Monday: 3:15 PM
The woman arrived promptly at noon. I hired a taxi to collect her from the station. The morning train from New York is usually a half an hour late, but today it was bang on time. I pray this is a portent that all will go as planned…at least as I have planned. As for the young lady…well, I won't anticipate. I shall note these events in the manner of history, the grandfather of all illusions, from A to B to C.
I am an artisan whose fetish is crafting words. I conjure fleshly pictures in my mind and transform them into inky scrawls on a blank page. My domain is hunger - the ravening hunger of desire, the agony of ecstasy. Fortunately, my talent as an avant-garde author has offered many unique rewards, including some small degree of fame.
Most recently this renown has garnered me a "sui generis" grant from the Knack Fund - the only institution bold enough to unleash my roiling chronicles on the readers of the world. This financial windfall ($50,000) has given me the opportunity to pursue my masterwork, a prose poem that celebrates the jewel of feminine anatomy: the female lair, the ledge of pleasure and despair - the sleek and glorious pussy. The drafting of this magnum opus, titled Whet the Posy, begins today. Yes starting today I shall live this dream, with eyes wide open, to make it happen!
My first step was to rent a retreat many miles away from other humans, as the brew of my invention ferments best when in seclusion. After a tiresome search, I finally found an old converted barn in the midst of seventy-five acres of knotty forest. This house rivals those in the darkest tales of the brothers Grimm!
Acquiring the woman, the model, the kindling for my flame, was my second step. I advertised in numerous artistic journals and forums on the Internet. I cast my net across an ocean of poets, novelists, painters, illustrators, singers, dancers and musicians. However, due to the irregular nature of the project, whilst the net was wide my selection from the "fish" trapped within had to be wise. I wanted only candidates who were artists themselves, artists rife with carnal curiosity. No puritans or prudes need apply. My model had to be a dryad, a muse, and my canvas of whimsy and desire.
I found message boards and email especially inviting. The illusion of anonymity in cyberspace fostered honest conversations, and many surprising disclosures. Candidates who were not instantly wary of baring their pussies to the strokes of my pen were usually put off when I asked for a picture - two pictures to be exact. One head shot and …well, for lack of a better term, one "snatch shot," with legs spread wide. Then there was the questionnaire. Oh how many were lost because of their naïve or weak-minded answers!
But there for the plucking was THE WOMAN - a lusty, budding poet who feeds her dreams by tending bar. This young lady stood leagues apart from all the rest!
So, Beryl is my muse… my decadent posy! And now she is here…and she is mine for the next seven days(we have a contract signed)! I shall withhold further comment on my "flower" until after our first session later on this evening. Suffice it to say that she enjoyed a sumptuous luncheon, after which she retired to her room for an afternoon siesta.
I can barely tolerate the waiting…
Tuesday: 12:01 AM
If I were Ovid, Shakespeare or the ghost of Baudelaire, words would still fail to paint what has transpired…
But by God I shall try!
At seven last evening I met Beryl in the loft of this former barn. The entirety of the second floor is my sanctum sanctorum. Therein are my studio, my books and my bed. The staircase below leads up into the largest of the chambers, the library. The next room is my workshop, and cornered at the back is a small apartment where I rest my head. The remainder of this vast upper vault is reserved for storage, and is as melancholic and eerie as any mausoleum.
The muse and I held our assignation in my studio, whose Spartan decorations include a plush old couch, a large wooden table, a divan, two straight backed wooden chairs, and my one true treasure: an antique roll-top desk muddled with my writing tools and papers. I have arranged the furniture in a utilitarian manner, with consideration only for the business at hand. I want several places where I might pose Beryl and require a variety of positions from which to choose. All this to afford me the finest possible views of her voluptuous vulva.
My blood stirred, in harmony with my cock, at the sight of this unpolished and poetic nymph. Her shoulder length auburn hair falls neatly round her face. Her full lips are quite tempting, but the paleness of her skin gives this twenty-two year old bar maid/poet an aura of latent innocence. Her flimsy red silk robe(this vestment, as per our contract, was the "uniform" for the first session)seductively enhanced her buxom frame. I had deliberately avoided being too casual with Beryl when we had lunch together, so now she seemed a trifle nervous and reserved.
"You have settled in?" I asked, " Please, come sit next to me on the couch."
She sat herself, robe slightly parted, practically on top of me. So much for her reservations…I chose to be direct.
"I'm look forward to knowing you much better, my dear. But perhaps we'd best begin the session? We can talk some after we've finished." She flushed ever so slightly, and I could feel the heat of her body across the scant inches between us. As my cock twitched and danced I realized that I must maintain my distance –the firewall between artist and object – otherwise my work would be impossible. While I wished to capture passion on the page, I also needed to keep some blood running through my brain.
"Works for me, Mr. Moreau. After all the emails and online chats, I feel I already know an awful lot about you. And then there's your books, of course."
"Please, call me Roman. Considering the nature of our enterprise, first names are most appropriate – almost a necessity."
"Okay, Roman. My friends call me Berry. So, what would you like me to do first?"
"What did you think of my books?" I asked. I intended to ignore her comment, but rose to the bait instead. Well, my curiosity had been pricked, and a writer's first love looks back at him in the mirror every morning.
"It's amazing how you've blurred the establishment line between poetry and prose…and fantasy and reality. And you've kicked in the door for the rest of us with the…the graphic sexuality and eroticism of your work. They still can't classify you, either. I mean is your stuff fiction, non-fiction…
She paused, like an actor looking for her mark on stage, "I mean, you really haven't done all the things you write about, have you?"
The first pose of the evening, and the inevitable first question of the fledgling author: from what font do you draw your knowledge? Have you lived or imagined? But in this case there was more to it. There was an element of tease in this doubting Thomas.
I could normally pontificate for hours on this subject. I should begin with De Sade, who wrote that while he has imagined everything, he certainly has not done everything he has imagined. But tonight my cock was tugging harder than my vanity, so I abstained.
"Let's start by eliminating the robe, and then you can get comfortable on the sofa."
She stood and let the robe drop to the floor in a single motion. She must have practiced that move over and over in the privacy of her room. Ah the young ones, especially the poets! Always ready to get in my pants with art and artifice, when mostly all I want is a spontaneous fuck or a mind-numbing blowjob!
"That's fine Beryl. Just like that…"
I hoped my voice concealed the delirium engulfing my entire body. I could hear my heart pounding in my head, like some villain in a tale by Poe. She lay sprawled across the couch, with one leg bent and resting up against the back. This pose tendered a mesmerizing view of her slightly parted snatch. I thought of Courbet's painting of the woman with a parrot, but there was no sheet hiding any part of Berry.
And she had shaved! In her pictures there had been a neat red-brown tuft of hair, but now all was smooth, accentuating the plump oval lips of her pussy.
I snatched up (yes, yes…that word flies all around me) my quill pen and notebook. I had to start working or lose my mind (and a load of semen!). As she lay there gazing at me, no longer shy, I jotted words and phrases as quickly as they came to mind.
There was the color and texture of her skin (Lord! She even has freckles!), and the classical shape of her body. The thigh resting on the sofa had spread a bit, highlighting the supple strength of her young muscles. She was solid, but also soft and yielding. I wrote on and on in a frenzy of impressions.
Then it hit me…scalded me, like a silver bullet. I suddenly understood that I was not writing about a sexy young poet named Beryl. What I was writing was mythic, and had NOTHING at all to do with her. She and her luscious pussy were merely clay, waiting for my able hands to mold them into something spectacular.
I stood spellbound by the possibilities before me. I must let everything loose, I thought, and I was instantly besieged by a mental slideshow of poses, portraits and endeavors. Then I remembered the quill hanging between my fingers. That would be a fine start…
"Berry, feel up for something a little more…adventurous?" I wondered if I had successfully buried the agitation in my voice.
She grinned and said, "Are we feeling a bit kinky, Roman?"
Darling, dirty Berry! No longer shy at all. Why should she be? At that moment she thought she was the center of my universe.
"Not really kinky, just different. You wouldn't mind having you hands tied behind your back? Or my touching you, caressing you."
"Mmmm…sounds great to me," she purred.
I retrieved a couple of long silk scarves from my bedroom and a few unused quills from my desk. Beryl sat up, but I asked her not too move too much. I didn't want to lose the composition of the scene blazing in my mind, and her pose was wholly arousing.
Once I had her hands bound, I lowered her gently back against the over-stuffed arm of the couch. I sat between her legs and pinned the left one securely behind my back. I placed the other delicious drumstick on my lap, where it pressed against my pulsing cock.
"Roman! You are enjoying yourself, aren't you? I must really be inspiring?" She chuckled coyly as she asked, and slid her thigh back and forth across my legs. She was mistress, muse and master of my world…or so she thought.
"Very, very inspiring," I responded. I slowly ran my fingers up her belly, pausing to draw small circles with my thumbnail around her navel. Her body jerked up off the couch, and she giggled.
"Ha…caught me off guard there, Roman."
I leaned slightly forward and tucked her free leg under my left arm.
"You never mentioned you were ticklish? Keeping any other secrets?" As I asked the question I produced one of the new quills and held it in her line of vision. Her boldness vanished, in the literal blinking of her eyes.
"C'mon Roman, that's no secret! I'm up for almost anything… just that you surprised me…"
Before she could finish, I traced a line around her belly button with the stiff feathers of my quill.
"Nooo…aaaahahahaaa…" she wailed as she levitated off the sofa.
"Where else are you ticklish? No more secrets…eh?" My destination was clearly mapped in my mind's eye, but why not let her wait, and wonder?
"Hehe…just not too much Roman. I don't mind a little tickling. I…heeeyaaahh…"
Her words, and her self-control, were lost in the din of her screams as I turned the quill and began to faintly scratch lines in and around that quaint little hole in her belly.
"Eeeeeeaaahahaha!!!" This time I could barely hold her down, as she flew into a paroxysm of howling laughter. To free my left hand, I tucked her right leg under both of mine, pressed beneath my knees. Now her lower body was firmly moored, but I made sure to leave her legs far enough apart for the access I required.
I scratched my name in invisible letters all the way down her quaking stomach, across her hairless mound, and right up to the edge of her quivering plum. She bucked and twisted frantically, but the scarves held, and even when she sat up she couldn't stay up. She was laughing much too hard.
I was as roused, as intoxicated, as Keats when first he pored over Chapman's Homer! As masterful as Picasso when he sketched his first errant line!
I paused for a moment, to let her catch her breath, and positioned myself for the next foray.
"Not there…gasp…I'll die…" she begged. She tried to wriggle her legs free, but that was of no use…except for the ongoing torment it caused my throbbing cock. I decided to free it before it snapped off. She was quick to note this liberation. She in turn took a deep breath and tried negotiation.
"Look how hard you are… Why don't you let me up so I can do something for you? If you want you can tickle my ass with your feather while I blow you…"
"It's a quill, not just a feather, and it's about to write an ode all over your quim!" I pressed my right hand over her slit and expose the moist, blushing lips. How ripe and edible she looked! But that was for another time…instead I moved the feathers in soft lines over the dewy skin, making small circles round and over the lavish pink hood of her clit. She gagged and moaned, until I turned the quill to scribble love letters on her pelvis and inside her thighs. Then she cackled and cried. I decided I might as well jot my initials on the taint between her holes.
She wriggled and pumped her hips so hard I was nearly tossed to the floor. I tormented her asshole and every pussy-fold for several minutes more. By that time her entire snatch was drenched, and her velvet pouch had turned just this side of crimson. I let her get a breath or two before I tweaked the quill under the slick cloak and tickled her clitoris. The ferocity of her spasms was astounding, in light of how weak her sweat-soaked body had seemed but a moment before.
Her coarse throaty roars - first in agony, then in pleasure and release – burned through me. That plus the endless vibration of her body under mine proved to be too much…so I joined the chorus and blasted lines of cum in gushing arcs across her shaking body.
This was the end…for now. My creative fire petered with the discharge of my peter. I felt drained and unsteady. My world had shifted yet again. I knew she could leave me, leave my work. That was an option in our bargain..
I released her legs and removed the binding scarves. I tucked my cock in my pants and went downstairs to the kitchen to give Berry some time to herself. Some time to curl up and sob in peace. I returned a few minutes later with a large glass of cider and a thick woolen robe for her to wear. As she sipped the cider I slid behind her naked body on the couch. She shuddered when I touched her shoulders, but once she realized it was only a massage she leaned back, into my arms.
No, I don't think she shall leave…
Our work together has only just begun!