Jules and Jim and Juliet

She sat in the first row of tables in the smoky basement room in the Village on both evenings I was reciting my poetry. I was a painter really—a portraitist mostly of real life, its sensuality. I was compared—or at least I compared myself when asked—to Whistler or Renoir in my use of rich colors and lush settings to set off the sensuality of the human body. But I wasn't confined by the Victorian conventions that, I believe, had limited these artists' works. Often when I looked at a Whistler or Renoir portrait—of perhaps a woman in a brightly painted kimono resting on a daybed—I looked into her face and divined that the artist had painted her right after he'd fucked her, his semen still floating in her eyes and her mouth puckered in the recent memory of the shape and movement of his cock.

I endeavored to capture this mood earlier in multiple art forms—while she—or he, if the mood struck me—was still being fucked. My art thus took on an even greater dimension, and I took it all very seriously indeed. I didn't paint this way just to have frequent free fucks; I was developing a whole new art form. And that girl in the first row of tables had a face that was perfect for my art.

It was fortunate that she liked my poetry so well—that my poetry recitation in that smoky basement room in the Village aroused her to wanting to fuck me. I knew she wanted it because she put the moves on. I was content to go home to Jules and paint this young woman just from memory. She didn't move me enough to ache for the full use of my technique. A memory portrait could suffice. But I could go either way with that. I wasn't a fanatic about my art; it was comfort rather than an obsession for me.

I stood down from the stool in the center of the bare wooden stage to the sound of applause scattered around the room that was all the more satisfying because many present were too stoned to know they even were there, let alone that a poetry reading had ended. And those who were fully conscious were dulled by the clouds of marijuana smoke swirling about them. As I brushed past her table, she tugged on my arm and arrested my movement.

"That was simply marvelous," she said. "That went straight to the center of me. I feel so open and wet. Wasn't that simply wonderful and sensuous, Petey?" While still clawing at my sleeve, she had turned to the young man sitting beside her—or, rather, who was slouched in the chair beside her. I could tell from his eyes that he wasn't fully here. In any event, he didn't respond. He probably wasn't tuned in on her frequency anymore. He had likely brought her here because she told him she melted to poetry—which he otherwise wouldn't be seen dead in association with—and he thought he might get lucky with her afterward on my preparation. I was amused by the thought that I was probably the one who would be reaping what I had sowed for him. Ah, well, his loss; he needed to learn how to use drugs rather than be used by them.

"How open? How wet?" I asked, leaning down toward her. I saw no reason to be coy under the circumstances. I had already nearly passed by her chair, and the angle at which she had clutched one of my arms permitted my other arm to come around her shoulder. I slipped a hand under her arm pit and palmed a breast. She wasn't wearing anything under her cotton blouse, and I verified her arousal from the feel of her hardened nipple. I squeezed her breast, and she shuddered appreciatively and pushed into my hand. I leaned farther down, lost in those flashing eyes of hers, already reaching in my mind for my paints, and she brought her lips up to mine and opened to my tongue. There was no doubt she was mine to fuck.

Petey didn't seem to mind or even to notice.

"Do you live nearby?" she asked breathlessly when I released her lips. "My name is Juliet—I assume the program is accurate and your name is Jim. Do you want to make love to me, Jim? I mean for real? You have already made me melt with your poetry. It's as if I've already given myself to you."

I did want to paint her, and I guess that meant I wanted to fuck her as well. Jules would not be pleased. But Jules had not been pleased many times before and yet he was still with me. And there was my art. Fucking went with my art.

"I'll take you home and fuck you if you let me paint you," I answered.

"You want to paint me?" Juliet said with a little gasp. I could tell that the idea of this was even more arousing to her than my poetry was.

"Yes, in every way," I answered.

Juliet was quite surprised when she later learned what "in every way" meant, but she was so aroused and curious that she didn't hesitate in the least. She merely rose from the table, without another glance at the semicomatose Petey, and preceded me up the stairs to the street. I guided her with a hand on her buttocks that made quite clear that she at least temporarily was mine.

She stripped for me in my studio loft apartment, under the skylight with a strong afternoon sunlight streaming onto my daybed. I wrapped her in an orange and purple kimono and arranged her on the daybed, supine, with the kimono open to reveal her ample breasts, nipples erect, and her naked, shaved cunt.

I then did a baseline sketch on the canvas, leaving the face blank, and set up the cameras, both video and still, and set the timer on the three still cameras set on high tripods at various angles around the daybed so that they would snap off photos at fifteen second intervals for an hour. I then brought my paints, pallet, and brushes together near the foot of the daybed and brought over a low easel and rested the canvas, with its basic sketching of the lines, scale, and perspective of Juliet's partially draped body, on the easel.

I stripped and sat down on the edge of the daybed next to Juliet's hip. She was still looking at me with curiosity and with a dreamy look that had deepened as she watched me strip and saw that I was more than adequate for the job. I leaned down and took her lips in mine again, while I moved a hand to her mound and ran a finger into her nether lips and found her clitoris. She sighed and reached for my cock and encircled it with a hand and began to stroke me.

It was at that point that Jules returned home from his practice on the dance line for a soon-to-open play up on Broadway. I could hear his grunt of disapproval and disappointment as he entered the loft and spied me at work. My art had been dormant for a couple of weeks—which made it all the harder for Jules to see that I was working again.

Jules knew of my art technique—what it entailed and what it required—and he didn't seem to mind when I painted and fucked him. But he just could not help but be jealous and to look on my work with other models with disapproval. I normally went in two-week sprints with my models—and when they were willing, they lived with me during that time and we fucked constantly. It was all part of my inspiration process. Between my "other" model periods Jules was as happy and contented as he could be. At times like this, as I was beginning with Juliet, however, Jules was a real bore to be with. During these periods, he often threatened to leave me—and I told him to go ahead if he must because I had no control over my muse—but I fucked him so well in the intermediary periods that he never had carried through on this threat.

As I started to prepare Juliet, Jules sat quietly in the shadows and glowered and sighed heavily.

"Have I intruded?" Juliet whispered to me, aware of Jules's oppressive presence. "I didn't know. Shall I leave?"

"In a week or two," I murmured. "I could not bear to let you go now. My muse is already painting you in my mind."

"Is there anything you need me to do to inspire your muse?" she asked.

"Well, since you asked, some of my best work is done after a blow job."

Juliet laughed softly and placed her hands on my hips and guided me in straddling her breasts and bringing my cock to her lips.

I heard the intake of breath and muttering from across the room, and Jules moved from the shadows and exited the loft through a door closed more soundly than technically necessary.

When I felt sufficiently aroused, I moved back to where my buttocks rested on Juliet's ankles, and I picked up my pallet and dabbed on the colors that she inspired in me—cobalt blue, emerald green, and deep purple. And I began to paint. In my own style.

Juliet looked up with surprise as I began, but then she gave a throaty laugh and arched her back up from the daybed and placed her hands on the back of her neck. Her breasts jutted up at me and I painted the nipples blue and ran a corkscrew of green winding around each breast to meet at her sternum and then green and blue lines running down across her belly. I painted an elaborate necklace in all three colors, highlighted in gold leaf. Then I let my conscious go blank and my brush to follow its own devices as Juliet gently writhed under me in the pleasure of the brush. I painted her labia deep purple with a line of emerald green around the inner entrance.

As I painted Juliet, I took moments to turn to the canvas and render her there as well in all of the rich colors I was using. All the time the video was whirring and the still cameras were clicking at fifteen-second intervals.

Throughout I remained hard as did Juliet's nipples, and she maintained her dreamy expression of intense arousal and enjoyment.

When I had her as I wanted her—on canvas as well as real life, I raised up on my knees and painted my cock a scarlet red. I raised her hips to me and slowly parted the green-trimmed purple labia with the scarlet shaft until the red had disappeared altogether.

And then I fucked her in long, slow strokes, holding her close at full length, both of us writhing on the daybed under the soft evening light from the skylight, the undulating mix of our body colors creating new and unique patterns and images—all as the video camera ran and the still cameras continued to click off their photos. And while I fucked her, I painted in my presence in the canvas, aided by a series of mirrors set up beyond the rim of cameras.

I painted her face on the canvas nearly last, wanting to catch her expression at the height of orgasm, as I plumbed her deep, my knee inside one of her legs, leveraging off the sole of my foot of the other leg on the floor beside the daybed, and holding her other leg up and out in my free hand—pulling dick bulb to her entrance and then lingering over her clit with it before plunging to the hilt in a long stroke that took her breath away—and repeating the pattern rhythmically as the cameras clicked on.

Thus was the uniqueness of my art—painting in a multidimensional sphere—performance enhancing canvas art and augmented by a photographic capture in time and angle. All of it went together to form one artistic, arousing whole. And my art sold well—there were connoisseurs who came to me begging me to sell them one of my multidimensional studies—whether of me, the artist, with a woman or a man.

Jules came home very late that night. He stripped in the dark and laid down on his side on our bed and reached for me, finding the root of my cock as was his usual preparation for my fucking away his cares of the day in the demanding theater world. But I felt him jerk when his hand discovered that much of my cock was inside Juliet, who was spooned into me on the other side and was sleeping peacefully after her unique experience, which included several rounds of exhausting fucking—including, to her surprise but great arousal, in the ass as she bent over the tub washing the paint away. Jules grunted and started to leave the bed, but I turned and held him close to me until he calmed down and was no longer trembling. And then I raised his leg and positioned my cock at his hole and slowly entered him—and fucked him to an exhausted sleep.

When I woke in the morning, I was alone in the bed. I struggled up from the clutches sleep and out of the complete draining my painting session—which had been one of the best I'd ever had—and stumbled into the kitchen alcove at the back corner of the loft. Jules and Juliet were both sitting, slumped, at the table, drinking coffee but both looking sullen and studiously avoiding looking at or talking to each other.

This edge-of-warfare situation continued for nearly a week. Juliet had moved in temporarily as I requested as she modeled for me almost daily. But Juliet and Jules proved to be opposites. He loved classical music and she preferred loud rap—which I solved with two sets of earphones. She hibernated in layers of this and that and thus could be seen as sloven by a neat freak—which defined Jules. I found I could do little about this. And both of them, although intellectually accepting that I needed to have them both, showed—both consciously and inadvertently—their displeasure when I was fucking the other.

At last I hit on what I thought was a brilliant solution—one that would take my art to new heights and that would be perfect to fulfill a contract from a very rich and very, very private prospect client. A threesome. I'd never done that before.

I explained what I wanted to Jules and Juliet, and such was my sexual power over both of them that they both acceded to my plan even though it was obvious neither was at all pleased with the inclusion of the other.

I started with sketching in Juliet, naked on a blue-velvet covered daybed now in front of rich maroon brocade drapery. I painted Juliet in purple and emerald green again. I initially fucked her myself, me painted in gold and white. And then I drew away and introduced Jules's cock to Juliet's cunt, and painted Jules in silvers and bright red. Both initially were stiff and unanimated while I sketched Jules into the canvas, but then I came in behind Jules and fucked him while he was fucking Juliet, and both of them appeared to warm to the ménage à trois while I expertly guided three sets of hands, lips, and hips.

When I found my release and rose off of Jules and Juliet, I turned my attention to finishing the canvas as Jules and Juliet fucked on, now in deep lust in their individual need for full satisfaction and in response to the exotic situation.

That night, in the dark, both of them were fully engaged in our three-way fucking in my bed, and I went to sleep with the self-assurance that I had maneuvered them into tolerating the other for the time Juliet was with me.

On the morn, I found myself once more alone in my bed and padded over to the kitchen alcove to check on whether the ice had been broken between Jules and Juliet.

But I found the kitchen deserted, with a note left on a stark-white slip of paper on the table top. My scheme had gone much too well. The note briefly told me that Jules and Juliet were in love and had left me—that neither had room for me in their lives now.

I laughed a deep-throated laugh and sat down at the table to savor the joke that I had played on myself. I wished both well, and I could always find another male lover and unpaid housekeeper and female or male model for that matter. But my art I could never compromise. And I did not have to do so. I knew without reviewing the canvas and checking the video and camera stills that the previous night's session had been magnificent and that I could live for a year off of what that rich, very private client would pay.

I did rather wonder, though, where the art could go from here. Perhaps more than three? Debauchery at the French Court, perhaps? The possibilities were delicious.