Unknown - Posed For Pleasure

And they are coming and coming, the pumping pistons causing each other to push out the jism from alternating orifices, quickly forming rings of pearlescent jism around the twin junctures as twinge after exquisite, irresistible twinge of Jessica’s series of multiple orgasms convulses her, the meat in a sandwich of grunting, sweating, heaving meat.

Which humps and pumps and squirts and slips and slides ever so slowly to an overheated, panting halt.

And Armand, businesslike, pulls back, his cock sliding out of Jessica’s ass hole, and goes into the bathroom, washing his cock at the sink, then drying it briskly on a towel, encountering Jessica and Steve on their way in.

Armand positions himself promptly in the bed, ready to be bottom man for round two, playing with his cock, feeling it begin to respond before releasing it, lest he do too much of Jessica’s work for her.

And now, he closes his eyes as the two of them emerge from the bathroom and Jessica dives on top of him, seeming eager to suck his cock-or to have Mister Galaxy servicing her ass.

“We have ranged from the notion of art as imagination realized to the materials of which it is physically constructed.

“So that it must seem to you-hopefully, it does seem to you-that we have taken this subject, aesthetics, in some logical order, showing you that which is aesthetic, or what we would term artistic success, as well as that which is not and which therefore, by the same standard of judgment, is a failure.

“Using computerized examples of partial and total failure, thereby depersonalizing such characterization, we have seen the underlying character of art revealed for what it is from the objective standpoint, which is-much to the delight of the computer people-information.

“We live in the so called information age, ladies and gentlemen, so called because there’s so damn much of it around.

“SO that the world, our world is, In macrocosm, confronted by the same problem which has beleaguered art-man’s compulsion, man’s inner need to seek it out, to create it, to understand it since time immemorial-in the face of this floodtide of information which, moment by moment, inundates and permeates us.

“How sad that we cannot all, like Michelangelo, perceive the statue hidden within the block of marble.

“No, to us, most of us, I dare say all of us these days, the world is one large, unyielding mass of uniform, uniform.,. give me the word.”

“Garbage!”

“Crap!”

“Scrap!”

“Junk!”

“Thank you. I think we all get the idea.

“Yes, ladies and gentlemen, it’s true; never has there been so much bad stuff around as there is today.

“Artlessness, Pseudo-art. Pre-art, which will never live up to its own potential, this last the saddest of all, perhaps. And beyond that environments, segments of our society, whole societies in our world, in which the aesthetic has vanished, is lost, art and the possibility of art extinct as the dinosaur.

“Wrong compilations of information, compilations of wrong Information, meaning that which precludes the exercise of the imagination in the creative mode.

“Consider simpler ages and times-the art of the caveman, of ancient Egypt, of Greece, of Rome, of the Aztec and the Maya.

“There, there! is art, is undoubted art, is art to be contemplated, wondered at, thought about, absorbed, remembered.

“Where Is art, where is the artistic community to be found nowadays? “Remember the Realists? Remember the Impressionists? The Surrealists? “Where is the school of artistic thought to be found today, ladies and gentlemen? “Who are its founders, its gurus, its practitioners, both pure and heretical? “What is its name, for crissakes?”

“You have no answer to that, nor do I, because there is none! “If art Is Information, and we live in the information age, then one could logically conclude, could one not, that art is everywhere.

“But in light of what has just been said, one could as well be drawn to quite the opposite conclusion, which is that art is nowhere to be found, outside of museums, the message being that true art is a thing of the past.

“SO then, what do we have? Art is everywhere and art is nowhere. Which is my theme tonight.

“Let us examine four terms.

“We have-let me put them up as we go here-ornamental, beneath which we put functional, and beside these, aesthetic-that word again-and below it, ugly, by which is intended not necessarily the traditional term but rather that which does in fact offend the eye.

“Our methodology here will be to combine either or both these first two features with first the aesthetic, then the ugly, and thereby move from the discussion of what the aesthetic is to that of where it can be found in the contemporary world.

“So, taking the first of our combinations, we see very quickly that…”

Jessica cannot believe it, cannot believe that the man she sees down there lecturing, his audience banging on his every word, is the same, the same… animal who last week did what he did with her, with her and Steve, who is, who is-right over there, dammit, his attention as rapt as that of the most ardent art geek in the crowd.

Her mind drifts back, the scene before her eyes, Armand in his tweedy sportcoat with the suede patch elbows and insert from lapel to right breast gesticulating with the chalk, fades from her vision.

She was riding Armand’s prick, Steve-Mister Galaxy himself-sucking her ass hole now, preparatory to insertion, which was very efficiently effected.

So that now, Steve was top man.

It was Steve’s big prick reaming her ass hole now, while Armand lay on the bottom, helpless but aroused, unable to move but being acted upon with ultimate lascivous result clearly in the offing.

As Steve rode and rode, muscles no doubt strutted and bulging, form following function as he drove the three of them higher and higher up the rainbow.

Onward and upward! Excelsior!

And she could see Armand looking over her shoulder, even as he sucked one tit while fondling both breasts, could see him looking-at Steve.

So that there was a communication between them at work here-Armand and Steve, that is.

Central to the action, it was as though she were not really there, as if her presence were somehow arbitrary, if only in the sense that it could be any girl, any woman here, given certain minimum standards-in other words, the criteria which had given him Irene, had given Irene fame and fortune- were in full force, but in a context which could do her no conceivable good.

It could be argued, she knew, that out there, in the real world were millions of women who would give all they had to be in bed with Armand Fortuna-and another several millions, perhaps even more, who would be have been similarly ecstatic to have hit the sheets with Mister Galaxy.

But, as fate would have it, it fell to her, whose plans and intentions, whose goals and desires lay utterly elsewhere, to be the hour of the hour.

She was of no more significance to them than would have been the track, had they been running a footrace, or the pool in which they would try to out swim each other.

She was, in short, apiece of athletic equipment.

And how she resented, how she still resents Armand!

Because he has betrayed her, has treated her in a manner in which, perhaps, she deserves to be treated; but how could he possibly know?

Unless-could it be?

Because face it, the man is an intellectual giant, no question.

So that it is entirely possible, is it not, that he was, has been on to her right along, seeing very well what she is after, and using her as, on a much grander scale, she intended to use him.

Except that, right then, there was no humor to Armand, but rather a determination to win, to prove to Steve that he, Armand, was the better man where it counts.