Unknown - Posed For Pleasure

She has good reason to smile, he tells himself, because he is very good at this-good and enthusiastic, this being the most creative thing he has done since his last exhibition, the Darlene exhibit, gaining him money he doesn’t need, perpetuating a fame of which he cares nothing, and leaving him empty, drained, devoid of ideas and enthusiasm alike.

Because, in the end, what is art but symbol and substitute for the real thing-like all the rest of human endeavor, he tells himself, had we but the courage to face ourselves, to know ourselves for the big-brained beasts we are.

From time to time, Armand feels sad, depressed that this should be the case, that, for him, all the rest of it is nothing more than lying to ourselves; that outside ourselves, there is only darkness, emptiness, nothingness.

But, he reminds himself, he has not fared too badly in this vale of tears, in which he weeps for paradise lost, paradise that never was.

He is big, strong, wealthy, respected-and right now, sticking it up the ass of a beautiful, intelligent, conniving bitch who is not going to make out worth a damn.

Well, not true, exactly, he tells himself, admiring the shape of her back as he leans back to check the connection, the juncture, noting with satisfaction the ease with which his long, thick cock feeds in and out of her nether orifice, now become a toothless mouth which sucks his cock as he continues to plow in and out of her ass.

Enlightenment, insight, truth, however unpleasant, is never without value.

So that Jessica Farnham, graduate student, is about to earn a bit of life experience credit, as soon as Armand tires of her.

Right now, of course, he can see them going a fair way together-especially if she and he stick to their custom of the once a week, after the lecture gettogether.

This way, they don’t get used to one another.

This way, they continue on in their other worlds, Armand’s the world of the gym, hers, presumably, the academic world.

Where there are-people.

Armand smiles to himself, imagining Jessica in bed with her boyfriend, a fellow graduate student and pseudo-intellectual, no doubt, discussing with him the Armand project.

In which she inspires Armand Fortuna to yet another burst of creativity, in which she actually causes him, against his original intentions but helpless in the face of (her) overwhelming inspiration, to set up canvas, to take brush in hand and to capture her in her many moods, for all the world to see and be enthralled.

So that her own creations will have the stamp of authentic artistic merit because, after all, Armand Fortuna has seen fit to paint her, to “do” her, over and over, one mood after another, one manifestation of her many-sided, versatile, ever changing personality after another.

So that her works will be sought after.

So that critics will see in them what isn’t even there.

So that she will appear on talk shows on public television, or maybe even Oprah (“women who pose nude for Armand Fortuna and become famous”), and be so rich that she won’t have to give a shit what anybody thinks.

Yes, Armand can see her now, building the edifice of her own greatness, one tier after another, a veritable tower of Babel (Jessica spoken here)-and, like that tower, destined to remain forever unfinished, falling into disrepair before disappearing forever beneath the sands of time and the fading of memory, his and her own.

But if she is building and building now, then so is he. Except that he is building a full head of steam.

He feels a moment of viciousness, as though he would really like to hurt her for her remark concerning his virility or possible lack thereof.

Here ya go, babe, he wants to say to her, in action, not words, how’s this grab ya for proof positive of what he has to offer?

This virile, this manly, this macho enough for ya?

Stupid, he tells himself, the macho bullshit.

Maybe macho originally meant stupid, in fact.

Certainly, every macho man he ever knew was a total ass hole. Speaking of which-he concentrates on the work at hand, varying his motion now, rolling his hips, feeling his cock rotate its internal pressure, in the sleeve of her rectum, which it, which he stretches and fills.

And now, he holds onto one of her hips, reaching down and around with his other hand to weigh her breasts, hanging big and heavy, beneath her, thumbing the nipples as he does so.

And yes, he possesses her completely-even as, in her mind, he surmises, she is possessing him, is manipulating, is maneuvering him.

And Armand wonders what the female equivalent of macho is, thinking that, whatever it is, Jessica is surely full of it, and that it goes as badly with her as it would with any man.

His free hand explores the curves of her body, squeezing here, lingering there, as though to memorize the details of her body.

Fine with her, no doubt, Armand reflects, fine that he should be so taken, so entranced with her that he must come to know intimately every nook and cranny of her specific being.

And she hasn’t got a clue that what he is actually doing is confirming quite the opposite, is firming up in his own mind-once again-the unstinting reality of nature’s bounty.

As her body confirms the very opposite of what she intends, telling Armand, telling him beyond argument, beyond the shadow of a doubt that she is as one poured from a gelatin mould-delicious, delightful in and of herself and, as though that were not enough, as an added feature for his delight, there are plenty more where she came from. So very delectable, so very disposable, is Jessica. Fully expendable like fucking toilet paper.

And he masks an involuntary chuckle at this last, thinking of her indignation, if only she knew what he is thinking.

Ah, but she is good, he tells himself. Or rather, she would be, but for the rest of the package, but for that load of shit she carries around in her head.

He would have no problem in keeping her around, really, but for her ambition.

He is a lazy guy, actually, and she an adequate means of his working off any buildup in his libido, which buildup has been, is exacerbated by his absence of any creative activity.

Of course, it could be argued that he is creating himself, with his almost daily visits to the gym.

And he does belong to Buck’s, which is, after all, the hardcore iron pumper’s establishment of choice; still, he knows himself, knows his own creative intensity, thus knows that he is not approaching what, in theory, should be his greatest creation with the attitude he has come to expect of himself.

Rather, he is timid, is cautious, and is encouraged in this by the manager of the place, who seems determined to treat him like some sacred relic, anxious lest he so much as stub his toe in the locker room.

The celebrity member treatment, Armand knows, understands, but Stan really carries it too far.

So that Armand, like a lot of the other guys who work out there, has signed up for an appointment with Rhino, the training director of the whole franchise, for a conference, one on one, to discuss his whole training regimen, from routine to diet to rest.

And Armand is hoping that will work, that it will somehow inspire him to the same enthusiasm in his exercise routine that he had in his painting, when the spirit was full upon him.

Later for all that, he tells himself,, as he redoubles his efforts, humping away in Jessica’s ass.

His free hand delves now, between her legs, down and around, to the point that he can feel his own balls and, right in front of them, Jessica’s joy buzzer.

So that now, he is titillating her, is twiddling her twat, is cuddling her clit between two fingers, her clear, hot juices flowing freely over his knuckles.

So that her cunt, pushed forward, displaced by the mighty marauder which services her rectum is doubly stimulated, inside and out.