Unknown - Posed For Pleasure

So that it doesn’t take very long at all before she is right up there with him on the scale, the ladder, the rainbow which leads ever upward, toward the ultimate pleasure.

So that now, they are rising together, level after level, breaking through to vista after vista of lascivious, sensation, each grander than the one before.

Hotter and hotter they become, the slap of abdomen against protruding buttocks, all of them coated now with sexual sweat, resounding again and again off the cinderblock walls of Armand’s apartment within his loft.

Faster and faster the slaps come, one after the other until now, they sound like the applause of a single enthusiastic voyeur.

Because Armand has summoned the pleasure beyond pleasure from within both their innermost depths, has united them in the grip of that which is far greater than themselves.

And it has taken them over, is jerking them this way and that, only Armand’s grip on her hip and that of her rectum on his cock keeping them joined now, his fingers, slippery with pussy juice remaining on station only with great difficulty.

As the pressure of the greatest human experience exerts itself upon their safety valves-and blows them.

So that they are coming and coming now, her pussy’s orgasmic contractions milking his fingers of all the pleasure they contain for her, of that pleasure far beyond what she herself can contain.

Even as Armand is spurred to frenetic, irregular activity by the ultimate pleasure, which manipulates him like a puppet on invisible strings, Wad after wad of his jism he injects into the depths of her hot bowels, as her cunt continues to milk his ever-working fingers so awkwardly curled down and around beneath them both.

And thus do they ride out the celestial storm of unadulterated sexual rapture.

And, when they land back in the bed, Armand rides her all the way down,’ fully inserted.

And thus do they lie there, bearded cheek to smooth, breathing the same air as their bodies seek to recover normal temperature and respiration, he glued to her by their common surface of still flowing sexual Sweat.

As his mighty monolith of monster meat slowly detumesces within the sleeve of her rectum until, at last, it is sufficiently flaccid that the peristaltic action of her bowels expels him, a long, thick, smooth turd.

And their minds return to their bodies, return to their normal executive functioning within them.

And they separate mentally, even as they have separated physically and their thoughts become once more their own.

True, she tells herself, she gave him her ass, an act of abject surrender; but true as well that he rimmed her, and not in some hesitant or perfunctory manner, either.

And this is their second date, following a preset and therefore recognizable-and recognized-pattern.

What he does with his days, with his other nights, well, that is something over which she has no control, nor has she any intention of driving herself crazy over this gap, this lacuna, this imponderable within her plans.

Enough, sufficient to the program that they are here now, like this, as she has every reason to believe they will be ‘next week-especially after what is generally recognized as the ultimate intimacy.

Because to take it in the ass is to have the other person physically enter the very core of one’s being, is it not?

And surely this is not something lightly done, lightly given, lightly received-especially not in the case of so avid a rimmer as Armand who, for all his fame and fortune sucked her butt as thoroughly and yes, as lovingly as would have any sophomore-or sophomoric-undergrad.

So yes, hell yes she has him.

Too soon to stake her claim, of course-besides which, that is something she will have to work on, will have to work out details of approach, timing, and so on and so forth-if.

If he himself doesn’t gain spontaneous inspiration from her, from her presence, from what they do together.

Because it shouldn’t be necessary for her to have to do-anything.

That ignorant, barely post-juvenile slut Irene certainly didn’t know anything, much less how to manipulate so sophisticated a man of the world as Armand Fortuna.

And as for Darlene, well, she was surely the most brazenly blatant thing ever to walk on two legs, so much so in fact that she was typecast even before accepting her role as a soap opera villainess.

Yes, Jessica tells ‘herself, two brilliant careers springboarded off of Armand Fortuna, so why not a third?

“The selective use of data-that is what is required, as we established last week.

“And our friends the computer graphics people have been working hard! “Lights out for a double slide show, side by side, and let’s see what they have for us.”

The lights go down, the rectangles appear on the screen above the chalkboard.

“Ah, yes! Some of the smaller Irenes, I see, less polychromatic, more limited palette and-what we have here is what I would definitely term a limited success.

“And in fact, printed out on appropriately fine paper, properly matted, we would have a superb simulation of a-anyone?”

Pause for the replies, Armand nodding in the dark before replying, “Lithograph!

That is absolutely correct.

“Notice here the capturing of mood.

“Taking their clue from the lack of photorealism, concentrating on the entire composition, our computer friends have given us an excellent example of data selection to create a really striking rendition of the original.

“It lacks the impasto of the original, hence its resemblance to lithography, but I understand that there are machines-perhaps only a machine-that will give the user an excellent simulation of textured paint.

“What we see here, however, is a vast improvement over last week’s rather unsuccessful attempt to reproduce that which is, in current state of the art, not reproducible.

“Which leads me to the subject of today’s lecture.

“Composition.

“Within the context of what we have thus far agreed upon-or I have crammed down your throats, depending on one’s point of view-imagination is a selective reassembling of real elements.

“Again, for those of you who bothered to look it up, Mr. Webster seems to have fallen wide of the mark. He doesn’t even come close.

“Imagination and composition, therefore, are revealed as being one and the same thing, when they meet upon the field of artistic endeavor.

“Nor should this particularly surprise us.

“To imagine a thing means, quite literally, to form its image in one’s mind.

“And since the mind’s only stockpile of images is reality, how can we fail to come full circle and validly-I hope-conclude that composition is imagination-realized! “To realize, ladies and gentlemen, means to make real.

“Here, finally, our friend Webster comes into his own. And in fact, that is the first definition he gives to the-the term-to make real; to achieve; to bring into being.

“Which is exactly what we do.

“And look what progress we are making here! “To imagine means to compose means to make real! “And all the while, the process is working the other way! “First comes reality-again, the only material with which we have to conjure-then the process of selection called composition which, if successful, that is, if the image forms in our mind, we can then term imagination! “From the imagination, then, we go to physical composition, which, when finished, becomes the reality! “Michelangelo said it best.

“When asked the secret of his powerful sculpture, he replied, ‘The statue is already there within the stone; it is merely waiting for me to liberate it.’ “What a perfect description of the process of artistic creativity that is!.