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Subject: {ASSM} Drawing Ann, by Peter Faber: M/f, cons, long
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CONTENT DISCLAIMERS: The events and characters in this story are
entirely fictional. Any resemblance to any actual people living
or dead, or to any actual situations, past or present, is purely
coincidental. If you are offended by the thought of a
consensual, non-incestuous sexual relationship between an adult
man and a thirteen-year-old girl in which the girl "makes the
first move," then please read no further. I would strongly
prefer it if Peter Faber were acknowledged as author wherever the
story appears.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: In addition to being my first piece of erotica,
"Drawing Ann" is an attempt at meeting a literary challenge. The
younger end of the M/f genre is dominated by what people in
a.s.s.d have rightly termed a "dirty old man" sensibility, which
tends both to dehumanize the female characters, and to present
the male characters as unsympathetic sociopaths. It also nearly
always entails either incest or some form of coercive sadism or
both. The challenge I've set myself here, then, is to imagine an
entirely consensual, non-incestuous, non-violent, only subtly
pathological M/f relationship that seems psychologically and
emotionally plausible from both protagonists' points of view.
This means that the story is long, and takes its time getting to
the "good parts," because in order to make those passages
credible, each character needs a fully-developed personality and
a set of motivations that will be convincing to a readership
familiar with orthodox Western sexual mores. Impatient readers
can skip right to the end, where the real sex occurs.
Finally, any feedback to a.s.s.d. would be greatly appreciated.
Drawing Ann, by Peter Faber (M/f, cons, long)
I suppose I should start this story by introducing myself. My
name is Tom Barrow. Any observer, looking at me, would see a
commercial artist not particularly famous, but good enough at
his job to earn a consistently comfortable living through
freelance work thirty-two years old, of above average height,
in good physical condition, with unruly sand colored hair, brown
eyes, some freckles, a sharp nose, dimpled chin,
orthodontically-straightened teeth, and a wiry build. Since I'm
nominally an artist, I try to maintain a wardrobe true to type,
which means lots of black garments, clunky shoes bought via
internet from New York boutiques, embroidered guayabera shirts.
This is all easy enough to imagine. Any bohemian neighborhood in
any major American city would yield hundreds, if not thousands,
of exact matches to this description.
For the purposes of this story, however, my banal external
appearance matters very little. What is important instead is my
inner life, and a set of strange experiences it has caused me to
have. That's the "sex story" part, which I will recount for you
in due time.
Though I hesitate to speak in pathological terms, those are
really the only ones Western culture makes available to a man in
my situation. I am, among other things, what your friendly
neighborhood forensic psychiatrist, using the jargon recently
made popular by the Catholic Church, would call a
"high-functioning female-object ephebophile." Which is to say I
do not fit those profiles that journalists and sociologists of
crime are so quick to trot out when discussing people with a
weakness for young pubescent, in my case girls. I do not
have difficulty enjoying the company of adults. Young girls are
not my exclusive sexual preference, though they give me a unique
twinge. I do not look like a "sicko." Not for me the
pocket-protector, the greasy hair, the oversized aviator glasses,
the abnormally sibilant voice, the obsessively-catalogued stack
of dog-eared Dutch kiddie-porn magazines, the pot belly, the
unmanaged body hair, or the filthy basement lair.
I often have girlfriends of legal age, slightly older than me or
slightly younger; I have no large collections of children's
games; I make no effort to follow the inane fads and crazes that
preoccupy so many young people today. What's more, I'll never be
able to have children myself my family's summer house was
downstream from an old paint factory with a "waste seepage"
problem. So my career in incest is over before it began. That
leaves a career as a "predator," and I'm afraid I'm equally
hopeless at that. I have nothing of the necessary drive, the
necessary single-mindedness, or the necessary sociopathic
disregard for other people's feelings. More importantly still, I
definitively lack that incubus-like gift for seduction that
true-crime writers unfailingly ascribe to their "sickos." I am
not a red-eyed devil, wearing a trench-coat and sitting on a
park-bench, capable of singling out and captivating "vulnerable"
children with a mere glance as they frolic in the sandbox.
To be honest, I have often wondered if the irresistible yet
repulsive monsters the psychologists and true-crime writers have
created in their profiles actually exist. Their data on the
subject seem to be woefully limited. These experts do not have
anything approaching a systematic sample of all men who are
sexually attracted to young girls. What they have instead is a
comprehensive sample of the men with these proclivities who have
been caught for indulging them. This is a very different group
not all pedophiles and "ephebophiles," but simply all such people
who feel the urge intensely and violently enough to act in ways
that become visible to law-enforcement. Making generalizations
from this group is like trying to create a "profile" of
heterosexual males by looking exclusively at rapists.
To think that the psychologists' profile is in any way typical,
then, is to be deluded. In our society, with its strange
tendency to fetishize "innocence" on the one hand, and to watch
eight-year-olds doing burlesque in child beauty pageants on the
other, we dream about sex with the young, read about it in
tabloids, hear about it on television, and then, hard as rocks,
sing ourselves to sleep with the notion that the only people
interested in it are easily-identifiable monsters dangerous,
yes, but also a tiny minority of society as a whole, and utterly
different from the "rest of us." We invent the "sicko," in other
words, to be a convenient receptacle for certain impulses we want
to deny in ourselves and perhaps in our children as well.
Unruly desires are much more widespread than sociologists of
crime would have us believe.
This, however, takes us some distance from my story, which begins
about two years ago, in a solidly middle-class American suburb
with a name I will not divulge. This town does not have the
asphalted moonscape look of a new subdivision instead, it has
fairly narrow streets, with mature trees, immaculate lawns, a few
neighborhood parks, and closely-spaced houses dating from between
about 1920 and 1960. This is the sort of neighborhood where the
locals hang seasonally-appropriate flags from their front porches
throughout the year rabbits and eggs, witches on broomsticks,
turkeys in gingham applique, "Noel" with jingle bells attached.
It is in one of those temperate coastal regions where the weather
stays fairly mild throughout the year. The mild weather, in
fact, was one of two reasons why I selected what is otherwise in
fact a rather dull and un-cultured place. The other was my
great-aunt, who, after outliving her husband by twenty years,
died childless and left her snug little bungalow to me.
Once all the various legal procedures had been completed, then,
in early June, I left my girlfriend, moved to this particular bit
of suburb and set up a studio in what had previously been my
great-aunt's dining room. It wasn't long before I'd gotten
settled and began doing some work. Most of what I do is
straight-up illustration atmospheric drawings for stories in
magazines, those little grey sketches of New England interiors
and homey objects that you see in certain gift catalogues, and so
on, in whatever style they ask for from Yayoi Kusama to Norman
Rockwell.
One Tuesday afternoon, I got a call.
"Hello?"
"Hi Tom, this is Enid Lambert, art director at Merchandiser's
Liquidators. We do newspaper circulars, and Freddy Green told me
you'd be a good illustrator to contact. Would you be
interested?"
I had never heard of Enid or the company she worked for, but
Freddy was art director at a major national magazine. A
recommendation from him one of my best clients meant I was
pretty well obliged to take this job. It was a signal that he
was asking an important favor.
"Sure, Enid, I'd be delighted. What sort of thing do you want me
to do?"
"Well, this circular will feature girls' and misses' summer
apparel swimsuits, underwear, a few shorts, shirts and
dresses."
Ulp. For reasons the introduction to this story should make
clear, this was exactly the kind of job I did my best to avoid.
Illustrating ads of this kind would involve models, posing, and
long hours in the presence of my kind of young lady, wearing not
a lot. I had turned down offers like this several times before,
and, on the rare occasions when I'd accepted, I'd made sure I was
comfortably attached to a girlfriend of legal age. This time, I
was single, alone in a new place in a most vulnerable position.
But Freddy Green had put me in a tough spot. Having a blackball
from someone like that ends a career. With a flutter in the pit
of my stomach, I realized I really couldn't say no.
"Alright, sounds fine. What do you want, exactly?"
"Well, if we like your work, this could be a continuing
engagement, but what we want this time as a kind of test run
are some drawings of items that are overstocks from the
Fabercrombie and Itch Fab Junior line maybe you've heard of it?
for girls eleven to thirteen. We'll Fed-Ex you the clothes we
want you to show on the models we'll mark which pieces we want
in color and which in black and white. We'll also email you some
jpegs to show you how the drawings should look."
After some further talk about deadlines, payment and email
addresses, the conversation ended.
The first step was to find a model. In the city I'd left, that
would have been easy just call up Stage Moms Inc. and specify
the desired age. Here, the problem was more complicated. A
quick look at the phone book revealed a distinct lack of child
modeling agencies, and I didn't know anyone in the neighborhood
yet, though there seemed to be plenty of families.
School had just ended, so I decided to solve the problem by
posting handbills in local businesses, calling for an attractive
and patient girl between the ages of 11 and 13 willing to model
for a commercial artist illustrating a national publication, pay
at fifty dollars an hour, et cetera, et cetera. Not a bad summer
job, all told.
The clothes, along with the appropriate model-release paperwork,
arrived in the mail. This job would be even more treacherous
than I thought. I have to admit I remain bewildered by the way
in which other men, given what the marketplace throws at them,
manage to profess not to be attracted to pubescent girls. Each
garment came in various sizes, I assume to fit a variety of
possible models within the age range. There were a couple of
different training bras; an assortment of panties, some
no-nonsense and others varying degrees of thong; a bikini; a
one-piece swimsuit; a midriff-baring pair of low-riding
short-shorts that laced up the sides, leaving crisscrossed
stripes of bare skin nearly two inches wide; an array of baby
tee-shirts emblazoned with slogans like "Cutie Pie" and "Angel;"
and a pair of filmy sun dresses. The only thing left was to see
who might turn up.
****
The first two candidates were like Cinderella's ugly stepsisters.
One was seriously overweight, with strange teeth and a
squirrel-like manner; if she were a younger child, she would have
been considered "cute" and, indeed, her elaborately-printed
resume boasted several appearances in television commercials.
The other was equally seriously underweight, a blond and bug-eyed
skeleton, with a nose that looked like it had been taken from a
Barbie doll and affixed slightly askew by an inept plastic
surgeon. Both were plastered with make-up, not stopping short of
metallic blue eye-shadow, and worst of all both came equipped
with desperately pushy mothers. These ladies, built like
false-breasted refugees, their knees square-knots projecting from
spindly legs, their skins tanned to cowhide by years of
cigarette-smoking, excessive sunbathing, booze and
appetite-suppressants, would have been looking over my shoulder
constantly, "managing" my drawings and making sure their little
darlings were represented in a sufficiently flattering manner.
No thanks.
The third, however, was something else entirely.
On a Tuesday, late in the morning, four days after I'd put up the
ad, the phone rang.
"Hello?"
"Hi, are you the guy looking for a model?"
This was probably not a mother's voice. It sounded on the high
side, though the pronunciation was crisper than usual for a kid.
"Yeah, that's me."
"Good. Uh, I was wondering, have you found somebody yet?"
"No, I haven't, actually."
"What do I need to do to audition? I think it'd be kind of fun,
and fifty dollars an hour is a lot of money."
I didn't have the heart to tell her that Stage Moms Inc would ask
ten times that.
"How old are you?"
"I just turned thirteen."
"Ok. Why don't you come by my place this afternoon with your
mother or father. The job's pretty simple, actually. In fact,
it can get really boring all you have to do is put on some
clothes and stand there until I'm done drawing. It's not like
being a model is on TV; if you got the job you wouldn't be
dancing around in front of a wind-machine or anything. You won't
be hearing me egging you on in a foreign accent, either you
know, 'you ah a tye-gah, puhrr at me vis lahnguid pleh-jah' and
all that. Drawing is quiet, and a lot slower. Plus I'm pretty
ordinary."
She giggled. "That's Ok, everyone says I'm weird, so I'll make
up for that. And I actually kind of like just zoning out and
thinking about stuff. But my mom's feeling sick."
"Then maybe it'd be better to schedule a different time? Like
this weekend?"
"No, my mom's super sick and doesn't really leave the house or
anything."
"Hm. If I were going to hire you, I'd need a parent's or
guardian's signature on a release form; otherwise it wouldn't be
legal to publish the drawings."
"Can I, like, just give my mom the form to sign and bring it
back?"
"How would I know you hadn't forged the signature?"
"Well duh. You could call my mom and ask her if she signed it,
right?"
"I guess so. Why don't you come by this afternoon, say at two?
I live at 224 Darkbloom Lane. You know where that is?"
"Yeah, I've been stuck in this shithole all my life. I know
where everything is."
"I am ever so sorry you don't find it to your liking, Miss," I
said, putting on a little sass of my own in my best Grandfather
Barrow Brahmin-Lockjaw accent. "I too find this fair city
wanting on occasion. But one must make the best of what one has,
mustn't one? Would you nevertheless be kind enough to reveal
your name?"
Another little giggle. "Morgan Benson. But that's because my
mom's so pathetic and trendy that she named me after Morgan
Fairchild. I mean, hellow? It was like 1989. Couldn't she have
thought about how lame and eighties that would sound? Everybody
but her calls me Ann."
Hm. A nice sharp mouth, a dreamy streak. I began to tremble a
bit.
"Alright Ann, see you then."
"Cool. Bye."
Right after I hung up the phone, the magnitude of what I'd done
began to sink in. I had just invited a girl barely thirteen to
my house, unsupervised, to audition for a job modeling not only
sun-dresses and jeans, but underwear and bathing suits. This was
the kind of situation in which things could go disastrously
wrong. Some other voice seemed to have done my talking on the
phone that voice even might have flirted, the tiniest little
bit. This was the kind of thing I dreamed about on occasion, but
not at all what I normally did, or had ever done. It felt like
my blood pressure had doubled.
I tried listening to my favorite recording of Cosi fan Tutte, but
it had none of its usual calming effect. On the contrary, the
music, the opera's parade of mistaken identities and frustrated
loves, seemed to make everything worse. All that was left was to
fidget, chest tight with anguish, for the next three hours.
Mercifully, the doorbell rang early, at ten minutes to two. I
got up, opened it, and saw her there in front of me. Ann had
just locked her bike an old, beat-up black one-speed and left
it on the porch. She was about five feet two inches tall, and
dressed in a version of the "alternative" uniform baggy
frayed-hem olive cargo pants, well-worn Doc Martens, and an
oversized black tee shirt with the name of some band or other on
it. She had very dark hair, shoulder length and a bit wavy,
rather large dark blue eyes, graceful black eyebrows, a button
nose, a delicately pointed chin, fetching dimples in her cheeks,
and a complexion that ranged from rich, succulent pink to very
pale cream. What I could see of her skin lower arms, face and
neck was impeccably smooth, almost uncanny in its pale,
unblemished uniformity.
In the presence of this miraculous apparition, for reasons I have
tried to analyze repeatedly but still don't understand, I felt a
deep and peculiar sense of calm. No pent up beast beating at the
cage door, no nervousness, but instead a kind of clarity.
"Hi Ann! I'm Tom Barrow, pleased to meet you," I said, extending
my hand.
Ann shook my hand more firmly than I expected, looked me in the
eye and smiled. She had braces on her teeth. "Hi."
"Come on in I'll show you around my studio. Then I'll have you
try some clothes on and do some test poses. Would you like
something to drink, a Snapple maybe, or a Coke?"
"Do you have kiwi-strawberry?"
"I'm pretty sure I do. Just a sec. Have a seat on the couch and
I'll be back."
I went into the kitchen , retrieved the appropriate bottle from
the refrigerator, opened it, and poured it into a glass. Then I
got a lemon iced tea for myself and went back through the
swinging door into the living room. Ann was standing up, looking
around.
"You have a lot of art," she said.
It was true back when I was an ambitious student getting my MFA
at an elite school, with dreams of being a "major painter," I'd
traded lots of pictures with a few other students whose work I
liked. One of them had actually gotten famous, and another two
were moving in that direction it probably would have made my
life easier to sell some of their paintings, but I couldn't make
myself do it. I liked being reminded of how we were all "real
artists" together, during that brief spell at least. So the
walls of this little house were covered in pictures, some
realistic, some expressionistic and rough, some wildly abstract,
a few nudes.
"Yeah, those pictures are mostly by friends of mine from art
school. We used to trade our work."
"Which ones did you paint?"
"Well, there aren't any of mine up. It's been a long time since
I painted pictures like this, and the ones I used to do weren't
anything special. My stuff is all illustration now I draw it
on the computer, because that's what art directors prefer, and
it's more decoration than anything profound. Basically, I'll
draw whatever they ask me to."
"So you mean you can draw anything?"
"Yeah, pretty much."
"No way. Show me."
"OK," I said, heading off into the studio, which was separated
from the living room by a pair of French doors. "Let me get the
computer ready." I took it out of sleep mode, and sat down at
my drafting table, where I had a large screen and a pen
attachment in place of the mouse. "So come around and tell me
what you want me to draw."
"How about Calvin, from Calvin and Hobbes?"
"Isn't that before your time? It's been years since that was in
the paper."
"Yeah, but I have all the books it's my favorite."
"Ok." Graphics program set to "ink," a few strokes of the pen,
and voila, Calvin doing a handstand, balancing Hobbes, in
stuffed-tiger form, on the soles of his feet.
"Wow! That's so cool. Calvin's totally hard to draw."
"Watch out, that's a trap," I said, repeating despite myself what
art teachers always say. "Nothing is actually hard to draw if
you practice enough, and if nobody tells you it's hard
drawing's just a physical skill that gets better as you work on
it. The thing that's really difficult is deciding what to draw
in the first place."
"I guess it's like ice skating you've got to practice."
"You ice skate?" Temperatures in this town ranged from forty to
eighty degrees it hadn't even occurred to me that ice skating
would exist in such conditions.
"Yeah, there's an indoor rink open year round. It's dinky, and
during the day it costs a lot to use it, but I practice early in
the morning or at night."
"So, you're a girl, I bet you figure skate."
"No way. I used to the costumes were fun, and I liked spinning
and jumping and all that, but the other girls who do it are total
stuck-up bitches. They're always talking about what their
parents are buying them, and how they're going on expensive
summer vacations and everything. And they aren't even very good
skaters. So two years ago I changed to speed skating."
"Wow. So are there lots of girls to speed skate with?"
She looked at me like I had just grown a second nose. "No.
Girls are too lame to speed skate. I practice with the guys."
"Oh, I see. What else do you do in your spare time?"
"Read, mostly. I want to be a writer stories and things. My
dad was a writer Paul Benson?" She said, naming the famous
literary novelist as if he were someone nobody had ever heard
of.
"Wow, in college we thought he was really hip! My friends and I
read all his stuff...I'm impressed. What's your favorite book?"
She colored a little. "By my dad, do you mean, or aside from
his?"
"Why not by someone else?"
"Well, it used to be 'The High King,' but I just finished this
totally random book the librarian accidentally put in the young
adult section 'Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man?' I had
to read it really slowly, but it was amazing, especially the
beginning where he's a kid and wets the bed. That's exactly what
it's like!"
"Now I'm really impressed. That's a difficult one."
She blushed, smiled without showing her teeth, pulling her lips
tight across her braces, shrugged and looked at her shoes.
"Well, if nobody tells you it's hard..."
"Touch," I said, grinning. "I guess we should talk about the
job a bit. If you were going to model for me, you'd need to wear
a bunch of different things there are a few sundresses, shorts
and shirts, but also some bathing suits and underwear. If you
don't feel comfortable posing in underwear or a bathing suit,
that's fine, I could use you for the other stuff and find another
model to do the rest."
"Don't worry about it. Sam, my mom's ex-boyfriend? He liked
taking us to nude beaches, so I'm used to not wearing anything.
Being inside, anyway, means I don't need to put on lots of goopy
sunscreen I've got to, like, totally cover myself with SPF a
million or else I fry. And what's so bad about underwear,
anyway?"
"True enough. I'm wearing some right now, as a matter of fact
boxer shorts."
"Good," she giggled.
Now I was the one blushing. The nude beach thing had taken me by
surprise. "Here's the box of clothes I'm supposed to use for
this project. Why don't you pick out something to wear while you
do your test pose? You can change in the bathroom, which is down
the hall and on the left."
"Ok." She started rooting around in the box, looking at various
items and size labels. After casting what might have been a sly
glance in my direction it was so quick I couldn't quite tell
she picked out the smallest thong, in pink satin, and a white
stretch-lace training bra. Then, clearly blushing but without
saying a word, she went off to the bathroom at a trot.
Now, I have to say, that initial feeling of calm was fading fast.
Nude beaches? Had she just picked what I thought she picked? I
had no idea what to expect. The only thing left to do, I
decided, was to sit down at the drafting table and wait.
I heard her bare feet coming down the hall and through the living
room. Then there she was in the studio. Smiling, face deep red,
she did a little pirouette for me. It took me a moment to collect
myself. The outfit she arrived in had covered up all the
interesting parts of her body. They were now mostly in plain
view.
Ann was not skinny; she'd clearly done a lot of speed skating.
Her build was sturdy and athletic, a bit slim on top, but with
solid thighs and rounded calves, all overlaid by a firm, silky
layer of baby fat. And that flawless pale and pink skin,
covering her entire body in a smooth, creamy expanse. I noted
the beginnings of a feminine waist, but just the beginnings: the
overall shape was still a girlish column. The satin front of the
panties dipped slightly into the cleft of her vagina. The
training bra was a little tight, and bit into her skin,
accentuating that thin layer of plumpness. I could just make out
her nipples, puffy red-brown cones, tenting the lace; her breasts
themselves were slightly pointed and a bit smaller than the two
halves of a lemon cut lengthwise. The thing that really took me
by surprise, however, was her behind beautifully framed by the
thong, her buttocks were substantial muscular globes, high and
firm. The effect was strange and disorienting, but also
irresistible. That ass was a lone, intense banner of sexuality
attached to an otherwise not yet fully sexual creature.
When I had recovered my composure, I told her to step onto the
little platform I used for models, in front of the drafting
table. Standing up, I showed her the relaxed position I wanted,
hands at sides, weight shifted to the left leg, body turned at an
angle to my desk. She followed along and stood there, again with
a little smile that didn't show any teeth.
"Is it ok if I talk to you while I stand here like this?"
"Sure," I said, "as long as you don't get carried away and start
moving around. Also, when I'm working on your face I'll need you
to be still. Whatever happens, though, be sure to let me know if
you get cramped up or need to go to the bathroom."
Another giggle. "You mean you don't want me to just go right
here?"
"No, I think that would probably count as too much devotion to
the job."
With a final smile, we got quiet again, and I began working.
This was just a test-run. The folks at Merchandiser's
Liquidators hadn't gotten me the sample jpegs yet, because, they
said, they were working out a "new graphic concept," so I wasn't
sure exactly what they wanted. This one would be for me, then.
And that was just fine. I started to draw, following the
contours of Ann's body with my eyes in my usual slow, careful
way. Needless to say, I found myself getting hard, and hoped it
wouldn't be too visible when I'd finished drawing.
As far as I was concerned, she'd gotten the job the moment she
walked in, but I wanted to make her feel like she was passing a
real test, so I decided I'd have her stand long enough to do a
fairly well-finished picture.
We talked as I worked, and during a break or two, about a range
of topics broader than I'd expected from a kid her age yes, the
predictable pop culture, especially "South Park" and "Dawson's
Creek," but also literature and old movies. Her favorites were
"Bringing up Baby" and "The Maltese Falcon," and she shared my
soft-spot for over-the-top film noir, like "Out of the Past" and
"Kiss Me Deadly." We talked a lot about our favorite film noir
plots, and how hard it is to sort out all the twists and turns.
"I made a timeline for the Maltese Falcon," she said, "so I could
figure out the story, but to fill it all in I had to watch the
movie like ten times. And I still don't know how Bridget
O'Shaughnessy met Floyd Thursby in the first place. It's almost
as if the only thing that's important is making you feel like
there's some kind of really complicated conspiracy going on; it's
not that big of a deal whether you actually understand it or
not."
"You know, I hadn't looked at it that way before, but I think
you're onto something. The story is just there to set a mood
it's almost better if you don't have a really clear idea what's
going on, because then the feeling of mystery is more intense.
Like the mirror scene in 'Lady from Shanghai.'"
"Yeah. That is soooo cool. I can't believe you've seen 'Lady
from Shanghai!'"
"Well, I'm more impressed you've seen it it's history for me,
ancient history for you."
"It's no biggie. Old movies are all they ever have in at the
library, and my dad wrote about them all the time in his
journals, so I want to see what he saw. The only thing is
getting used to watching black and white."
We probably worked for about four hours all told, though I tend
to lose track of time when I'm drawing. As the shadows got
longer, and our conversation died down, we lapsed into a silence
that felt considerably more intimate than silences usually did
when I worked with models. It seemed almost as if my eyes were
tangibly caressing her body; she would occasionally send me a
slow look signaling that she felt those caresses too, and enjoyed
them. There was a strange feeling of heat at the nape of my
neck.
"Well, that's it, Ann. The drawing's finished. You did an
excellent job posing. Not everybody has that kind of physical
endurance."
Something in her eyes seemed to snap back into focus. "Oh,
thanks. Can I see it?"
"Sure. Come on over." I rolled back my swivel chair in order to
give her space to come and look at the completed drawing on the
screen.
As soon as Ann got to the space I'd opened up between the
drafting table and my swivel chair, she turned her back to me,
flashing the entirety of that luscious, thong-split behind, and
then, so quickly I had no idea what was happening, flopped
backward into my lap, scooting the chair back in front of the
computer by moving her bare feet along the floor. It was all I
could do to keep my breathing regular.
"So, Ann, do you like it?" From my lap, she saw a
black-and-white drawing of herself posed in three-quarter view,
deep-shadowed, with her swelling bare buttocks and a sultry
expression. They'd never print this one in a family newspaper.
She nestled down into my lap, moving so my cock, which had
previously been caught between her left thigh and mine, sprang up
into the furrow between her buttocks. She pressed down a bit
more and I felt her cheeks squeeze together on my cock once, and
twice. Then, she leaned her back against my chest, buttocks
still gripping my cock, and, in a soft voice, asked "Do you think
I'm pretty, Tom?"
Somehow, I managed to stammer out a "yes, yes I do."
A few seconds later she sprang off my lap, red faced and
giggling. "I could feel your heart beating," she said, and then,
doing a passably queenly Hepburn, skipped back to the bathroom,
saying "look at me! I was raised on the side of a hill!"
She came out dressed in her cargo pants and black tee-shirt,
holding the panties and bra in her right hand. Still Hepburn,
she proffered the underwear with a slight curtsy: "Perhaps you
would prefer these to the intercostal clavicle?"
"Er...the interests of science...but...but...oh well," I said,
trying my best at distracted Cary Grant not nearly as
successful an impression as hers, I'm afraid.
Then, herself again, she looked at me nervously. "So, do I get
the job?"
"Yeah," I said, with a grin, "do you ever get the job but I'd
decided to hire you when you first walked in. You're a tough
girl to ignore." This elicited another little smile, another
blush, and another look at the shoes. I went back to my drafting
table and took the release form off a stack of papers. "Just get
your mother to sign this and bring it back to me when you come in
next time. Also, make sure she knows I'll call her to check
in."
"This is so cool," she said excitedly, "when do you want me to
come back?"
"Well, I have a bunch of projects going right now, so if you'd
like we can wait a week." I wanted to give her some time her
flirting had gotten her a pretty intense response, and I was
worried she might be embarrassed or scared.
"Nah, that's ok. It's summer, and I don't have anything to do.
Can I come tomorrow? Say maybe at noon?"
"Sure."
"Cool! I'll see you then, I guess," she said, smiling.
"Yes, you will! Sorry to take up your whole afternoon, Ann."
"Don't worry about it," she said, blushing, "it was really fun.
I think you're cool."
Then, like that, she was out the door, on her bike, and off into
the summer twilight.
****
After Ann left for her house, I spent the evening in a fog.
She'd gotten me so aroused that I immediately went to the
bathroom and took care of things. That did a lot to reduce the
tension, but even so I found my thoughts drifting back to what
had happened that afternoon almost every chance they got. And
every time I thought about her I felt a little stab of joy. Such
an amazing girl, so beautiful. What books would I give her? Had
she seen "Blow Up" yet?
Preoccupied as I was, I also felt the ideas flowing fast. That
evening, I took care of work landscapes for a story on
orange-growing at double the usual rate. For the first time in
years, I even did a bit of drawing for nothing but my own
pleasure.
The jpegs from Merchandiser's Liquidators arrived, and I saw what
they wanted. Their new "graphic concept" was pretty much what I
expected realistic charcoal- or pastel-style drawings of girls,
shown frontally, with barrettes in their hair and expressions of
twinkly nineteen-fifties innocence. My guess was that this bore
a very close resemblance to their old "concept," which was how
things usually went in this particular low-rent segment of
art-director land. A far cry, in other words, from what I'd
drawn earlier that day, but perfectly do-able I'd have to
imagine Ann with barrettes in her hair and teeth without braces,
and find some way to make a thong and translucent training bra
look "innocent."
Looking back, I'm amazed I wasn't more nervous. The situation
I'd put myself in was extremely dangerous. Had she wanted to,
Ann could have ruined my life with a few words. But for some
reason I felt confident she wouldn't, though I had no idea
exactly why she'd acted the way she had. The answer to that
question, as you'll see, became a bit clearer in the course of
her next visit in part, I suspect, thanks to the
inhibition-lowering power of two large glasses of wine.
She showed up early again this time at 11:15, a full
forty-five minutes ahead of schedule. I was wandering around the
house barefoot, getting things ready for a little lunch some
olives, some prosciutto, a few bits of the exotic cheeses I order
online, a nice loaf of crusty bread, and a bottle of Rioja, which
I had opened so I could pour a single glass, and intended to
finish after Ann left, as a way of dispelling what I was sure
would be a fair amount of pent up tension. Debussy's Preludes
were on the stereo the doorbell rang during "The Girl with the
Flaxen Hair." I figured it was probably a delivery-person, since
it was so long before our session was due to start. When I
opened the door and saw Ann beaming up at me, her face flushed
from the bike-ride, I was taken aback. This time she was wearing
a pair of low-rise jeans with enormous bell-bottoms, the same
Docs, and a grey spaghetti-strap shirt that showed her graceful
collarbone and the smooth tops of her breasts to good advantage.
"Hello there! I wasn't expecting you quite so soon."
"Oh, I'm sorry...I just kind of got excited. If it's too early
tell me and I'll go."
"No, not at all. It's nothing I was just making myself a
little lunch. Would you like some?"
"Sure."
"Ok. Then follow me in to the kitchen and I'll set you a
place."
She came in as I was getting a napkin from the requisite drawer.
I put down a plate, knife and fork in front of her. Then I went
and got a tumbler.
"So, Ann Snapple, Coke, or fizzy water?"
"Can't I have wine, like you?" she asked, gesturing to the
wineglass I'd put at my place.
"Aren't you a little young for that?"
"Mom and Sam used to let me have some sometimes."
That seemed pretty far-fetched to me, though knowing what I came
to know later, it was probably true. But, I figured, I was in a
deep enough hole already. Why not let her try some wine? "Ok.
I'll pour you a glass."
"Thanksh, kid," she said, doing her Bogart.
I filled our glasses and we began eating. Ann certainly wasn't a
dainty eater. She consumed the food with gusto, breaking off
hunks of bread and making ham-and-cheese sandwiches.
"Mmm. I've never had any ham like this before. What is it?"
"It's called proscuitto it's a kind of ham from Italy that gets
aged in salt for a long time before it's sold. To make it
tender, they slice it really thin."
"Wow. That's so cool. I didn't know they sold things like that
at Foodmart."
"They don't, actually, I have to go to ________," I said,
referring to the nearest metropolitan area, "where there's a
special Italian butcher shop. The pigs this stuff is made of get
fed exclusively on parmesan cheese that's part of what makes it
so good."
"No way. That must be pretty expensive."
"Maybe, but I think it's worth it to eat well. Eating can be
just a routine, something you do to fuel up, but it can also be a
way of enriching your life. And, you know, it's not that much
more money in the end."
She looked at me with a grin and a distinct twinkle in her eye,
then took a big swallow of the wine. It stained her lips a deep
red. I was almost beside myself with desire, but decided I
should talk business before my presence of mind left me
completely. "Did you remember to ask your mother to sign the
release form?"
"Yeah," she said, pulling the paper, folded into a little
rectangle, from her right hip pocket and handing it to me.
"Thanks," I said, unfolding it and taking a look. There was a
signature that looked convincingly adult and 'mother-like,' along
with a phone number. "Do you mind if I give your mom a call? In
the signature her name looks like...Lydia?"
"That's it, Lydia. An even worse name than Morgan, if you ask
me."
"I don't know, it has a kind of dignity about it. Lydia Benson.
Sounds like a woman who's got a long, graceful neck and a
sophisticated way of talking."
"Bzzzt, wrong answer," said Ann, with a little sneer. "You're
kind of right about the neck, but otherwise, totally off base.
You'll see when you talk to her."
"I guess so," I said as I walked over to the phone.
It rang twice, and then I heard a slurred voice at the other end,
"H'lllo?" There was a television chattering loudly in the
background.
"Hi, Lydia? This is Tom Barrow, the illustrator who's interested
in hiring your daughter to do some modeling. I sent Morgan home
from her audition yesterday with a release form for you to sign,
and she's brought it in to me. I just thought I'd call to make
sure everything's in order."
"Uh...yeah...she mentioned something abou' that I think. I
def'nately signed...a form. Seems fine t'me. When she starts
bugging you too much...just go hed...and sen' er home. She c'n
be a chatty pain in the ass. And she eats too much, so don' feed
'er. I don' see quite why y'd wan' 'er as a model anyway...all
that skating makes 'er chunky, like some kinda linebacker."
"Actually, that athletic look's what I'm after. Thanks, anyway,
for your time."
"No counting f'r taste. Suit y'rself," she said, hanging up with
an abrupt click.
I turned back toward Ann, and found her looking at me with
embarrassment. She'd drained her wine glass while I was talking
to her mother, and I'd caught her in the process of filling it up
again. "I'll bet she said something about how much I weigh and
the skating thing, right?"
"As a matter of fact, she did."
Ann took another big swig. "During school, I go to speed-skating
practice from four-thirty to eight AM every day except Sunday.
This summer, I'm running every day and going to the rink four
mornings a week. I paid for my own suit and skates by doing a
paper route, I get myself up and bike over to practice on my own,
but it still ticks her off that I do it. She thinks it makes me
ugly. She wishes I was thin."
"Well, I hesitate to bad-mouth a girl's mother, but she's full of
shit. It makes you astoundingly gorgeous."
Now she was blushing and looking at her shoes in that
irresistible way she had. "You think so?"
"Yes, I think so. Have some more prosciutto. We don't want you
to waste away."
She giggled and took some, face glowing. This time the look in
her eyes seemed to indicate that she was well on her way to
tipsy.
"By the way, what's she sick with? Her voice sounded awfully
slurred."
"Nobody's really sure. The doctor gives her a bunch of pills
each week, and she just takes them and lies around the house with
the lights off and the curtains closed, watching soaps or just
sleeping. Sometimes it's like she's dead, you can make all the
noise you want and she won't wake up. She's pretty much been
like that since my dad died, though it's gotten worse over the
last couple years she met Sam, her ex-boyfriend? before it was
so bad. He broke up with her like a year ago, and we've been
alone since then. That's why I go to the library all the time and
read. It sucks too much to be at home."
"Do you mind my asking how your dad died?"
"Nah. He was in a car accident when I was little, like five or
so. I barely remember him. I can kind of imagine him, though,
from his stuff mom still keeps it in boxes in the attic."
"So what was the famous Paul Benson like?"
"He was a super cool dresser, and really nice, and handsome and
smart. He smelled like vanilla pipe-smoke and wrote these thick
novels in a study downstairs and watched old movies and listened
to classical music. He also wrote lots of love letters to my mom
they're so sweet."
"Why did someone like that move to this town in the first
place?"
"Mom says it was because of me. He thought that this would be a
good place to raise kids, and bought our house with his royalty
money a bit before he died."
"What about Sam?"
"Mom met him like a year after dad died. He was ok, I guess.
He's, like, a foreman at the Donnel McDouglas plant, and all into
labor union stuff. When he was living with my mom he was gone a
lot, at union meetings and out with his friends from work.
Sometimes he could be really funny, but he could also get pretty
mad at my mom, and they'd have these big, loud fights. They got
way worse right before they broke up."
"Oh. That must have been difficult."
"Yeah. It really hurt when he left, cause having him around made
my mom a little bit better. They'd take me out and we'd all do
stuff together like going to the beach. Once Sam and mom broke
up, I started really getting into skating and spending lots of
time at the library. Coach Pitt can be strict, but he just does
it to get you to work harder. He doesn't treat me any different
from the guys, even though I'm a girl and way younger than
everybody else. And he kind of looks out for me. One day when I
got the flu he even drove to my house and took me to the doctor.
Ms. Honeycutt, the librarian, is cool too. She tells me good
books to read and lets me stay after hours to watch movies
sometimes."
"How about school?"
"It's ok, I guess, but the classes are all really boring. I've
got a best friend, Stacey, but all the other girls kind of hate
me. They put honey in my locker and stuff like that and say I'm
a lesbo because I skate with the guys."
"What grade are you in, seventh?"
"Yeah, but I'm younger than everyone else, cause my birthday's in
June."
"Oh, that's the worst. I had the same problem in seventh grade.
Everyone made fun of me all the time. They called me a nerd
because I liked to sit in the library looking at art books, and
because I had this horrible headgear that made me look like
Hannibal Lecter when they put that mask on him in Silence of the
Lambs if the mask were glittery fluorescent purple, that is."
"Yeah, it sucks," she said, laughing. "At least I don't have it
that bad."
"No, it could be worse you could have incredibly ugly
early-eighties headgear. Anyway, you'll get your revenge later.
Trust me."
"Whatever. I'll believe it when I see it."
"That's good enough for me."
We ate quietly for another few minutes, and I watched Ann finish
her second glass of wine. As she reached for the bottle again, I
put out my hand to stop her. "Woah, Nellie! I don't want you
passing out while you pose. Plus, isn't there a law against
biking while intoxicated?"
"Awww, Tom, you're no fun."
"Nope. I'm just an old fogey. So what say we get to work?"
"Sounds good. What do you want me to wear?"
"Let's start simple, with one of the sun dresses."
We left the kitchen and went out to the living room, where Ann
rummaged through the box of clothes and pulled out a sundress in
her size. It was in some kind of pale blue synthetic, with
spaghetti straps. She set off to the bathroom to change, and I
went to my drafting table.
Soon, I heard her bare feet coming down the hall. Before long
there she was, a vision, lips stained and face flushed with the
wine, nipples tenting the fabric, legs smooth and muscular,
sublime ass forming a high, firm bustle under the dress.
She got up on the platform. "Ok, why don't you show me how you'd
like me to stand?"
"Sure," I said, walking over, a little self-conscious because of
the hard-on that had been growing since she arrived.
Just after I'd stepped on to the platform and turned to face her,
she reached both hands up to the spaghetti-straps of the
sundress. Then she gently slid them off her shoulders. The
dress wafted to the floor, settling in a wreath around her feet.
She wasn't wearing any underwear. She stood there splendidly
naked, looking at me with an earnest, not to say smoldering,
expression. Now I could vouch that every inch of her skin was as
perfect as what I'd already seen, smooth and dewy with youth.
Her puffy little nipples stood deep-colored on their pointed new
breasts; her smooth stomach made its way to the top of her vagina
in a single muscular sweep. A few dark, wispy hairs were visible
along the cleft, which parted gently around the pale tip of her
clitoris. I could tell by the way her ribs moved with her
breathing that she was excited. I stood speechless, rooted to
the spot.
After a few moments, she stepped over the fallen dress, moved
towards me and, very gently, put both hands on my cock, which now
tented my pants.
"So I guess I make you hard?" she said, a bit giddily.
"Yes, you certainly do. You are absolutely the most beautiful
girl I have ever seen."
As I said this, Ann began unbuttoning my shirt, starting at the
top. Things had now passed the strange and moved headlong into
the surreal. I decided, maybe for the first time in my life, to
give in to my desires totally, and let things go where they
would, no matter where that might be. I was terrified, but my
ears rang with excitement.
Soon, the shirt was off, she'd lightly run her hands down my
torso, and was unbuttoning my pants. I could feel her fingers
against my stomach as she reached around the waistband. The
boxers were off in a second after that, and I stepped out of my
clothes.
Now we were both naked, and stood facing one another. This, I'm
afraid, is a moment when I have to break with genre conventions.
Unlike the usual heroes of stories like these, my cock is not
extraordinarily huge it's what I suspect is smaller than
average size, circumcised, about seven inches long, about an inch
and a quarter wide. It had never been as hard as it was that
moment, jutting up at a thirty-degree angle. The feeling would
have been painful under different circumstances.
Ann wrapped her right hand around my cock, looked at it with a
smile, and began gently stroking up and down. It felt wonderful,
but I wanted to take the lead a bit, so I pulled her close. She
let go of my cock and wrapped her arms around my waist. I felt
the length of her muscular, naked body against mine, her nipples
hard as pebbles pressing into my ribs, and ran my hands up and
down her back, feeling the firm smoothness of her skin, its
warmth, the way it gave just the tiniest bit to the pressure of
my fingers. Then I looked down at her, and when she turned her
face to meet mine, I gave her a kiss, gently at first but then
she pressed back, and soon our tongues were rubbing deeply
together. I moved my hands down to her marvelous ass, and
squeezed her firm, smooth buttocks. I felt my cock pressed
between us. As we kissed, I rubbed it lazily up and down her
body, feeling the tip pass over her ribcage, and up to the base
of the soft, shallow dip between her breasts.
We stayed like that, kissing, for some time; eventually she
pulled away, put her right hand back around my cock, and, looking
up into my eyes with the most intense expression of desire I'd
ever seen, slowly got down on her knees.
She began by pulling my cock down a little, and using the tip of
her flexed tongue to lick a clear bead of pre-cum from the end of
it. Then, very slowly like someone who had practiced, I
thought incredulously she ran the tip of her tongue along the
underside of my cock, sending an almost electric set of shivers
up my spine. She traced the tip of her tongue in patterns over
the length of my cock, moving along the sides, the top, and the
bottom again, before concentrating her attention on the head. It
was deeply colored, nearly purple, and leaking precum.
Holding the shaft in her hand, she ran the tip of my cock over
her face slowly, leaving a little trail of precum on her chin,
cheeks, eyelids, forehead and nose. After taking each of my
testicles into her mouth, and turning them gently with her
tongue, she kissed the tip of my cock lightly, and pressed it
into her mouth. Then she took it in a little further. I felt
the broad part of her tongue caressing the underside of my
cock-head, and then her whole tongue wrapping around it,
smoothing and stroking. The shaft protruded gloriously from her
wine-stained lips. Suddenly, she moved her lips even further
down; I felt the tip of my cock plunge deeper in her mouth, and
saw her throat clench as she gagged a little.
Her enthusiasm excited me even more, but we were clearly pushing
into terrain she wasn't ready for. So I put my hands on her
head, sliding my fingers into her thick dark hair, and gently
pulled her back, until just the tip of my cock remained in her
mouth. Slowly, I began moving her head back and forth over the
first few inches of it. She started sucking, rolling her tongue
around my cock and rocking on her knees to reinforce the motion
I'd started. Her hands were kneading my buttocks, grabbing
tight. Gradually I gave her signals to increase the speed, at
the same time using my hands on her head to hold her back and
keep her from choking. Finally the feeling got so intense I
couldn't draw it out any longer.
"Ann," I said, gasping, "I'm going to come." Then I pulled my
cock out of her mouth, sending a squirt of cum onto her face.
Quick as lightning, she reached around, stuffed my cock back into
her mouth, and swallowed the remaining spurts. After I'd
finished cumming, she pulled back, letting my now-softening cock
fall between my legs. With the tips of her fingers, she scooped
the semen from her face and put it in her mouth.
"Don't worry about cumming in my mouth. I don't mind the taste
of it, and even more it really turns me on to swallow it. If you
want to see it on my face, that's cool but leave some for me,"
she said, flashing a grin. I could see some gleaming drops of
semen caught in her braces, and a little string of it at the
corner of her mouth, connecting her upper and lower lips. "Now
I'm going to clean you up," she said, licking the remaining semen
from her lips, taking my soft cock back into her mouth, and
stroking it steadily with her tongue. Before long I was hard
again and slick with her warm saliva, but I'd decided it was time
to start returning the favor.
I took her hands and led her to her feet; then I bent down and
put an arm under her knees. She got the message and put her arm
around my neck. I straightened up, lifting her, and carried her
through the living room and into my bedroom. As I walked, she
kissed my neck and gently flicked it with her tongue. Finally, I
lay her down on her back on my bed, still unmade from the
morning. I kicked the knotted covers off, and sat so I was
straddling her waist. I could feel my balls resting on her
smooth pelvis, and it was all I could do to make myself take it
slow. Better talk a bit to cool things down, I thought.
"You know, you just gave me one of the best blow-jobs I've ever
gotten."
She blushed and smiled that close-lipped smile. "Really? That
was my first time, kind of. Sam and I used to fool around when
Mom was too out of it he jerked off into my mouth a few times,
but I never gave him head." She said this as if it were the most
ordinary thing in the world; only after she left did I have a
moment to be taken aback. "After I got home yesterday, though,"
she continued, "I went and watched a porno he left at our house
to see how to do it. Sam hid the video like two years ago and
totally forgot about it but I remembered it was taped under the
sink in the bathroom. Mom was so zoned, it was pretty easy to
sneak into the family room after she went to bed and check it
out. I watched the blow-job part twice. The second time, I took
a cucumber from the fridge and played along. The tongue thing
that I did when your dick was in my mouth? I made that up
myself." Her voice softened, and her eyes took on what I think
was a look of need. "When I came over today, I wanted to do
something that would really make you like me."
"You know, I thought you were fantastic the first time I saw
you," I said, bending down and kissing her, gently, on the
forehead. "I don't just like you, I really really like you."
Becoming Bogart with a wink, "you're the shtuff dreams are made
of."
"You think so?"
"Yeah," I said, my voice getting a bit husky with desire, "let me
show you how much I think so."
First, I knelt beside her and took a look at her body, lying pale
and glorious on the dark blue sheet, with the afternoon light
pouring in slats through the blinds. I bent down and began
kissing her, starting with her lips, moving slowly to her chin,
along the line of her jaw, down her throat to the small, delicate
dip at the base of her neck. The creamy smoothness of her skin
was a perpetual source of wonder to me; it felt miraculous under
my hands and lips.
Slowly, I moved from the base of her throat to her budding left
breast, which I took in my hand, feeling its wonderful mix of
firm and soft. Her breathing was speeding up, and her blue eyes
were glazed with excitement. I bent down and took the nipple in
my mouth, gently caressing it with my tongue, feeling it harden
between my lips. I turned my head, resting my ear on her chest
her heart was racing. After moving to her other breast, I pulled
away and gently ran my hands down her ribcage to her pelvis; when
I reached the skin immediately above the cleft of her vagina, she
shivered and moaned lightly. Her clitoris was swollen, light
pink, and protruding from between her labia. I bent down, traced
some arabesques on the tender skin of her mons veneris, and moved
my hand further down, avoiding the clitoris itself, but lightly
caressing her labia; I could feel a few sparse, wispy pubic
hairs, matted with her warm juices, against my fingers.
After teasing her a bit more, I drew my right index finger over
her clitoris, grazing it delicately. She sighed and spread her
legs further apart. I moved so I was kneeling between her
muscular thighs, and got my first good look at her young vagina.
It was glorious, dewy with her fluids, a few hairs running like
the veins of a leaf over her smooth, pale labia, which were
slightly parted to reveal the more deeply pink, glistening flower
within. I ran my index finger along the cleft, which was even
wetter than it first appeared, and then easily slipped it into
her she gasped as I did it. There was no hymen. I began
gently finger-fucking her. Ann started to moan.
I bent down and explored her with my tongue, gently caressing her
labia and then moving deeper, savoring the salty, musky taste.
"Oh, that feels so good," she murmured, as I placed my hands on
her pelvis, running them up from there to her little breasts, and
flicked her clitoris with my tongue. Soon, I felt her stomach
and diaphragm tensing and relaxing, then her legs as well, as she
began the climb to orgasm. I continued, lightly, steadily
stimulating her, moving my hands and inserting a finger to feel
her building tension from within. She moaned, deeply and loudly,
and her body trembled. Ann's orgasm lasted a surprisingly long
time, and I enjoyed the feeling of her contractions on my finger
as I moved it slowly in and out of her.
As I returned to my knees, still between her legs, she looked up
at me, staring intensely. "Tom, I want you to fuck me."
"Are you sure you're ready? You haven't known me for very long,
you know."
"That doesn't matter I love you. I want you to fuck me."
"I love you too, Ann," I said, watching her eyes soften even
further at my words, "and I'd be delighted to oblige." I bent so
I could caress her belly and pelvis with my cock-head. As I
moved into position between her legs, I could see a silver trail
of precum marking its path across her skin.
Slowly, guiding my cock with my hand, I slid it between her
labia, running it along the cleft to moisten it further with her
juices. Then, gradually, I felt myself entering her. Soon, the
entire head of my cock was in her vagina. I pushed forward
further, and began feeling her, warm, moist and smooth against my
cock. In stories like these, it is usual to describe the
tightness of the young girl's pussy and in this case, the genre
convention fits. She was tight. I felt the thrilling pressure
of her warm vagina walls all along the first four or five inches
of my shaft.
"Go deeper, Tom, I want you to really fuck me." She drew her
legs back, and then hooked them over my shoulders, driving my
cock further inside her.
She gasped a little as we reached the final inch; I could feel
the head of my cock pushing at her cervix; but she pulled her
knees forward on my shoulders as a sign to continue. I pushed,
feeling the tip of my cock penetrate her cervix. My pubic hair
pressed against her smooth vulva.
"Oh God," I said, looking down and seeing her, open mouthed with
ecstasy.
Soon, I began moving in and out, fucking her slowly, and then
faster. Her hips responded to my thrusts, and as the speed
increased, she began moaning, very softly. After a few thrusts,
the moans grew louder, and I felt her contract with another
orgasm. The additional pressure made me come as well the flash
of pleasure was so intense it seemed as if it would pull me out
of my body entirely.
When I was done, I slid her legs off my shoulders and lay on top
of her, propping my weight on my elbows to keep from crushing
her. I felt every inch of her body, her little breasts pressed
against my ribs, her firm, muscular stomach and pelvis, my
softening cock in her vagina, her smooth pubis, and her
substantial thighs against mine. We lay like that for a long
time, gently kissing.
Finally, we pulled apart from one another.
"Eeek," Ann said, "looks like we dribbled on the sheet." And so
we had there was a wonderful glob of cum, dark and cold on the
fabric.
"No worries. The mess is part of the fun," I said, lying down on
my side and wrapping her in my arms.
"Yeah," she said, reaching down, scooping it up with her finger,
and popping it into her mouth.
We dozed together for a few hours by then it was seven in the
evening, dinner time for Ann, at least when her mother remembered
to make it. So we set an appointment for the next day's posing
session, and she left. I poured myself a glass of wine, whipped
up some pasta for dinner, and began to draw.
At about eleven, while I was hard at work on more groves of
oranges, the doorbell rang. When I opened it, I saw Ann.
"Hi. After mom went to bed I snuck out. I tried getting into
bed, but I don't want to sleep alone anymore."
"Neither do I. Come on in."
<15th attachment end>
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