Unknown - Posed For Pleasure

Who is interacting with the world, even as he is strumming her joy buzzer with his tongue, titillating it, stimulating it.

And she responds, her hopes become once more vague, formless, but still alive, their very nebulousness giving her cause for renewed determination, as she tells herself, Okay, it’s back to Plan A.

He must paint!

He must paint in a manner somehow related to her, the process of his renewed creativity in some very real fashion directly, intimately, actively involving her.

The book is low priority time-wise? So much the better!

That way, it will not interfere with his output when the lightning, the true lightning, the lightning of his painterly creativity strikes; when she causes it to strike.

All she has to do is hang in there. Meaning here.

If she can do that, if she can stay as close to him as she is, then surely, she can see to it that she is-involved.

Besides, the “My Life with” book idea isn’t half bad.

Let Armand give away his profits. Let the ass holes at the university limit the edition instead of making it the best seller she would have.

If push comes to shove, if she can’t make it any other way, then yes, hell yes, she’ll put in enough time with Armand to have something to write about and yes, even to talk about.

Oprah, here I come!

That’s right, Armand, she tells him in her mind, thaat’s right, as he warms to his task, as he makes a meal of her cunt and she lets herself go with the flow, lets her body respond to his avid attentions, lets herself feel primitive, primal, primordial, a big brained beast, that brain devoted exclusively to the apprehension of the lascivious sensations which permeate her body, which surge through it again and again like sexual electricity.

Because it doesn’t have to be Armand.

Armand is arbitrary to her sexual needs.

He is well built, well hung, generally virile enough, but so what?

Many others are as well-younger others, for that matter, Mister Galaxy.

Yes, that’s right, folks, she and Mister Galaxy have made it, have made it over and over, have made it straight and kinky-that will make a particularly juicy episode in her book, she reminds herself- coming out of her animalistic mode just long enough to make that note to herself for future reference.

So that she is walking out of this far from empty handed.

She will succeed, if not beyond her wildest dreams, then certainly in accordance with them.

Fame and fortune come in many flavors, after all, and she’s not all that particular.

Notoriety, if accompanied by wealth, is certainly even, acceptable; if she can’t live with Armand, then at least she can live with that.

So yes, hell yes, why not?

Why not let herself go, surrendering to Armand who-does-not-have-to-be-Armand?

Because it is to her own sensations, to the sensuous, voluptuous, erotic awareness of herself, as delineated by Armand’s ever-working tongue to which she gives in, in which she reposes full confidence.

She is what she is and not otherwise, and what she is is more than satisfactory to herself, is more than deserving of the sexual attentions lavished upon it by reality, by the world through its arbitrary, temporary representative of the moment.

Who does not have to be Armand, does not have to be a genius, does not have to be in any way outstanding or even special.

Who is merely required to be adequate.

And now, Armand is pulling his face back.

And now, Armand is sticking his cock in.

And Jessica closes her eyes, the cynical part of her mind finding it amusing to picture Armand’s reaction if only he knew what she really thought of him right now.

He would probably so hurt, so insulted that his cock would go instantly limp.

Which, she reminds herself, would not be worth it.

Because raising herself up, up, up the rainbow of her pleasure is more important, far more important, than putting him down.

So yes, let him have his fun-his eyes closed fun, she appends looking at him, seeing that his orbs are in fact shut, shut tightly, in fact, brows knit, concentrating on whatever vision is taking place on the viewscreen of his mind.

Yes and yes and yes! she tells herself, using him as he is using her.

Yes to the floodtide of lascivious sensation which even now sweeps over her, inundating, permeating her with its tingling intensity.

Yes to the future, to the health and beauty and youth which enables her to enjoy it.

And yes to herself, to her own greamess, to her fame and fortune which, dammit, this fucking bastard is going to help her attain, like it or not, intend it or not.

So that now, they hover at the summit, at the peak of their capacity to contain the pleasure which continues to generate itself within them both, with every thrust of his mighty marauder, with every contraction of her snapping pussy.

And now, they are coming and coming, her pussy milking him of wad after wad of his thick, hot, copious jism, her voluntary contractions now replaced by the automatic reflexes of her series of multiple orgasms.

Thus do they ascend together to separate sexual paradises, thus do they zoom and soar independently of one another-only to merge physically as they descend slowly back to earth, where Armand pulls his monster out of her at once and strides into the bathroom, not looking back at her.

“The creative process and the role of accident,” Armand announces, pausing to allow the audience to take down the rather lengthy statement and title of the evening’s lecture.

“Once again, I have asked the computes people to assist me. Lights, please.”

The large-scale computer screen projection shows up on the screen above the chalkboard, barely visible, dark grey on almost black.

“A series of randomized points-random as to location, random as to color-is given a certain amount of time to appear on the screen, mirror imaged four ways, in four quadrants touching at the center of the screen.

“The resultant image, a not very exciting series of symmetrical dots-you see it there, ho-hum and like that-appears, there is a momentary pause as this image is captured by the program, and the screen goes blank.

“We next see this image being dragged across the screen diagonally one way, forming an elaborately striped multi-colored ribbon-“And here we see it coming down the opposite way to form a sort of X shape.

“But watch, just watch what happens where they converge!”

Appreciative oohing and aahing from the audience.

“Here we see a design, intricate, elaborate, worthy of the centerpiece of the finest Persian rug!”

“Let’s isolate that image-”

And the excess of the diagonals is removed from the diamond shape of the design at the center of the screen.

“-and there you see it, ladies and gentlemen, a design which was not planned, which could not be predicted, the output of a controlled accident.

“Lights, please.”

“Now, I could have belabored the point, causing further exclamations of surprise and delight, by causing the screen to fill with the unique, decorative pattern, a sort of gift wrap effect.

“Or I could have made it into a frame, then put words of wisdom within, creating a sort of computerized needlepoint.

“But the point is, we have just seen an example of the use of accident in the creative process.

“And so it is, in all artistic creation! “Let us, however, define this particular accident.

“Aristotle tells us that to define a thing means to say to what class of things it belongs and then to say how it differs from the others of its class-a refining process which, pursued ad infinitum, would lead us from the universe to the smallest atom thereof.

“I submit to you that we define as accident the effect upon ourselves of the difference between what we had envisioned and what in point of fact eventuated from our creative efforts.