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Leah’s Film School Lover

Category: Mature
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I haven’t always been like this. There was a time, as a younger woman, when I moved through the day without noticing everyone I encountered with the same eye for elements as I do now. Back then, a face was not a porthole to the inside world of men and women. The posture and carriage of a body did not reveal the food consumed, emotional baggage lugged, and the psycho/sexual energy of a personality. However, somewhere along the way, I developed these insights into people that left me feeling somewhat of a self-fulfilling prophet.

I guess you could say that I began to divine precognitively, the structure and form of acquaintances and friends before I knew who they were or what they were made of.

This pinpointing skill has afforded me the luxury of getting to the heart-of-a-matter quickly when conversing with patients, as well as fresh faces and old friends. There is always this fantastical rush experienced as I plumb the depths of an individual-encountered within minutes (or more frequently than not, seconds) of a meeting. My body, consciousness, and words swirl and merge during the interface. Then, at some indecipherable, but exquisite moment, I achieve richly bright clarity (almost a psyche orgasm) which propels me into the relationship, however fleeting or lasting. It’s luscious to know another body so deeply and immediately. No time is wasted with speculation or conjecture. That soul is in me (if I so choose) and then my response is directly visceral. This is how I first experienced Ian. He, I chose to let in.

Al, my lover-husband, had been in the mountains for about a week when I started film school. A fresh awareness had enveloped me in the previous year. I sensed that there had to be a method to capture on film what I was experiencing in my body and viewing through my eyes. I entered the program to confine my experiences on videotape because I knew that others must sense the same awareness as I, yet few resonated it outside the visual. Video is a universal medium to distribute one’s truth. Thus, a desire to share the depth of my experiences, so that others might learn, brought me to Cornish Film School.

Convenient evening classes were held Friday and Monday evenings, with several all-weekend seminars offered by experts. This first night, Friday, I was well rested from my week’s work at my acupuncture clinic, ready to jump into the material. The class rapidly filled up with the usual assortment of trust fund skaterboys (hoping to make it on the X-treme Sports Channel), pierced and tattooed “twenties” (with an axe to grind against the machine), and a few contemplative types (hoping for a little self-expression and limited distribution).

Then there was Ian. He fit none of the above categories. Like me, he squeezed into the last row, nearest the projection booth, on my right side. He carried no book bag, limiting his load to a spiral notebook and mechanical pencil (of the type preferred by Al). I noticed his pencil first; its erasure was new, its grip well worn and the pocket clip deformed slightly by using it as an oversized paperclip. Glancing towards me he spied my observations of his writing instrument and offered an assessment of its qualities.

“These things are the best…they never fail you and last forever,” he whispered.

“I know,” was my response. For a fleeting moment I wondered why I did not add, ‘my husband uses them,’ letting the thought pass when I recognized the innocent and honest intent coursing through my body. Besides, that statement would have possibly halted further conversation. I guess I was consciously withholding – my intent was to glean more conversation from this man.

Ian’s face had that mix of sweetness and ruggedness I have seen in many land-centered people. That is, he looked simultaneously close to the earth, yet comfortable in his current surroundings. Once again I was washed with a spray of clarity that this man was unique and familiar in my core. I couldn’t place him in my mind, but I felt him in my body. He lay his pencil down in a neat diagonal across the lines of his blank page to survey the room.

“I was never much for piercings. It seems too primitive for my rituals. But, some of the body art in this room is exquisite. Did you see the woman in the front with the jet-black hair? She was inked with a dogwood tree interlaced with an open hand. I don’t understand the symbolism, but as art it is superb.” Ian now looked to me for a response, turning his body slightly towards mine; he revealed dark, pooling-eyes and rich brows. His nose appeared European or North African, narrow and bridged as though chiseled from marble. His lips were thick, suggesting sensuousness, over strong teeth within an angular jaw. Olive was a shade too light to illustrate his flesh tone, but brown or black was too deep. He, or his parents, were not from here, that’s for sure.

I parted my lips to respond, again sensing, this time in my belly, a shudder of familiarity (or perhaps a more physical response), but before my words left my lips the lecture had begun.

The talk was less than engaging, with the instructor providing an outline of things to come over the next nine-months. However, near the end of the class she signaled to the projection booth and introduced a film produced as a final project by two students from the previous graduating class. All films she said were done in “dyads” or “triads” for the final project. Students, she emphasized, had to experience cooperative film making before leaving school. This was “the way it is done,” she said. “Don’t think that you can do it all alone out there — you can’t.” With those parting words the film started.

The details of the production we saw that day are unimportant (as was the film). Clearly, there was an acute amateurish quality to the whole thing, something not lost on Ian or me. As the credits rolled Ian again made contact.

“I was a bit bored with it, how about you?”

“I saw what they did, but have no idea why they did it. There was no intent in the film,” I responded leaning over a bit so as not to be heard by those around us heaping praise on the work. Ian sat momentarily motionless before speaking. I sensed anticipation in my body, awaiting his next thought. It was early, 7:45 PM. I wanted to talk more and so did he. It was in his breath.

“You hungry?” was all he said.

“Where to?” I responded knowing that much more conversation awaited us.

Leaving the lecture hall we drove in our separate vehicles to Columbia City for some Tutta Bella salads and wine. Conversation was light, yet free from any of the fearful distractions that come from undefined intentions. Ian was a person that easily made others comfortable, sharing personal stories (humbly) absent of manipulation or ego-driven showiness. I, too, engaged him willingly, in subjects that Al and I had often delved, but with regenerated enthusiasm and candor. His inspirations and ideas melded with my own in a swirling vortex of creativity. This man was easy to divine, he was not one to hide, nor did he need to.

Ian was new to Seattle, having moved from New York, where his parents, both from Southern Spain, lived and worked. His father was a Moor, a North African from Morocco. His mother was a Catalan, who was raised in Grenada. His physique held the best characteristic of both cultures. He was about six-feet in height, with wiry, strong limbs. His shoulders and back possessed a powerful lightness that seemed to glide him as he walked. His jet-black hair was pony-tailed into a thick braid, twisted to perfection. Though I never did discover his age I am guessing he was about 35 years old. He dressed in loose fitting summer-weight hiking shorts and a skin tight tee-shirt that revealed his chest through the knit. His feet, which were immaculately clean, sported Kiva-style sandals. He was, through and through, an extremely erotic man.

I don’t quite know what brought me to the next question I proffered to him, though running in the back of my mind was Al’s oft repeated casual insistence that whatever I did would be fine with him (as long as I told him about it.) And so, on a whim, not cognizant why, but feeling absolutely certain, I said, “Would you like to come home with me?”

His reply was as rich and beautiful as the rest of our evening:

“I am assuming that the rings you wear on your finger, suggest a marriage of some sort, yet clearly, you are a woman not predisposed to unhappy relationships. This is for certain. I will say yes to you on condition.” I waited for his stipulation, figuring it had something to do with condoms (which it did not).

He continued. “I, like you, am deeply entwined with my home life and marriage. I have loved, and continue to love, the woman I married in Spain 15 years ago. My loyalty to her is supreme. If you agree to honor that, as I have, then certainly with no hesitation I agree.”

“Then we agree, on the condition that the understanding is mutual,” I offered.


We left Tutta Bella. He following close behind as we navigated through the streets. I had several minutes to reflect on my decision while driving. As it goes, little reflection was necessary. My force was pulsing and coursing through my channels. Al would likely accept this fate with grace, though I knew that this meant, at least temporarily, a departure from our sacred monogamy. In exchange, however, this Spaniard was the enlightened freshness that I needed to rekindle a sacred creative spark in my heart. Plus, I was certain of the pure nature of Ian’s attraction to me. I saw him as safe, divine, and sexually arousing. I was wet like a young girl who desires sex so much that she can imagine little else. We arrived at my cabin-home, Ian parking a discreet distance down the street.

As I described earlier I have come to frequently experience self-prophetic events based on certain indefinable insights into others. Ian, to me at this moment was wide open. There was nothing I did not know or understand about him. He was in love with another, yet he revealed love generously to me. He was strong. His masculinity was like an oracle directing me to unfold before him. I became a willing listener to his force and harmonic. It spoke to me of being enveloped through willing submission and joining in a journey into him and into myself. The anticipation caused a shudder of weakness and power in my limbs. In my visual space I viewed the violet highlights of ecstatic truth.

Reaching out to his hand I guided him to my bed. Seating myself on the end at its edge I pulled him close enough to unsnap his summer-shorts. He placed two, soft hands on either of my cheeks as I dropped his pants (quite absent of undergarments) to the floor. At eye level, I viewed a magnificent penis. He was smooth and supple, absent of the veiny architecture of so many overused cocks. His shaft was not circumcised, yet the head protruded sensually, from the foreskin as he began to rise. I did not engage him at that moment. Rather, I stood before him and removed my shirt, tank, and summer skirt, dropping all to the floor at the foot of the bed.

Following my lead, Ian removed his tee, slipped from his sandals, and stood before me quite beautifully — strong, browned, muscled, rich and succulent. Where the next thought derived from is uncertain; perhaps it was out of love for Al; whatever its origin though in retrospect I am happy I made the proposal.

“I am ready to entirely trust you. I want to experience the totality of your offerings, of your sex and your body. It is totally my desire to submit freely to your passage into me. But, I want us to record this moment on camera. My love is for Al, and my agreement with him is that if this should ever happen then he must be informed. The camera will insure an honest retelling. Besides aren’t we both enrolled in film school?”

Ian’s majestic erection had reached its potential, standing perpendicular to his body; his brown-hued shaft was delightfully shaped, thin and glistening. His cock stated neither power, nor strength. It was clearly built for supple, erotic pleasure.

He smiled deeply and let out a huge laugh that made my dog bark. “Gladly,” he said. “Though this is new to me.”

Reaching under the bed I pulled out the camera and some pot. While we both got high I set up the equipment making sure that the proper angles were established to insure his penetrations were captured clearly. With all ready I hit the record button on the remote.

There is a moment during intercourse with all men when they poise themselves over your belly briefly awaiting acknowledgement to enter. With other men, I have usually responded to this pause by grasping their manhood and guiding them in. On some occasions I have opened my legs widely, which usually led to a strenuous exercise in patience, while an engorged cock thrust me until cum filled my cavity. In my youth this was reasonably pleasant, but far from erotic.

As Ian hovered over me that night I sensed that there must be another way. What was it that I desired from this man? I didn’t really know. My answer (to myself) was to lay completely motionless. Ian had to find his own way into me. He had to discover my body with his own probings, unaided by my desire for his slender penis to run through me…I lay as still as death. I covered my eyes with my forearm, unable to see what must have been a look of confusion on his face, I sensed his emotion. His heart softened further. Then, a subtle shift coursed through him. He rose from my belly. I heard and felt a rustling next to the bed. The sound of my coconut oil jar lid unscrewing, followed by two smooth hands coming to rest on my belly, well oiled.

He began to massage me with long, luxurious strokes. First, he focused on my belly and breasts. It was some time before he moved to my face and shoulders. Finally, he worked my legs mightily until they seemed to melt from my torso. Just before turning me over he placed my sleeping blindfold on my eyes.

For sometime, I believed he would not enter me. After all, he had an opportunity earlier in the evening. Yet, he appeared to be patient. Occasionally, I could feel his cock drag across my back or legs, still quite erect and heavenly long. But, no signal from me was forthcoming, or would be forthcoming, yet. In my mind it was Ian’s decision when to enter me or not. There was an intense sense of drama about the whole thing, as though the passion of two lovers were being played out on camera for some sort of patient pornography audience who enjoys culmination as much as foreplay.

I recall when I was about twenty-two I had met this guy at school who I really, desperately wanted to have sex with. I walked around campus, buzzing between my legs, hoping of all hopes that I could make it happen. When it finally did, my vagina was so sensitized to the desire for his cock that the moment I was entered I came instantly. He, on the other hand had just begun, and was unaware of my quick orgasm…to boot. This guy, I recall, fucked hard and strongly, with long deep strokes. He did not finish for an hour or more, leaving me a little breathless. For Ian, I did not want to release the moment he slid into me, but I knew that I could wait no longer.

His hands had been working me down on my thighs and over my mounds. I was wet with coconut oil on my labia and it was combining with my own fluids. Ian, was clearly enjoying himself and showed no sign of relinquishing his body work. Finally, in a fit of desperation I raised my body to my knees I told him to enter me.

“Slowly Ian. Find a place in me you enjoy.” I spread my legs to accept him.

Ian sidled up to my rear and touched the head of his penis to my flowing labial flesh. For that one brief moment, again, he hesitated, waiting for my signal. I gave it to him. This time dropping my belly and rotating my hips to smooth the entry. His shaft began a slow glide inward, neither greedy, nor hesitant. A languid rush of my fluids covered his length as he cautiously found my bottom. He was not a greedy lover. In fact, he presented his virility cautiously to me from behind. Each stroke was careful and symphonic, planned in advance to insure my satisfaction and submission without forced entry. His cock was masterful. He did not continue in this posture for long.

Slowly he shortened his strokes until he came to a stop — resting…waiting for a signal. I gave him one this time…I could no longer resist.

Rotating onto my back I lay down, pulling Ian on top of me. This time I grabbed the length of his cock in my hand and thrust it into my wet folds. Pulling him down to my chest I kissed him deeply, knowing that I had lost control of my emotions; also aware that I did not care. I wanted this mans virility in my body. I wanted his cum to pour into me…soak me deliciously. If he asked, I would drink him. And so I surrendered. He had won…it was what I wanted, but attempted to thwart.

With my eyes still covered I could visualize Ian beginning his conquest of my body. His cock was rigid, but the oil allowed it to slither richly. Each retraction was reversed with a gorgeous slurp of cock and vagina becoming one. He fucked me for what seemed like an hour on my back, legs spread wide, rocking his cock on my cervix with each tunneling. I sensed that an orgasm was near and told him so, yet he deliciously continued to fuck into me a little more severely, yet not enough to create discomfort. Then, as I neared climax he stopped. I could feel him drinking me out…he was barrowing my essence (this I knew); I was certain it would be returned ten-fold soon enough.

After some moments he arose and positioned me over his lap. His cock had softened a bit. I could tell as I grasped it. Neither of us had spoken a word as yet. But, were he to have spoken in the next few minutes, I would have not wished to hear what I knew he was feeling in his heart. He had sipped me. I was inside of him, something I had not intended. My essence was swirling around his heart, belly, cock and forehead. I had to release him. I knew that the longer he swam in my juice the more likely that the bonds between us would be difficult to severe. Al was to return in a week. I was his to enjoy. Ian now had what, up until this moment, been my lover’s alone.

Straddling Ian I plunged him to my depth. Finally, he made a slight whimper. Again, I slid on his smooth shaft, and again he whimpered. Crossing over scissors style, like Al and I enjoy, I began to run Ian’s cock into me, each thrust bringing him and me closer to climax. My vagina was exuding heat as I built his fire hotter. His cock was now penetrating me to my core, ratcheting against my bliss place. Without warning I began to come, crying out deeply from a place that I know only with my lover. I dropped hard on Ian, spent. He paused briefly, and then his cock continued to probe.

What happened next was the only time that I was unnerved the entire evening. Ian, was thick now and, I had not forgotten, was still swimming in my essence. It was time he gave it back. I rolled to my knees and told Ian to unload his cum into my vagina. Spreading wide he stuck his cock far into my belly, grasping my hips to gain purchase on my body. No longer was Ian the careful lover that I had started the evening with. He was now a raging man that wanted my sex and wanted to cum up inside me. His thrusts were more powerful now, his cock engorged beyond what I had envisioned. He pumped me relentlessly until I sensed his fluid rising. As he was about to unload his juice into me, I was suddenly spun around by a set of strong hands and forceful limbs. I was blind to his actions, but I knew what was coming. He stuck his cock into my mouth and told me to suck it.

It is almost indescribable the difficulty I had with his cock. It was full, slippery and thick. His uncircumcised penis made it difficult for me to draw on his sensitive head. The more earnestly I tried to suck his cum out, the more anxious he became. He wanted to unload, but I couldn’t release it. At last sensing the growing futility, and his growing passion (which seemed to be reaching frenzy) I released his cock from my mouth and once again spun around.

“Put it in me Ian and fuck your cum into my pussy. I want it now. You have no more time. Please just put your fluid up into me where I can drink it.”

His response was immediate and thankfully much of a relief to me. He stroked me a dozen more times before pausing at my opening. On the last stroke, prior to burying his cock to the bottom and spilling his cum into my body he said, “You have marked me.”

I unleashed a torrent of tears and declarations, begging him to spread his semen throughout me. “Give me all of it…please pour it all in…please…don’t stop…more…I will drink it all…” He unleashed a rush of male essence within my vagina, his cock pulsing spasmodically with each gush…each utterance from my lips prolonging the onslaught of his succulent fluid.

At last I fell to the bed in exhaustion, drifting off to sleep, not knowing when it ended, or if it had yet.

In the morning I awoke, naked on the bed, alone. I would see Ian again on Monday. Obviously, we would be working as a “dyad” on our final film project. Looking around the room I saw my Sony Handicam to my left. On the pillow next to me was a tape in a clear plastic case. On its edge was a fresh label which read: “Leah’s Tape for Her Husband #1”.

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