The Muse (portrait Of The Artist As A Lover) free porn video

THE MUSE (PORTRAIT OF THE ARTIST AS A LOVER) By Katharine Sexkitten "For I have crossed between the poles, and for me there's no mystery Once a man, like the sea I raged Once a woman, like the earth I gave Ah, but there is in fact more earth than sea." Cinema Show, by Genesis She sat in peaceful repose, while all around her seemed chaotic. Her hair fell down her back in a wild tangle, dark on dark. The massive pile of pillows behind her showed them as a mixture of big and small, plain and patterned, smooth and tasseled. Sunlight fell in streams across her body, the windows to her left bright and streaky. She held a rose gently to her nose, her eyes closed as she breathed in the aroma, basking in the sensuality of the moment. The room itself was huge, and looked like an English mansion. There were four other people there, all women, one on a ladder dusting, one with a vacuum cleaner in the corner, and two polishing what looked like pewter mugs and steins. She seemed out of place, and yet totally in her element. Clad only in lingerie, the color of sapphires, the small bra almost unnecessary for her modest bosom, she lounged in a sea of comfort. Her face glowed with serenity, her features unremarkable, perhaps what some would call plain. Lightly made-up, she looked as still as a mountain lake. The other women didn't seem to realize that she was even there. There was something about her that I couldn't quite wrap my head around, but it intrigued me. Like a riddle, I was trying to figure it out. She was almost familiar to me. At first, I would have sworn that it was an enlarged photograph. The lines of everything were beyond crisp, and perfect. It was only once I was within a few feet of it that I could see the brush marks, the little blobs of dried oil, confirming that it was indeed a painting. It was remarkable, and completely captured my imagination. In portrait, about six feet tall and four feet wide, the canvas was the first of what looked like a dozen or more by a local artist who'd achieved some success, and the exhibition was for a limited time. I'd read something in the local paper that said the artist himself would be on site at the premiere, which was entirely unlike his reputation as a hermit, but that was three days ago, when all the A-listers and elites would have been there. This was eleven o'clock on a Tuesday morning. I have always enjoyed art, and museums, and had nothing better to do that day, so I went. I stared at her for ten minutes or more. The gallery wasn't full, by any means, so I could stand in different places, from a variety of angles and distances, just taking in the power of the work. I knew, in the world or art, that there were realists, and that there were also a few super-realists. The clarity and specificity of this particular artist was almost super super realism. She was remarkable. I couldn't begin to imagine the time it must take to create something so vivid and clear and compelling. And the colors, they blasted off the canvas, almost shocking the viewer with their boldness. Everything seemed so real, so compelling, and so natural. Her body, un-posed and honest in its normalcy, stood out the most. The artist could have manipulated her to look more like the ideals of beauty, could have given her more curves and more forced sexuality. But he didn't. He painted her as she was, as the real world was. Bumps and blemishes and imperfections shone, where other artists would have made her look like the cover of a fashion magazine. And yet without embellishment she still looked sexual, still glowed with an energy that fairly screamed out 'sexy'. Moving to my right, I stood in front of the second piece. It was the same woman. Long dark hair, a realistic shape, not slim model-like, and flat-chested. Again, she wore only lingerie. This time in virginal white. A bra, almost see-through, her nipples prominent, and panties, which were also almost see-through, and a garter belt and stockings. She was wearing heels as well, not the ridiculously-tall ones given to fetishists everywhere, but normal heels that normal women wear. A couple of inches, maybe three. Again, her body was natural, not embellished or stylized to look perfect. She was an average everyday kind of person, not a model, and that's how the artist painted her. It was a street scene, done in landscape. Rain was pouring down, over and on everyone and everything, except for one small beam of raw unfiltered pure bright sunlight, where she was standing. All the people around her were getting drenched, some with umbrellas and some not, some with their collars turned up half-heartedly, one man holding a magazine or newspaper over his head, providing almost no protection. Everyone seemed unaware that she was there, that a woman wearing only lingerie was standing in their midst. The crispness of the thousands of raindrops was unparalleled. I instantly assumed that if I got close to the painting, I'd get wet somehow. There were puddles on the street everywhere, and running rivulets on the store windows and awnings. She was in the cone of sunlight. Her arms were stretched out to her sides, horizontal, and her head was tilted up, so she could absorb as much of the sunlight as possible. The raincoat she had been wearing was in a pile by her feet, having obviously fallen off when she extended her arms, when she lifted her head to the skies and began soaking in the warmth of the rays. If the other people in the scene saw her, almost bare in her see-through lingerie, they certainly didn't show it. They were all focussed on the drudgery of living in this wet world. She, on the other hand, was basking in the sunshine. The canvas was probably six feet across, and slightly less than that up and down. It was vast, and again, just like the first painting, it was remarkable in its realism. Just as crisp as a photograph, the strokes and blobs of paint only perceptible at a close distance marvellously showcasing the artists abilities. Signed with the word 'Spielman', he was once again showing the world his amazing talent. I was captured by the work, by the precision and hyper-reality of it. I'd never seen any art so real, and so life-like. "Her name is Helena," I heard a deep voice say. I looked to my right, and there stood a man. He was taller than my five-seven, by a few inches. His hair was silvery-white, and flowing back, one of those people whose mane just naturally looked wind-swept, as if nature always had a wind machine pointed at him. I could see that at the back his hair was longer than most people's idea of neat, falling past the nape of his neck. He was very tanned, and had a bright smile. He wore glasses, with thick dark stylish frames that looked like they cost a thousand dollars. He had a diamond stud in both of his ears. His eyes were greyish-blue, and wide and open, and laser-focussed on me. He had a larger-than-most sized nose. A wide smile, his teeth snow-white and gleaming. He wore a dark sports jacket over a dark turtleneck sweater and jeans. He looked fit and trim. His shoes were loafers, and he wore no socks. He had a plain gold band around his left ring finger. "Please forgive my interrupting," he said, the smile still on his face, "I couldn't help but notice you seem quite taken with her." I nodded. He was right. "Her name is Helena." I looked back at her, as she revelled in the sunlight, exposing herself to the world with pride, unconcerned that others might object to her state of near-nudity. "She's a real person?" He nodded, vigorously. "She is indeed." "You know her?" I asked. He nodded, and turned to look at her, his eyes showing adoration, and love. "She was my muse." It took me but a moment to put two and two together. I turned to look at him again. "You're the artist?" He looked at me again, and nodded. Then he stuck his hand out. "I'm Howard Spielman," he said, his voice now quieter, and reverent, as if he was sharing that information with me and me alone. Perhaps he didn't want the other people in the gallery to know the artist was actually on-site. I stuck out my hand, and he took it in his bigger one. His skin was warm, and pleasant. "Dennis. Dennis Morgan." He held me in his grip for a good long time, and smiled at me, and stared at me. It seemed to me that everything about this man was direct. The look on his face was strong, and almost devastating to a relatively-shy person like me. I'm not the most out-going human, not by a long shot. Howard, on the other hand, seemed my exact opposite. "It is very good to meet you, Dennis," he said, his voice quiet, but strong and intense. Again, I got the impression he didn't want the others in the room to hear us. The way he held my hand in his, it made me feel like there were no other humans on the planet. Just me and him. "It's nice to meet you too, Mr. Spielman," I responded, "your paintings are amazing!" His smile got even bigger, which I'd not thought possible. "Please," he grinned, "call me Howard. Mr. Spielman is my father, and he passed away years ago." I suddenly felt terrible for him. "I'm so sorry for your loss," was all I could think of to say. His grip on my hand increased. "Thank you, Dennis," he whispered, "that's so very lovely of you to say." I felt like I was a deer in the headlights, captured in all this light and energy that he was giving off. It was as if every erg that he could create was aimed straight at me. I broke away from his eyes, which were boring in on mine, and quickly looked around the room. "Are all the paintings of her?" He continued holding my hand, but his gaze followed mine. "Yes, they are," he said, pausing, and then adding, "this entire collection. She was my muse." I looked back at her again, the version in front of me. Looking almost like Jesus on the cross, her arms spread out, her legs splayed slightly, every inch of her bathed in warmth and sunlight, while all around her was devastatingly wet and dour. His precision and technique were other- worldly, and I was in awe again. Then what he'd just said registered in my head. "Was?" I asked, and turned to look at him again. "She 'was' your muse? Does that mean she's not anymore?" His eyes came back to mine, and they narrowed somewhat. He still hadn't let go of my hand, and I realized that it didn't bother me at all. His natural body temperature was warm to me, reassuring, and attractive. "No, she's not," he said, the regret obvious in his voice. "Her father passed away suddenly, and she went back to Greece to take care of her elderly mother." There was sadness in his voice now. "I was so lucky to have found her. She inspired me, that's as plain and honest as I can put it. She inspired me. Ask any artist and they'll tell you, if you can find someone to inspire you like that then you never let them go." He sighed. "I had no choice," he said, solemnly, "I had to let her go. Not that I could have kept her, of course. You can never own free spirits, and Helena was nothing but. It's a shame, really, but , you know, family. What could I do?" A sudden silence hung between us. I could so easily sense his disappointment, and his sadness at her loss. "She was my muse. She inspired me." I nodded my agreement. Her inspiration for him was obvious in his work. "I've had other models before, of course," he continued, once again speaking only to me, in an almost conspiratorial fashion, "to varying degrees of success. But Helena," he almost chuckled, "she made me a better painter, a better artist, and a better man." I nodded again, because I couldn't think of anything to say. "She was my muse. She inspired me every time she walked into the room. She never failed to push me, to challenge me, all my sensibilities. It was as if her very presence would force me to up my game, you know?" We just looked at each other for a few moments. Howard was still holding my hand. Then the hugest smile broke out on his face. "Plus, she was the best fuck I've ever had." I sputtered out my reaction, momentarily stunned as I was by his shocking public statement, and in doing so I slipped my hand out of his. "I'm not kidding," he continued, "not only did she inspire me artistically like no one else, but she was without a doubt the best sex I've ever had, bar none. And that includes all three of my ex-wives." His candor was a surprise to me. I'd never met anyone who was so open about his sexual experiences, especially with a complete stranger. "Well," he added, "two ex-wives, and one current one, to be exact." Again, putting two and two together was quick. "You're married and yet you had sex with Helena?" He smiled at me, proudly. "As often as I could. As often as she'd let me. Which, to be honest," he added, "was almost every day." I don't know why, because it was totally unlike me, but I instantly conjured up all sorts of images of him, naked, and having sex with Helena, who was almost naked and bigger than life right there in front of me. "Does that shock you?" he asked, his curiosity genuine. The question just popped into my head. "Does your wife know? I mean," I paused, "does she know about Helena and you?" He nodded. "Of course!" His smile became larger. He pulled out his wallet, from the inside pocket of his jacket, and flipped it open to a small photograph. A lovely woman with blonde hair and thin lips and a genuinely charming smile beamed out at me. "That's my sweetie," he said, proudly. "Her name is Ingrid, and she's an artist as well, and she lives in Amsterdam." I nodded, not quite sure what to make of it. "I live here. We see each other a few times a year, whenever either of us has a moment to get away from our careers. Don't get me wrong, we love each other very much. We're also adults, and we realize that ours is an unconventional relationship, and yet it works for us. She prefers life in Europe. I prefer it here. She has her lovers, and I have mine." I'd heard of such kinds of lifestyles, of course. I'd just never met anyone who was a practitioner. "She has lovers?" Howard smiled again, proudly. "She does. Usually other women, but she occasionally enjoys the services of a good cocksman." I wasn't sure if he was trying to shock me with his openness and outright honesty, or whether there was any chance that he was making some or all of the story up. His eyes were alive with light, and bearing down on me. His smile was real and playful. There must have been a strange look on my face. Howard almost giggled a little bit. "It's quite common in Europe, you know? People have lovers. That doesn't mean they don't love their partners, or their spouses. Not at all. But they recognize that humans also love pleasure, and all of us are capable of giving and receiving pleasure. Here in North America, that kind of liberated attitude gets lost amongst all the fake piety of the religious rabble. It's so puritanical here, and stifled. For Ingrid and me, it works out perfectly. We love each other, we adore each other. But we also recognize that we're away from each other, and that we're both sexual people, and that God gave each and every one of us the capacity for being sexual, and we both enjoy those finer things in life." I took his words in, and tried my best to see past my own narrow moral upbringing, to see the logic and sanity in his words. "And like Stephen Stills wrote," he added, "if you can't be with the one you love, then love the one you're with!" Confronted with attitudes I'd never really dealt with before, I found myself admiring both him and his wife. For their bravery, more than anything else. I'm not sure I could be so open, sexually, without jealousy rearing its ugly head. Howard smiled at me again, in an almost paternal way. "May I show you the rest of the collection?" he asked, and extended his arm to the next painting in the room. We walked over to it. He'd placed his left hand on the small of my back, to guide me I assumed, and I reacted to his touch. My whole body straightened up, I stood a little bit taller, my chest stuck out a bit more. I was liking his attention. This time Helena was wearing a corset. Or perhaps it was a basque. I'm not sure of the distinction, to be honest. It was satiny, and cherry red. She also had a G-string on, although it was so small and the angle she was painted at, from mostly behind, showed mostly skin, so other than the little strap around her hips and the tiny fraction of a strap coming up from between her cheeks, there was very little material of the panties visible. She was standing in a supermarket aisle, searching for something on a shelf. There were several others in the aisle, all doing their shopping and unaware of the nearly-naked woman amongst them. This seemed to be a recurring theme of his work. I could see every detail in every can and bag and package in front of me, including glimmers of reflection from the garish overhead lighting that supermarkets have. It was as if I was standing in the aisle myself, behind Hannah. Other people had shopping carts, or bags, as they wandered up and down. All of them were crystal-clear, and completely ordinary in every detail. Helena was again naturally the center of the scene, her run-of-the-mill body shape evident, the imperfections of her skin there in all their glory. Her hair cascaded down her back, some of it unruly and flying in scattered directions. I could see several freckles and beauty spots on the back of her arms, matching a few I'd seen on her chest. Still, she radiated an excitement. Howard had captured her in a state of joy, just like the first two paintings. There was an aura about her, as if she was even more life-like than her surroundings. I found myself wanting to be like her, to find myself in a similar place, so openly and unabashedly joyful, while at the same time almost naked and proudly open and sensual and sexual. I found myself wanting to be her. Howard leaned closer to me, and I felt his breath on my ear. "I shoot the backgrounds on a digital camera. Once I've painted them on canvas, Helena poses, and I paint her into the scene. She poses as she feels, as the mood suits her. She calls it her 'after-orgasm' look. I just try to capture the real person." His hand was still on my lower back, and it slid a little bit lower. I stared at her. She was at peace, that was obvious. Equally obvious was that glossy dreamy aura that she gave off, as if she had just had a sexual interaction. As if she'd just had her world rocked. It inspired me, in a way. I wanted to feel that kind of liberation. The familiarity with her was still there, and I still couldn't put my finger on what it was. I sensed his head getting closer to mine, his breath landing forcefully on my ear lobe. "Tell me, Dennis, please, how she makes you feel?" he whispered. Finding the right words took me a few moments, my vision fixed on her, my mind running amok, soaking in the all the colors and shapes and feelings from his art, and I think he took my silence as some sort of hesitation. "I'm dying to know, Dennis, please," Howard said, "as an artist, I need to know how my work affects you, what are your thoughts, what is she making you feel?" I found myself involuntarily nodding, and saying the first thing that came into my head. "She makes me feel envious." Howard quietly sighed into my ear. It sounded like a happy sigh. "I'm so glad," he paused, "but tell me, what are you envious of?" No filters kicked in, so I told him. "I wish I had her courage. I wish I was as open and free as she is. Look at her! I wish I could be that, I don't even know how to describe it, that, that sensual." I felt Howard sigh again. "You can," he whispered. "I'd be forever grateful if you did." Turning to look at his face again, I saw the same look he'd directed at her just moments ago now directed at me. It shocked me a little. It looked like adoration. "What?" I asked, my voice incredulous. His smile disappeared. "You can be that sensual," he whispered, "and the artist in me says you must be that sensual. The artist in me demands it." I suddenly felt weird. Uncomfortable, slightly. I'd been enjoying his company, hell, I'd been almost revelling in his grin and his attention on me. But now, for reasons I couldn't even begin to understand, his demeanour had changed, and I was seeing things and sensing things that confused me. I didn't know what to say to him. "Please understand, I don't normally come to showings," he explained, "it's a minor miracle that I came here today. Some paperwork needed signing, that's all. But then I saw you, as you were approaching the first painting, and immediately I had to come and meet you. I had to. You drew me in. There's an energy about you, did you know that?" I shook my head. Energy about me? What was he talking about? "I see it. All around you. That's what artists do, of course. We don't just paint a tree. We don't just slap on a trunk and some branches and some leaves. We paint the energy that that tree gives off. The life. The soul of it. We see the tree as a living thing, and we recreate that energy on the canvas. It's the same with people." He stepped slightly closer to me, and the volume of his voice lowered. "Dennis, you shoot out an aura. The rays of life. You're like a beacon, like a lighthouse even. Your energy says 'here I am, I am real, and honest, and vibrant, and full of life'. More so than most other human beings. Some people are born to be 'that sensual', to use your words, like you talked about, like you admire. Just like Helena," his arm swept towards the painting, "you're one of those people, Dennis." And the truth of the matter is that I had never once considered myself to have any of those qualities. Don't get me wrong, I've always thought I was a nice enough person, who tries to be friendly and polite to everyone, and who tries to go through life without being a burden on anyone. But I'm average. That's me. That's always been me. I had an average growing up. I hovered on the plus side of average in school. Now in my mid-twenties, I have an average job, and some occasional average times with some occasional average friends. I am entirely average as an adult. Nothing horrible or anything like that, but nothing altogether worth noting on the positive side, either. So the idea of me being full of rays of life, and that I should be 'that sensual' seemed almost absurd to me. "And besides," he said, his voice even lower and plotting, "you're Helena's doppelganger." I had no idea what that word meant, which he must have sensed. "Dennis," he said, a serious tone in his voice, "you look just like her. You could be siblings. Didn't you notice? Isn't that what drew you to her in the first place? Surely you can see the resemblance?" Turning to look at her again, my mind reeled. I look like her? Is he crazy? She's a woman, I'm a man. "I don't look like her." His voice was stronger, and more immediate. "Yes, you do." "That's crazy," I said. "She's a woman, I'm a man." I turned to look at him, and he pulled his phone out of a pocket. "If you'll do me the honor and indulge me for just one minute, I can prove it to you." The smile was back on his face, and it floored me. Playful, naughty, and conspiratorial. That's how he looked. And again, I noted his directness. There didn't seem to be any fa?ade with this man. What he was feeling at any given moment was plainly evident on his face. At all times. "Over here," he pointed to a blank white wall, between paintings, showing me where he wanted me to stand. He brought his phone up, and prepared to take my picture. He asked me to turn my head slightly to the left, and slightly up. I did. Then he stepped towards me and extended his hand, now very close to my skin. "May I?" he asked. I nodded my approval to touch me. When his fingers connected with my jaw, gently, I thrilled at the touch. A slight bit of pressure from him, and I moved accordingly. He was turning my head to the exact place he wanted it. "Now," he whispered, "close your eyes, and think soft sensual thoughts, the most soft sensual thoughts you've ever had, think about how it feels to have a lover nearby, just having made love to you, just having parted from your embrace." The former was easy to do. I wasn't sure I knew how to achieve the latter. I heard the noise that smartphones make when a picture has been taken. When I opened my eyes, Howard was already moving away from me, back to the second painting, and he positioned himself and then took a picture of Hannah. Then he walked back to me, playing with his phone. He'd created a split screen. Helena's face, next to mine. Her background was different. Hers was cluttered. Mine was stark white. It stunned me when I saw it. "Here," he pointed, "you see? You look just like her. The same jawline, the same shape of the nose, the same cheekbones. Almost the same ear shape. Do you see?" I nodded. I did look like her. The familiarity I'd felt before suddenly hit me like a ton of bricks. "With a touch of makeup and some lipstick, and long dark hair, you're her spitting image." I laughed slightly, embarrassed. The idea! Wearing makeup and lipstick! He took my laugh as derisive. "Dennis," he said, his eyes narrowing, his smile fading, his eyes concentrating on me, looking at me from above the rims of his glasses, with his head bent down, "have you ever sat for an artist before?" I looked up at him and felt myself being swallowed by his presence. And yet, it was strangely drawing me in, seducing me, making me feel warm and wanted and alive. I shook my head. "I'm standing here, having just met you, I don't even know you, and yet you are setting my artistic soul on fire. I haven't felt this alive since, since what's-her-name left. I can't even remember her now. Everything about you is drawing me in, and firing me up. I want to paint you right here, right now. All these people be damned. Life be damned. I look at you and I want to make art. You're inspiring me, Dennis, just like Helena used to." Then he paused, for long enough that I began to wonder what he was thinking And his face became serious, like he was admitting a large truth, to himself as much as anyone else. "Maybe even more than Helena." I'd never been more stunned into silence in my life. So many thoughts were spinning around my head. Many of them were the predictable ones: is he crazy? Am I in danger somehow? Should I politely thank him for his time and slide out the front door? Those sorts of natural questions. But many of the thoughts were ones I never would have dreamed of, in a million years. Like: would it be amazing to sit and pose for an artist? How would that feel? And would his obvious passion, so profoundly evident in his personality, would it spill out all over me and lift me up, emotionally? And even some odder thoughts, completely out of left field: would he want me to wear lingerie, like Helena? Would he want to have sex with me too? What would it be like to know that someday down the road he'd describe me to someone else as 'the best fuck' he's ever known? W H A T T H E ? We just looked at each other. I knew the gallery had other people in it, somewhere. But I couldn't see any of them. Nor could I see the other paintings, or the walls, or any of the other features of the building. All I could see was Howard. His energy was real, and direct, and profound. It was visceral. I could feel it. I was soaking it up, it was coursing through me. My heart was beating faster, my skin felt alive, everywhere. I had an erection. It was straining against my underwear. "This collection was meant to have sixteen paintings," he said, "but I only finished fifteen of them, before she left." He paused, his eyes fixed on me, as if his very life depended on his next few words. "The last one was to be the biggest and grandest. My masterpiece. I spent weeks working on the background, hoping against hope that Helena would decide her mother was fine, that the old girl could make it alone, and fly back here to me." After a few seconds, he shook his head. "I'd just been fooling myself. She isn't coming back. And I'd given up any hope of finishing it, until," he paused, "until I saw you." Now I was the one shaking my head in disbelief. "Me?" Howard nodded, and grinned again, from zero to sixty in less than a second. "You! I can't believe my luck. I can't believe this is happening! I was living with despair, feeling like something wasn't right, wasn't complete, and knowing it was this collection. And now!" he smiled even more, "now, I have you! You'll pose for me! You're her spitting image! And you just radiate energy, Dennis, the kind I need! You inspire me! Please! You've got to say 'yes', PLEASE!" I stammered out some words of incredulity. "I've never...you mean, like...I wouldn't know the first thing about..." Howard reached out his hands, and placed them on my shoulders. "Dennis," he said, his voice lower in volume and whispery, "this collection, all fifteen paintings, sold for just a hair over two million dollars to a very private rich patron. If you do this for me, do this with me, I'm sure the buyer will be more than happy to pay upwards of a hundred-and-fifty to two hundred thousand dollars for this one painting, for my masterpiece, for the final jewel of the collection. Maybe even more." I was surprised by the numbers. "And," he breathed out, "I'll give you half of it. Half of whatever I sell it for." My mind saw the number one with several zeroes behind it. And then, the oddest moment yet slid right through me. Any consideration of profit disappeared, like early morning fog. Here one minute, gone the next. Now, the only thing on my mind was lingerie. I'd have to wear some. Wouldn't I? It was as if I'd already decided. The idea of posing wasn't even being debated in my brain. The only worry I seemed to have was that he'd want me to wear women's clothes. I found that strange, but somehow intriguing. His hands on my shoulder flexed and squirmed. He was massaging me. They were tiny little movements, but they were there. They made me feel warm. They made me feel relaxed. They made my erection get even harder, in my pants. I wasn't even aware of it, but apparently I nodded my decision to Howard. Something I did gave him a sign, because his face lit up, he broke out into the biggest grin I'd seen yet, and he pulled me into his embrace, wrapping his arms around me, my head just naturally landing on his shoulder, my face towards his neck. Without thinking about it, I wrapped my arms around him too. From the top on down, our bodies slowly came together, in an intimate hug. As the join of our bodies moved downwards, I tried to reel it in a little bit, so he wouldn't feel my excitement, wouldn't be forced to deal with my silly little reaction to all of this, the one trying to poke a hole in my underwear. I was worried about how he'd respond to that, worried about whether he'd be offended, or think of me as some sort of sicko. It was, I realized, an entirely irrelevant thing to worry about. Howard the artist didn't think on those kinds of levels, I came to understand. He had no hesitation at all in pressing against me, all the way to the ground, trying to squeeze out every ounce of pleasure and joy from this intimate moment of human contact. Howard was excited too. As soon as he melded into me, I knew it. I could feel it, its size, its shape. I could sense his heat. His jeans were acid-washed and snug on him when I'd first looked. Now, I could feel him, I could feel the tightness of the material as it stretched across his groin. Stretched across his erection. My eyes opened up, wide as saucers. Howard was big, down there. Way bigger than me. His head was next to mine, and just slightly above. His mouth was practically in line with my ear. His voice was deep and quiet. "Be my muse," he kept cooing, slowly, over and over again, the combination of the intimacy of his words and his considerable erection pushing into my lower belly almost mesmerizing me. I floated on a sea of feelings that were new to me, sensations that I'd never experienced before. I was being held, almost crushed, by this man, this artist, here in this public place, and yet I was totally unconcerned with how it looked to others, how snobs and prudes might feel about it. All I knew was that I'd never felt like this before, in my life. I'd never felt this excited, this anxious, this filled with nervous energy. Breaking our hug, Howard looked me in the eyes. His were full of tears, and one lone clear drop broke free of his lashes and spilled out, sliding down his cheekbone towards his jaw. This man was crying over me! "Thank you," he whispered, and he leaned his head down and forward, resting his forehead on mine. His eyes bored into me, so close they were. He muttered 'thank you' twice more, and then another tear fell out of his other eye. "I promise you," he said, his voice cracking, "we're going to make beautiful art together. Art is love, Dennis, and we're going to make passionate love, you and I." I stared into his eyes, almost overwhelmed with his emotions. With his emotional reaction to me. And I felt my eyes fill with tears. And then, it happened. The realization that it would happen hit me first, and I was as sure as anything I'd ever been sure of in my life that it would indeed happen, that I wasn't naively imagining it. Which was unusual, since I'd never had that certainty before, ever, with anyone. I knew he was going to kiss me. Somehow, deep inside my brain or my heart or my soul, or maybe all three, I just knew it. This mature man was going to kiss me. On the lips. And not the way a father kisses his son, as some families do. No. This was going to be a kiss that was completely different than that. This was going to be a genuine kiss, one of affection, and love, and intensity. I just knew it. And I had time to stop it, if I'd wanted to. I had time to wiggle out of his embrace, or turn my head, or any of a dozen other movements I could have made to show him that I wasn't interested in being kissed. The kinds of motions that most normal men would have responded with, immediately and as a matter of course. I didn't move. At all. Not one inch. And at the same time as I wasn't moving, there was still a part of my brain telling me to move, that it wasn't right that another man was about to kiss me, and as a heterosexual male with no tendencies towards anything out of the usual, that I should be moving away and discouraging him. But that tiny part of my brain was being drowned out by a symphony, by all the other parts of my brain that suddenly seemed to want to be kissed. Which in itself made me think, what? for a second or two. I want to be kissed by a man? That's absurd! It turns out I did, and that was my prevailing attitude. Which, I suppose, was all that Howard needed, all that he was waiting for. Right there, in the big room, in front of one of his paintings, with at least a dozen or more people wandering randomly around, I suddenly realized I was feeling the same thing Helena showed in all the paintings. A complete disregard for anything that anyone else would consider proper behavior. An utter disdain for convention, for normalcy, for the standards of life set down by the rule-makers of the world. A total 'fuck you' to anyone and everyone who might end up offended. I closed my eyes, and pursed my lips, and waited for him to kiss me. About sixteen nanoseconds later, which was five or six nanoseconds more than I'd expected, which came as a bit of a surprise even though I was certain it would happen, it happened. Howards' lips touched mine. I was wrapped up in this mans' arms, feeling his seriously large sexuality growing against me, and I was lovingly and willingly accepting his kiss. YES! His plump lips, full of his passion, pressed onto mine, his nose just to my left. I felt a snort of his breath come out of his nostrils, landing on my cheek. I felt his lips, soft and warm and pulsing with ardor, pressing harder into mine. Time stood still. There was no one else on the planet, no other people of any kind to be concerned about. There was just Howard and I, our hug getting stronger and stronger, our bodies pressing into one another with more urgency, our lips joined in the softest and most profound of kisses. I'd kissed before. I'd had several relationships with women by this point, each one different and each one interesting. I'd always assumed that the joys I'd felt then with them were what life was all about. Kissing Howard made me realize that they were minor events, even the most memorable make out session of my past just fading away to nothingness. None of them could have held a candle to what I was feeling now. THIS WAS KISSING! Howards lips began to move slightly, back and forth and to and fro. I followed him with my lips, not wanting to break the connection. Not daring to risk losing touch with him, losing the greatest kiss of my life. And it was, I knew. That thought rose up from deep within me, and then exploded in every direction. Theresa Foster. Karen Koupiak. Some chick named Elizabeth I used to meet up with once in a while whose last name I've now forgotten. Wendy whats-her-name, from the pub. I thought all of them were pretty good kissers. Pam Smith, a slightly chubby woman I'd been with three or four times. She loved to kiss, amongst other things, and my memories of her just burned away. Every single one of them were nothing, compared to Howard. The greatest kiss of my life. I reeled. I swooned in his arms. I lost the will to do anything but kiss him, anything but be held by him, anything but be his muse. I'd never wanted anything more in my life, than to pose for him, to sit for him, to be his inspiration and allow him to finish his collection. I couldn't wait to see the final product, with me in it, instead of, instead of, oh Jesus, I'd already forgotten her name. Instead of her. Me. His muse. At some point, Howard had the presence of mind to end the kiss. It was just after I'd heard a woman's voice gasp, somewhere behind me. I couldn't tell if it was her reaction to one of Howards' paintings, or whether it was because she'd spotted two men kissing. If Howard heard it, he gave me no indication that it bothered him or affected him one iota. He pulled me tight to him, and walked us out of the door of the gallery. I saw that there were a couple of old biddies staring at us, their mouths agape, the shock they were feeling evident on their faces. They'd probably never seen two men kiss like that, so romantically and passionately. That was my first thought. My second thought was that they should thank us, for expanding their reality, for showing them a wider truth. With his arm wrapped around me, and mine clutching onto his back and torso, he steered us down the street and to his car. I vaguely heard a man's voice from behind yell at us to 'get a room'. Approaching us was a woman, her head down, texting. Every three or four steps she'd look up, to see where she was walking. I watched her, and the next time her head came up her eyes locked on Howards' groin, where I knew there was a huge tent. I watched her eyes open wide, and a flicker of a smile. Then her eyes moved to her right, and she saw my little tent. I saw a moment of confusion register on her face. Then she scanned up, and saw that I was indeed a male. Then her eyes darted straight over to Howards' face, and I saw her realize everything. Then, just for a moment, she looked back down at his tenting pants. It was huge. And I ought to know, I'd just had it ground into me in the gallery. A second later her eyes darted up to mine, and we made contact. She smiled, and her eyebrows shot up and down. Then she winked at me. We breezed past her, and I heard the 'beep-beep' of the car and the lights came on all around it. Just before he closed the door for me, after getting me seated in his passenger seat and making sure my seat belt was connected, he leaned his head down and kissed me again. Pedestrians on the street watched him, watched us. Not only did I not concern myself with their reactions at all, but deep down I was bubbling with pride, just stoked that I was the human being they were watching, stoked that I was about to do something so out of the ordinary and yet so perfect. I saw him coming, and almost jumped out of the chair to catch his kiss. It was the greatest kiss of my life. As he ran around the front of the car, I glanced back, over my right shoulder. Through the rear passenger door window, I saw her. She'd stopped and turned to watch us. She saw me look at her, and she wiggled her fingers at me, in a girly goodbye. I wiggled mine back. Moments later, he put the car in gear and pulled away from the curb. One hand on the steering wheel, and one hand on my left thigh, near my knee. If any other man had ever had the nerve to touch me like that, I would have been pissed off, offended, and I would have reacted accordingly. With Howard, I placed my hand on top of his, and squeezed. I wanted him to touch me, I wanted him to connect with me on that level. I wanted him to realize all of his hopes and dreams and passions through me. I was his muse, wasn't I? Then I reached over, and put my hand on his right thigh, but much closer to his groin than his knee. He moaned out the word 'YES!', and briefly took his eyes off the road to look at me. I was instantly bathed in desire. Instantly covered in blatant and outright sexual desire. This man wanted me, more than perhaps life itself. Suddenly, I knew what almost every woman that has ever lived feels like when a man shows his true self, shows his natural hunger, shows the feral side of his personality. Howard wanted me. In no uncertain terms, he wanted me. I'd never had that kind of look directed at me before, from anyone. My life had been spent being the one that generated that look at others, although very rarely to success. Now, it was being shot at me, like a giant searing white beam, like those huge mobile lights that they use at movie premieres and car dealerships. Blazing hot intensity. Blazing hot wattage. Blazing hot passion. I couldn't tell you which direction he drove, or what streets he drove on. There could have been a parade going on around us, or a military battle, and I would have been none the wiser. The planet could have shifted in the universe, the sky suddenly purple, with comets everywhere and volcanos erupting and millions of people running in panic all around us, and I wouldn't have been able to describe any of it. All I could see was Howard. The man. The artist. I shucked my seat belt, and slid across next to him, laying my head on his shoulder. His hand slid up the inside of my thigh, and began rubbing me. My left hand moved of its own accord as I shifted my seat, and without thinking about it I realized I was now palming his cock. I quickly looked down, and saw the swell of his erection poking out from under my hand. "My muse," he whispered. I said the first thing that came into my head. "My darling." Then I rested my head against his shoulder, tucked under his chin, and I kissed the part of his neck where his jaw joins up with his ear. And like slipping into a warm bath, my emotions got warmer and warmer and I relaxed my mind. I realized where I was, and what I was doing, and how all of it was just so staggeringly never-before thought of. By me, anyway. I'd always been a 'normal' kid, and then a 'normal' guy. Now I was cuddling with a man older than my own father, and I could still taste his lips on mine, and I could feel his hand caressing my thighs, getting closer and closer to my own erection, and I was fervently kneading him, gently rubbing his cock, through his trousers. All these radical things I'd never even contemplated before. Hell, I'd never contemplated even contemplating them! I realized I was hungry. Hungry for what, I wasn't sure. But I knew that something was coming, a new set of experiences, a new alignment of my own personal paradigm, unknown physical and emotional stimuli. It would all be so new for me, so out of my comfort zone, so far from left field I couldn't even see which direction it was coming from. I was hungry for all of it. Eventually Howard shut the car off, and I realized we were in a driveway of a suburban property with a gated entrance with lots of trees and little ponds and a gazebo I could make out down one side. His cock was throbbing under my hand. I could feel it. He turned his head, and I turned mine, and we kissed again, just like in the gallery. Soft gentle lip on lip motions, soothing vibrations, raw emotions flat out from both of us to both of us. Pure and unrestrained exploration and desire. It was the greatest kiss of my life. After minutes, he gently opened his lips, and touched mine with the tip of his tongue. Teasing me. Tasting me. Asking, perhaps, for permission. I breathed out the biggest breath I'd ever had, raging through my nose and out onto his skin, and instantly opened my lips. My answer, unequivocal. YES! My left hand began rubbing his cock harder, my back-and-forth motion increasing in tempo. He swelled to an even greater girth, it was noticeable. I was acting on pure instinct, rubbing a cock other than my own. Mine was never this big, or this hot, or this raging with excitement. Raging with a kind of sexuality I'd never thought of before. That in itself was enough to almost make me cum, in my pants, right there in the front seat of his car. The added euphoria from taking his tongue into my mouth, sucking on it like it would save my life, it was all so completely overwhelming. Everything in my brain was swirling, almost crashing back and forth, like the stormiest of seas, my ideas of normalcy shattered, my previous high-water marks of what I thought was passion all drowned now, smothered under a tsunami of the unknown. An unknown I was hurtling straight downhill towards. He finally pulled away from me, that million-watt smile back on his face. "Let's get you ready," he whispered. Holding my hand with our fingers interlaced, his in front, like a guy would do with a girl, I followed him around while he gave me the brief tour of his large house. He'd done well, I presumed, based on the prices of his art he'd divulged to me back in the gallery, and from what I saw throughout each room he showed me. And for an artist, there was surprisingly few paintings hanging, and the ones that did occasionally show up were not Howards' own work. But I did like his taste in art. Everything was soothing. Everything was about rich sensual colours, and rich sensual people. Upstairs, in the master bathroom, he kissed me again, quickly, and then said the word that would start my adventure. "Strip." It's possible I've gotten naked quicker than that before, at some point in my life. Maybe not. He turned on the shower and then faced me, and began slowly taking off his clothes. His eyes were laser beams onto mine, watching my reaction, his grin wicked and delicious. His turtleneck came off, and then slowly he unbuttoned and unzipped and his pants were folded and lain on a counter. His briefs were brief, and straining against the push from inside. He giggled out loud as he pushed down, and then stood up again, tall and erect. In so many ways. Then he held out his hand, and I took it, and he pulled us into the shower stall, which was more than big enough for two people. We embraced and spun under the spray of the water, now nicely hot. The steam rose up in clouds, whisked away quietly by an exhaust fan in the ceiling. His arms wrapped around me, and pulled me to him, our erections mashing into the others, his so much longer and thicker than mine, and cut, unlike me, and his helmet was a dark, almost angry shade of purple. I'd never been so shocked and giddy all at the same time. We kissed, softly, and wetly, as the water poured on us. His tongue was daring and playful, most of the time inside me but sometimes luring mine towards his mouth, showing me and convincing me that I wanted to partake of every kind of sensation I could, every new sensual experience to be savored, with each passing second pushing past all my previous ideas of unabashed joy. I was joyful. It all just felt so natural, so intimate and so selfish. Yes, selfish. Part of me was marveling at how much pleasure it was giving me, which is the height of selfishness. Me me me. And yet, another part was realizing that I was giving out just as much as I was being given, and it all made sense. It was the combinations that counted. Give and take. Ebb and flow. Masculine and feminine. Each side vibrating separately, but together. Moments of passionate movements followed by the equal opposite. Howard reached up to a shelf and switched on a body shaver. He then spent twenty minutes meticulously shaving my entire body, which didn't have a whole lot of hair on it to begin with. Nothing on my back, just a puff or two on my chest, and a wisp of leg hair. That all happened very quickly. When it came time to shave my genitals, Howard got down on his knees, and took my hardness in his left hand, bringing the shaver in with his right. Just him holding me, protecting me by moving me when he needed, was causing small ripples for me, my foreskin shunting at times a little bit back and forth. Luckily, there was already a good amount of precum on the head, and under my ridges, to make the motion erotic. I know I started breathing harder, and tried to concentrate on not exploding. His eyes were focussed on his task, but I could see his smirk, that delightful grin he had when he was being naughty, when he was being completely frank, with no pretense. He was loving this. And he knew the effect he was having on me. That much I was sure of. His left hand had to lift and move as he moved under and over my testicles. That increased the motions. I felt a shudder go through me, and realized I was about this close to bursting, a hair away from spurting all my white cream out of me, probably most of it landing on him. He felt it too, and pulled the shaver away from my skin. Looking up, his grin turned into a gigantic Cheshire-cat grin. "Does this feel good?" he asked knowingly, increasing his grip and tempo a little bit. I nodded, holding my breath, trying not to fall off the cliff. Howard suddenly stood up, like a spring, his hand never leaving my erection, and he threw his lips onto mine. I sputtered my breath out into his mouth, and grabbed onto his forearms, forcing my fingers to grip as tight as I could, taking my mind away from cumming. He kissed his way over to my ear, and kept masturbating me. "Do you want to cum, you sexy girl?" he whispered. I'd never been called a girl before. It didn't bother me one little bit. I barely muttered out a breathy "uh huh!" His grip on me got tighter, and he started pulling up and down on me, increasing the friction of my foreskin over and up and down my crown, exponentially increasing the shimmies and nervous tics running through my body, including my brain. I'd never done anything like this in my life, and each second was like Christmas morning. "I want you to cum, angel," he said, "it's my job to get the most out of my muse as I can, and I'm only too happy to help you in any way I can. In every way. When you shine the brightest is what inspires me, and you will shine the most just after you've cum. It's the process. She and I always started this way. Remember how I said she'd get her post-orgasm look?" I nodded and said a breathy "uh huh" again. "I'd always get that 'just-fucked' look from her. And you know how?" He didn't wait for an answer. His voice got lower, and seriously serious. "Because I'd be the one who just fucked her." The way he said the word 'fucked', his tone, his intent, I just knew it meant that he'd made love to her. That he'd propelled her on a journey of eroticism and pleasure, like real lovers. Not some quick, violent, unemotional, purely physical and usually one-sided episode, but loving and caring, and as joyous for the taker as it is for the giver, because both were the same. Then he attached his lips to my earlobe, and he started sucking and tonguing it. Which, combined with more energy on me, sent me over the top. I moaned out loud, a sound coming out of me I'd never heard before or recognized, something high-pitched and breathy. And it just kept getting louder. Streaks of lights and color flashed through my consciousness, as I shuddered and pulsed and throbbed and quaked, pushing out five body- wrenching ropes, and two smaller ones. Each one was physically stunning. Each one was more all-encompassing body-shocking than the worst day I ever had in life. The hardest day of work I'd ever done was nothing like this. The first time I went skiing and didn't realize you use your whole body and then found out that evening when I could barely walk or raise my arms or do anything at all except lay on my bed and quietly whimper was child's play next to this. It was the greatest, most mind-and-body-blowing orgasm I'd ever had. Light years better than my best previous, which was when Pam Smith told me she'd always wanted to have sex on her horse, and we ended up accomplishing it after a whole lot of hard work and balancing. Howard made me cum from the top of my head to the tips of my toes. Afterward, he finished cleaning me up with the shaver, and then got us out of the shower and towelled dry. He lightly slapped me on my bare buttock, playfully, and nodded his head towards the bedroom. "Follow me," he smiled. We went to the walk-in closet. There were mostly his clothes there, but some of the racks held women's clothes. "These are Ingrid's," he explained, "for when she's visiting. She is going to be so thrilled when I tell her about you." He started pulling open drawers on built-in cabinets, and sorting through things with his fingers. Not too long into his explorations, he pulled out a bra and panty set. They were the most garish shade of fuchsia. Almost purple. Almost pink. Lots of glaring red too. Handing me the panties, his almost-leering smile came back again. There was no confusing what he was feeling. "For you, my dear," he whispered. As if in a trance, I took them from him, sorting out which end was up and which tiny piece of fabric goes where, before bending over and slipping both of my feet into the proper gaps. Then I began slipping the satiny material up my legs. My bare, shaven-smooth legs. I shuddered again, from stem to stern, at the feel of the fabric touching my skin, moving on my skin, teasing my skin everywhere it touched as I slowly slid it up. My partially-revived erection came roaring back, so much faster than had ever happened before. New pleasures after new pleasures. Holding out the bra, I barely had time to register the exquisite feeling of the panties in place, cupping my balls, my hard-on straining the thin front panel, the straps high up on my hips, the little bit of hips that I had. Instead, I lifted my arms, and allowed Howard to slide it onto me, and he moved behind me to do it up, carefully making sure all the straps were rightside-up. Each touch of his fingers as he jiggled and jaggled and fussed were little zaps of joy. Once done, he came round in front of me again, and ran his fingers under the cups, pulling it down just slightly. I looked down with him, and saw a smooth chest, the underwire and cups of the bra pushing my pectorals into little breasts, and creating the most erotic cleavage on me, a part of real women I've always found the sexiest. I was hurtling my soul down a mountainside now, with absolutely no brakes installed and none wanted. Next he moved me to a chair, in front of a mirror, which had lights down the side of it. Howard explained that it was a make-up table. In the drawers were all sorts of tubes and vials and brushes, and some things I had no idea about. He sat me down, and told me close my eyes. Then he worked on me. I felt him brushing something on my upper eyelid, followed by a pencil or pen drawing the length of my upper lid and most of my lower lid. Then there was a lot of soft delicate brushing on my cheeks, and close to my jaw. Then he told me to make a kissy-face, and he applied lipstick, then made me do the smooshing thing, the self-kissing thing women do, and then he brushed on some gloss. Telling me to keep my eyes closed, he moved away for a few moments, and then came back, and I instantly felt him lowering a wig onto my head. He pulled and slid and turned it a few times, and then I felt him brushing me, fluffing out my new hair. Finally, he turned me in the chair, and told me to open my eyes. Looking back at me was her. She was me. I'd become that woman. Howard let me gaze and marvel at myself for a second or two, and then he cleared his throat noisily, obviously trying to get my attention. "Wanna meet me in the sheets in, say," he paused, looking at his arm, pretending there was a watch on his wrist, "oh, about ten seconds?" I nodded my approval, and we ran to the bed. He ran around the long side, so I immediately got under the covers first. He was only seconds behind me. We pulled at each other, and I wound up with his arms wrapped around me, my face buried in his neck, his cock pressing into me, his movements forward soft and sensuous and yet hitting me like a ton of bricks. His cock, hard as nails and yet with the softness of flesh, pushing into my belly, the skin now completely shaved and smooth. He was leaving drops of precum on my skin. I could feel them land, a different temperature than my skin, my sensory system going 'hey!!!', from warm to cool just like that, and then slipping here or there, depending on the angle of the skin. One drop ran slowly down my hip. It took agonizing seconds to finally fall free of its own grip on my, before gravity took it. It was delicious! And my average little penis was beginning to strain again, thicker and longer. I marvelled again at how my life had become this never-ending cascading waterfall of never-before-done things. And how I couldn't imagine going back to life the boring way it was before. Howard began kissing me again, and I marvelled at how his kisses were without question the best kisses I've ever had. I wrapped my arms around him, and pulled him as close to me as I could get him. His body heat, his surging and throbbing cock swinging willy-nilly as he moved, it all made me warm inside, the human contact unlike any I'd ever had before, so foreign, and yet so indescribably perfect, so tantalizingly thrilling. One of his arms slid under my head, as our kisses became much more intense, our tongues learning how to tango with each other. Between his heat and the covers over top of me, I'd never felt more protected and loved. If this is how women feel, in the traditional sense, then I envied them. My legs spread for him. He ran his right hand up and down the smoothly- shaven skin of my inner thighs, each gesture touching me inside just as much as outside. Every third or fourth stroke up he'd go all the way, and he'd caress and rub my balls, and then lovingly manipulate my hard penis. It felt small in his hand, but gave me feelings larger than I'd ever felt before. My breath would suck in my mouth, in little gaps between my lips and his, and each time I'd hear him murmur a happy hum. He seemed to be enjoying himself. From where I had no idea, but after what must have been ten or fifteen minutes of the best kissing of my life and his caressing of my legs, he'd nudged my legs open even more, and I felt the biggest thrill of my life, the biggest of a series of biggest thrills I'd found myself enjoying today. Somehow, someway, he'd found lube, and managed to put a gigantic blob of it on his fingertip, all without me noticing. With my legs spread wide, his tongue buried in my mouth, my arms pulling him closer and closer, as if that was physically possible, he touched the end of his finger to my most precious and personal part. Never before in the history of me had I ever felt anything like it. The shock of the coolness, the shock of the gelatinous quality, the shock of where he was touching me, all of it conspired to make me want to cum again. I moaned and whimpered into his mouth, and bucked my hips up and down, searching, I realized, for more. More. My hole. I wanted him in my hole. That which had previously been considered an exit only, was now yearning to be an entrance. I wanted his finger in me, I realized. I wanted it badly. I could feel myself puckering and flexing my hole, back there, down there. Images of penetration began filling my head. His finger, or fingers, were the first few pictures I drew in my imagination. Then, to my utter shock and total surprise, I started conjuring up different ideas. Different ways of being penetrated, of becoming an entrance. I saw his cock, in my mind's eye, his long thick cut cock, the head covered in his spewing pre-cum, shiny and sticky, his shaft throbbing and pulsing and taut. I saw it, in all its glory, all of it slowly and sinfully disappearing inside of my hole. Inside of my body. I saw it opening me up, spreading me wide, wider than I've ever known, turning me into his pussy, turning me into his woman, his lover. His muse. His fuck. The lube worked perfectly. His finger slipped into me without stopping until I'd taken its entire length. I'd noticed earlier in the gallery that he had long fingers. Maybe all artists do. I don't know. What I do know is that I opened up for him without any problems. I welcomed him inside me. I tried to pull him in, pull more of him in. He giggled into my mouth. As I sucked on his tongue, trying to make love to it, I whispered what I was truly feeling. Just as Howard seemed to act at all times without any guile or pretense, I too allowed myself to react exactly how I was feeling. And I know his conscious mind couldn't have understood my syllables, our mouths busy as they were kissing the living shit out of each other. But I knew, more than I knew anything, that his subconscious mind knew what I was saying. Deep down inside his soul, he understood me. He got it. I knew that, as much as I knew anything. He knew what I wanted. He'd heard me. I just kept whispering it over and over again. "Fuck me." One finger inside me, touching me in places never before touched by anyone or anything, became two. Two stretched me more, opened me more. I found myself spreading my legs even more, and rolling my pelvis a little tiny bit. I was, without thinking about it and certainly without any experience, doing everything I could to take more of him, and make it easier for him to give me more. The images of his beautiful long penis sliding into me came back again, louder than ever, larger than ever, in blazing technocolor. They were pictures in my mind that I'd never had before, never considered, never knew I'd wanted. I wanted them now. My whispers and moans into his mouth kept going, louder. "Fuck me." Two fingers became three, as he truly opened me up. His tongue filled my mouth even more, as he filled my pussy even more. He was taking over, becoming the driver of this vehicle, all the decisions big or small his and his alone. I couldn't imagine it any other way. Suddenly, without warning, his lips broke away from mine. We were both panting, gasping out our breath. My eyes jumped open, searching for his. Howard quickly moved himself between my legs. His fingers came out of me, and after pushing my thighs backwards, up against my bra, he placed both his hands next to my head, on the mattress. Propping himself up on his arms, his lower half settled in between my legs, which were now squeezing at him, trying to pull him towards me, trying to pull his body next to mine. Trying to pull his cock inside me. His eyes blazed with how he was feeling. He was breathing heavily, same as me. "I can't wait any longer," he panted out. "Don't wait, Howard," I gasped, "do it now!" His face got serious. "If I do, there's no going back, you know that, right?" I let his words fall on me, and knew exactly what he was saying. There were no walls between us. I was adopting his attitude in life. My face must have shown it first, because I watched him watching me, and then his face lit up. I said what was on my mind, without fear or hesitation. "Make love to me, Howard," I begged, "PLEASE!" The tip of his cock touched me, as it swung to and fro with his movements, on my taint, above where I really wanted him. Acting completely on auto-pilot, my left arm shot down below me, and I grabbed him, marvelling at the feel of another mans' cock in my hand, pulling him towards my pussy, lining him up at the right angle, audibly sighing as the roundness of his head touched my hole. I looked him straight in the eye, and decided that I was indeed his muse, and as such, I got to make demands of him. "Fuck me, Howard," I gasped, "DO IT! FUCK ME! FUCK ME NOW!" His grin became shit-eating. He was so proud of himself, and his playfulness was coming back. "Are you sure?" he asked, his voice dripping with good humor. I started screaming. "FUCK ME FUCK ME FUCK ME FUCK ME!" He pushed slightly, barely sinking less than an inch of his cockhead into my open pussy hole, which was pulsing and quivering and trying to pull him in. "Like this?" he asked, his teasing obvious. He knocked the wind out of me. "NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!" He pushed slightly more into me, my inner and outer rings forced to expand, shooting pulses of both pain and pleasure through me. For one brief second, doubt entered my mind. Could I do this? Physically? Could I take such a large tube of human flesh inside of me? Wouldn't it hurt like hell? Is it possible he could rip me, do me damage? Do people bleed, their first time? Is my body ready, or even capable, of taking that much meat inside of me? And then I wondered how much his cock would weigh. A few pounds, maybe? Could I even expand enough inside to take several pounds of cock inside me? Then some kind of monster inside me took over, and I screamed out loud again. "FUCK ME HOWARD! FUCK ME NOW!" Those few seconds of imagined consequences went by the wayside. All I wanted was to be filled. He lowered his head and softly kissed my lips one quick time. His teasing grin was still on his face, but it was lessened. "If you're sure it's what you want...", and he paused, and then he grinned, almost embarrassed, "jeez, I just about said your name there," and then he paused again, "your real name, but I stopped, because you just don't look like a Dennis to me now," and then he suddenly smiled, as if a new thought had just occurred to him, "so if you'll allow me, I'd like to call you by the name that keeps jumping into my soul..." "Which is?" I panted. "Desiree." I ran my hands up his back, and laced my fingers into his long hair. My legs were wrapped around his body, my ankles locked, trying to pull him into me. "Desiree!" I said it out loud twice, and realized I loved it. My look must have told him. He roared his approval. "HOWARD SPIELMAN, IF YOU DON'T FUCK ME RIGHT NOW I'LL NEVER POSE FOR YOU...EVER!!" He shook his head. "We can't have that." In one long fluid motion, he buried himself inside my pussy. He split me open. He literally forced all of my insides to expand and move. He cleaved me. One second nothing, the next everything. It was as if every experience I'd ever felt, every moment of my previous life, all added up to practically nothing. He impaled me. He sunk his cock into my depths, with forcefulness and tenderness, all at the same time. I moaned louder than I've ever done before. I moaned louder than all the other moans of my life, combined. I didn't even recognize the sound coming out of me, the tone or the tenor of it. It was animalistic, like a creature going through the biggest and most serious experience of its entire existence. Not that it was a competition, of course, but Howards moan was almost as loud and compelling as mine. Searing hot beams of colored lights zipped and zapped through my brain. Everything on the planet disappeared, became nothing, became meaningless. He filled me. He made me feel heavier inside than I thought possible. His body weight settled onto me, his head not moving, his eyes searing into mine, wanting to see my reaction, wanting to witness all these never-before imagined moments in my life. He had to see what he was doing to me, what I had asked him to do to me. I WAS FULL OF HIS COCK! He waited. His shit-eating grin slowly returned. He was so proud of himself, I could tell. He was showing me, in his usual overt way, his boyish pleasure at the very thought of having bedded me. He was getting what he wanted. He was getting to stick himself inside the tightest sweetest hole he'd ever imagined. He was inside me. He waited. Without moving anything, he waited. My mouth was open wide, the moans still oozing out of me, noises unfamiliar to me and completely erotic, my eyes open and tear-filled. Tears of absolute joy. He waited me out. He must have known that the entire body shock of being penetrated was a vastly overwhelming moment, and he kept perfectly still, allowing me to ride out those feelings, ride out that shock. He was patient. He was thoughtful. He was loving. He was biding his time, until he could truly begin his journey inside me. In real time, it probably only took a minute or two. It felt longer than that to me. Slowly, the jarring sensations I'd been going through began to ebb, replaced slowly by sensations of fullness. I was full of cock. I was so full of his cock. Finally, I just somehow innately knew that I was ready. Despite the newness of everything, especially the actual physical aspects of it, a switch went off in my head, letting me know everything was a-okay. I smiled at my lover. "NOW, MY LOVE," I bade him, "I'M READY!" He slowly and purposefully eased his cock almost all the way out of me, all the fibres and whorls of my internal flesh moving back slowly to where they'd started, back to where nature had originally set them. As the big bulbous head of his wet cock neared the outside world, he tilted his head up to the ceiling, and closed his eyes. "MY MUSE!" he whispered. Then he slammed himself back into me, as far as he could. Our bodies shook mightily at the collision. We both 'oomphed' out our breath. Then he withdrew again, almost all the way, and then pistoned back in to me, filling me again, the velocity of his attack touching me in ways that were thrilling and chilling. Each thrust and pull-back got just a little bit faster, a little bit more forceful, as he made love to me. Soon, he was bouncing into me, the bedframe creaking every time he bottomed out, every time his body slammed into mine, my skin rippling in parts, my bones rattling, his cock seeking out as much depth in me as he could. A few minutes later, and Howard became a machine. A fucking machine. He began pile-driving me. And make no mistake, I was encouraging it, both with my movements to meet his, manipulating my lower body to get as much of him in me as possible on every stroke, all of my actions automatic, as if I'd been fucked so many times before and knew what I was doing, and of course with my words. "FUCK ME FUCK ME FUCK ME FUCK ME." Unimaginative, I know. But it was how I felt. I'd never known the abject joy that could be had from a sexual congress like this. All my previous fun, which at the times they happened I considered wonderful, were so small to me now. They were like the childish fumblings and toyings of youth and inexperience. This, I realized, was what love-making should be. This, I knew, was what fucking should feel like. Yes, the complete surprise was that I was on the receiving end instead of the giving end, but that didn't matter. In fact, it was an epiphany. I had surrendered to my own muse. Sexuality. THIS IS WHAT I WANTED! Howard, bless his heart, was well-versed in the art of fucking, and had the staying power of an experienced man, unlike what I had demonstrated in my previous life. He kept fucking me, and fucking me. Pounding me. Pummelling me. Ramrodding me. And I loved it. Every second. THIS IS WHAT I NEED! THIS IS ME, AT MY MOST SEXUAL! It was a state of zen we were in. We were both throwing all caution to the wind, focussed on our joining to the exclusion of everyone and everything on the planet, literally casting off from the world and achieving true consciousness through the physical union. Making love. Fucking. Ten minutes later, Howard found another gear. Like throwing a switch, his body began moving faster. I was in almost complete oblivion before he ramped it up, my eyes rolling back in their sockets, all my responses completely natural, so when he suddenly started full-out total frenetic fucking me, I lost everything. I came like a fire hose. I spurted out my cum every which way. I screamed and screamed and screamed again. My fingernails dug into his skin, my legs clamped on him harder. My whole body convulsed and shook and I lost all sense of control of my insides. It was as if there was an explosion of warmth and energy inside me, churning like an earthquake at first, and then generating a tsunami of spasms and ripples, from deep down inside my belly. I'd never cum so hard ever. I worried I might cum to death, so violently encompassing was my blast. Howard just kept on fucking me. I didn't have time to wonder about how long he'd go for. I didn't want him to end. I knew, more than anything, for the first time in my life, that I was where the universe intended me to be. I was finally in my place. Howard pulled out of me suddenly, and flipped my entire body over onto my front. I controlled nothing. I was his to manipulate, any which way he wanted. He immediately laid on me, his body weight landing on me hard, and immediately entered me from behind. My ass rose up to meet him. I wanted him inside me, filling me. Then he got serious about his fucking of me. His mouth was next to my ear, as he pistoned his cock in and out my pussy. The sounds he was making were not words, or even recognizable grunts. They were a combination of both. Impromptu, and entirely flowing from his soul, matching the sounds I was making. He fucked me and he fucked me and he fucked me. It's hard to describe, just how night and day his sex was, as opposed to my sex with women in my past. He was long-lasting, and powerful, and loving, and unashamedly masculine. I, on the other hand, was none of those things. Not back then, with the half-dozen or so women I'd been with. And definitely not now. Now I was the feminine one, the one taking the cock, the one impelling him to be his masculine self, to be the man, to be the one doing the fucking. My energy was inspiring his. I was taking his cock, yes, but I was giving him the fucking of his life as well. I was his muse. When finally he neared the summit, he magically got even more forceful in his fucking of me. Faster, harder, more furious, more passionate. He flat-out fucked the life out of me. And I him. My little cock was being pounded into the mattress, and the sheets, as he bounced in and out of me, and like the last time, my orgasm didn't so much sneak up on me as it just exploded inside of me, out of nowhere. KABOOM! I thrashed about, my body acting on its own, driven by forces I was unfamiliar with but wanted to feel again and again for the rest of my life: total one-hundred-percent balls-to-the-wall ecstasy. Ecstasy. My explosion inspired his. He bit down on the back of my ear, and screamed out the loudest noise I'd ever heard, and his whole body started shaking and shimmying and quaking and rolling and rollicking, and as I lost my mind and started pulsing from the inside out, he lost his shit as well. As full as I was, full of his cock, full of his flesh, the roundness and length and girth of him, I felt instantly fuller, the weight of his liquid shooting inside me real and significant. I felt him cum in me. I felt his four or five spurts, his ropes of white creamy cum pooling in my innards, finding areas to run to, finding spaces to squeeze into, quickly changing from warm to cool. I could feel his cum inside of my channel, all while I was experiencing the most bone-jarring mind-numbing paradigm-shifting moment of my life. The most physically over-the-top sensation I'd ever had. Complete exhaustive euphoria. Howard lay on me for a long time, as we both got back to normal breathing. I had never felt more tired, and exhausted. And yet, I'd also never felt so full of energy, so teeming with joy. And lust. His voice was loud in my ear, even in a whisper. And it was quivering. "That...was...my god...so good." I murmured my agreement, and flexed my pussy hole around his cock, now losing some of its size, but still large and pulsing, the epitome of masculinity. His voice trembled again. "What I said before, about her, being the best fuck ever," he breathed out, "that was then, that was before you." I turned my head to look at him behind me. His eyes were burning with intensity. He looked like a lion, having captured and mounted his lioness, proud of himself, and already dreaming of the next fuck. We just eyed each other for moments on end. I could see how he was feeling. Love. Lust. Animal ferocity, combined with a deep emotional connection. "Tell me," he said, "tell me the truth. How you feel, how you feel about what we just did, what we just experienced together. Was it as amazing for you as..." I interrupted him. "It was the single most important event of my life," I told him, honestly, "the greatest moment of my life." I paused, to find the right words. "I think you've reborn me," I reflected, "it's like you've opened up a door I didn't know even existed, and I walked into this room, this space in the universe where nothing else matters except what we just did." The joy in his face made me warm. "I'm so glad." We kissed, softly, for a long time. Then he looked me in the eyes and got serious. "Now," he intoned, "now you have that just-fucked look on your face, now you pose for me!" He touched up my makeup. He found me a sheer negligee to wear, so long it actually swept the floor in my bare feet. But the material was so soft, and luxurious, and I wondered why I didn't own any clothing that made me feel so caressed, and loved. It was like wearing something that actually made you more comfortable than being naked. Howard's cock swung back and forth as he moved, and I wanted to touch in my hands, wrap my fingers around it, caress it, massage it, pull on it, and squeeze it. He rooted around in the closet, and came out with a pair of shoes for me to wear. Women's shoes, of course. In his paintings, she always wore low heels. The pair he held in his hands had stiletto heels that had to be at least four or five inches. "I want you to wear these," he said, his voice dripping with lust. I couldn't hide my concern. "Do you have anything shorter?" I asked. "I don't even know if I can stand up in those things." Howard giggled, and stooped down on one knee. Holding the right shoe in his hand, he took my right foot and slipped the shoe on, my toes squeezing a little bit in the pointed toe. He wrapped the strap around my ankle, pulled it tight, and found the little hole. I put my foot down on the floor, and slowly put all my leg pressure on it, and found myself suddenly five inches taller. Howard did my other foot. I wobbled a little bit, as he sat back and admired me. I was nervous, and worried about falling, but within a short while I found myself adapting my posture in little ways. Howard looked up at me. "I want you in those heels, because they totally change the angle of your foot, they push your calves up and make them stand out and make them sexy as hell, which makes your thighs flex forward a little, which is sexy as hell, which makes you push your ass out like that, which is really sexy as hell, which makes you arch your back and push out your tits, which is sexy as all hell, which makes you hold up your shoulders like that, proud as hell, and" he added, standing up fully erect opposite me, his cock swelling again, almost horizontal instead of hanging down, "all of that makes me want to seriously fuck you." The way he said "fuck you" was full of intent, and full of emotion. He let the words out slowly, and seriously. And I instantly knew it was an easy word to describe making love. The greatest love-making in the whole freaking history of love-making. "And," he continued, "that is how I have to feel, to paint." He held my hand, and led me back downstairs and through the house and out onto a beautiful deck with a gigantic hot tub and then across an immaculately groomed pathway to another building on the property. Much bigger than a shed, but smaller than a barn, it turned out to be an artists studio. Inside was a small bathroom, and a small bedroom, and one gigantic two-storey vaulted-ceiling workshop. At the far end of the huge room, were barn doors, that opened out towards his property, nothing but grass and trees and nature. And he'd need those doors, fully opened, to eventually move out his masterpiece. It dominated the room, the rest of the space filled with easels and canvasses and partly-finished paintings of all sorts. His vision was instantly obvious, and pain-stakingly detailed out, in his usual super realist style. It had to have been ten feet long, and close eight feet tall. It was a city scene, from almost anywhere. It was a Chinese New Year's parade. A celebration. The left part of the vast canvas showed most of a gigantic ceremonial lion, in blazingly bold reds and oranges and yellows, with multiple different pairs of legs underneath it. Around and in front of it, on the street, were the strings of little firecrackers you always see, some spent with just wispy smoke, others cracking off and blazing in little puffs of light and smoke. The right side of the painting was dominated by dancers, in their tunics and leggings, all of them in different parts of a moving dance routine, just like you'd see in a parade. In the background, on the sidewalk, were dozens of people. Most were Asian, but many weren't. There were adults and children and couples and groups and they were all crystal-clear and exact, just like in a digital photo. The smiles of the children, the oohs and aahs of the pedestrians, everything was perfect. Right in the middle of the gigantic space, was a pole. A light pole, presumably. And like every other light standard in every city in the world, it was covered from the ground up with posters for rock bands and their upcoming shows, or protests against any manner of things soon to occur. For such an amazingly busy city scene, Howard had left the exact middle of the painting sparse. Waiting for her. Then I swelled with pride. Waiting for me. There was a work table set up, just right of center. It was piled with paints and brushes and cloths. To its left, was the bottom part of a portable basketball pole. The backboard and hoop were missing. I looked at Howard, as he watched me taking it all in. He smiled, that boyish grin of a naughty kid revelling in his naughtiness. "The guys from the store who delivered it couldn't believe it when I told them I just wanted the pole, and not the backboard or the net," he explained, giggling, "they must have thought I was a crazy old man!" He was almost giddy. He walked me closer to the pole. "Imagine," he said, a devilish grin on his face, "that this pole is your lover. The man who just made love with you. The man who just fucked you. You can feel his cum right now sliding out of that sweet pussy of yours, some of it dripping down your skin, slowly, and some of it falling out to the floor." He pointed at the pole. "Show him you love him." Never having done this before, I somehow knew what he was suggesting. I smiled at him, and moved two steps to the pole. I took a deep breath, and let the memories of the last hour wash all over me, bringing me back to those moments. Especially the ones where I was so overwhelmed with the passion and fury of our love-making that I achieved my Zen, lost in the sensations, not knowing or caring about anything except being fucked. I spun on my heels, and faced Howard. I backed up, with my ass stuck out, and felt the coldness of the metal pole touch my cheeks, more or less parting them slightly. "I'd be standing like this, just daydreaming out the window, nothing on my mind except how amazing it felt being fucked by you," I said, "and you'd come up behind me, your fucking amazing cock dead center of my cheeks, and then I'd arch my back and stretch my arms and hands up and back behind me, to pull your head close to me, close to my neck, next to my ear." So I was standing there, my ass stuck out and trying to inhale the pole, my tits thrust out, my jaw stuck out and prominent, my head slightly turned and slightly back, my arms behind the pole. I stood for a few moments, re-living being fucked. Remembering how wildly insane it felt to be opened up, my body literally being pushed apart from the inside, his fantastic cut cock slamming in and out of me. "How is this?" I breathed out, slowly. Howard's voice was throaty, and breathy. "Don't move a muscle," he whispered, "please?" I peeked open my right eye, and watched him, as he took a brush off his work table and wiped it with a cloth and then started squirting out some paints onto a hand-held palette. His cock was harder and longer than before. It looked like it might be so hard it hurt him. He turned to look at me, paintbrush at the ready. "You are my muse," he said. "Is this how you want me?" I asked. "YES!" his voice snapped. Then his voice got very low, and very quiet. "Just like that. Look at you. You so make me want to fuck you." He painted. He also took some digital photos, from a variety of angles, so that he could still work even when I needed a break. He asked me several times, but I always declined to stop. After two hours, he asked if I needed a break and this time I said yes. "You do?" he asked. "Yes," I said, unwinding from the pose, and walking towards him, on my stiletto heels, the crack of them hitting the concrete floor reverberating through the studio. "I need some inspiration of my own," I whispered. When I got close to him, I slowly got down on my knees, keeping my back straight and my chest pointed at him, and I looked up into his eyes, as my right hand reached out and wrapped around his cock, once again iron- rod straight and pointed straight up, several drops of clear shiny pre- cum oozing out of his pee-hole. Then I took his cock head into my lips, into my mouth. His shit-eating grin was back. I'd never sucked a cock before. I'd never even considered it. Now, I couldn't think of one single thing I wanted more. I had no idea how to do it. Perhaps that helped me. I just did what felt sexy for me. It felt loving, for me. Maybe because I have one I innately knew what the blowjob giver should do. All I know is I loved every freaking second of it, after a few minutes getting to the point where I could get most of him in me, more and more each time, but not yet all the way. And I found myself wanting to do it, wanting to learn how to totally eliminate this gag reflex of mine, and to take him entirely into my throat. My lips up against his body. As much of his cock as possible in my mouth, just like I'd taken him in my pussy. We kept each other inspired, for days. I called in sick to work the next morning, and advised them I was taking all my built-up vacation days as of that moment. Howard and I created art together. When I wasn't posing, or being fucked to hell and back, I lounged on his patio, or in the hot tub. Every couple of days he'd have a bunch of food delivered from a local grocery store. When his small stash of the finest weed I'd ever had got low, he had some more of that delivered too. Two weeks to the day later the painting was finished, and the potential buyer, a very secretive and rich man, was flying in to see it, and to work out the final price. Howard told me he was going to ask for half a million dollars. I woke up that morning out of the most beautiful dream, one where I was getting fucked to the heavens, made love to by a master, awoken as it turns out by Howard making love to me like a master, spooned up behind me, my left cheek on his forearm, his cock spearing me, opening me again and again and again. "Good morning, Desiree," he breathed out, "good morning, my darling." I hummed a huge delightful hum. What a way to start my day! "Good morning to you, my sexy darling!" He was sinking himself into me, bit by bit. It was always so gloriously and excruciatingly delightful, the dance to full penetration. Even after all the fucking we'd done in a fortnight, each new thrust still felt like the first ever. Shocking. Earth-shattering. Beyond anything else in the universe. Then his phone rang. It was nearby, so he reached over and grabbed it, never stopping from his primary task, which was to make love to me. That, we both knew. He looked at the screen, and recognized the number. Then he touched the screen, and I saw the light change on his face up and behind me, and he smiled the most wonderful smile, his eyes warm, and he said loudly , "Hello my sweetie!" Ingrid. In Amsterdam. For a second I thought he'd stop his motions, pull out of me, and have a conversation with his wife. He didn't. He just kept fucking me. While doing Facetime with his wife. Her voice had an accent to it, like you hear in movies. French, perhaps. I'd never met her or talked to her, obviously, so I had no idea at all, but her voice sounded strained, here and there. Or, maybe not strained, maybe just active somehow. They said hello and how good it was to see you and I miss you and all the usual things people say. Then he asked her what time it was, and she told him, some ungodly hour in the early morning there, and he asked her why she wasn't in bed. She said she was. He laughed, and said, "I meant asleep, sweetie." She laughed. "I know, my angel, I know. Anyway," she paused, "I'm in bed, but I'm not sleeping yet. Right now Lisette is making me happy." I heard Howard murmur, and his deep voice said "oooooh!" Ingrid said, "you want to see?" And then I assume she pointed her phone down, because Howard suddenly blurted out, "OH FUCK!" and then a few seconds later turned the phone to me, so I could see. Splayed between Ingrid's legs was a young woman, probably in her early twenties. She had pale skin and freckles and red hair, pulled into a pony tail at the back. Her face was only partially viewable, since Ingrid had a really hairy bush, and because Lisette must have had her tongue buried all the way inside the older woman's pussy. Suddenly Lisette pulled her head back, and smiled at the camera. Her lower face was shiny and slick. The tip of her nose was shiny and slick. Her tongue came out and she cleaned off her own lips. Then she turned to look up at Ingrid. Then a glassy look came over her eyes, and then she went right back to eating pussy. Suddenly the picture changed, as Ingrid turned her own phone, and the view went up her body, past her breast, with a gigantic nipple the color of raspberries, and then to her face, where she saw me, and instantly burst into a huge grin. "Oh! Hello! You must be Desiree?" I flushed with redness from embarrassment. Or maybe because Howard found the next gear up and started really fucking me again, rocking us both. "Hi," was all I could think of to say, trying not to allow my eyeballs to roll up in my head, while I put the 'VACANT' sign on my face, because he was starting to make me lose my grip on reality again, the way he can when he seats that cock of his in my pussy. "It's so nice to meet you," she said, her eyes full of mirth and glee. "I'm so happy you're taking such good care of my Howard. Did you see Lisette?" Before I could say yes, she panned the phone down her body again, and Lisette stopped her cunnilingus long enough to focus on my face. "Comment ca va?" she asked. I knew it meant 'how are you', more or less. I used the only French words I actually knew. "C'EST MAGNIFIQUE!" Lisette chuckled, and then went back to her oral sex. Panning back up, Ingrid appeared again, and started to say something, but then stopped, and looked at me, curiously. Then a few seconds of observation, and then she started grinning like Howard does sometimes. Fully out there. No walls. "Is he fucking you right now, my love?" she asked. I nodded, and breathed out the wispiest "YES!" Her eyes closed, slowly. It looked like she was remembering past times with Howard. "My Howard, he is good, yes?" I laughed out loud, blurted out my joy. "The best!" She smiled, and then she started breathing in and out furiously, and the phone call soon ended, because, as Howard said to his wife, "I really have to fuck her now!" He did. Better than ever before. A few hours later, I was in the small bedroom, with the door slightly cracked, listening to Howard and his patron, as they talked about the painting, and as they haggled on the price. I could hear some of what the man said. He looked like he was from the Middle East, or the Mediterranean, dark-skinned and swarthy, with a huge tuft of hair poking up out of his shirt collar. He was taller than Howard, and heavier. He oohed and aahed and complimented the artist. I heard him say at one point that, "she is lovelier than all the other paintings in the collection!" and then I heard him laugh uproariously when Howard said something quite quietly. I got the strange impression that he'd said something about how good a fuck I am. The man finally agreed on four hundred thousand for the painting, but only after Howard assured him that he could have first right of refusal for the next collection, which Howard was going to get started on immediately, which would be a series of paintings with me having sex. He promised they would be brutally frank, and x-rated. "Desiree, in all her glory," Howard exhorted, "shining like a meteor in the sky, getting fucked every which way there is." The patron seemed to like the idea. My little cock sprang to full attention. My mind started swirling with ideas for poses. All of them involved me, being made love to, being fucked. I am his Muse. The End.