An erotic short story by Redbud
- I’ve edited this story from beginning to end and mildly altered the sex at the story’s close. Mostly, I’ve strictly curtailed the use of speech appellations like ‘he said’ or ‘she said’. They are largely unnecessary and a mark of haste. This is in preparation for publication (or so I hope). Thought I would repost it until then. I’ll probably restrict the availability of the story to members of Obsidian Lens once the story has been published.
On a ticket stub to Die Freischutz
My dear, you are beautiful. You are the loveliest creature in the opera house tonight. I know something about you – that you would like to be a student at the conservatory this fall and that you possess a voice of astonishing range and maturity. I also note that you possess astonishing maturity in other areas. I am a connoisseur not just of opera, my dear, but of these other areas. You will find me very well connected, generous, and discreet.
She had been sitting. Waiting. She heard the door to the apartment open. Her heart raced. Her breathing quickened. She tried to calm herself. Footsteps. They approached slowly. He was wearing leather soled shoes that scuffed the wood floor with a gritty resonance. He was a man of expensive tastes. She heard the soft, singing sound of linen on linen. He was taking off his coat and jacket. She tried to quell the trembling of her breath. She could pull off the blindfold. Yes. She could leave and nothing more would be said between them. She could; and knowing that made her feel safer.
The strange man approached her. She sat with her back to him. She could have sat facing the door, but somehow felt safer like this. The steps stopped behind her seat. She felt his finger against her neck, gently sweeping her hair over her ear. “Beautiful,” he whispered. This was the first time she heard his voice. He had a British accent and sounded older. “The neck of a young woman is lovely. Yours especially. I have dreamt of this moment. The braid is inviting. I have always preferred brunettes to blondes. Yours is almost black. Are you Spanish?”
“My mother is Peruvian.”
“Open your mouth, please.”
She did. Something felt soft and tender at first – a Raspberry: so red, so sweet. The berry spurted between her teeth.
“Stand up,” he said. “Please.”
On the reverse side
Sir, I left the envelope beneath the fliers. I am only seventeen.
Tamora stood. She heard the chair move away. He returned. He did something behind her; she wasn’t sure what. She was frightened, then felt his hand on her buttocks. He was feeling it, not squeezing, just curving his hand to the shape. His palm moved to the small of her back. “Beautiful,” he whispered. “I look forward to seeing so much more.”
She smelled Old Spice, a man’s odor – arousal. His other hand rested on her hip. He smoothly slid both hands up and then down. “Lovely. Slender. The hips of youth, of a young woman, of inexperience.”
She started to protest but smiled instead, to herself.
He still stood behind her. “You smile?”
“I–” she hesitated, “am not inexperienced.” Then she thought she could hear the breath of a smile. “What.”
“Yes, I sounded presumptuous. Though perhaps I only meant – inexperienced– with ‘me’.” His hands had moved forward, just below her belly. “So flat.” He moved downward toward her pudenda but didn’t push there, just felt the V of her legs through the sequined black dress. She was wearing nothing underneath, as he had asked. His hands moved up again, gently, simply following the curves of her body. Her breath shook, but the fear was receding. He was gentle, slow. She could say ‘no’ at any moment.
He moved gently upward. Palms slipped over her young breasts and stayed, pressing gently. She inhaled.
“I can feel your nipples,” he whispered. “They are hard under your dress. I have wanted to touch them for so long.”
She moaned lightly as his palms passed over them.
On a ticket stub to La Boheme
My dear, shortly to be eighteen, I have behaved dreadfully. I wish you to fully understand the arrangement I propose. You shall be provided with a scholarship, discreetly of course; and in addition to what your talent already assures you. I do not wish to suggest that your talents are insufficient. My dear, rather, it is precisely your talents to which I am attracted and wish to become acquainted – the full range of them. I am a collector of beauty, you see. I find that the most beautiful is frequently the most difficult to obtain. And yet I am compelled to fully possess such beauty. For me, fortunately, price is no object.
She had heard rumors about older men. Her only lovemaking had been with boys her own age – wild, sudden, impetuous, guilty. Their unions were rash. The boys liked fucking her, pressing her knees against her shoulders. They liked to fuck her from behind. Their fucking was fast and relentless. They didn’t stop until her entrance dripped with both of them? This was different.
He lightly squeezed her nipples through the fabric of her dress. She grunted and pressed them into his hands. “Wonderful,” he whispered. His fingers brushed the tips and she followed them. Her hips swivelled. She moved her sex up and back as she arched “Ah,” he breathed, “a woman indeed.”
Tomora’s stomach felt light. She had followed the pleasure without thinking. If she hadn’t had a dress on, he could have easily slipped his cock inside her. “It feels good.” Her voice shook. “Don’t stop.”
On the reverse side.
Sir, please stop. I don’t want it. If someone finds this envelope they’ll steal the money.
His hands moved from her breasts, back, under her arms, up her shoulder blades and over her shoulders. His fingers moved to her lips, first to her lower lip, then brushing her upper. “Perfect,” he whispered. “Perfect lips, like a singer’s. Soon, I will no longer have to imagine.”
He pushed his finger between her lips, then into her mouth. She sucked on it. “Almost involuntary, isn’t it?”
His other hand found her breast again, softly squeezing her nipple. She moaned and as he lifted his finger up, she followed it with her mouth, her head tilting back. His other hand went lower. He pulled up the hem of her dress as his hand traveled lightly up the inside of her thigh.
“Keep sucking little one,” he whispered. “So young, the memory of the teat isn’t so far away.” She inhaled sharply through her nose, her eyebrows rising beneath the blindfold. His fingers had entered her. “At this age, you are ready for another kind of teat, ready for your other belly to be filled. Am I right?”
She groaned. A trickle, a slippery drop, ran down her thigh.
She opened her mouth and gasped. “Don’t stop!”
On a ticket stub to La Traviata
My dear, I am at a disadvantage. You see, youth abandons me. But what age steals, thrift heals. You shall find me kind, patient and very generous, my love. You may also find there are some advantages that age necessitates. In my youth, I was rash, was careless with my aim and missed as often as I hit. In age, my dear, a paltry muzzle loader is all that is left to my armory. I aim carefully, dear, and never miss – or rarely. The effort to reload such a weapon is excessive. The battle can be lost in the re-arming, my dear. I have included keys and an address. It is a flat, and though I can only guess at your tastes, I hope you will find it suitable. I will not be there. Bring a friend if you prefer. Tell them whatever you like.
“Lovely young woman,” the old man whispered, his own breath becoming short, “you want to suckle and be filled?”
“I’m on the pill–”
“So am I. Mine is little and blue–”
“Please–” Tamora reached back for him.
He withdrew his fingers from between her legs. She licked his finger, her head still thrown back. Then he and his finger vanished. He was walking away.
“What’s the matter?”
“You excite me, too much. Every night at the opera house I watched you, imagined you, how you would move, your voice in arousal, your hips and breasts in ecstasy–” He was doing something. Music started, but softly.
“Yes, astonishing. Do you know which Opera?”
“Of course. Falstaff.”
“Not one of his great operas, but I have some sympathies with the subject matter.”
“Yes. I practiced an aria from that opera–” She heard him moving, fabric brushing against fabric. Was he undressing? “What do you want?”
“To fuck you–”
On the reverse side.
The dress is lovely. However, do not leave any more gifts. Your kind of generosity comes with a price. I am not a whore.
She heard his steps approach behind her again. “You are quite intelligent!” he said.
“So are you.” She smiled mischievously.
“And feisty.” He chuckled. “You pique me.”
She felt his hands on her hips. What would he do? Would he bend her over? Take her from behind? His hands moved around her again and softly up to her breasts. “Not so quick,” he whispered. He cupped her breasts. “Do you enjoy politics, also?”
“I’ve wanted to touch and feel these for so long.”
She moaned as he pressed her breasts and gently squeezed her nipples. She began to move her hips.
“And you have an appreciation for food and the arts?”
“Architecture,” she answered. “I prefer architecture most of all.”
With a sudden yank ripped open her dress. She gasped at the feel of air on her nipples. Only the top of her dress was torn. The rest was still tight around her belly and hips. “You excite me.”
But he was walking in front of her. “Beautiful. Your breasts are lovely.”
On a ticket stub to Eugene Onegin
My dear, observe nature. What male doesn’t court the female by offering gifts of some kind, be it color, song, or stature. Do we call female cardinal a whore because she is swayed the male’s plumage? Do we call any female a whore because she chooses him who offers her more than the other? A whore is a trifle – a woman who discards and is discarded once a given transaction has taken place. One does not discard a Degas or Picasso once it has been enjoyed. You are worth more than the sum of any of these. I note that you have not used the key. I assure you, young one, that you are perfectly safe.
She wanted to put his hands on her breasts. She felt exposed, vulnerable, and aroused. “I just want to look at them,” he said. “I’ve imagined what they looked like for so long. Are you warm?”
“Yes.” Was he looking at her? She felt achingly female.
“And the architecture you prefer?” He touched her lips, finally. He traced a finger down her throat, to her exposed breasts and the nipples.
“Purcell,” she gasped.
He pinched her nipples. “Henry?”
“No–” she twisted. Her voice rose. “William Grey–”
“Yes!” He let go of her nipples, gently cupping the weight of her breasts in his hands. “Extraordinary! The Airplane House?”
“I know it–”
He took her hand. The music changed. “Do you know this music?”
“Bach. Cantanta 105.”
“You claim to be homeless?”
“The library,” she answered. “I don’t like listening to music. I read it.”
“I remember it. Whatever I read.”
“Brilliant and yet–”
“And yet what?”
“You know I’m going to fuck you, in a most dirty way; probably bent over.”
He pressed her hand lightly against his cock, hidden in his pants.
“You are brilliant, but you are a young woman.”
“But? But I’m a woman?”
“Yes. You are a young woman. Brilliant but a young woman. You need to be fucked.”
“Yes, fucked. A young woman needs to be fucked.” He pressed himself against her hip, brushing her nipple again.
“Brilliant,” she said, correcting him,”’AND’ a young woman.”
He moved aside. “Follow me.” He led her gently out of the room, or what she thought was out of the room. One hand was at her waist. “You are so young–”
“It is best that you are blind-folded.”
“And it is clearly best that you are not.”
“To be so well-versed. You are a remarkable young woman. And yet, may I ask, there seemed to be some hesitance in your admissions?”
“I had to make a deal.”
“They know nothing about what we’re doing!”
Tamora smiled. “I have addictions.”
“Crazy stuff. I do crazy stuff – drugs.”
“No, ’cause I wanted to–”
“And did you like it?”
“I did. I used to. They said, if I were admitted, I would agree to counseling.”
“Good God,” he said quietly. “And so much talent.”
“Why what, my dear?”
“Why like this?” she asked. “Why didn’t you just ask me? Why, like this? As if I were an acquisition? If you were ever found out, they’d crucify you. They’d write a headlines about corrupt rich men who take advantage of homeless girls wanting to go to school.”
“Why add spice to food? Tell me, Tamora, why did you agree to this? Why did you allow yourself to be acquired? Your loans from school would have been enough–”
“No,” she stopped him. “Don’t answer with a question. I want to know.” Her knees bumped the edge of a bed. She stopped and so did the talking. Was this it? The bed? Would he do it? Would he fuck her?
On the reverse side.
I am not a cardinal. Who areyou?
“Bend, my dear.” He guided her hands down until they were on the bed, her knees still against the edge. He slid his hands up her arms, over her shoulders, down her ribs and waist. “Imagine growing up in a house where nothing wasn’t a collectible; where every painting and even the furniture and carpet was a `work of art’. Even love was a commodity. My mother and my father were works of art. Me? I didn’t merit a flawed masterpiece. In my way, I was homeless too. But I learned–” Tamora inhaled sharply as he pulled on her nipples. “I learned how to `acquire’ their affection. I learned that love couldbe bought and I bought it.”
“I feel sorry for you,” Tamora breathed as his hands moved over her belly, where her dress was torn, then her hips.
“Don’t. I have tried love the prescribed way but it bores me. In fact, I feel sorry for normalcy. There are so many ways to seduce. There are so many different ways to love and be in love.” His hands moved down to the hem of her skirt and to her bare knees, then he slowly pushed the skirt upward. He stopped with the hem at the very tops of her thighs. She arched her back.
“What are you doing?”
“Unwrapping a present, very slowly.”
“You’re turning me on.”
“But, if I may still ask: Why?”
He moved his hands up her ass, leaving the dress where it was, and massaged the small of her back. “Why did you agree to this?”
“Maybe I–” she moaned. “Maybe I don’t want to say.”
“Maybe because you likebeing singled out? You likebeing coveted. You likebeing an acquisition – like a work of art.”
“You like that, my dear?”
“Yes– It feels good.”
He slowly felt down her sides, along her ribs, then smoothly down her waist, and under her belly until he pressed against the insides of her thighs. He urged them apart, forcing her skirt to rise up, to reveal just a hint of fur between her thighs. “Wider, my dear.” Her breathing deepened. Her skirt rode up. Fur, then the lips, her clit, hard and straining, betraying her readiness to be mounted. “Some might consider your talents to border on genius–”
“Some might,” she answered huskily.
“Your pussy is wet. My little genius is ready for cock, isn’t she?”
“Yes,” she murmred. “I’m ready.”
“You are a work of art.”
Tomora lowered her head to the mattress.
On a ticket stub to Cosi fan Tutte
We are in luck, my dear, I am not a Cardinal, nor am I a Bishop. These, at least, are not obstacles we need surmount. And of course you wish to know who your benefactor is. You may see me on the second floor gallery during intermission. I know that your attendance at the Coat Room desk will be required. However, I will allow you some time by standing near the rail.
“So many men,” the man traced his finger tip between the lips of her sex, “see so few women, like this, ready: offering their most private place, the place that will guide a man inside her. You smell wonderful. Pungent. Some say it is easy to know when a man is aroused but that a woman’s arousal is hidden. I disagree. I can smell a woman’s arousal. I can smell it in public. I know when a woman’s lips are swollen, when the channel to her womb is slippery and ready, when she should be penetrated.”
Tomora heard him move. Was he standing, readying his cock? “Take me.”
I think I might have seen you, but did you keep your back to me?
She pushed herself off the mattress. She stood. Her skirt was still bunched at the flair of her hips. He ass was bare. Her pussy was bare. Her breasts were bare. With any of her boyfriends, she would have fucked by now. They would have fucked her hard. Then they would have gotten drunk, maybe gotten high and fucked again. But she was blindfolded.
“Would you like something to eat?” he asked.
Her answer was a shaky breath.
“Take my hand,” he said. She reached. He took it. He began to lead her. She tugged at his hand, fell to her knees and reached for him, touching his thigh, pulling him toward her until she lightly kissed the crotch of his pants. She reached, unzipped him, gently brought out his cock and sucked the tip of him into her mouth.
He groaned, gently brushing his hands through her hair. “I have imagined you like this so many times, my cock in your young mouth, between your lovely lips. Do you really appreciate how lovely you are? How desirable you are?”
“Yes.” He was big, engorged. How strange to be so intimate with this part of him, to know this best of all, its shape, taste and flavor, without having seen the man. She locked her lips around the ball of his cock, tasting, enjoying the smooth skin against her tongue. He reached for her blindfold. “No!” she pulled away, preventing him.
On the white space of a page from the program notes.
If you accept my proposition, you will know me intimately. Presently, you are at an advantage, dear. If I were to reveal my identity you could quite readily ruin me. An agreement to my proposal requires no signature. I keep the contract with me and if its terms are agreeable (allow me the indelicacy) the ratification shall be deposited inside your lovely belly. Then, my dear, we shall be on equal footing. Any indiscretion shall be to both our ruin.
“Why?” he asked quizzically.
“I– I like it.”
“Does it make you feel helpless?”
“It makes me –” She paused again, “trust you.”
“It turns you on?”
“Yes.” Her words muffled by his cock. “Yes it does. I like it.”
“Because you need only think of yourself?”
“How does a woman like you cherish art?”
“I don’t.” She could feel the heat of his cock close to her lips. “I use it. I don’t care.”
“You’re lying. I have heard you sing.”
“You see what you want to see.”
“Perhaps,” he chuckled. “Perhaps you sing because you crave attention. But a woman who uses music does not sing like you.”
“I give music what it asks for.”
“And next you will say that art craves attention, and that you are a work of art in need of just such attention.”
Tamora didn’t answer.
On the opposite side.
Are you married?
“Take my hand.”
She did. She let him pull her to her feet. He lead her into another room. “Sit here,” he said. The seat was wood and cool – a dining chair. He left her. She heard a muffled pop and smelled red wine, heard its liquid pouring out. He guided her hand to the glass. “Drink,” he said. “Pinot Noir. My preferred bottles being from the Côte Chalonnaise and the Connais regions of France. I am a connoisseur of fine wines, as well as women.”
“The two go together?”
“Some women go better with white wine. I profess to occasional error in the matter.”
“How do you judge me?”
“Ah, your smile is every bit as beautiful as–”
“–don’t hurry me – as your breasts, your thighs, the dimple in your cheek–”
“Clichés. One after the other.”
“Your smile is as beautiful as a French peach–”
“–a meaningless cliché.” She opened her legs.
“Yes, as beautiful as that.”
She moved to the edge of the seat.
“Now you are growing bold,” he said, but she could hear the smile in his voice.
He pressed crystal against her lips and she tasted wine. Delicious. He handed her the glass and stepped away. She heard the quick strike of a stove’s igniter, smelled gas, heard flames. “I have a treat for you.” He returned. He pushed her knees apart and up until her heels rested on the edge of the seat. She was opened wide. Would she feel his penis entering her? She didn’t.
He left her. Tamora heard butter sizzling ,then smelled it. Her thighs remained wide open. Carnality and the civilized swirled together. Her sex was hot and moist. She wanted to touch herself as she took another sip of the fragrant wine. She did. The heat of the wine moved quickly from her belly into her blood. She took another sip and smelled garlic, then something else.
“Escargot,” he said.
“I’ve never tried it.”
“I would not go so far as to call it a delicacy.”
“You know, it’s not art that I love. It’s insanity. It’s the insanity in art. All great art is insane, don’t you think?”
“Yes you do, and you’re afraid of it. I think you’re afraid of what it makes you. Your parents taught you to be afraid.”
“You must keep everything just so, and sex. I think you’ve made an art out of sex, but it frightens you. You’re ashamed. You do not want to be seen. It makes you lose control.”
“And you? It is coquettish of you to say you loveinsanity. What does anyone your age know about insanity. You crave order. Great art brings order to insanity. That is genius.”
They both were silent.
She heard metal scraping metal, and inhaled the increasingly delicious smell of butter and garlic. “You are very different than your letters.” She wished for more wine. She brushed a finger’s tip over her clit with a feathery lightness.
“Ah. How so?”
She hesitated. “You sound more pompous in your letters.”
“And I am not pompous in person?”
“Not so much. You are very nice – and funny.”
“Do you mind?” The smooth skin of him pressed against her lips, the smooth round skin of his cock as he parted them, and his heavy length slowly filled her mouth. “Do you mind,” he groaned, “if I am not so very nice, for a moment, but a little dirty.” He moved cock his cock back and forward, fucking her mouth. “It rewards me to see your young, impertinent mouth with my cock in it. It brings order to your insanity.”
She cupped the length and delicate underside of his penis with her tongue. Her finger pushed inside her sex.
“I’m sorry, my dear,” he groaned. “I cannot resist.” He groaned again and she felt his cock jump. A jet of salty, smooth semen spurted the back of her tongue – her throat. He quickly withdrew – a string of cum and saliva fell from her bottom lip. “You almost ruin me!”
On a ticket stub to La Traviata
My dear, you must have thought that I toyed with you. It has been a month and summer is almost over. I desire your beauty more than ever but perhaps you have forgotten me. I see that you have been accepted at the conservatory with a full scholarship. You ask if I am married. I am not. I am a collector. A wife would not tolerate my predilections. You must wonder then at my need for discretion. A man of my age with a young woman of yours, I’m afraid, is an unforgivable offense in some quarters. I see that you used the key. If the accommodations are to your liking, you may consider them yours.
She tried to swallow, couldn’t, pushed the cum forward, tasted him, then swallowed. The string of cum remained on her chin. She wiped it with the finger that had been inside her. She lowered her finger and dipped his slippery cum in her sex. Her stomach felt light. Yes, sex. Some part of him was inside her now. She felt womanly. She would take more of him inside her. She would take him.
“I hope you still think I’m nice.”His voice shook with arousal.
“I think you’re dirty,” she whispered.
“I think–” She swallowed. “I think you opened my legs – to fuck me.” She stretched her thighs.”
“Aut viam inveniam aut faciam.”
“Fortes fortuna iuvat.”
“Good lord,” he answered, “I think I shall spray like a dog, untouched, you excite me so!”
“Spray inside me.” She was shocked by her own lust, freed by the blindfold, freed to be whatever he wanted. But she didn’t feel him at the lips of her sex or breasts. She heard and smelled sizzling butter. She heard metal on metal and the clink of china. She imagined him arranging the plate, elegantly dressed, all while his cock stood stiffly from his black, suit pants. She imagined herself, her dress torn, breasts bare, sitting on the edge of a dining chair, thighs open and pussy glistening.
She spread her legs wider, offering him the entrance to her womb. She moaned, loudly. The rough warmth of his tongue lapped her clit. The muscles of her pelvis spasmed at once, threatening to orgasm. The pleasure forced her to arch her back, lift her breasts and throw her head back. He paused. “The posture of feminine ecstasy. I have wanted to see you like this from the first I saw you–”
“Fellatic praise.Do it. Make me do it.”
She groaned. He stood. “Open wide,” he said. She couldn’t part her legs any wider, but that’s not what he meant. The smooth round flesh of escargot pressed at her lips, parting them. She opened her mouth.
On the reverse side.
I don’t want to do this.
She groaned loudly.
The smooth round thickness of his cock pushed between her thighs, entering her, slowly, thickly, making her stiffen with pleasure as the escargot slipped into her open mouth. “That’s it, my dear, Open wide.” She did, lifting her knees. Her eyes rolled beneath the blindfold as his full length pressed into her, finally. She closed her lips around the stem of the silverware. The lips of her sex closed around the base of his cock. She took the escargot into her mouth. She took his cock deeply in her womb.. The food was delicious. She savored the taste and as she did so, her lover’s cock moved inside her, back and forth, seeking, finding, and then deeply seeking again. She swallowed, felt him push upward, as if wanting to empty his nourishment into her other belly. She waited for his juices to follow.
He withdrew, only to repeat what he had done before.
Another garlicky escargot slipped into her mouth as her womb was penetrated again. Her young voice rose higher than before. The motions of her lover were harder and more implacable with each bite.
“That’s all,” he said, breathlessly, his cock still deeply in her belly. “I made six.”
“Please.” She leaned her head back and lifted her breasts. “It feels so good–”
“Do you always only think of yourself?” he asked.
She felt the crisp lip of the wineglass against her lips. She drank as he tipped it, some of the wine ran down her throat and between her breasts, mixed with the cum on her chin. The wine was delicious, slightly gamey and tasteful. She felt her lover’s tongue between her breasts, then his mouth closing over a nipple and breast. She moaned and pushed herself into his mouth. He sucked, then let her slip out of his mouth, scraping her nipple between his teeth. She shook, still skewered on his cock.
This was more than she had ever experienced. This was delirium. She would do anything – any position – anything he asked. She contracted around his cock, grunting. She breathed quickly.
“So soon?” he asked.
“I can’t help it.”
On the white space of program notes to Falstaff
I will come to the apartment this evening at 10:00 PM. If you are there, wear the enclosed dress. You will find no underwear or bra. I find them an impedance and I wish to ratify our contract as effortlessly as possible. You will also find a blindfold. If you are not there, then you may be pleased to know that I will trouble you no further.
She felt him slide, slowly, wetly, out of her – skin slipping out of skin. The lips of her sex wetly released his round head, closing as the tip withdrew. A single thread of her slick wetness momentarily connected them. Her belly felt empty. Her voice was deep with frustration.
“I have more to show you,” he said, his voice strained.
He lowered her feet to the floor, then helped her to stand. She didn’t want her thighs to be closed. Her gait was awkward. She needed penetration, his his warm depth inside her. He led her out of the kitchen and into another room.
She felt hardwood, then carpeting under her feet as she walked. She smelled sheets, or rather, the smell of freshly laundered sheets. She smelled the outdoors. Her stomach tingled. Yes, she wanted him. He held her hands in front of her, palms up. She contacted a smooth, cold surface. “Marble?”
As she felt the contours, she recognized the shape: an abdomen and then the hips of a woman. He stood behind her. As she touched the sculpture, her lover’s hands touched her. As she touched the abdomen, his touched hers. As she followed the waist, he followed hers. She moved her hands back to the belly, felt the glassy indent of a belly button. She followed the crease of the abdomen upward, up to the inverted V of a rib cage. Her hands were shaking. She felt a soft warm breeze. “This is your bedroom?”
“The French Doors. You opened them?”
“And anybody could see us? Hear us?” she asked.
“You’re lying. You wouldn’t if you thought it was possible.”
“Continue to explore the statue, my love.”
On the reverse side.
How will I know it is you?”
“What is the statue?”
“A Jeff Koons.”
Yes, she knew what she would find if she followed the contours. “Made in heaven.”
“This isn’t art, this is hedonism.”
“You are too quick to judge Koons.”
“Your aesthetics are too sybaritical–” She groaned, interrupted, feeling the head of his cock brush her clit. “Making yourself the subject of your art is onanistic.”
“Do you not masturbate?”
“Yes, but I don’t call it art.”
“I would,” he quickly answered, “if you would permit me to watch.”
“You would like that.” He provoked her.
“Did you commission the Koons?”
“You’re a fool–” She paused again as the head of his cock, brushed her opening. “Pornography isn’t art.” She opened her legs, thrusting her opening back, searching for penetration.
“On the contrary, my dear, all art is pornographic.”
“A Mass by Mozart is pornographic?’
“I think you argue for the sake of argument.”
Her hands moved over the breasts of the statue and his hands moved over hers. She pushed her breasts into his. He squeezed them and caught her nipples.
“What do you suppose arouses a man?”
“What doesn’t?” she quipped.
“Indeed, just hearing a woman’s voice arouses me. We are unlike animals. Eroticismcompels us to mate, to fuck.” She gasped! A light thrust of his cock just opened her lips without penetrating her. She thrust back, willing, but he withdrew. She moaned. “Eroticism is the imagination: every time a man lusts after a woman’s shape, sound, or smell – the curve of her body, so different from his own, or the pitch of her voice.”
She searched for him, using her hips, finally trapping the blunt, soft end of him at her pussy’s moist dimple.
“How does nature compel a thinking animal, able to deny its instincts, to mate — to debase its intellectual and spiritual pretensions? How does nature compel such an animal to fuck again and again.” He pushed. He opened her.
“She ingrains in us the ability to perceive beauty, to be attracted by it, to crave it, and be aroused by it. In lust is the rudiments of art, the ability to appreciate and create art. Even the basest man can appreciate art. You see it every time he leers at a woman.”
“Does my body do that to you?” she asked. Somehow, frustratingly, he resisted, withdrawing the head of his cock. “You would like masturbating for me, wouldn’t you?” He moved his fingers from her nipples and she felt a sharp tug on the remains of her clothing. She inhaled sharply. The stronger seams of the dress dug into her skin. Then rest fell to her ankles. She was naked, except for the blindfold.
“You would like to make love to yourself?”
“You exceed my fantasies. had many while I watched you at the opera house. I imagined your waist, your ass, your youth.”
Tomora squeezed the glass nipples, then inhaled again as her own nipples were squeezed. “You do to me whatever I do to the statue?” she asked, voice strained.
She felt slowly upward, to the glass shoulder blades. She felt the hands of a lover on the woman’s glass shoulders. The knuckles were sharp, as if gripping tightly, as if holding her – holding her in place. She felt her lover’s hands move up to her own shoulders, gripping them. She heard his strained breath. She felt the statue’s chin, the parted lips. Her own lips parted at the touch of a finger. She sucked. She felt the glass eyes, the sharp eyebrows and the glass hair that fell in waves over the statues brow.
“Pygmalion,” she said, quietly.
“Yes, art becomes life. And what form does it take? That of the woman, naturally. What does the maker desire? Pornography. Imagine the detail he has lavished on her breasts, her nipples, the font of her vulva, her clit and the entry to her body. What does she crave?”
“Mydesire,” he corrected.
“Do you do this with other girls? Do you make them the works of art – only to desecrate them?”
“You are the first. You are my Pygmalion. You crave to be admired and adored. You are narcissism without conscience.”
“I am a woman,” she smiled. “It’s my right.”
On the margin of program notes to Rosemunde.
I will bring you a Raspberry. It will be fresh, my dear. I will pick it myself.
She felt his hands tighten on her shoulders.
She followed the cool, smooth glass downward, fanning her hands and fingers outward. She reached as her palms moved downward. The woman of the statue was leaning forward, her sex thrust back. Tamora knew why. She reached the flare of the hips and felt downward, the smooth round hips and the trace of sculpted muscle. She bent forward, like the statue. Her hands continued downward. The woman’s legs were open. Yes, she knew why. She widened her own legs. She as going to be like the statue.
She traced the line between the statue’s upper legs and lower abdomen. She followed lines to the pudenda. She traced with the fingers of both hands. She felt the statue’s belly, below her belly button, and felt a slight bulge in the glass where the soft belly should be – something bulging inside. “God,” she breathed. Such detail – this bulge from inside her. She yearned for it in her own belly. The glass was smooth. There was no hair. Yes–
She cried out.
A glass cock filled the rounding O of an opened pussy! Her own pussy – filled from behind, stretched into an O of penetration. She exhaled, as if the wind had been knocked out of her. She remained bent over, one hand feeling the round glass cock where it melded into the glass pussy. She was the statue. His hands tightened on her shoulders. He drew back and thrust. She felt the slippery skin of his cock move in and out of her with her other hand.
Her breaths came in short bursts. She felt the bulge in the statue’s glass belly and felt the same bulge in her own. His thrusting didn’t stop. She leaned forward and kissed the glass of the statue’s parted lips.
Finally, he was fucking her.
“Tell me–” she gasped. “Tell– tell me what you– see!”
“I see a brilliant young woman, bent over, being fucked. I see–” he groaned. “I see the muscles of her shoulders – so lovely. I see her lovely back, curved and arched, light and shadow on her spine. I see her hips and my groin slapping her ass.”
She pressed her cheek against the glass cheek of the statue. “Tell me more.” Her high pitched cries answered his thrusts. She understood what the statue felt.
“I see her waist grow wider and then the perfect swell of her ass. Where her ass parts and the lips of her pussy begin, I see my cock enter again and again. She opens her legs, straight, and she arches her back.”
She pushed him away. She was flushed. Her nipples were hard. She reached, unable to see, until she found his chest. She felt downward until her fingers closed around his cock. She pulled and pushed. She masturbated him. She kissed him. She felt behind him. She pushed him back. He fell onto the bed and she followed him, straddling him.
On a ticket stub, very small writing, to Genoveva.
Understand that I will leave if at anytime you say `no’ to me. If that occurs, I ask that you leave the key in the apartment. I will not trouble you again. May I expect you?
Her long black hair fell loosely, flowing over her lips, between and around her breasts. Her nipples stood like islands. He reached and pinched them. Her slender abdomen spasmed. She aimed his cock between her thighs, then grunted as his cock went into the only place it could, up into her womb. Her hips and belly arched and undulated around the nexus of their joining. “Tell me– fuck – tell me– tell me what you see?”She leaned back, hands behind her on his knees.
“I see a young woman’s belly stretched beneath her lovely ribs. He traced his fingers along the crease of her rising and falling miscules. “I see her breasts. They’re upright. Her tits are hard.”
“Can you see your cock inside her?”
“Yes! I see myself inside her. She is sublime and beautiful.”
Her mouth fell open. Her head fell back. Her orgasm began.
He pushed her off.
“No!” she cried.
He rolled her off. She slipped off the bed, one knee on hardwood, the other on a rug. “I’m coming!” she screamed. “I’m coming!” She couldn’t stop the orgasm. She reached for the bedside. She reached in front of her. What was he doing? She arched on her hands and knees, spreading her thighs as the orgasm worked her abdomen. She was helpless. She was coming. She exhaled and clenched the carpet. Then she screamed again when the palm of his hand stung her ass.
“You must understand,” he said, voice changed, but not threatening, “my dear, female. You see a side of me I let no one see – bloviate, decadent.” He smacked her again as her back arched with orgasm. She sprayed her thighs. “But you must understand, I am a powerful man. I can destroy careers. I can make them. I relish your impertinence and crave your youth, your intelligence, your brilliance–”
She sobbed. When he pinched her clit and held it she reached behind her.
“Don’t! Your hands, my dear, place them at the small of your back.” She pressed her wrists against the small of her back. She was shaking, but not from fear. Another unbearable agony and pleasure was building between her thighs. She writhed. He did not let go of her clit. “I sense it. You will be great. Straighten. That’s it. Now sqat.”
She did. Her pussy opened to the hard roundness of a dildo. She stiffened.
“You must understand — your youth, your brilliance, your promise – none of it would matter if not for this.” He squeezed her clit. “Do you understand?” She nodded and her own moisture trickled down the dildo. He gently licked her neck. “Show me you understand.”
She nodded and began moving up and down on the dildo. He spanked her ass and continued to imprison her clit between his thumb and forefinger. She bit her lip and rose and fell on the dildo all the faster.
“Good girl!” he said with a gravelly whisper. “You will be obedient?”
She scooted until she was no longer squatting. Her thighs stretched until her knees slid to her left and right. She impaled her middle on the dildo.
“Your narcissism is what attracts me to you.”
He released her clit. Blood returned to the nerves. She exhaled and her second orgasm pooled on the hardwood floor around the base of the dildo. He gently held her, forcing her to remain impaled as she came a second time. She grunted with each contraction. “Beautiful,” he crooned. “Very obedient. I’ve waited so long to see you like this. When you stand on the stage, my dear, I alone will take pleasure in knowing that I have heard your voice in orgasm.”
He let her fall forward into her hands and knees.
The dildo tumbled out of her,clattering between her knees and rolling across the floor. Her head hung down. Her hips were still convulsing. She felt his hands on her waist and cried out again. This time his cock filled her. “You craze me!” he growled. “You make me insane with desire!”
She lowered her head and lifted her pussy. Her shoulder blades were angular. Her skin and muscles were smooth and soft. Her abdomen was stretched and taut. He fucked her from behind. She inhaled. She swallowed. And then she heard him cry out, felt his cock twitch inside her, and his syrup pour into her belly.
And then it was over.
He pulled her upright and back against his chest. Her head fell back on his shoulder. He sat back against the bed. Sex flowed out of her, streaked her thighs and slickening the floor between their legs. Her own smell mixed with the musky sweetness of a male. She reached down amd pressed a finger into her opening, then she half turned and pressed her finger to his lips. “You love my pussy?” she asked.
He licked her finger.
“Then we are both in love with the same thing,” she said.
He reached for her blindfold.
“But– my dear–” he said, tenderly.
“Yes, I know.” She shivered with a brief after-gasm. “But not yet.”
On the reverse program notes to Genoveva.
A Raspberry would be delicious.