My Sexologist {COMPLETED}

session 3.

To me, bodies were a complete work of art. I had spent years upon years learning my own anatomy to that I could sit across from people and tell them how to learn themselves. It was only right that I knew and explored every crevice of my own body.

It was my job to know bodies, and I thought I'd had it down to a science. I'd reduced them all to numbers and statistics the same way that I had judged Beyonce for doing the same. Only I felt my reasons were justified.

For me, this was an occupation. For her, this was recreational.

Yet when my eyes touched Beyonce's body, sexology evaporated from my brain. I reneged completely, and I became unrecognizable to myself. Every train of thought stopped at the station.

She came from my bathroom with a towel wrapped around her hair, her body naked and doused in oil. She was beautiful. It had to be illegal to be that damn beautiful.

I grew jealous, beginning to believe the numbers she'd given me a week ago. If all those women had her the way I did, they had to have these same thoughts. I wondered if she'd used protection with them or if she'd treated them like me. I wondered if she acted the same way with them as she did with me.

I went from staring at her body to staring at her phone. If I asked her to allow me to go through that phone, would she let me? Would I even want to? Sometimes knowing was the problem. Ignorance is genuinely bliss.

"Hey," Her towel dropped to the floor and her hair fell down past her shoulders, her hair both dry and wet simultaneously.

"How do you look like that?" I was entranced with her face.

She scared the hell out of me the more thought I put into her. Insanely pretty for no reason at all, she emanated innocence with that sweet face. Then she spoke to me, all of her language crass. Then she touched me, a yearning inside of her for me so shameless that she threw herself at me.

She crawled over my body to join me in my bed, her hand dragging across my thighs, the tip of her hardness mimicking the movement. She sat up against the headboard then draped her arm over my shoulders, pulling me close to her body.

"I wish you would've joined me in there. I only got to cum once."

"Only? How many do you need?"

"I'm like a machine. I get the urge and I have to get one off," She turned my head gently and began to kiss me, our mouths moving in a slow synchronization. She pinched my nipple and I gasped, allowing her tongue access, tasting the sweet cum she had dripped in the shower. There wasn't a force strong enough to keep my hands away from her skin. God, she was smooth, not a blemish in sight, her body chiseled from years of hard work, or genetics.

I moaned into her mouth, that dedication and commitment heating me from my loins. I thought, all this sex had becoming a apart of her workout routine, burning calories while serving up endless orgasms.

She pulled away from me and her eyes fell to my hand as I massaged the oil mix into her skin.

She had been touching shit in my bathroom, and I was nowhere near angry. We both watched as my hand grew closer to the tent that she was building beneath the sheets. She was actually like a machine, hormones in her bloodstream, making her as hard as a missile.