Unknown - Posed For Pleasure

“Is it any wonder, then, that the symbol of all creation, of the universe itself, is that of the snake eating its own tail? “A closed circle. A single, continuous, unbroken living, interactive process.

“To imagine is to compose in the mind is to order selected reality in the mind is to compose in reality is to form the physical image out of reality, that is, to physically imagine and thus come full circle.

“All art-I repeat, ALL art-is this exact same process.

“Music. Think about it. Think, for example, about the deaf Beethoven thinking about it, and you will understand at once…

Jessica is sucking Armand’s cock.

She is going to succeed in her plan-she knows this.

Armand himself convinced her that this is the case in his lecture earlier tonight.

Because the man has too much, too many creative juices flowing within himself not to create, not to get his ass in gear.

A year since his last exhibition-exhibition and sale to the bare walls, all in one-it’s been.

He is due, he is ripe, he is fucking ready!

And no question at all in her mind but that she is to be his next source of inspiration.

She can’t miss!

She has attached herself to his lectures as the footnote that cannot be ignored, cannot be divorced from the lectures themselves.

My gosh, she tells herself; the man has them dancing in the aisles, has them ready to run home, put up canvas, perhaps several, and work on into the night!

He has the musicians, the sculptors, the authors all, all! prepared to jump through their own ass holes out-performing their own greatest ~expectations.

And this he cannot do, surely, without some of the feedback’s rubbing off on him, sheer weight of general enthusiasm, emotional osmosis working in favor of his getting off his dead ass and making it happen.

He has no real choice, dammit!

And now, she is sucking his cock.

She is giving him her very best knob job, her tongue delving into the ruddy eye of his plum-like cock head, traversing the taut, rounded, warm surface, going round and round the thickly flared flange at the rear, examining in intimate detail the fish head juncture beneath.

And now, her head is bobbing up and down, up and down, the mighty shaft being forced in and out of her mouth, between her vacuuming lips, as she holds it erect from his stomach with the spread fingers of one hand.

Important that she get his creative juices flowing faster and faster, she tells herself, and one excellent way to do this is to get his vital essence up and on the move.

Nothing can happen now, of course, by way of his getting going; no, at the moment, she knows, all he wants is that next increment of sexual, voluptuous sensation.

Anything else, no matter how closely allied, no matter how analogous, will have to wait.

But surely not for very long, she reassures herself.

No, the pattern is set. And she sees in it a circle as closed, as complete as the one he described in his lecture tonight.

There are no choices here, really, she tells herself. He is as good as committed to action. His very soul is crying out, reaching out for the inspiration which it is her intent to provide.

Because she knows men, knows both their ambition and their sloth, and sees quite clearly both in Armand.

Okay, okay, granted, she is not necessary; still, she is convenient, is there, meaning here, is ready to hand.

So that he need reach no further, need not look beyond her to get what she knows that a part of him must have.

She is convenient-as was Irene, as was Darlene after her. And if Irene’, if Darlene, then why not Jessica?

Yes, why not Jessica with whom he has so very much in common, as opposed to these other two, the one both innocent and ignorant, the other the exact opposite?

Isn’t it time for Armand to settle down, to get practical, at last?

How much longer can the man go, subjecting himself to the vicissitudes of a chance which, admittedly, has treated him far from unkindly up to now?

She is so good for him, as is he for her.

They belong together on a much broader scale than they are now; surely he can see that.

Big deal, that she is in her twenties, he in his forties, even his late forties; the important thing here is that they are physically and intellectually suited to one another.

She would have to be a complete idiot not to capitalize on that.

And capitalize she will, she tells herself; she will milk the situation, will fucking loot the situation-and not for mere money, either.

Because Armand can’t give her what she intends to get out of all this; it takes a world, it takes the whole world of art to accomplish that.

Armand gets yet another big hit because of her- and then she gets one infusion of wealth after another, exhibition after exhibition, because of him.

He is not her goose that lays the golden eggs for her; rather, he is to be the catalyst, enabling her to lay her own golden eggs, one canvas at a time, valuable, because she, Jessica, Armand’s latest inspiration, is the one who painted them.

Vanna White, can make her own fortune on Wheel of Fortune turning letters, then hey, she can at least offer the people a little more than that ‘in exchange for undeserved wealth.

All right, so far her output has been uninspired, but so what?

They’ll be buying the name, the notoriety, not her admittedly indifferent daubings.

As a long-deceased blonde bombshell once said of her violin playing, You don’t look at how well the pussycat plays the violin, but rather at the fact that the pussycat knows how to play the violin at all.

And now, she is playing Armand’s cock, playing it as though it is some exotic, complicated flute, her mouthing, her tonguing full of exquisite nuances, each designed to bring forth a fresh flurry of lascivious sensation, to produce a fresh twinge of sexual electricity, to create that swell of sheer sensual joy within a man that makes him take a’ deep breath simply because he is alive, because he is who and what he is.

And now-ta-da!-deep throat.

She hasn’t done it much, but she has done it well, has discovered the trick of relaxing throat and neck muscles, of suppressing the gag reflex, of turning head and neck into a living tube for the total massage of the male sex organ.

And she does so now, much to Armand’s surprise and delight.

The full bore treatment, she is giving him-talented, versatile, intelligent, beautiful, sexy, grounded in the arts. Are you getting the message here, Armand? she asks him in her mind, prompting him to a realization of her image, the one she chooses to project-speaking of images, speaking of imagination and reality and the whole creative process.

And she is ready to go all the way this way; but not so Armand.

Because he would have her, would take her, his salami unwilling to accept even so delightful a substitute for the real thing.

So that he pulls gently back, from her.

At once, she is on her back, legs raised and spread, bent at the knee, round-heeled and at the ready.

And he is on her and in her at once, such being the urgency she has managed to inspire within him.

The urgency-and what else? she wonders.

The creativity, with herself as inspiration, perhaps even as soon as he has popped his nuts?

Well, perhaps that’s asking a bit much, she tells herself, but still, she has given him more than a little to think about; she is certain of it.

Because Armand is an artist, after all, and therefore sensitive, therefore impressionable, especially by just such vivid images as she is bound to have inspired within him.

And Armand Fortuna, she knows, is not a man accustomed to letting images or inspiration go to waste.

Because she refuses to believe that the’ money ever had all that much to do with it, from his perspective.