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From: anais ninja <anais_ninja@hotmail.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} Exile - Chapter Two - Artists Only (Mf teen oral anal drugs)
Date: Wed,  5 Feb 2003 07:10:04 -0500
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Exile
 
(c) 2003  Anais Ninja  anais_ninja@hotmail.com 
http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/anais_ninja/index.html 

 
Note:  This is my story.  The names and details have been changed to
protect the privacy of those involved.  Some of this account has
been reconstructed from memory, but most of it has been based on a
journal I kept during these years. 
 
This is a sequel to _Wanderings_, which can be found on my asstr-mirror.org
site: 
http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/anais_ninja/wander/index.html 

 



Chapter Two - Artists Only (Mf teen oral anal drugs)



"Hey.  Get up," he said.

I had been dreaming about Julia.  We were making love in her garden,
sipping white wine as we kissed and caressed, a gentle summer breeze
our only garment.  Her roses were in bloom, and the fragrance was
like a drug, the petals so soft, the buds so pliant.

"C'mon.  Get up," he repeated.  He stood over me, sneakers, torn and
paint-splattered jeans and t-shirt, and a mop of hair, a young man
with a cigarette in his mouth and a couple of days of stubble on his
cheeks. 

I sat up and realized that I wasn't in the garden with Julia.  Julia
was dead and I was sleeping on the floor of a bathroom, hiding from
a whore with a knife.  I began to cry.

"Hey, what's wrong?  Are you okay?"  The boy squatted next to me, 
offering me a wad of toilet paper.  I dried my tears.

"Thanks."

"Where are you from?" he asked.

"Maine."

"Your parents...?"

"Gone," I said, hesitating.  I had a father somewhere.

"Shouldn't you be in...?"

"Foster home," I said.  "I...I...can't go back there."  My tears
began to flow again.

"When's the last meal you had?"

"Yesterday."

"Hungry?"  I nodded.  "Come, I'll make you something to eat," he
said.  He stood up and extended his hand, helping me off the floor
of the bathroom.  I picked up my coat and followed him into his
place, a cavernous space behind one of the metal doors down the
hall.  There were huge paintings everywhere, big streaks and
splatters of color.  A smell of turpentine hung in the air.  He
ushered me over to a makeshift table in the corner of the studio,
built of cinder blocks and wood and surrounded by four
mismatched-matched chairs.  Against the tall brick wall was a wooden
table with a hot plate, a toaster oven, and a mini refrigerator.

"My name's Michael," he said, filling a pot with water and setting
it on the hotplate.

"Annie," I said, sitting down at the table.

"Pleased to meet you, Annie," he said as he stooped to get something
from the refrigerator.

"Did you paint these?" I asked.

"Yes.  Do you like them?"

"Yes.  May I...?"  I got up to take a closer look at a large canvas,
unfinished.

"By all means.  Just don't get too close.  It's still wet."

"Okay," I said.  I wandered around his studio, looking at his art.  
Apparently he lived here as well, as there was a bed in the far
corner, a thin futon supported by the same materials that made up
his table.  A few minutes later Michael called me back to the
kitchen.  There was a plate of rice and beans and a small cup of hot
soup with tiny white cubes floating in  broth.

"It's miso soup," Michael said.  "I can make you some tea if you'd 
prefer that."

"No, this is fine.  Thank you," I said, lifting the cup to my lips
and inhaling the warm vapor before taking a tentative sip.  It was
delicious and chased the chill from my body.  As I gulped down the
rice and beans, Michael sat across from me, spreading a gooey brown
paste on a thick white wafer.

"Rice cake," he said.  "Would you like one?"

"No thanks," I said.  "Do you have any bacon?"

"Sorry, no," Michael laughed.  "I'm a vegetarian."

"Oh, sorry."

"No need to be."

"I can pay you for this," I said.  I began to reach into my coat for
money.

"No, don't," he insisted.  "Don't worry about it."

"Thanks."

"Where in Maine are you from?" Michael asked, pouring two cups of
pale green tea.

"Coopersport.  On the coast."

"Nice.  We used to spend summers not far from there when I was a
kid." 

"Yes, it's nice."  Actually, it was freezing there right now and
there was a foot of snow on the ground, but I began to miss it.

"Is there someone you can call?  Family or friends?" he asked. 
There was that same concerned expression I'd seen in the librarian's
eyes. 

"I don't know...I..."  The tears began again.

As the tea cooled I told Michael everything, starting when my mother
was killed and ending with the events of the last 24 hours.  He just
sat there, listening quietly, taking it all in.  Finally, he spoke.

"I guess you can stay here for a few days, at least until you figure
out what you want to do.  There's a couch that's big enough to sleep
on.  One problem, though."

"What's that?" I asked.

"My girlfriend is coming back in a week."

"She lives here with you?"

"Yeah.  Things haven't been going well between us.  She's been with
her parents for the last couple of weeks.  Having a guest around
would..." 

"Complicate things?"

"Yeah," he said with a sigh.  "You understand, right?"

"Yeah."  It was my turn to sigh.  He was cute.

"Anyway, I've got to get to work.  You can sack out in my bed if you
want.  There's a bathtub behind that screen if you want to use
that." 

"Thanks."  I finished my tea as Michael got up and disappeared
behind the maze of wood-framed canvas screens that divided the
kitchen and living areas of the loft from his studio.  As I got up I
heard the sound of a cassette being slotted into a portable player,
the click of the "play" button, and the drone of loud guitars played
softly over the clink of a paint brush dipping into a glass of
turpentine. 

The bathtub was an old cast iron claw-footed tub, installed as an 
afterthought on a platform of cinder blocks and plywood.  The water
had a greenish tint but was agreeably warm.  I shed my clothes and
slid inside the bath, hesitating only when the soapy water made my
skinned knee sting.  I closed my eyes and listened to Michael moving
around his painting, his sneakers squeaking on the worn wooden
floor, his brush rhythmically slapping against the canvas.

I could have fallen asleep right there, but I knew I'd regret waking
up in a tub full of tepid, dirty water.  Instead, I stepped out and
dried myself off, opened the tub drain, and slipped under the covers
of Michael's bed.  After two nights of sleeping in strange
bathrooms, the thin, lumpy futon felt like heaven.  I closed my
eyes, letting the drone of guitars lull me to sleep.


                                  * * *


The sun streaming through the tall windows woke me up.  Michael was 
still painting.  I sat up in his bed and looked around.  Instead of
a dresser, his clothes were folded and stowed in stacks of
milkcrates placed on their sides.  There was an antique vanity
table, his girlfriend's, with makeup, a lighted mirror, and a small
wrought-iron chair.  I made the bed and got dressed, walking to
where Michael was painting.  He was standing in front of his canvas,
quietly looking at it, brush in hand.  I quietly sat down and
watched him survey his work.  He turned his gaze to a small charcoal
sketch, a study for the work-in- progress.  Then he picked up
another brush and a small can of paint, steadily outlining a streak
of red with a thin black line. 

"What do you think?" Michael asked.  He kept looking at the canvas,
not turning around.

"It's nice."  It was abstract, and I didn't pretend to understand
what it meant, but I liked the colors.  The red streak jumped out
from the field of brown and black, and the thin line Michael had
added gave it depth, like it was some sort of vein or artery.

"What does it say to you?" he asked.

"What?"

"Does it speak to you?"

I didn't know much about art, and what I did know was limited to
what Julia had shown me, taking me to museums in Boston and letting
me borrow her books.  I really liked the Impressionists.  They
painted things I recognized, like landscapes and flowers and trees,
but added something: style, I suppose, making it more than just a
photograph.  I tried to imagine what Michael had painted and kept
going back to arteries and veins, thinking again of Julia and her
stroke.  I felt a tear begin to trail down my cheek.

"Hey, what's wrong?" Michael asked, rushing over to where I was
sitting. 

"Nothing.  I...nothing...," I blurted, and ran back to Michael's
bed, burying my face in the pillows, ashamed to be seen sobbing my
eyes out. 

"Hey," he cooed, sitting on the edge of the bed and gently rubbing
my shoulders.  "Annie..."

"I'm sorry.  I..."

"Don't worry.  Just let it out.  Let it out," he whispered.

I sobbed into his pillow for nearly a half-hour, while he caressed
my back, letting out most if not all of the grief that had built up
over the past couple of months.  When I was done, Michael dried my
eyes with a towel and made tea.

"Okay, I'll admit it isn't my best work, but it's not that bad," he 
said, handing me hot tea in a cracked porcelain mug.  For the first
time in what seemed like years, I laughed.

After we finished our tea, Michael walked me to the bus station and
I retrieved my bundle of clothes from the lockers.  The woman who
had threatened me the night before was nowhere to be found; the
streets were filled with people in suits heading for home at the end
of the day.  On the way back, Michael took me to a cafeteria-style
restaurant near the loft, wrinkling his nose when I chose a big bowl
of beef stew. 

"Listen, I have people over every so often, and I think we should
just say that you're my cousin or something," Michael said,
finishing his vegetarian chili.

"Okay, whatever you say."

"Just for propriety's sake.  I'm not even supposed to be living in
that space, so far as the city is concerned.  I just don't want to
end up on the street for harboring a runaway."

"I understand."

"Good.  Thanks," Michael said, extending his hand.  I took it and he
gave me a gentle squeeze.

We returned to Michael's loft and sipped green tea while we watched
the sun set over the city.  That evening, a few of his friends came
over to hang out, drink wine, and smoke pot.  Michael didn't think
twice about pouring me a glass or passing the joint, though he gave
me a sharp look when I started getting a little giggly.

Michael's friends were also artists, and most of their conversation
was pretty much gossip about who was sleeping with whom.  Roger, a
sculptor who lived a few doors down, was particularly keen on
keeping track of this sort of thing, especially when it came to his
ex-boyfriend, another artist who lived in the neighborhood.

Fay, a red-headed painter who was there with her boyfriend Whitney,
came over and sat next to me on the couch.  She had the loveliest
emerald green eyes, carefully limned with kohl.

"All this talk must seem pretty boring to you," she said.

"Not really."  I thought it was cool, like a small town of artists 
inside a big cold city, living in their own little world.

"Have you met Sandi?"

"Who?"

"Michael's girlfriend," she said.

"No, I haven't."

"Lucky you.  She's a bitch," Fay said, chasing the epithet with a
sip of wine.

Everyone left a few hours later, and I began to clean up, washing
the wineglasses in the sink and emptying the ashtrays.

"You don't have to do that," Michael said.

"I don't mind," I replied.  He smiled and stretched out on the
couch.  When I had finished cleaning up I joined him.  He lit a
joint and passed it over to me.

"What's Sandi like?" I asked him.  He took a deep drag on the joint
and exhaled slowly.

"She's very talented.  More so than her parents give her credit for.
 When we met in school, she was doing the most amazing work.  She's
only gotten better since then."

"Is she nice?" I asked.

"Nice?"

"You know, sweet?"

"I don't...yeah, she can be sweet at times," he said, frowning.

"She's hurt you?"

"Yeah."

That was something I had a hard time understanding.  I'd been hurt,
but never intentionally.  Friends move away, lovers die, but having
someone you loved  inflict pain was something new to me.

"You still love her?"

"Yeah," he said, wistfully.

My heart skipped a beat then, seeing him look so vulnerable.  He'd
been so caring and gentle and protective of me that day, and now I
felt like holding him in my arms.  He must have noticed the way I
was looking at him, and he frowned again.  Then his features
softened and he smiled. 

"I should let you crash," he said, getting up from the couch.  "I'll
go rustle up a blanket and some pillows."

The couch was old and lumpy, but it was better than sleeping in a 
bathroom.  I was listening to the radiators click and thump when I
heard another sound in the dark.  Michael was crying, soft sobbing
muffled by a pillow.  I felt my heart sink.  I felt like crying,
too. 

Quietly, slowly, I got up from the couch and tiptoed through the
maze of canvas screens and over to Michael's bed.  He was laying
face down, his head buried in the pillow, his back heaving slightly
with each sob.  I turned the cover down and crawled into bed next to
him, softly kissing the back of his neck.  He turned his head
towards me. 

"Annie..."

"Shhh..."

"We can't..."

"I know," I whispered, leaning in to kiss him on the lips.  I put my
arms around him and held him, feeling his tears rolling down my bare
breast.  Caressing his smooth back, I felt him relax and fall
asleep.  After staring for a while at the photograph of Sandi next
to the bed, bathed in cold moonlight, I followed him.


                                  * * *


It was cold in the loft the next morning.  Michael was hogging the 
blankets, so I snuggled closer to his sleeping form.  He stirred 
momentarily but didn't wake up.  I could feel him growing harder
through his boxers, his morning erection pressing against my thigh. 
Out of sheer curiosity, I reached down and fished out his hard cock.
 He was circumcised, with a nice fat head and thick shaft.  For the
first time in months, I felt horny.  Naughty.  Hungry.

Slowly, I ducked under the covers and slithered down his body until
I faced his penis.  Inside the warmth and darkness of the blankets,
I parted my lips and began to slowly suck him.  He grunted once or
twice when my tongue swirled over his shaft, but he didn't wake up. 
I began to suck him harder, reaching into his boxers to cup his
balls.  His cock twitched and throbbed as my tongue danced over it,
but he still didn't wake up.  When his cock was nice and wet, I
began to stroke the shaft with my hand, jerking him off as I sucked
him.  I heard a low moan coming from outside the blanket.

Suddenly, he pulled the blankets to the side.  The chilly air hit
me, but I didn't stop sucking him.  I could see him watching me, an 
expression of astonishment and surprise on his face, but he didn't
stop me.  Then he gasped, his cock twitching in my mouth as it began
to spurt.  His body shuddered the way Del's did sometimes, and he
gasped again as the flow of semen began to wane.  I kept his cock in
my mouth as it softened, releasing it with a little "slurp".

"I gotta...," he said, after I had released his cock.

"I know.  Go pee," I said.  He put on a robe and trotted to the 
bathroom, while I gathered the blankets around me and snuggled
against the part of the futon that was still warm from his body
heat.  I hadn't packed any pajamas, and all I had to sleep in were
cotton panties.  I heard the toilet flush and a moment later Michael
was back. 

"Where did you learn...?" he asked.

"I'm not a virgin," I replied.  "Come back to bed and snuggle with
me." 

Michael shrugged off his robe and got back into bed, wrapping his
arms around me.  They were strong and lean from all the work he'd
done, building out the loft and constructing frameworks for his
large canvases.  I felt safe with him, safe for the first time in
months.  As we lay together, I felt his cock begin to stir again.

"Do you want to make love?" I whispered.

"Yes.  I do."  Michael rolled me on my back and began to kiss me,
first on the lips, then on the neck, then on my collarbone.  He
lingered around my breasts, teasing my nipples, licking them when
they stiffened and crinkled.  I'd gotten to that age when my areolae
were slightly puffy, soft protuberances that Michael began to lick
and suck, drawing them between his lips before continuing his
explorations. 

Michael knelt over me and tugged at my panties.  I lifted my bottom
off the bed to allow him to draw them down my thighs and off my
legs.  He gazed at my body, as if committing it to memory.  His cock
rose as he took inventory of curves, lines, and shadows.  As he
pulled off his boxers, I spread my legs for him, exposing my nearly
hairless sex to him.

"Do you have a condom?" I asked.  I lost my diaphragm while I was in
foster care, possibly to my klepto roommate Denise's sticky fingers.
 As if it would ever fit her basketball-sized cervix.  Michael
reached into one of the stacked milk crates and produced a packet,
ripping it open and rolling the latex sheath over his hardness.  He
returned to the bed, kneeling between my legs, and I reached out for
his member, guiding it between my labia.  It had been the first time
in months that I had felt someone inside me, and it felt strange,
tight, as if my sex was going to close up some day.  I could feel
every latex wrinkle as he pushed his cock inside me.

"Annie?  Are you...?" he asked, seeing me wince as his hardness
filled me.

"No, I'm fine.  Keep going.  It's been a few months," I replied.  I 
desperately missed this feeling, and I felt like I'd cry if he
stopped and pulled out.  As Michael began to thrust I felt my sex
loosen up, accommodating his lovely cock.  My hips began to grind
against his, pressing my clit against his pubic bone, making my
tummy tingle with anticipation.  Nevermind a good fuck, I hadn't
even been able to masturbate in the foster home, even though Denise
wouldn't think twice about rubbing her clit in my presence.

Michael was wonderful in bed.  He'd corkscrew his hips like Del used
to do, stirring my honeypot with his tool.  He liked to kiss, too,
despite our funky morning breath.  And he couldn't seem to get
enough of my nipples, sucking them while he rocked his hips, lightly
grazing them with his teeth.  It was like fucking and foreplay at
the same time.  Between this and my forced abstinence, I was coming
early and often.  Michael began to pound away at my pussy, making me
shriek and shudder with every stroke.  I tried to bear down on his
cock, hoping to make him come, but I had no control.  I was just
along for the ride. 

Finally, I felt him twitch inside me, and his thrusts began to
stutter, a hitch in the motion of his hips as he came.  But for the
condom, he would have filled me to the brim with his hot spunk. 
Even so, I could feel a spreading wet spot under my cheeks.  I would
have loved to lie in bed for hours with Michael on top of me while I
stroked his smooth back and listened to his steady breathing, but I
really had to go to the bathroom.

"Michael?"

"Hmm?"

"I really need to use the bathroom."

"Hrmph."  Reluctantly, he rolled off of me.  I scooped his bathrobe
from the floor and wrapped it around me, heading for the bathroom,
making it just in time.  As I emptied my bladder, I heard him call
my name. 

"Annie?"

"What?"

"I thought you said you weren't a virgin."

"I'm not."

"Well, there's blood on the rubber."

"Oh, shit.  My period must have started."  Spots of blood on the
toilet paper confirmed this.

"Michael?"

"What?"

"Do you have any tampons?"

"No."

"Doesn't Sandi use...?"

"She uses those sponges from the health food place."

"Eww."

"It's all-natural, but she has to wash them out in the sink
afterwards." 

"Ewwwww."  That was too weird.  Fortunately, my flow was still
light, and I could get by for the time being with a makeshift plug
of toilet paper.  It felt funny, but it worked.  I waddled back to
Michael's bed.  There was a small blood stain on the sheets. 
Michael didn't seem to care.  He looked up and smiled.

"Is there a place where I can buy some tampons?"

"Yeah, there's a convenience store a couple of blocks away.  Want me
to get you some?"

"No, I'll go," I said, trying to find my panties in the mound of 
blankets on the bed.

"I'll go with," Michael said, putting on a fresh pair of boxers. 
"We can get coffee or something, too."

It was warm for a midwinter's day, and everywhere the snow was
melting into huge grey puddles of soupy slush.  Michael and I walked
the few blocks down to Tremont Street together.  I wanted to hold
his hand, but thought better of it.  Someone he knew might see us;
more grist for the gossip mill.

After I bought the box of tampons at the 24-hour store, we ducked
into a coffee shop where I could use the ladies room.  It wasn't a
minute too soon, as the toilet paper tampon was nearly soaked
through.  I washed my hands and left the bathroom, but the smell of
bacon frying stopped me in my tracks.

"Michael?  Could we get breakfast here?"

"Yeah, sure.  I think I can get a muffin or something."

I ordered bacon and eggs, and if Michael was disgusted over my non-
vegetarian choice of breakfast, he did a good job of hiding it. 
After breakfast, we got more coffee to go and headed back to the
loft.  As we headed upstairs, I noticed that the heavy steel door
with the "Wu Fong Specialties" sign was partially open.  I peeked
inside: dozens of Chinese women were seated at sewing machines, hard
at work.  A metallic voice on a PA system called out "Number 19! 
Phone call!  Number 19 you have a phone call!".  I looked at
Michael.  He just shrugged his shoulders.

We sat on the couch and sipped our coffee before Michael disappeared
into his workspace.  The sound of music and brushstrokes soon filled
the loft.  I finished my coffee and stripped the sheets off of his
futon, trying to scrub out the blood stain over the slop sink in the
kitchen.  When it was pretty much invisible, I draped the sheet over
one of the screens to dry.

Once that was done, I sat down with a small notebook I'd picked up
when I bought the tampons and began writing about the last few days.
 The words were slow to come at first, but after a couple of false
starts they began to flow.  So did my tears.  The pain was still
fresh.  I blinked away my tears and kept writing; it felt good to
get it all down on paper.  It felt like I was in control of things,
even though these events had passed.

When my writer's cramp got to be too much, I put my journal aside
and looked around for a book.  There wasn't all that much to read in
the loft, just a couple of milkcrates full of books next to the bed,
mostly college textbooks.  I pulled out a slim volume of poetry and
sat down on the bed to read.


        I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, 
        starving hysterical naked...


Wow.

I read it again.

Wow.  Julia and I had often read poetry together, Sappho,
Shakespeare, Emily Dickinson, Walt Whitman.  This was nothing like
that.  Actually, it sort of reminded me of Whitman, the tone of
voice, mainly, but Whitman had never written a line like "alcohol
and cock and endless balls".  I read it a third time, lingering over
every line, trying to understand what must have been intensely
personal references to people and places and events.  I thumbed to
the back of the book, looking for biographical information about
this man named Allen Ginsberg, but there was none.

I spent the next couple of hours curled up with the book, reading
each poem and then digesting the words.  None of them, though, had
the flavor of "Howl", that first one.  I went back and read it a
fourth time and then lay back on the bed, savoring this epiphany.

The music in Michael's studio had stopped.  I put the book down and
got up from the bed.  Michael was in the kitchen, seated at the
table, spreading thick brown miso paste on a rice cake.

"Want some lunch?" he asked, looking up.

"Sure," I said, sitting down at the table.  He offered me a rice
cake.  It was light, as if it was made of styrofoam or something.  I
took a tentative bite from the edge; it sort of tasted like Rice
Krispies cereal, only less so.  Michael laughed when he saw me
wrinkle my nose. 

"Try some peanut butter on it," he said, "or, if you're feeling 
adventurous, some miso."

I sniffed the jar of miso paste.  It was pretty intense, so I passed
on it, opting for the peanut butter instead.  The rice cake wasn't
so bad with a smear.

"There's something I'd like to do this afternoon," Michael said,
pouring two cups of tea.

"What's that?"

"I'd like to sketch you."

"Really?"

"Is that all right?"

"Yes, I'd love that," I said.

Michael draped a white sheet over the couch and set up a chair about
ten feet away.  While he went to fetch his sketchbook and pencils, I
kicked off my sneakers and sat down on the couch.  I remembered a
painting I'd seen once at one of the museums Julia and I had gone
to, of some famous woman reclining on a backless couch, dressed in
fine clothes and jewelry.  I lay down on the couch, trying to mimic
her pose, her regal bearing.  Just then, Michael returned with his
pad.  He stopped, took a look at me, and started laughing.

"What?  What's wrong?" I asked, suddenly feeling foolish.

"I wanted to sketch you in the nude," he said, still laughing.

"Oh.  I see," I said.  I felt my cheeks burn with embarrassment.

"If you're not comfortable with that..."

"No, I'm fine.  Just a sec."  I shrugged off my shirt and undid my 
jeans, doffing my bra and panties.  While Michael took a seat in the
chair, I stood before him, naked.  I really felt naked.  Really
naked.  Really, really naked.  He'd seen me in bed, but that was
different.  This was different.

"Should I sit?" I asked.  I felt awkward.

"The way you were laying was fine.  You looked like you were waiting
for Courbet to paint you."

"Who?"

"Nevermind.  Just lay like you just did.  It was perfect."

"Okay.  What about...?"  I spread my legs slightly; the tampon's
little white string dangled from my sex.

"Don't worry about that.  You sure you're okay with this?"

"Yes, I'm fine.  Like this?"  I reclined along the couch as I had
done before he returned, supporting my head with my arm, with my
other arm resting on my side.

"Perfect.  Now just hold that pose."  Michael propped the sketchpad
up on his lap and began drawing, looking at me, then back at the
pad.  I watched him draw, trying to stay perfectly motionless.  It
was hard work, especially when my nose itched.  I resisted the urge
to scratch it as long as I could.

"Michael?"

"Yes?"

"My nose itches."

"So scratch it."

"Oh," I said.  I was relieved not to have to be the perfect
mannequin. 

"You're doing fine, Annie," Michael said.

"Thank you."

"Are you cold?"

"No, not really," I said.  The loft had warmed up, and the sun was 
starting to stream through the tall windows.

"Michael?"

"Hmm?"

"Can I ask you a question?"

"Sure"

"Did you ever draw Sandi?"

Michael put down his pencil and looked up.

"Yeah, when we were in school.  We'd draw each other all the time,"
he said.  He had a wistful look, as if I'd made him dredge up a long
lost memory.  I made a mental note to stop bringing her up so often.

"We stopped doing it a long time ago," he said, going back to
sketching.  His expression changed to one of intense concentration. 
I didn't want to say anything after that, for fear of breaking the
spell.  After a while, Michael stopped and put down his pencil.

"Break time," he said, getting up from the chair.

"Can I see it so far?"

"Sure.  Here," he said, handing me the pad.

It was amazing.  He'd concentrated on my face, just roughing in the
rest of my body, though he'd taken particular care with my breasts
and the curve of my hips and belly.  I felt pretty, something I felt
whenever I was with Julia, something I hadn't felt in ages.

Michael returned with his robe, which he draped over my shoulders.

"Relax.  I'm going to make some more tea."

"Michael.  It's lovely.  It's beautiful," I gushed.

"You're beautiful," he said, gently kissing me on the forehead.  I
sat on the couch and laid the sketchbook on the coffee table,
staring at it until Michael returned with the tea.  Michael sat next
to me on the couch while we sipped tea and smoked some pot.

"Let's finish up before we lose the light," Michael said.

"Okay."  I took off the robe and resumed my pose as Michael took his
seat across from the couch.  The way he crossed and re-crossed his
legs, trying to get comfortable, suggested that he was hard inside
his jeans.  I gave him a sly smile.

"What?" he asked.

"Oh, nothing," I replied, still grinning.

"Tell me," he insisted.

"Um...well...I don't know how to put this..."

"What?"

"Well...don't you think you might be more comfortable like this?"

"Like what?"

"Like me.  Without clothes."

"Oh, I see now," he said.  "You just want something to look at while
you're posing."

"Well, yes," I said.  It was true: he had a nice body and I liked 
looking at it.

"As you wish," he said, standing up and putting aside the sketchpad.
 He pulled his t-shirt off slowly, giving me a nice long look at the
thin line of hair that ran up towards his flat stomach.  Sneakers
and jeans were next, and the lump in his boxers confirmed my
suspicions.  He took his shorts off last, playfully flexing his
biceps like a bodybuilder, which was funny considering his lean,
almost skinny physique. 

Michael's hard cock bobbed as he sat down and resumed his sketching.
 Even though his erection began to wane as he concentrated on his 
drawing, it never went completely soft.  I kept my eye on it as he
drew, thinking of all the ways I could show my appreciation for his
kindness. 

"Finished," Michael said, just as the sun disappeared behind an
office tower.  He came over with the sketchpad and handed it to me
as he sat down next to me on the couch.

"It's wonderful," I said, never taking my eyes off of it even as I 
hugged him.

"I'm glad you liked it," he said.  "You were a great model."

"I'd love to pose for you again."  To underscore my words, I placed
my hand on his thigh and began caressing it.

"Deal.  It was fun."  Michael began to lean closer and our lips met.
 As I closed my eyes and let his tongue find mine, I let my hand
roam up his thigh, finding his hardness, gently stroking it.

"Let me give you something," I whispered, breaking off our kiss.  
Michael smiled as I slid off the couch and knelt between his legs. 
His hard cock bobbed in time with his heartbeat.  I took it in my
hand and held it, slowly gliding my fingers over the shaft.  Leaning
forward, I gently, lovingly kissed the tip before opening my mouth
and slowly devouring it.  Michael sighed as my lips traveled the
length of his shaft.

I knelt before him as if in prayer, my head slowly moving up and
down as I devotedly sucked him.  Michael let out a soft moan every
time I swirled my tongue over his cockhead or gently squeezed his
balls.  I knew he was close to coming -- the way his cock throbbed
and his thighs trembled -- but I did my best to drag it out as long
as I could, squeezing the base of his cock when he came too close. 
Looking up and seeing the smile on his face told me that he was
enjoying this delicious torture.

Finally, I decided to let him have his release.  I began to suck him
faster, harder, stroking his shaft with my fingers as I pleasured
him with my lips and tongue.  When his cock began to twitch I sucked
even faster, gobbling his hardness as he began to spurt his seed in
my mouth.  When he finally softened, I released his glistening tool
from my mouth and scooted up into his lap for a kiss.  Michael held
me in his arms until the setting of the sun began to cool off the
loft.  We got up from the couch and Michael got dressed while I
grabbed his robe and went to take a bath.

I sat in the warm water, looking out the window at the city.  The
sun was hidden by some buildings but it still cast an orange glow on
some of the taller structures and in the clouds above.  I could hear
Michael starting dinner, chopping something on a wooden block. 
Somewhere on the street down below, a car alarm went off.

"Want me to scrub your back?" Michael asked, appearing from behind
the screen that separated the bath area from the rest of the loft.

"Could you?"

"Sure," he said.  I leaned forward in the tub and held my hair up as
Michael wet a washcloth and ran it over my back.  I had a fleeting 
memory of my childhood, something about my father, but it dissipated
like a wisp of smoke.

"Dinner's going to be ready in a few minutes," Michael said,
squeezing out the washcloth.

"What are we having?"

"Stir-fry.  I'm just waiting for the oil to heat up."

"Mmmm...give me a kiss first."  Michael leaned over and our lips
met.  He tasted like fresh scallions.

We had a delicious dinner lit by candle light, moonlight, and the
lights of the city outside.  Afterwards, we sat on the couch and
listened to music while we snuggled under a woolen blanket.  The
wine began to go to my head, and I felt like I had not a care in the
world. 

"Michael?"

"Yes?"

"Will you make love to me?"

In lieu of a reply, he leaned over and kissed me.  We made out on
the couch for a while and then Michael got up, offering his hand,
pulling me to my feet.  We walked to his bed, hand in hand.

"What about your...?" he asked.

"My period?  Don't worry about that."

"Okay," he said.  I shrugged off his robe and lay in bed while he 
undressed, and then he joined me.  Michael went straight for my
breasts, kissing and suckling my nipples as his hard cock pressed
against my leg.  His kisses began to journey lower, down my belly
and thighs.  I felt him tugging at the tampon's string with his
teeth. 

"No, no," I whispered.

"I thought..."

"No, take me this way," I said, rolling over.

"In your...?"

"Yes.  Do you have any lubricant?"

"I think so.  Let me look."  He got out of bed and rummaged through
one of the milk crates, coming up with a jar of petroleum jelly.

"This okay?"

"It will have to do," I said.  I preferred something water-based,
like KY.  Vaseline was sort of gross, but I desperately wanted to
please him.  Behind me, I could hear the top of the jar come off and
the squishy sound of Michael's cock being greased up.  Then he
gently kissed my bottom.

"Ready?" he asked.

"Go slow," I replied.  I felt the tip of his cock, slightly cold
from the jelly, pressing against my bottom.  Twice he slipped off
before finally entering me, and I began to realize that he'd never
done it this way before.  I hadn't taken anyone in my bottom in
months, and though I had easily accommodated Ramon's fat cock, that
seemed like ancient history.  Michael felt even bigger inside me.

"Are you okay?" Michael asked.  I nodded, and took a deep breath,
trying to relax my bottom for him.  His pubes began to tickle my
cheeks, and he pressed his body against mine and kissed the back of
my neck.  Slowly, he began to thrust, and I pushed my bottom against
his hips in response.  With each stroke, my bottom began to loosen
up for him. 

"I'm not going to last very long," he whispered.

"That's okay.  Come for me."

"I'm gonna...ungh..."  I felt his cock twitching inside me, filling
my bottom with his hot sperm.  He lay on top of me and then started
to withdraw his softening cock.

"No!  Stay inside me," I begged.  Michael kissed my cheek and pushed
his half-hard member back inside me, gently nibbling my earlobe as
he lay on my back.

"You didn't come," he whispered.

"That's okay," I said.  I just wanted to feel his body against mine.

We did it once more before the end of the night, and I did manage to
come, rubbing jelly on my clit while Michael pumped my bottom.  When
he went to the bathroom and clean himself off, I grabbed a pair of
Sandi's panties, so I wouldn't leak and stain the bed.  We fell
asleep in each other's arms, our hunger sated.


                                  * * *


I woke up to the sound of a fight.

Angry voices were coming from the kitchen.  I sat up.  Michael
wasn't in bed.  Instead, there were a pair of suitcases on the floor
next to it.  My heart pounded as I threw on the bathrobe and got out
of bed, tiptoeing towards the kitchen.  Sneaking a peek from behind
a screen, I saw Michael and Sandi screaming at each other. 
Actually, Sandi was doing most of the screaming.

"You screwed her in our bed!" she shouted.

"Sandi, we didn't do..."

"And who the fuck is she?  Some fucking whore you picked up?!?"

"Sandi..."

"In our fucking bed!"

"But..."  Before Michael could say another word, Sandi slapped him. 
Hard.

Then she noticed me watching.

"You!  Who the fuck are you?"  I backed away as she stormed over to
me, tripping over her suitcases and falling on the floor.  In a
flash, she was on top of me, grabbing two fistfuls of bathrobe and
shaking me.  She reared back to hit me but Michael grabbed her arm
and held it, pulling her off of me.  My robe had opened up and Sandi
noticed that I was wearing a pair of her panties.  That added even
more fuel to her ire.  

"Are those my panties?  I'll kill you!"  She tore loose from
Michael's grip and was on top of me again, choking me with one hand
and slapping me with the other.  I could taste blood on my lips. 
Michael managed to get Sandi in an arm lock and pulled her off of me
again. 

"Better get your stuff and get out," he said, trying to maintain his
grip on a squirming, red faced Sandi.  I ran over to the couch,
where my clothes were neatly folded on the floor and began to stuff
them into the shopping bag, which promptly ripped.  Still wearing
her panties, I threw on jeans and a sweater, grabbed my clothes,
shoes, and coat, and ran out of the loft.  The last glimpse I had of
Michael was of him on the floor, trying to keep Sandi from killing
me. 

I ran down to the floor below and into the dimly-lit bathroom, where
I put on my shoes and checked my face in a mirror.  My lower lip was
bleeding where one of her fingernails had caught it, and there were
red finger marks all over my neck.  I daubed at my lip with a piece
of wet toilet paper until it stopped bleeding, and then I began to
shake like a leaf and start to cry.

I stayed locked in that bathroom for almost an hour before carefully
venturing out, peeking around corners and down stairs, making sure
the coast was clear.  On the street again, I ran about a dozen
slushy blocks before coming to a stop in front of a laundromat.  It
was empty and seemed as good a place as any to get my bearings and
figure out what to do.  There was a discarded plastic bag on top of
one of the washers, so I grabbed that for my clothes.  There was a
row of chairs in the back, hidden from the street by a tall row of
dryers, and I stayed there for a couple of hours, shivering and
crying, until hunger drove me back outside.

I found a coffee shop a couple of blocks away, and ordered just
toast and tea.  While waiting for breakfast, I went back into the
ladies room and tried to clean myself up with water and paper
towels.  I was a mess from the night before, and I wanted a hot bath
more than anything, but this would have to do.  I lingered over my
tea as long as I could, until the waitress started glaring at me,
sending me back to the street. 

I spent the day walking around the city, trying to figure out what
to do next.  I was out of ideas.  As night fell, I considered taking
the bus back to Maine, but the thought of Mr. Hubbard forcing his
wormy cock inside me made me nauseous.  I walked back to Michael's
neighborhood, hoping to spend another night in one of the loft's
bathrooms, but none of the outside doors were unlocked.  I waited
for a few hours, hoping someone would come out and leave a door
open, but that didn't happen.  Discouraged, and on the verge of
tears, I began walking back towards the bus station.

On a corner near the lofts there was an old gas station that was
being used as a parking lot for taxi cabs.  As I walked past it, a
cab rolled up and stopped.  The driver got out, carrying a small gym
bag, and locked the front door of the cab.  I waited until he was
down the block and around the corner before doubling back.  The rear
door to the cab was open and it was still warm inside, though it
smelled pretty rank, stale cigarette smoke and old food.  Using my
bag of clothes as a pillow, I curled up on the back seat and cried
myself to sleep. 


                                  * * * 
 

(c) 2003  Anais Ninja  anais_ninja@hotmail.com 
http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/anais_ninja/index.html

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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