The Art and Science of Love
Devon Layne
Other Books by Devon Layne
The Transmogrification of Jacob Hopkins. A five-book series available as eBooks only from devonlayne.com. An aging Jacob is transported from his deathbed into an alternate universe and the body of a fourteen-year-old version of himself. But all is not well. Jacob discovers he has arrived in 2018, not in 1952 as he hoped!
Model Student. A six-book series available in both paperback and eBook. Tony Ames is a depressed art student at an elite Seattle art school where he doesn’t feel he fits. He’s determined to just go home to Nebraska until his secret crush asks him to get on the other side of the easel and be her model.
Strange Art. A three-book series available in both paperback and eBook. Art Étrange is somewhere on the Asperger scale. He functions fine if he doesn’t need to talk. Then the words swell up in his throat like balloons and his only outlet is to paint. His sister can interpret what he’s feeling through the painting and leads him to a romance with her girlfriend.
Living Next Door to Heaven. A ten-book series available only as eBooks. Brian Frost, the smallest geek in school for most of his life is protected by Heaven, the beautiful girl next door, and the cadre of friends she recruits to watch over him. All goes according to plan until the day Brian switches from being the protected to the protector.
An Erotic Paranormal Romance Western Adventure. A three-book series available in both eBook and paperback. Sixteen-year-old Cole Bell is interrupted at the least opportune moment when he is jerked from his body by the call of a Redtail Hawk and lands in the body of a similarly engaged cowboy over a hundred years earlier. He and his time-traveling children are courted by the spirit animals Redtail, Blackfeather, and Yelloweye to save Mother Earth from the scorpion.
The Props Master. A three-book series of occult fantasy. Our world looks normal to most people, but that college professor is a witch. That theatre student makes magical tools for the coven. The old man in the Metéora is over one hundred fifty years old. The seductive man putting the moves on your wife is possessed by a demon! And hidden behind an ivory veil in the City of the Gods is a goddess waiting to be freed.
And many more!
©2020 Elder Road Books
Lynnwood, WA
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission from the publisher.
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Cover photo by Jozef Klopacka. Licensed from Shutterstock.com, ID: 675590803. Used by permission
Design by Nathan Everett
eBook ISBN 978-1-950183-72-2
1
Archetypes
I fell on my ass when the weed finally came loose from the rock-hard ground I call a garden. Dirt scattered everywhere, including on me. I don’t know why I can’t grow anything safe for human consumption, or even pleasing to the eye.
Rita drove in next door as I stood swearing at weeds, rose thorns, and the dirt in my eye. I waved as she got out of her car. I’d known Rita since she was little. Now in her mid-twenties, she was the very picture of loveliness, even dressed in a track suit boasting the name of a color across her ass.
She was a beautiful girl who had often been at my house during the summer months years ago—along with her little sister and all the rest of the neighborhood kids. They seemed to migrate from house to house, eating indiscriminately from everyone’s pantry. She’d never been more to me than the neighbor kid until my sudden awakening her senior year in high school. She was a cheerleader and one day the squad went door-to-door selling candy bars to raise money for new pompoms or some such. She showed up at my front door in a pair of hot pants that showed her butt ledge and a tube top about as wide as an elastic bandage with her headlights on high beam.
“Want to support our cheer squad by buying some candy?” she asked. I hadn’t realized what a sexy and provocative young woman she’d become. I nearly told her I’d like two handfuls, but I settled for buying a candy bar and then went inside for a waking wet dream. What a fresh bit of candy was living next door.
In spite of that little episode, I managed to rein in my libido and maintained a pleasant and platonic relationship with my neighbors. Rita left for college, graduated, and got a good job as a research assistant in a science lab of some sort. She’d moved back home with her grandmother this summer to plan her fall wedding.
I called cheerfully to her as she got out of the car and she smiled and waved back.
“How’s the job going?” I asked.
“Fine,” she answered.
“And the wedding plans?”
I was not prepared for the sudden outburst and rush at me.
“It’s been postponed… indefinitely,” she said as she burst into tears.
She fell on my shoulder crying, tears soaking through my gardening shirt. She had a softness about her I couldn’t help but notice as she pressed into me—a girl in sweats and, if I had to guess, nothing else. I gently led her into the house, grabbed a tissue and dabbed at her eyes as she sank into the living room sofa.
“Let’s get you a cup of tea and you can tell old Doc all about it,” I said. I went to the kitchen to set water on the stove to boil.
“It’s awful, Doc,” she whimpered behind me. “It’s like I don’t even know him. He’s being so mean.”
I’m not really a doctor, by the way—or old. Dimitri Rafael Petrovich according to my birth certificate, but I changed the last name to Peters as soon as I turned 16. I went by my initials, D.R., and kids had been calling me Doc since grade school. Like the famous Dr. Science, I’m not a real doctor. I have a master’s degree… in art. That’s why I make a living selling real estate.
I set the freshly brewed tea on the breakfast bar where she’d moved as soon as I went into the kitchen. Apparently, she didn’t want to be alone, even in the next room. She took a sip of the tea and I waited without prompting her. Her lower lip quivered and she spoke to the teacup and not to me.
“He said I couldn’t suck water from a firehose,” she whimpered. “He said I just don’t turn him on.”
No matter what my fantasies, I certainly never expected to be privy to this kind of information. Instead of speaking, I just reached over and patted her hand. This wasn’t a subject that would benefit from me prying into what she didn’t want to say. It turned out, she wanted to say a lot.
“I don’t know what he’s complaining about. He can’t say I don’t turn him on. He’s hard every time he walks into the room. He shoves it in my mouth and then wants to fuck. He finishes and goes to sleep, or jerks off until he’s ready to fuck again. How can he say things like that? Aren’t I pretty enough?”
She was steaming. Now it was time to reach in with the reassurance.
“Rita,” I said gently. “You are beautiful and sexy. The guy must be an idiot.”
“But why would he say I don’t turn him on? I do anything he wants me to.”
“Hmm. Well, let’s get some things straight,” I said. “It’s not your problem. It’s his. I hate to say it, but he’s a typical mid-twenties asshole. He’s got an income, a beautiful girlfriend, and he can’t figure out why he’s not happy. All he thinks with is his dick.” I’d only met the guy once at a backyard barbecue and had an instant dislike for him. Rita was better off without him.
“He’s not always like that,” she said becoming defensive.
“Of course not,” I said, backing off from my disgust. “No one is ever all one thing or another. But there is a development cycle for young men that gets in the way of knowing what they are looking for. Their lower animal functions rule over all the higher level reasoning.”
“What do you mean?”
I opened the refrigerator and took out two grapefruits. I set them on the counter.
“What do you see?” I asked.
“I see two grapefruits,” Rita responded.
“Exactly. Now if we brought Alex in here, what do you think he would see?”
“He’d have to see two grapefruits, wouldn’t he?”
“He would,” I answered. “He’d see two grapefruits and he’d get a hard-on.” She laughed. It was good to see a break in the teary demeanor.
“Now,” I said, deciding to continue the lesson. “Do grapefruits turn him on?” I only waited a couple beats before I continued. “No. It’s a response to archetypal stimuli that he can’t help. A guy like Alex will get a hard-on while he’s shaving if his cock happens to bump against the bathroom sink.”
“I’ve seen that happen,” Rita said. Then she blushed crimson. “I thought it was because I was there.” I looked at her with a real feeling of tenderness. Males were all sluts—especially young males. It was a hard lesson that every young woman should learn, even though it isn’t pleasant. But how much happier they would be if they recognized the difference between synaptic response and real feeling.
“Sweetheart,” I said, reaching up to stoke her cheek gently, “you are capable of turning on any man you desire. It’s when a man responds to your desire that you connect; not when he responds to your shape. You just need to learn to recognize what you want and not assume that just being there is enough to get it.”
“Do I turn you on?” she asked softly. Great. Now I was on the spot. I didn’t want to offend her, but I had to be honest with her.
“Rita, it takes more than being in the presence of a beautiful woman to turn me on,” I said. “When you want to turn me on, you will.”
She looked at me and held my eyes with hers. I was afraid I’d gone to far, but she smiled shyly at me.
“I’d better get going before the neighbors start talking,” she said, slipping off the bar stool. “Thank you for the tea and sympathy, Doc.” She stood on tip-toe and kissed my cheek with a lingering tenderness, then turned toward the door. “Mind if I stop in to talk again some time?”
“Any time,” I responded. Then she was gone.
I’m not sexually deprived. I’d just never found the right combination of sex, love, and interest it took to become committed. Most of what I told Rita was just blowing smoke up her ass—which I’d dearly love to do. It was a week before I saw her again. I let her play an active role in my fantasies during that time, but I had a lot of work to do. I had open houses and showings.
I also managed to squeeze in a portrait sitting with a wealthy and good-looking woman named Sheila. I earned a living selling real estate. I spent my off hours painting in my studio. Sheila had heard I was discreet and would give her exactly what she wanted. I couldn’t help but wonder what she’d heard. She wanted ‘a sexy portrait’ to give to her husband for their tenth anniversary. We finally agreed on a time and she came to my basement studio for a posing session.
After several sketches in different poses, she gradually started to relax her grip on the drape I’d given her. Sessions always start that way. ‘Just in my bra and panties,’ they’d say. ‘Artfully draped.’ ‘Like an old master.’ If they’d studied old masters like I had, they’d be naked on a pedestal when we started. I didn’t treat my models that way. Eventually, the drape had slipped until her right breast was fully exposed. She liked the sketches and we worked on the pose a bit until we had her with her head tilted slightly away with eyes glancing toward the distance and the drape restored, so her nipple barely peeked out. I snapped a digital photo of the pose as well as the sketch and promised I would have the painting available in two weeks. She looked over my shoulder at the easel and let the drape fall to the floor.
It wasn’t unusual to have a model lose her inhibitions as we worked, and more than one had completely lost control. I wasn’t above taking advantage of the situation when it happened. I watched her (and her breasts) as she examined the sketch. I could see exactly what she was seeing as she looked at the sketch. Her hand rose to her cheek and tried to trace the line of her jaw in the way I’d drawn it. She explored the sketch by tracing her own body. She let her hand trace the position of the drape in the drawing, gliding across her chest to lightly touch her nipple. It was delicately shaped and the way it rose as she caressed it let me know that she had probably not breast-fed her two children. Nipples tend to lose some of their sensitivity after an infant has sucked them dry day and night. Hers were obviously sensitive. She gasped at her own touch. She stood rigidly there for a moment without moving.
“May I come back to sit for the actual painting?” she asked with a quaver in her voice. My nostrils flared. Doing an oil or acrylic painting is a much longer process than doing the preliminary sketches. That’s why I snap digital photos of the pose so I can use it for reference as I paint from the sketch. Sitting and holding one position for two or three hours (with occasional breaks to relax the muscles) is much different than the ten to fifteen minutes it takes to sketch a pose. But frankly, I’d much rather be referring to her fleshly presence as I painted than to the photo.
I agreed and we set a time. I would lay in the background and base. I’d be ready to focus on her when she came back. She dressed in front of me instead of going behind the changing screen, putting on her lacy bra and nearly sheer blouse, then arranging her hair. She would spend the week between now and our next appointment developing a strategy to seduce me. It wasn’t the first time. I would spend the week developing a strategy to let her.
2
Flirting
Rita showed up at my door on Friday evening as I was watching television. I was surprised as I figured that on the first night of the weekend she would be out on a date. I suppose it was too soon after the break-up for that. But she had a lot of friends she could be with.
Personally, I disliked the bar scene and if I hadn’t actually arranged a date to go out with on Friday night, I stayed home.
“Hi, Doc,” she greeted me. “Are you busy tonight? Can we talk some more?”
“I said any time, Rita,” I answered, letting her into the house. “Why aren’t you out tonight?”
“Because I suck,” she said flatly. “I’m apparently just no good at it.”
“Believe me as a man, there is no such thing as a bad blowjob,” I laughed. She laughed a little nervously and I switched off the TV. I had opened a bottle of wine and didn’t bother to ask if she wanted any. I just poured us both a glass and we sat companionably on the sofa for a few minutes before she started in.
“I don’t know what I’m doing,” she said finally. “I tried flirting with a couple of guys at work this week and discovered I couldn’t tell if they were interested in me or just responding to the archetypal stimuli, as you put it. They both hit on me and I discovered I wasn’t interested in them that much.”
“That’s a good sign,” I said. “You respond to archetypal stimuli as well. They just happen to be different than the ones a man responds to. If you can distinguish the difference between a moistening between your legs and a genuine interest in a guy, that’s a step in the right direction.” She squirmed on the couch a bit and adjusted her position.
“I’ve been thinking about what you said the other day,” Rita said.
“Good,” I answered. “I’m glad you are learning to…”
“Not about that part,” she broke in. “Well, partially about that. But more what you said about if I wanted to turn you on, I could.” I caught my breath. Subtlety is not a trait of the young. Either she was going to attempt to seduce me or she was going to ream me for being an old pervert. While I admit to the latter, I was counting on the former.
“I realized that I don’t know how,” she continued. “I guess I got used to the automatic response men have. ‘Has tits. Must fuck.’ The idea of deciding who I want to turn on and then doing it leaves me blank. Would you teach me… show me how to do it? I mean, how to turn you on?” There it was in the open.
“Do you want to turn me on?” I asked gently. This was going to take a lot of will-power to resist the rush.
“I want to learn how to turn you on,” she answered. “And I’d much rather learn from you than randomly experiment with guys I don’t even like. I like you. I’d like to turn you on.” I poured us each another glass of wine and we sipped. I nodded.
“I told you I’d respond,” I said. “I’m not going to back out now that you’ve expressed an interest. But if you want to learn how, you won’t be able to just go up to a guy you’re interested in and ask him to teach you. Let’s start from the beginning. We’ll set up a little play-acting to get started.” I stood and moved to sit on a stool at the breakfast bar, still clearly in her line of sight. “Let’s say you’ve seen me and you’re interested. It looks like I might be interested, too. What do you do?”
“Well, I guess I start flirting,” she answered.
“Don’t tell me. Show me.”
She looked over the back of the sofa at me. I glanced her direction and our eyes made contact. She shifted herself to make her breasts more prominent and made a little kissy noise in my direction. I laughed.
“What?” she demanded.
“I’m not a dog,” I said. “I don’t come when you make a kissy noise. I’m not saying that most guys won’t, but it won’t be what you want. It just tells me you’re hot to trot and I happen to be alone and available. No connection. Flirting needs to build up tension.”
“See. I told you I suck,” she moaned.
“No, you just haven’t had practice engaging. There’s nothing wrong with the things you were doing. They just happen to be a little premature. First, try just holding eye contact for a while. See what comes of that. Think about the kinds of things you’ve seen in movies, or scenes you’ve fantasized about.” I resumed my pose at the bar and glanced toward her. It was perfectly timed as she glanced in unison. She dropped her eyes slightly and then raised them to look directly into mine. A slow smile spread across her lips as we looked at each other. She seemed to glance away and then back at me. Then she winked. I winked back.
I was suspicious that I was being played. Those moves were smooth and well-practiced. I could feel a stirring already. She started to giggle.
“That feels so silly,” she said.
“Why? You did extremely well.”
“It was embarrassing,” she confessed. “I couldn’t keep a straight face. It was so…” She faltered as realization fell across her face. “…intimate,” she breathed. I was relieved. It was coming spontaneously and I no longer felt like I was receiving a practiced performance.
“Finding a point of intimacy—even across a crowded room—is a key stage in seduction. It makes you co-conspirators. You are in it together now.”
“I liked it,” Rita sighed. “I felt something.”
“So, follow it up,” I answered. “What comes next? You’ve established a connection. I’ve acknowledged it. Where do we go from here?”
“I come and join you?” she asked.
“No,” I answered. “You lure me to you. That makes it clear that I haven’t misunderstood. Again, no summoning like a dog or patting the seat next to you like you want me to jump up. Think of a way to invite me without using words.” She thought about it for a few moments and then resumed her position. I leaned against the bar and glanced back at her. Her eyes were there to meet mine and this time they held. The smile crept across her lips again and I seriously thought about kissing them.
She took a sip of her wine and looked into the glass as if considering. Then she tilted her head slightly, looked me in the eye, and raised her empty glass. One eyebrow came up in question and I smiled at her. I picked up the wine bottle and approached her.
“May I?” I asked, directing the bottle toward her glass. She held it out and smiled warmly at me.
“Thank you,” she said. “Won’t you join me?” Beautiful. I sat next to her, filled my own glass, and raised it to her.
“Cheers,” we both said and then laughed.
We set our glasses down and I turned toward her to be met face on with her lips. She pressed them against my own, demanding entrance with her tongue. It was nice, but this wasn’t going to teach her anything. Reluctantly, I broke away and pushed her back in her seat.
“What?” she asked. “Didn’t you like it?”
“Oh yes,” I said. “I liked it. And as well as we know each other, we could progress to sitting here making out like crazy. We know each other and we know why we’re here. But if you did that to a guy you just met or knew only casually, he’d either be headed for the door or headed for your panties in a heartbeat. You want the tension to grow. You don’t just want me to have a hard-on; you want me to ache for you.”
“I’m sorry but after that little invitation game getting you over here, I was just feeling so horny I lost control.”
“Nothing wrong with feeling horny. In fact, it’s a good indication that what you are doing is working. If you are getting turned on, chances are I am, too.” She took another sip of her wine and looked at me with puppy-dog eyes that begged to be taken and taught.
“So, what should I do?” she asked.
“Well, we’d be talking once we got to the table,” I said, “just like we have been. Maybe we’d have to get acquainted a little.”
“Like asking you what you do for a living?” she asked.
“No,” I said. “Guys get nervous when a girl asks that kind of question. In real estate, we call it a qualifier. Can you afford the property you are lusting after? Otherwise I’m wasting my time. And believe me, unless he’s an arrogant fool, no man will think he can afford you. That’s why people developed the lame introductions they use like ‘What sign are you?’ It’s a subject to talk about without being too personal. Unfortunately, it doesn’t reveal anything about the person. You get no further than where you started. What you need are questions that get a good conversation rolling without sounding lame. I’ll start this time.”
We settled in facing each other on the sofa and she waited expectantly.
“That’s a beautiful locket you’re wearing,” I said, looking at her neck. She reflexively lifted her chin a fraction so I could see it better. “May I?” I asked, extending my hand. She nodded her assent and I lifted the locket letting my finger rest against the base of her throat lightly as I examined the locket. “It must be from someone very special,” I finished, laying the locket gently back against her throat and sliding my finger out from under it. She shuddered a little as I withdrew. This time, however, she took the hint and engaged.
“My daddy gave it to me on my 16th birthday,” she said. “It had a picture of him and one of me in it when he gave it to me.” She lifted the locket and popped it open. “He doesn’t know I replaced my picture with my mom’s. It’s not like I wanted them to get back together or anything. I’d outgrown that. It’s more like it’s the two of them that made me, so I carry around a bit of each of them.”
“They sound like wonderful people,” I said truthfully. I’d met both of them over the years. “Looking at them, it’s no wonder you are so beautiful.” She reddened just a little and from this distance I could see that the flush extended down her throat and onto her chest.
“Do you have family you are close to?” she asked.
“Two older brothers who used to beat the tar out of me when I was a kid. My folks have been gone years,” I said, surprising myself by talking about my family to her. “My brothers have their own families. I like being with the kids because I can spoil them and then give them back to their parents. It’s a just reward for the way they treated me as a child.” We laughed.
“I’ve always thought having kids would be fun,” she said, “but raising them would be hell. I think I’ll leave the breeding to my sister.”
“There is something cool about being the favorite aunt or uncle,” I said. “I’ve made it my mission to see that their kids get some culture in their lives. Do you like art?”
“Yeah. What’s the old saying? I don’t know art, but I know what I like. Do you know a lot about art?”
“A fair amount,” I admitted. Most of my neighbors knew nothing about my alter ego the artist. Most just knew me as a real estate agent. “I studied art in college—still dabble in it a little.”
“Really?” she asked. “I didn’t know that. Do you paint?”
“Yes. Paint and draw. Sculpt a little. I like to get my hands in the clay and feel the shape and texture of the object.” She reached for my hands and turned them over to examine carefully. Then she looked back in my eyes.
“Do artists see things differently than other people?”
“That’s hard to say,” I answered. “We’ve all seen cartoons of artists like Picasso seeing a much different version of the world than we see. I’m not sure it’s that radical. They just interpret what they see differently. Remember the grapefruit?” She laughed and nodded. “Well, I see the same thing you do, but I think about it differently. And differently than Alex, too. I think in terms of light and color, texture and chiaroscuro. It’s like seeing something from every angle at once.”
“How do you see me?” she asked. I almost said, ‘As two grapefruits.’ I caught myself short. There was an innocence and shyness about the question that let me know she genuinely wanted to see herself through my eyes. Well, she had certainly found the right means of turning me on. I’ve fallen in love with every model I’ve ever drawn.
“Why don’t I sketch you,” I said.
3
Drawing Rita
“Here? Now?” she asked, startled. I’d just suggested that I sketch her and she looked around to see if I had a pencil and paper at hand. “On a napkin?”
“I’ll do it with words. There are a lot of different media for art.”
“Okay,” she said. “How do you want me to pose?” She giggled a little, thinking she was making a joke.
“First, I’ll just spend some time looking at you. I want to really see you,” I said. “It’s easy to get lost in your eyes, but I want to see all of you, from every angle.” I heard a little catch in her breath at the implication, but she didn’t move. True to what I was saying, I took the opportunity to drink her in. She was a mature woman of twenty-six years but I could still see the innocence and wicked sense of adventure she’d had as a school girl. She and her sister with a bunch of neighbor kids had once set up a water slide in my back yard because mine was the one with a slope to it. I remembered them in their bathing suits, splashing down the sheet of plastic. It wasn’t difficult to think of the difference between the slight bumps that filled out their swimsuits then and the incredible breasts that filled out her blouse now.
I reached out and touched her hair, pulled back in a ponytail, hanging down over one shoulder. When I grazed her cheek, she involuntarily leaned in toward my fingers.
“I want to know the shape of your hairline and the texture of your hair. I look deeply at the softness of your skin and imagine what it would feel like under my fingers’ caress. I look at the shape of your face, the elegance of your neck. I want to know the breadth of your shoulders. I pause for a moment just to watch your breasts rise and fall with your breathing. I guide your face with my fingers so your eyes can look just over my left shoulder and I tilt your head slightly to emphasize your jawline.
“My first sketch is quick and near life-size on a sheet of newsprint, drawn with soft charcoal. I capture the centerline of your face and position of your eyes. I draw in the tip of your nose and the simplest rendition of your lips, letting the charcoal slide to the side to get more fullness in just one line.” Rita’s eyes fluttered as I traced the centerline of her face with my forefinger from the hairline to the tip of her chin. When I traced the shape of her lips with my finger, they trembled and parted slightly.
I continued, tracing the edge contour of her ear and hair and let my finger trail down her right shoulder and upper arm. Then, as if I were drawing on paper, I lightly grazed the depression where her throat met her collarbone and surprised her as I used a finger on each hand to trace from her collarbone, following the line of her blouse to the cleft between her breasts. Her eyes popped open wider, but she didn’t shift her pose.
“With a rough sketch having shown me how you are put together, I switch to a smaller pad and a 4B pencil,” I continued. “I adjust your pose slightly, tilting your head so I see the other ear and you are looking over my right shoulder. I lift your chin slightly and tease a soft smile from your lips.” She nearly sucked my finger into her mouth as I stroked the corner of her mouth to get a little smile from her. I wondered if that was how da Vinci got the Mona Lisa’s smile. She gasped and nearly collapsed when I continued.
“I loosen the top button of your blouse and slide the collar further over your right shoulder, moving the strap with it so it will not be in my composition. I’m ready to look at the play of light and shadows on your skin without lines. This time, I start with the shape of your eyes in the lamplight, smudging the tone to where I want it and deepening your sparkling eyes. I lay my pencil flat on the paper and, after lightly shading the lowlight of your cheek, I use my thumb to spread the graphite up toward the high point of your cheekbone, capturing it without a line between the inset of your eye and your cheek.”
I was thoroughly enjoying the feel of her skin as I softly stroked her face and from the rate of her breathing, it was apparent she was enjoying it, too. She’d been caught in the mesmerizing narration of her body.
“I note how the shadow on your right defines the highlight of your nose and extends into your upper lip, receding in the depths of the corner of your mouth. Your chin doesn’t define the end of your face, but rather the shadow of your neck reveals the shape of your chin. I find where the shadow stretches from your earlobe down beneath your jaw and smooth the tone to give shape to your throat, ending in the depths of the hollow at your collarbone.” Rita was breathing notably faster and more shallowly as my fingers traced each part of her face and worked down her neck as I drew her in my mind. Had she been ticklish, the touch would have been torture, but she was merely sensitive and a deep flush had begun to slip from her face down her throat and over her breasts. I continued by tracing her collarbone out from the neck to the right shoulder where I had pushed her blouse and saw her eyes close as she absorbed my touch.
“Now I am ready to find a pose for my detailed sketch. I loosen the last buttons of your blouse so it falls away from your shoulder and down your arm. I slip your arm out of the sleeve and the strap of your bra so nothing interrupts the smooth flow of the line of your shoulder and arm. The arm is defined on the inside by your breast pressed against it. I turn you so you are nearly facing away from me and ask you to undo your ponytail.” Rita glanced at me to confirm that I actually wanted her to do this herself and when I nodded, she reached up to loosen the knot and let her hair fall free. Before she could lower her arm, I held it gently in the position with her hand in her hair.
“I ask you to loosen your ponytail, not because I can’t do it, but because I want to see the line on the underside of your arm,” I said as I traced the line down along her smoothly shaved underarm and let my fingers part as they traced both the line of her back and her breast at the same time. A tiny mewling sound escaped her lips as my fingers trailed across her right breast. She was so used to my hands on her body now that she didn’t flinch when I found the front clasp of her bra. I flicked it open and it fell to her side.
“The shadows here are tricky,” I continued my narration as my hands gently stroked from her armpit down along the side of her beautifully exposed breast. Her eyes were once again closed, so she could not see how intently I feasted on the sight of her breast and the tiny pink nipple that in spite of its petite size seemed to stretch the skin taut as a drumhead. “I must be careful to capture the light and shadow as the hollow of your underarm stretches to meet the rise of your breast. The black and gray of the graphite seem so inadequate to capture the deep flush in your skin and the subtle darkening of your nearly transparent nipple sitting high on the proud mound of your breast. I need to capture in the shading the firmness and the softness, carefully blending the shadow into the crease beneath your breast so there is no plasticity in the rendering. I take great care to find the right shape and size of your nipple with the graphite clinging to my thumb.”
The funny thing is that as I stroked her nipple with my thumb, my fingers applying light pressure beneath the breast, I could really see what it would look like on paper when I had drawn it. And I definitely would draw her. For her part, Rita was moaning aloud now, ready to collapse, but firmly holding herself in the pose I had created for her. I wanted to fall on that heaving breast and take the nipple between my lips, but that wasn’t necessary to achieve what I desperately wanted now. I stuck with the drawing and extended my domain. The left side of Rita’s blouse and bra still clung to her left breast, so I gently slid my palm across from her right, lifting the fabric up and away from her exquisite tit. She shrugged her shoulder slightly and the fabric slid down her arm and off her wrist. She was fully exposed now and her eyes watched me, even though she had not moved her right arm from the pose. God! If only all my models were so disciplined and compliant! In some sessions I found myself getting up every few minutes to correct the pose back to where I wanted it. Their antsy fidgeting destroyed the continuity of my drawing.
“Your breasts are twins but with such subtle individuality that only one intimately familiar with them could tell the difference. The right is flawless—translucent skin drawn tightly over a soft and pliable layer, perfectly shaped and crowned by a pink nipple, tinged with a wash of sienna. It deepens in color when you blush.” As if called by my mention of it, the blush once again spread across her cheeks and chest. I softly caressed the contour of her breast to emphasize my point. “The left is equally flawless—the nipple fractionally darker in color and pointing slightly as if to call attention to her sister. A tiny dark dot on the breast just to the outside of the nipple cries out to be kissed, drawing attention back to the left.” This time I permitted myself to lean forward and brush the tiny mole without sucking on the ripe little nipple. Rita breathed a long whispered, ‘Ohhhhh.’
“I trace the contours of each breast, flowing down into the valley between,” I continued. I let my fingers bunch around each nipple and as softy as water trickling down, I let them expand and slide down into her cleavage. This raised tiny bumps all across both breasts and up onto her shoulders. “From here, I continue my downward journey, parting the shadow like the waters of the sea until my pencil rests and deepens the shadow of your navel. This barely visible depth is the center of a field of white skin that continues to the sides until lost in the shadow of the background and plunges into unfathomed depths below.”
At this point I dragged my fingers southward from her navel, over her slightly rounded stomach. As they progressed, her stomach muscles tightened—sucking the flesh inward—partly in response to my touch and partly, perhaps, in subconscious effort to give me easier access beneath the loosened waistband of her skirt. I slid my hand on down, keeping contact with her skin as her breathing quickened and began to come in gasps until I felt the soft brush of her hair and the very top of her slit. This at last was too much for my lovely Rita. Her upheld arm collapsed around my neck and she drew me to her in a passionate kiss from which she gasped, “Oh, Doc!”
I looked into her eyes as I held one arm around her naked shoulders and one hand still just deep enough below her panties to feel the moisture that was rapidly spreading. She crushed her lips to mine once more and thrust her tongue between my lips. Still, I teased and nipped the end of her tongue, pulling back far enough that she could not follow; then, with just the tip of my tongue moistening her lips before they parted again, we kissed deeply. When we parted from that embrace, she let her hand trail down the front of my shirt, unfastening the buttons in a near mimic of the slow dance I had used over her blouse. When the shirt was unbuttoned, she let her hand slip lower, where it glided over my very stiff cock.
“Have I turned you on, Doc?” she asked plaintively.
“Oh, my lovely Rita, you certainly have.”
“Good,” she answered, “because I so want to make love to you.”
You might think there would be a maddened rush at this point, but Rita had been so captured by the slow and delicate maneuvers of my artistic description that she wanted to duplicate them herself. This she did, however, with more direct intent as she traced the line of my jaw with her tongue and massaged my chest with her hands. She slid down my body, finding first my right nipple and then my left with her tongue as her hands busied themselves with my belt and fly. She pushed my trousers down and I found the zipper for her skirt and slid it and the tiny lace panties she wore over her hips and down her legs. She rubbed my cock between her breasts and then slid up, pushing me back on the sofa as she moved over me. There were no more words spoken as she slid her pussy lips over my cock, but when she slid me inside her we both gasped and clutched each other tightly.
I’ve long prided myself on my stamina, but our foreplay had gotten me so turned on that I was afraid I would not last long enough to stroke a single time. I needn’t have worried about it, however. We lay there relishing the feeling of being joined so deeply. Without moving or touching further, I felt Rita contract on my cock and cry out, then raise herself up and slam down, crying out again. Her vaginal convulsions were so strong in her orgasm that I stood no chance of withholding my own orgasm. In spite of my teeming fantasy with the rich model I had sketched earlier in the week, it had been some time since I’d actually taken care of the building tension in my balls and I exploded in Rita with a ferocity I’d seldom experienced before. Just as things began to settle from our mutual satisfaction, Rita would shift and convulse in an aftershock, eliciting one more spurt from my cock.
At last we lay, exhausted in each other’s arms, my softening but still adequate cock lodged deep in her pussy. The perfect globes of her breasts were smashed against my chest, our nipples kissing each other. She lifted her face to me and I drank deeply of her kisses, our lips and tongues unwilling to leave each other.
We awoke in much the same position as we had fallen asleep, though only the tip of my cock still remained in contact with her labia. She looked into my eyes with a look that brought a stirring back to my member.
“Doc,” she said softly. “Will you teach me everything? Please?”
“Yes,” I said kissing her nose and eyelids. “Yes, my dear, everything.”
4
Painting Sheila
When I awoke in the morning, Rita was gone.
Well, strictly speaking, it was barely morning. I lay in bed several minutes reliving every sensuous moment of the previous night, trying to convince myself it had not been an elaborate fantasy I put over on myself. When I realized what time it was, though, I jolted out of bed and dashed to the bathroom for a shower and shave. Saturday is a busy day in the real estate industry and I had an open house scheduled at one of my listings in less than an hour.
In the bathroom, my mirror had been decorated with lipstick. A curly border had been drawn around a series of XOXOXO and a perfect lipstick imprint of Rita’s lips. It seemed there were no hard feelings. She must have had to work this morning, too. Or else she wanted to get across the drive and into her own house before daylight. I got dressed and made it to my open house with minutes to spare, then sat and waited for four hours while a sparse trickle of visitors came, showing no interest in the house whatsoever. Some days are like that. I entertained myself between visitors by sketching small details I could remember from the night before. I discovered Rita could turn me on without even being in the same room.
I didn’t see Rita at all for the rest of the weekend. She had taken off Saturday morning with a bunch of girlfriends for a girls’ weekend at a local spa. She called Saturday night and said she’d see me sometime the next week.
Mondays are dead in the real estate industry unless you happen to have landed a fish during a weekend open house. I considered Monday my weekend. Tuesday morning, I would have to deal with brokers’ open houses and a new homes tour, but Mondays, I reserved to paint. The inestimable Sheila Monroe, my wealthy client, called and asked if she could sit for her painting that afternoon. I’d laid in the background and washes, and was ready to start on the detail work. I agreed and Sheila arrived about noon.
She didn’t bother to step behind the privacy screen I keep in the studio for changing, but made sure she had my eye first and began simply taking her clothes off in front of me. This was a portrait that showed down almost to her draped waist, but she took off considerably more clothing than was strictly required. She stood in a lacy transparent thong and waited for me to position her on the couch in the pose I’d recorded. I spread a blanket on the chaise I was using to pose her on and she settled into position. I looked at the position in the photo and made several small adjustments to her posture and position, letting my hand rest gently on her shoulder or back as she got comfortable.
I’d warned her that sitting for a painting was not like sitting for a sketch. The process is much slower and therefore, the pose must be held much longer. I usually work for forty-five minutes and then take a break for fifteen so the model has time to get the blood circulating through her limbs again. After the first session, Sheila was stiff and tired of the same pose, but she dropped her drape and pranced around the studio—loosening up, she said—in just her thong. She leaned over my shoulder to look at the progress on the painting, pressing up against me.
Sheila is in her mid-thirties and has two children, but in true trophy wife fashion, she’s taken immaculate care of her body. She chatted as we worked through the next session about her busy schedule of getting the children up and off to school and meeting friends at the tennis club to play and enjoy the spa. She might have a massage scheduled—with Enrico, her favorite therapist—or just have lunch and a glass of wine. At least three times a week, she met with a personal trainer, who had obviously been doing a great job. She is about five-five and her body is lean and trim. Almost too lean for my tastes as, like most artists, I like to see curves in a woman. Nonetheless, there is nothing unpleasant about looking at her.
In the third and final forty-five-minute session, there was something slightly different about her pose. Checking the digital photo, I didn’t see what it was at first. A slight movement after I’d started painting, however, drew my attention downward. Sometime during her last break, she’d lost the thong and the drape had been pulled up far enough to expose a clear view of her pussy. I tried to keep my focus on the curve of her breast and the nipple peeking from behind the drape, but I noticed the hand that was not in the picture had slipped beneath the sheet and was slowly stroking her cleanly shaved pussy.
I had a new admiration for Sheila. In fact, I was beginning to think I might call her to model for me professionally sometime. She was holding her upper body perfectly still in the pose we’d agreed on, even while fingering her clit. That takes some concentration and I was losing mine. I managed to complete the curves I was working on and then said I thought we’d done enough for today.
“Oh, Doc,” she said as she moved and adjusted the sheet again, making sure my view was unobstructed. “Would you mind doing just a couple more sketches of me that are full-body and not just upper?” She was lying naked in front of me, so I had no difficulty agreeing.
I brought my sketchbook and a bit of charcoal and sat my stool much closer than I had for the portrait. She moved herself into a reclining pose and positioned the drape so she was full exposed. I quickly lay in a charcoal sketch and captured the bare slit she was showing with her fingers poised just over it. When I’d finished the sketch, she shifted positions and the drape fell away entirely with no pretense about using it for modesty. She arched herself backward, spreading her legs slightly and I tore through another rapid sketch. I had a feeling this was less about me sketching and more about her posing.
“What do you think of my ass?” she asked, getting on her hands and knees for the next pose. She pointed it pretty directly at me and I could see her labia open, exposing her channel and clit. “I’d like you to do one that is just a close-up of my derriere.”
“It’s a lovely ass, Sheila,” I said as I positioned my stool close enough to smell her and see the fine details of her ass and pussy. Between the posing and her earlier fingering, moisture glistened around her pussy lips. I sketched each little pucker as I saw it and, in a few minutes, I had a likeness that only her husband would recognize. Or perhaps her masseur.
She got up from the chaise and looked at the sketches.
“Is that really what I look like from that angle?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said. “It’s really quite beautiful.”
“No wonder George likes it so much!” she exclaimed. I had to assume George was her husband, but perhaps it was her personal trainer. She sat on my lap and pulled the sketchbook from my hands. “You could almost reach out and touch it.”
“From where I am right now, I could,” I laughed. It was very pleasant to have this woman sitting and wiggling on my lap the way she was. I was beginning to show signs of my arousal.
“Why don’t you?” she whispered in my ear. She dropped the sketchbook on the floor and wrapped her arms around me, coming in for a wet, sloppy kiss.
When I pay a model to sit for me, we work hard and maintain a good professional distance. I never touch a model without permission and then only guide her (or him) to the pose I specifically want. That isn’t to say I’ve never enjoyed other entertainment with a model after we’d closed up the studio, but I keep work and pleasure strictly separate when money is changing hands.
In this case, however, the woman was paying me for painting her and was not a professional model. I had no compunction about filling my hands with her ass and burying my face in her tits. And there was no doubt that Sheila was not only willing, but expected no less.
Fucking Sheila was a far cry from making love to Rita. I am by nature a more languorous lover, but Sheila was a woman on a mission and I contented myself with being the fulfillment of her fantasy—and enjoying the experience as she pulled at my clothing until I was fully naked as well. Though I was swelling with anticipation, it takes some slight direct stimulation before I’m fully ready to consummate a relationship. Noting this, Sheila fell to the task with vigor, teasing my cock fully upright with her tongue and lips. Though she applied herself diligently, I was loath to release my load between her lips as I’d seen a far more appealing target.
I lifted her to her feet and guided her back to the chaise, where I set forth to return the oral pleasures to her. My experience is not as broad as you might expect an artist’s to be. I have had an adequate supply of lovers over the years, but I’m not the type to need sex on a daily or hourly basis. Experience has shown me a few things, however. It is not unusual for professional models to shave their privates for the sake of art. When I sketch a woman, having a great bush of hair between her legs has approximately the same effect as airbrushing the region out of existence. When I was in school, student models would often arrive who shaved nothing. It was a part of the “back to nature” movement from which we were able to draw so many of our models. My first experience with an atelier model, however, changed the way I looked at the female form—from an artistic perspective, of course.
From a purely sexual perspective, a shaved pussy does no more to stimulate me than a hairy one. I have discovered, however, a woman who shaved for other than professional reasons, did so with intent. The intent was to attract oral attention to the area. When I buried my face between Sheila’s legs, I found she was as smoothly bare as the proverbial baby’s bottom. When I applied my tongue to the slippery slit, the response was… shall we say, noisy. She was verbal beyond words, helping to spread her labia to give me better access as she screamed over and over such lovely endearments as, “Yes! Fuck yes!” and, “Oh oh oh oh.”
Having such an enthusiastic recipient for oral sex made me much happier to give it. She tasted sweet and slightly salty from her juices. I explored every juicy fold of her labia with the tip of my tongue, thrusting it as deeply into her pussy as I could before dragging it up, out, and over her clit to more shuddering cries. As I worked on her clit with my tongue, I explored the region with my fingers as well. She had flooded the area with so much slippery juice that it ran between her legs and down her ass. I used my thumb in her pussy, pumping in and out as I flattened my tongue against her clit and wiggled it back and forth. My middle finger, I placed against her back door and began gently to apply pressure. This led to a new crescendo in her vocalese and a long string of “Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck,” deteriorating into a long loud wordless wail. I did not let up until she clamped her legs shut on my ears, yelling, “Stopstopstop. I can’t take anymore. Please, stop!”
Whenever a woman tells me to stop, I do—whether it is at the beginning or at the end or any point between. The grip she had on my head with her thighs prevented me from actually withdrawing, so I released her clit from my tongue and gently kissed her pussy, in which my thumb was still buried. My finger as well, I did not withdraw from her anus. On both, I could feel the continued pulsing as she came down from her orgasms. Gradually, the pressure on my ears relaxed and I was able to raise my head slightly to look at her. She was looking down at me with a mixture of satisfaction and curiosity, as though she were trying to figure out who I was and how I got my head between her legs.
“Mmm. That was just what I needed,” she said, smiling. Then she heaved a bit of a sigh. “I suppose you want to fuck me since you wouldn’t come in my mouth,” she continued. She rolled over, pulling my fingers from her. On her knees with her ass in the air, she was in much the same pose as I’d sketched. “Use whichever hole you want, but be quick about it. I need to get home and shower before George does.”
I was being given my choice of fucking her pussy or her ass from behind, but somehow the joy had gone out of it. I may have been hard, but I couldn’t see myself fucking an uninvolved ass or pussy.
“Not necessary, Sheila,” I heard myself saying as I patted her ass. I turned away to pick up my clothes. “I’m just happy you’re satisfied.” She looked at me a little strangely, as if I weren’t quite human.
“Your loss,” she said, gathering her clothes and stepping behind the privacy screen. “You should have come while I was blowing you.” I had to chuckle at that while I stuffed my cock back into my trousers and felt it reluctantly let go of its stiffness. After I assured Sheila the painting would be done in a week, she asked for the three new sketches I’d done and I gladly gave them to her. She left, promising she’d be back for another sitting ‘if I needed her.’ I highly doubted that. She’d gotten what she wanted. The act of sitting for her portrait had made her horny and she had built up her own fantasies about how to seduce me. She wanted no doubt left in my mind that this was a one-time opportunity and it would never occur again.
I cleaned up the studio and gathered up the towels and drape to be laundered. I checked behind the screen to be sure nothing had been left and, somewhat to my surprise, found five one-hundred-dollar bills on the changing table.
What can you do? I had to laugh and decided to find a charity to give my ill-got gains to.
5
Like a Firehose
I came awake slowly, finally realizing the ringing I was hearing was not my alarm clock, but the doorbell. It was nearly one o’clock Friday morning. I jumped out of bed, into my slippers and robe, and rushed to the door, thinking there might be an emergency of some sort. Perhaps someone had seen smoke coming from my house!
I opened the door and saw my lovely Rita leaning against the doorjamb.
“Hi, Doc!” she exclaimed cheerfully. She’d been drinking. I couldn’t tell how much, but she had that pleasantly buzzed look about her and was grinning happily at me. “Aren’t you going to invite me in?”
“Sure,” I said. “I did say any time.” As soon as I closed the door behind her, she turned and kissed me deeply.
“Sorry I haven’t been over sooner,” she said. “I wanted to, but things just weren’t working out the way I planned.”
“You had a plan?” I asked. Cobwebs were still clearing from my head. If she arrived to make love, I’d just lead her back to my bed.
“Just to get back here as soon as I could,” she said. “There was the stupid girls’ spa weekend, then work, and I got my period. I just didn’t feel like I could come over here like that.” I would have to disabuse her of that inhibition eventually. “So, I was out with the girls tonight for our Thursday night whine and dine and I got to missing you terribly and I wanted to know more and I was feeling… well, lustful. And there was this discussion.”
While she was rattling on, she’d dropped her purse and coat on the floor and stepped out of her shoes. I wasn’t directing, but she was nudging me in the direction of my bedroom. I wasn’t inclined to resist.
“What kind of discussion?” I asked.
“In a minute,” she said. “First I gotta pee.” She ducked into the master bath and closed the door. Left waiting, I fluffed a pillow so I could sit up in bed and slid back beneath the covers. It took her a while and, in spite of myself, I was nodding off when the bathroom door opened. Rita stood there, framed in the light, completely naked. “You don’t mind that I got more comfortable, do you?” I took in the vision of loveliness before me and pinched myself to be sure I was awake.
She’d taken her hair down out of its usual ponytail and it fell softly around her shoulders. The light filtering through the light brown locks was like an aura around her face. Her shoulders rose and fell with her breathing and that drew my attention to her pert breasts. I couldn’t help but make a mental note about how much plumper they were than the voraciously demanding Sheila. Despite their fullness, the nipples were tiny dots in the middle of barely perceptible areolae. At her height of just over five feet, the thick bush of her pussy was just a bit above the edge of the bed where she stood posing for me.
As if on cue, she pirouetted slowly to her left until she came to a stop with her back to me. Her shoulders gently sloped from the base of her neck where her hair parted to either side. A small beauty spot was just below her right shoulder blade, and much to my surprise, there was a tiny butterfly tramp-stamp tattooed at the base of her spine. I admit that in the low light of our love-making, that had escaped notice. It drew my attention to her tiny waist and beautifully round buttocks with the tantalizing crack between. She continued her pirouette and I noticed as she came into profile how proudly her breasts rode on her chest. When she was facing me again, she smiled like the proverbial cat that ate the canary.
“I know you like to just look first,” she giggled. “See? I did learn something.” We both laughed at that. She put her hands on the foot of the bed and crawled up on it, stalking toward me until our lips could meet.
“What a delightful way to wake up in the middle of the night,” I said as our lips parted. “Come, get under the covers with me.”
“Nope,” she said, sitting back abruptly. She sat cross-legged facing me and I could see her pussy lips part her bush as the glistening sheen of moisture between her legs caught the lamplight. “I wanna talk.”
“O-kay,” I said, drawing out the word as I enjoyed the view. “What would you like to talk about?”
“What’s the big deal with blowjobs?” she asked.
“What?” She had shifted gears again and I was catching up. Having all my attention on her pussy was probably contributing to my slowness.
“Well,” Rita began, “the girls were discussing this over drinks tonight. The discussion turned to men and that led to sex and that led to blowjobs. Pamela said she’d rather give a guy a blowjob than have sex with him. Carmine said she had such a bad gag reflex she couldn’t get a cock past her lips without throwing up. And Jan said blowjobs were just a normal part of having sex and you had to do them if you ever wanted to get any satisfaction for yourself. We don’t exactly take turns when we’re talking, you know, so everybody had more to say on the subject and it was all pretty interesting. Eventually, they noticed I hadn’t said anything and they all started to stare at me and thought I had some big secret I wasn’t telling them. I finally blurted out that according to Alex, I couldn’t suck water from a firehose. At first, they thought I was kidding and then they started to get furious. They said it was his fault if he didn’t enjoy putting his dick in my mouth and I should go find someone who appreciated me. I thought, I know someone who appreciates me. So, what was I doing sitting around moaning with these bitches when I could be in his arms and he’d tell me what the big deal was and then I’d be able to suck water from a firehose?”
I swear, she paused for the first breath she’d taken since she started. Once she got wound up, it was just a flood of confusion and emotion pouring out of her. “So, what’s the big deal with blowjobs?” she asked again.
I laughed gently. “I assume you mean other than they feel great and fuel fantasies,” I said. She punched my leg softly.
“I mean it,” she said. “I want the primal archetype men respond to. You seem to know one for everything.”
“Ah.” I could see already she wanted to be told she was good at oral sex, but there had to be a story to go along with the urge. So, I made one up. “Every guy wants to believe his girl could have sex with four or five guys at once,” I began.
“Alex wants me to have sex with a basketball team?” she exclaimed, raising her eyebrows.
“No, no. Some guys get off on that kind of thing, but we’re talking about the archetype, not some aberration,” I said. “No, he just wants to believe that you could have sex with four or five guys at once.”
“And exactly how would I do that?” she asked. “It’s ridiculous.”
“Hmm. You certainly know basic sex with cock in pussy,” I answered slowly. She nodded. “And you at least know there is oral with cock in mouth. Then there is cock in hand, cock in ass, and cock between the breasts. That’s five and doesn’t count having two hands available. See? Up to six by that count.”
“All at once? I’d never keep them straight!”
“They’d stay straight, believe me.” We laughed together at that and I decided to make up as much of a story as I could. “Like I said, he doesn’t actually want you to do it, just to think that you could do it. And that you’d satisfy all six of them equally.”
“But why?” she asked, plaintively. I was on a roll, so why stop now.
“We live in a society that is polarized between pornography and religion,” I said. “On one side, you have Hollywood—and I use the term loosely—and on the other side, you have the church. I use that term loosely as well. One is telling you sex is good, sex sells, sex with a lot of people is even better, sex with people watching is best of all. On the other side, sex is part of an inviolable institution and is limited to a partnership between just two people for all eternity. The tension builds up inside. On one hand, a guy wants to have sex with every woman he sees. On the other hand, he wants to mate for life with the one woman who will be all he ever needs.”
“Come on,” Rita said. “No guy wants to have sex with every woman he sees.”
“There may be some who escape his notice at first,” I answered. “And some are dismissed with scarcely a thought. But once a woman is in a man’s focus his first thought is about whether she would be a good fuck. He might dismiss the notion, but every woman he meets gets evaluated first based on her potential as a sex partner. Now the thing is that a guy who’s serious enough to actually have sex with her is going to have this voice in his ear hounding him that this could be the last person he ever has sex with. She could be the one he marries. This might be the only pussy he ever penetrates from now on.”
“Guys don’t have that much brainpower to think all that while they’re fucking,” Rita said dismissively.
“True,” I said. “I’m just talking through what goes into the desire. See, if a guy figures you could have sex with four or five guys all at once, then having sex with you could be like having sex with four or five different women. Having a different woman for every day of the week no longer feels like the trap of monogamy. He might get through it after all.”
She looked at me, puzzled for a moment. Then, sure she had a perfect counter-argument, she launched in. “Porn videos always show every way of having sex in every video. First you give a hand-job, then a blowjob, then he fucks you missionary, then he fucks you doggy or in the ass, and finally he comes on your face or your tits. That’s the archetype that men see and want.”
“But,” I said, “porn is made for the pleasure of the viewers, not of the actors. They have fifteen, maybe twenty minutes of film time to get someone they don’t know and will never meet again up and off. They don’t know what will turn on each viewer most, so they have to throw in a bit of everything. The guy watching the movie might come during the blowjob, the butt-fuck, or the come-shot. The only sure thing is that he’ll come. That’s why he bought the movie. The guy and gal in the movie have to act as though everything is giving them pleasure and, eventually, at least the guy has to come so success can be filmed. The girl can fake it and the camera won’t know the difference. Most guys can’t tell the difference for that matter.”
She considered what I said while she sat cross-legged on the bed. It was getting close to what she really wanted and, as ridiculous as what I’d said was, just sitting here talking about sex had gotten her aroused, as the damp spot on the bedspread beneath her pussy attested.
“Five ways,” she said and looked up at me a little bashfully. “Teach me to suck water from a firehose, Doc,” she said simply. With those words, I felt a stirring in my groin. This was going to be a very good night—or morning.
“Ungh!” I croaked out. My flaccid penis had just been vacuumed into my lovely Rita’s mouth with such force, I thought the balls would follow. I gently pulled her back, finally wedging a finger between her lips and my prick to break the suction seal. “Sweetheart. Rita. Wait.” She looked up at me with such a crease between her eyes, I thought she was going to break down and cry.
“It’s true!” she cried out. “You don’t like it either! I can’t suck worth shit.” Tears were leaking out her eyes. I pulled her close to me and rocked her.
“You asked me to teach you, Rita, and I said I would. You want a very special kind of skill that is above and beyond simply sucking. Now, you can’t go crying when I’m trying to teach you.”
“Really? It’s just a lesson? Okay.” She looked at me expectantly. I couldn’t help but chuckle.
“First, I’m not a kitchen appliance.”
“Huh?” She was completely perplexed.
“You have to turn me on before you plug me in!”
“Oh. You mean we have to go through that whole flirting and seduction routine every time we do something sexy?” she asked.
“No, no, no. But usually, you can’t just go for the goods unless we’ve already got started. And…” This was a difficult one. “I don’t expect you to be a vacuum cleaner. That’s a delicate instrument down there. The term ‘suck’ is a catchall phrase, not always a literal instruction. Just like you don’t just blow because it’s a blowjob. No amount of pure suction will pull the juice out of my balls.”
“But they always say… I mean… What about sucking water through a firehose?” I really laughed this time. How did this poor girl with all her scientific education get to be twenty-six and still be this naïve? For that matter, how did the cheerleader get out of high school this uneducated?
“Rita, when was the first time you gave a guy a blowjob?”
“Umm. Well. It was Alex, actually. I just never could imagine doing it, but he kept asking and I thought my pussy just wasn’t enough to satisfy him and I’d have to suck him, so I just did it. A couple of weeks ago. And then he said I was…”
“The idiot. You mean he just told you it was terrible without offering suggestions about how to improve?” She nodded. I revised my estimate of his mental age down to about thirteen. “Okay. Here’s what we’re going to do…”
After a few minutes’ instruction, Rita stretched out beside me and began a lovely, gentle kiss. Whatever she lacked in fellatio experience, she certainly possessed in kissing. Her lips were soft and she used them to pluck at mine until I opened to her. Then her tongue began a dance so elaborate, mine could not keep up. It swept across my lips, moistening them. Before I could catch it, it disappeared back into her mouth, begging me to chase it. Her lips embraced mine and again her tongue darted in and out of my mouth so quickly I was caught with my tongue waving in the air as she pulled away. I growled as I pushed my mouth toward hers and suddenly it was all softness and yielding—accepting my tongue and stroking around it with her own.
“That kissing talent is what you need to bring to a blowjob,” I whispered.
There is nothing like a kiss to put wood in my pecker and as she trailed her fingers down my chest and belly, I was eager to feel her touch it. She did, but so lightly that, like her tongue on my lips, it was there and gone. Her lips, in fact, were gone from mine as her tongue followed the trail of her fingers over my chin and down my throat, pausing to kiss my Adam’s apple as it bounced when I swallowed. She detoured off to playfully kiss my right nipple, again swirling her tongue around to excite me so much, I almost missed feeling her fingers return up my leg to tickle my balls.
A quick kiss to my eyelids, nose, and lips, and Rita settled back to my left nipple, this time suckling more intently but not with vacuum cleaner strength. The light nip of her teeth on my nipple came at the exact moment her palm pressed against the tip of my cock to smear a copious amount of pre-come across the head and down. Oh yes, she had turned me on. And in the process gave me some indications of things she might like as well.