a pencil and a joint

I let him make love to me in the best way I knew how, I let him draw me.
I knew his pencils were caressing my skin, I could sense his cock protruding against the pages he was so eagerly trying to hold still.
I didn't want to kiss him, I knew he was leaving in a couple of days and he needed to take some sort of me with him, so when we came into his room after a meal filled with oysters, nervous laughs and double-meaning words, I took my clothes off, layed on his bed and ordered him to draw me.
He tried to kiss me, he did. He caressed me, and I let him, and then I told him with all the authority someone almost 20 years younger can have, told him: go, draw me.
He was stoned, so was I, but between my giggling and my nudity, I told him to draw me.
He told me I moved too much, and he wanted to make love to me. I told him no. I knew we were making love in a more intimate way, but I needed to find a way for him to feel that too.
I told him to draw me, and I touched myself.
I think that when I trembled with ecstasy, reaching a rainbow colored nirvana that made the whole world collapse and arise in new brightness a couple of times, he finished his drawing.
I let him keep it, as well as his orgasm, I knew that when he touched himself next, he would know that we had made love, I with my nudity and gasps, he with his pencil and paper.