Unknown - Posed For Pleasure

Jessica says nothing, actually preceding him up the short flight of stairs to his apartment-a one-room affair with kitchen alcove and bathroom.

“How can you-I mean why do you still uh… live like this?”

“D’you have to know everything, Jessica?”

“Sorry. Just, I thought, with what you must have amassed by now-never mind.

Like you say, it’s none of my affair.”

“Bathroom’s through-”

“I see it.”

And Jessica begins removing her clothing at once, casually, unselfconsciously.

Amused, Armand follows suit.

When they are both naked, she says, “Excuse me,” and closets herself in the bathroom, whence Armand can hear the water running.

When she emerges, it’s his turn.

Coming out, he sees her on the bed, stripped of its covers, just lying there on her side, awaiting him.

“Ooh, muscles!” she exclaims, fingering his. abdominals, protruding but well defined.

“Yes, I spend quite a bit of time at the gym these days,” he says.

Telling her that he is painting nothing at the moment, that he might not ever again so much as touch a brush.

Telling her that he is living here still, not because he has to, but because here is where the memories of his creativity linger, the ghosts of his inspiration.

And he resides among them, waiting for the lightning to strike once again, anticipating the moment and dreading it for what it will demand of him, what it will take out of him.

A long time since he has had a woman up here, he reflects, as he begins to explore her body with hands and mouth, squeezing her breasts with both hands as he feeds them to himself one at a time while she is content to lie back and passively receive his attentions.

Very well endowed indeed, she is, he notices.

She is one of those women who, for some reason, seem to have much less to offer with their clothes on than with them off.

And now, he browses her flesh with lips and tongue and teeth, chewing his way gently down, down, down to her bush.

Which he engulfs with a wide bite, head turned sideways as he raises and spreads her legs, holding them thus, bent at the knee, hands on the backs of her thighs.

As he makes a meal of her cunt, strumming her joy buzzer with the flickering tip of his tongue, and now tongue-fucking her, shafting the long, thick, powerful appendage in and out of her hot, juicy depths, tongue in contact with her die at all times.

And she is right and she is wrong, he thinks.

Because he does have this faculty-given a certain quality of female raw material with which to work-of turning his partner of the moment into an object of physical adulation, losing himself in her, exciting himself by means of her, revelling in her simply being there, as though he is some convict with his very first woman after having served a very long celibate sentence, perhaps~ after having celibacy be the sentence.

So that there is a passion at work here, an unmistakable hunger, an ardent enthusiam whose genuineness is indisputable.

And Jessica looks down at the top of Armand’s busily working head and smiles, radiant in her self-confidence now, seeing here an opportunity for- never mind, she cautions herself. Time enough later for all that.

For the moment, she had best stick to this phase of the project.

And the best way to do that, she realizes, is to simply let herself go, to surrender to the flood of lascivious sensation which wells up within herself, to simply let it come, devoid of all ulterior motive.

Even now, Armand’s cock twitches to turgid, vibrant life-easily, automatically, no strain at all, as always.

So that now, he pulls his face back from her crotch, sitting back, haunches to heels, cock bobbling stiffly before him, rising from his thatch. at a steep, upward angle, the knob bulbous, the shaft long, thick, rock-hard.

And now, he is on her and in her, his cock shafting into the warm, pressurized moisture of her hot pussy in one smooth movement.

And now, he is scooping her thighs up from beneath, doubling her up, impaling her on his cock, foreshortening her pussy on it, arms holding her thus as his hands once again grasp her big boobs.

So that he is sucking the doorbells of her nipples, making them firmly erect, even as the piston action of his cock turns her pussy into a sucking, clinging mouth.

So that now they are rising together, up, up, up the rainbow of their shared arousal, becoming hotter and hotter, their faces and upper bodies reddening with the engorged blood of their thoroughly aroused passion.

This is his favorite position, Armand realizes. He is above her and below her, inside and outside her, all around her.

He has enveloped her in his maleness.

And she is right; he is a male chauvinist, and yes, the pig epithet can well be added as well.

Because he wants tits and pussy and legs and bod and he could really care less what is the personality, what are the thought processes behind these.

And yes, he is shallow, has always been shallow, has deceived himself whenever he pretended otherwise.

Because this, this! is all there is, he realizes. And the rest-all the rest-is bullshit. His reason for being here with her tonight? He just wanted a piece of ass, is all. And the rest, the buildup has importance, meaning, value to him only to the extent that it worked, in that it produced that which he wanted, that which he had been missing for so long.

Because this is all there is, all that matters-so that it will simply have to do, will have to be adequate, will have to satisfy the emptiness, the voids in his existence.

And the creature of the moment is adequate to the purpose-again, as usual, as always.

If he is up to it?

My dear, these days, Armarnd tells her in silence, this is all that I am up to!

Certainly, he is not up to picking up a brush or even a piece of charcoal and doing something, anything with it.

But this, this! he can do, is doing, is carrying to fruition now, as he comes and comes, injecting wad after wad of his pent-up load in and in and into her, in counterpoint to the convulsive spasms of her series of multiple orgasms as she too climaxes, soaring with him through the thrilling realms of a shared sexual paradise, not separating until their last orgasmic twinge passed, they land back on earth.

“Let us-let me-speak tonight about the data of reality.

“A redundancy, I suppose, we could call that expression; after all, that which is data is by definition real.

It is real-but it is not selective.

“Data, ladies and gentlemen, cannot select itself, you see; only we, we creative artists, we geniuses, we masters of taste and discretion may accomplish this.

“Now, some of you have seen fit to heckle me-”

Pause to listen to protests, denials from his audience, until, smiling, Armand holds up his hand, saying, “No, no, it’s quite all right. This is a constructive, non-disruptive type of heckling, coming from. the students and faculty of the computer graphics curriculum here at this distinguished institution of higher learning.

“They have taken the time and trouble to prepare for us a little demonstration of the interface between art and reality.”

“Lights, please.”

The lights are dimmed.

On the screen above the chalk board, a blank screen appears.

Lines, black on white begin to emerge, travel, proliferate.

“This is what I believe is called wire outline drawing. Notice, in this case, that it is of the painting, ‘Irene I’.

“It will go through several enhancements, becoming by degrees more and more realistic-”

Colors appear, flat planes at first, then crudely shaded, the shading becoming more and more subtle and detailed until a fairly creditable, three-dimensional representation of ‘Irene I’ is achieved.