, cattle, he killed everything in his way.  All he spared was the whore.  I would've done the same thing.  Spare the whore."

    "Of course you would spare the whore," she laughed.

    He wondered if she thought that he saw her as a whore, so he clumsily blurted, "You're not a whore."

    Her tone changed from playful to resentful, he knew in that moment he had chosen the wrong words to say.  "I know I'm not a whore.  I don't need you to reaffirm that to me."

    The sharpness of her words, like a dagger, pierced him deeply.  He hadn't meant to offend her, but he was at a loss for words to convince her otherwise.

    "It's time I should go," she said with reservation as she stood to dress and gather her things.

    Before she left, they shared another cigarette.  Her tone, as quickly as it had turned sharp, returned to warm and playful.  The conversation was idle.  He made an attempt to express his desire for her friendship in those last few moments, but the words came clumsily once more.  He knew he would never see her again.  Dying and Lonely returned before she walked out the door.  Old friends he knew would never leave him.  They kissed with affection, perhaps feigned, perhaps not.  He took the moment in for what it was; the moment of  a dream just before one awakens.

    As she walked into the rain, he returned to the vacancy of his own feeling.  Comforted by the memory he would keep, yet, disturbed by the stirring which had taken place.  He had not fallen in love with her, he was not certain what he was feeling.  The sadness he felt as she left was much like the sadness of mourning the loss of a treasure that can never truly be kept and may only be beheld by ones eyes for a moment.  It was an all too familiar sorrow, but a sorrow one can never regret.  And so it came to an end, his one night with Brazil.