Thanks Be

I APPEARED TO BE back in favour with Liz Rundle, who obviously realised that mine was not solely a case of, as Katherine Whitehorn once said, "outside every thin girl there is a fat man try to get (his tool) in". Maybe it was my demeanour and treatment of Bea - or perhaps it was showing her a few of the sketches I'd made to showing she was also the muse for my art. Anyway the shopping trip went as shopping trips tend to go - lots to carry and a lighter wallet. I returned burdened with paints, canvas and goodies for our larder, but I swear Bea was carrying even more bags - and was annoyingly Sphinx-like about their contents.

Back in my cottage the urgency and compulsion to set brush to canvas was overwhelming. For once I had something meaningful to say. I was being a true artist and not merely a jobbing craftsman. Anything that requires a modicum of skill gets labelled as art, ignoring the fact that to be true art it must contain a message, must seek to extend the viewer's understanding of reality.

Normally I take the sketches I make on my wanderings and set one against another; add a detail here, an angle there, until I come to a composition which says something. But not this time. The dream that had come to me on the moor was already complete.

'What do I have to do?' Bea asked when I introduced her to my studio.

'Just stand on the dais over there and keep still. That is the most important, and difficult thing, keeping still until I tell you to relax. So make sure that the positions I put you in are comfortable - no strain.'

She moved to stand facing me, arms at her side while I slowly undressed her. The new blouse first - her firm young breasts springing free as I released the strain on its buttons, for she seemed to agree with me that a bra was uncalled for. Then unzipping the jeans she had just bought to reveal clean, white silk panties. Slipping curled fingers into the cloth at each hip I gently slid both down her slim legs, extricating each foot in turn. Throwing them to one side I briefly teased her by leaning in and running my tongue up the inside of one thigh and along her labia. She giggled.

Standing back my eyes inventoried her gracefully curvaceous figure. Noted the way the light played across her nudity, causing her skin glow; cast soft shadows below her boobs, touched her slim waist and left her loins shaded and indistinct.

A brief, appreciative appraisal then I finger-combed her muff to a semblance of neatness and positioned her: right hand cupping her right breast and, letting my fingertips slide lightly down, bent her left arm to the side, palm on hip.

Traditionally artistic nudes are posed to obscure their pudendas - a by-product of the anti-pornographic, politically correct lobby. But not this time. The central concept I was trying to convey required the viewer to be made aware and stimulated by the embodiment of lust. Properly lit she was exactly as I had envisaged - nipples erect, hips square-on and swollen labia clearly displayed. Bea beautifully conveyed the Alpha and Omega of aroused allure.

Fortunately I had a canvas of the right size ready stretched and primed, so setting it on my easel I furiously blocked out the composition; captured the planes of her form, the strength of her legs ; the tilt of her head; the proud thrust of her breasts; the swell of her belly. Ah! the swell of her belly. For the first time in my life I felt I understood the urge to procreate. But later, that was for later - now the fire of composition was upon me.

When the light began to fade I reluctantly put my brushes in a jar of turpentine and let Bea rest. She had been marvelous, barely the twitch of a muscle and not a single complaint during the time I had been lost in my muse. She needed a reward.

'How about a bite to eat and then I take you to the pub,' I suggested.

'Never been to one of them.'

'Well I used to go whenever I felt need of company. Now I've got you it's not important. So if you'd rather not we can stay home.'

'Didn't say that. Love to go.'

'Right, that's settled. While I put the kettle on and sort out the food, you go and get dressed. Nothing sexy or fancy. Jeans and a sweat shirt will do.'

'Aye, aye, Captain.'

'I told you, It's Ralph.'

'Sure thing, Captain Ralph. We going to meet any of your friends?'

'Probably,' I said, wondering what they were going to make of her.

While I put together a quick meal of cheese omelette, tomatoes and chips Bea disappeared into the bedroom to rummage among the clothes she had acquired.

I had to approve when she reappeared in the brief, white, halter-neck top that left her back bare and contrasted well with the warm cinnamon of her skin and the black of her hair. It was the ideal choice for a girl disinclined to wear a bra, yet it plainly declared the beauty of the curvaceous mounds it covered, their nipples clearly bulging the smooth fabric and a sliver of buoyant flesh peeking out from each side. Below a smooth midriff was a denim skirt that came down her slender thighs to stop just short of her knees. A pair a open-toed sandals completed the ensemble.

IT WAS QUITE CROWDED when we arrived at my local - The Royal Harry. Most of the seats out front were taken by holiday-makers enjoying the warm evening sun, while the few locals who could spare a bit of time from fleecing them were inside bemoaning the loss in atmosphere brought about by the intolerant, puritanical, do-gooding government who had forced the landlord to remove the ashtrays and exile smokers to the open air.

Leading Bea to the entrance I was conscious of the way the men watched her with excited interest - and many of the women with a touch of envy. I couldn't help feeling proud and secretly pleased.

Inside it was quiet and snug with plenty of free seats. My regular drinking companions who were occupying our usual table between the empty fireplace and the bar didn't notice us until the landlord said, 'The usual Ralph?'

I nodded. 'And for your friend?' he added.

'Oh,' I hadn't thought. A soft drink would be to treat her as a child, but this wasn't the time for her to experiment. 'A white wine, please Harry. Sweet if you've got one.'

'Like her nature, eh!' A rather snide remark, but I knew he meant well so let it pass.

'Hi! Ralph. Good to have you back.' Brian Knowles was his usual hearty self. 'And who's your friend?'

I raised my beer to acknowledge them, 'Evening all.'

'Bea,' I turned to her, 'this rabble is, from the left, Wesley - with the whiskers - Brian, and Dave. . . guys,' I looked back at my cronies, 'This is Bea who is staying with me for a while.'

They all made welcoming noises and moved round on the benches to make room for us. As I sat next to him it was Wesley who quietly remarked, 'Didn't take you for a cradle snatcher, Ralph. Goes well, does she?'

I dug him in the ribs. 'Keep your perverted thoughts to yourself. She's a decent, well brought up girl. She's here to model for me.' Who was I kidding.

'Oh yeah. I'll believe you, thousands wouldn't.'

The talk being general, Bea sat quietly absorbing the atmosphere while I was brought up to date with the local gossip and happenings. However, I could see I was going to be in for a raft of questions when we returned to the studio.

When, staring toward the door, Dave Wells said, 'I wouldn't mind getting into her thong. If she's wearing one.' And Brian added, 'She's certainly taken heed of that old rubric; if you've got it, flaunt it.' I turned in my chair to see what had claimed their attention.

She was a stunner. Mid twenties at a guess, with pale, lightly tanned skin and a mass of flaming red hair cascading down onto her shoulders. Long, faultless legs flowed up from high heeled sandals to a white, rump-hugging miniskirt, while a stand away crop-top left her midriff bare. She had a mouth just made for pleasuring a man, but it was the way she paraded her billowing bust that drew every eye in the place. A hussy if ever I saw one. I wondered who the lucky man would be that night.

'Wouldn't mind dipping my wick in that,' Brian commented.

'Get in the queue,' Dave said.

'It'll be round the block and back again,' Brian added.

'Anyone not standing in line would have to be past it or gay.' Dave again.

From the corner of my eye I noticed an intrigued Bea was listening hard and closely watching the woman as she strolled to the powder room. Another subject to add to the questions coming my way as we walked home. Reckoning it time to put an end to the macho chatter, I glared at Brian and Dave and gave a brief nod toward Bea. They got the message and shut up.

I raised my glass, 'Another round?' I suggested. 'Oh, and Wesley, you got any free time over the next few days?'

'What you got in mind?'

'A six pack at my place while I do a sketch or two of you.' He could be cantankerous if he felt someone was imposing on his independence so I was deliberately casual over the idea of his posing for my masterwork.

'Depends. Bit busy this stage of the season. Perhaps Saturday afternoon if nothing crops up.'

'Sounds good to me.' I tried not to appear too pleased. 'Just want to try out a couple of ideas I've got.'

The conversation grew more general. Mainly about the trade tourists were bringing, together with a few anecdotes of their antics.

Bea continued to sit quietly while we talked. Was she bored? I couldn't tell so decided to cut short our excursion.

QUIETLY, COMPANIONABLY, HAND-IN-HAND, we returned home down the footpath. The evening had cleared my mind. Somehow I could stand apart and watch myself and know it was meant to be. That this woman was part of me. Mine to have and hold, to please and protect. To be, as it has been so aptly put, the light of my life, the fire of my loins.

As I'd expected, she had a heap of questions about the hussy in the pub, which I tried my best to answer. Whether she fully believed me, and what she felt of the woman's blatant display of sexuality, I didn't know. Though she did ask if I also wanted to have her.

I'm ashamed to say I prevaricated at little, saying, 'Maybe, if I didn't have you. But I'm a one woman man, and you're enough for me.' Though truth to say I defy any man who saw that flaunted body not to feel his cock stir.

Back home Bea disappeared into the bedroom while I washed the dishes and cleared the lounge. Nothing is worse than waking up to a messy house. Then I heard a sound behind me. Turning I saw Bea standing in the doorway watching, one hand stretched toward me. 'Please,' she said, her voice low, her eyes downcast.

'Please, what?'

'Please, Captain. Know me.' It was almost a moan.

What was wrong? I went to her and taking her in my arms pulled her close, kissing her softly, crushing her against my chest. Her arms wrapped around me, hands digging into my back, sending tingles straight between my loins.

I pulled back a little and looked into her eyes. 'What's up, my dear?'

She just tried to pull me closer.

I kissed the top of her head. 'Wait a moment while I get organised.' Then a hand around her back, the other under her knees, I lifted and carried her to the bedroom.

Having slipped off my sandals I pulled my polo shirt over my head. As I dropped it to the floor her hands were already fumbling for the fastening of my jeans. Lowering the zip she reached in and drew me out, already hard and eager. Pushing her hands away I finally got rid of my clothes and climbed on the bed beside her.

'It's even better if we take it slowly, my dear.'

'If you say so.' She seemed almost desperate to be taken, yet lacking in confidence.

Pulling her close, I ran my hands through her hair. Traced the contours of her neck. Kissed her chin, the hollow of her throat - moved down to her collarbone. All the while caressing her breasts with my palms and running my fingers across the tee-shirt to tease her already hard and pert nipples.

I paused for a moment. 'Please, my darling, tell me what's bothering you. I can't help unless you do.'

'What am I going to do when you get tired of me; when you don't want me any more?' Her eyes were full of tears.

What to say. I hugged her closer. 'Hush, little one. I'm never going to get tired of you.'

Putting her arms tightly round me, her voice barely more than a whisper, she said, 'But what about when you want another woman? You wanted that red-head in the pub. I know you did.'

Gently I stroked her head. 'Not really. And not instead of you. You come first with me.'

'I don't want to be a burden, but I can't help it. I don't know what to do.'

'Who says you're a burden? Not to me you aren't.'

'But you can have any woman - you probably have - so why me?'

'Because you do something to me. And you inspire my painting.'

She drew a shuddering breath, 'I don't want to leave you. Ever.'

A storm of emotion swept through me. My arms tight around her I squeezed her close, trying to reassure her. 'You don't have to. Just stay. I think I love you.'

She turned her face to me and I nuzzled her wet cheeks, found her mouth and glued my lips to hers, the force of my passion bruising her flesh.

In due course her tears dried and she sighed deeply, 'Sorry to be such a cry baby, Captain.'

I kissed her lightly on the nose, 'Rest your mind, you silly goose. That's what shoulders are for - to be cried on when necessary.'

Anxious to restore her confidence and to show how desirable I found her, I eased her up from the bed, gripped the hem of her tee-shirt and pulled it over her head revealing the soft, perfect, orbs that fit so well into my hands. I bent my head to one, flicking the nipple with my tongue. She muttered something I couldn't hear as I concentrated on gently sucking her tender flesh.

Slowly I worked my way down her body. Savouring her firmness, stroking her stomach with the pads of my fingertips. Reaching the band of her skirt I felt around, unhooked it and together with her panties, pulled it past her hips and down her legs leaving her naked and ready.

Taking a foot in my hand I remembered the first time I'd held it. Could it be only four days ago. It seemed a lifetime.

Inch by inch I kissed my way up her ankle to her firm calves. She wriggled slightly, trying to pull free, then quietly lay back her legs spread wide. Higher and higher my lips grazed. As I reached her soft inner thighs the scent of her arousal filled my nostrils.

I gazed at her sublime centre, pouting like the petals of a beautiful flower below the soft night of her thick bush. Gently at first, then with growing passion, I pressed my mouth against those lips. She moaned and rose to meet me. I searched for, and found, her begging clit peeping from its hood. Circled and licked it hard, devouring it. Ardently I pressed a couple of fingers into her velvet embrace.

She moaned and muttered incoherently, her voice husky. Shoulders twisting her arms thrashed the bed. A few moments later she shrieked and came in a rush, covering my face and fingers with her sweet juices.

I gave her no respite. Clasped her trim butt I again pulled her onto my mouth. The tip of my tongue parted those juicy petals, exploring her hypersensitive grotto, enjoying her taste. Her clawing hands tore at my hair. She was gasping for breath. Her hips bucked, desperate to take me deeper. Again she cried out, her knees raised high, her feet pummeling the back of my head.

Lowering her legs to the mattress I waited as her breathing became less ragged and she slowly melted into the bed.

I needed my release.

Slowly, my palms caressing up her legs, I once more parted her knees and thighs. Laying between them my cock rubbed the wet hair of her muff. My fingers fondled her sweat slickened breasts, gently squeezing their swollen nipples.

As, exhausted, she weakly tried to raise her hips I slipped inside her inspiring slit. Then, lowering my weight onto those hard-used boobs, I tantalizingly began to almost fully withdraw and thrust, withdraw and thrust. Louder and louder she moaned at each deep, demanding stroke as I took us closer and closer to a mutual orgasm.

'Yes, Captain. Yes. Yes. Yes,' she groaned, an arm winding around my neck.

Leaning back and lifting her legs to my shoulders, faster and faster I rocked to and fro; pushed deeper and deeper; felt her velvet walls clutch and release me, clutch and release me. Crying out as we came together, each tightly clasping the other, her body shook as I emptied myself into her hot, welcoming core.

Side by side we lay while I murmured reassuring words of affection until, minutes later, my flaccid cock slid from her. It seemed I had, temporarily at least, quelled her doubts.

Turning her spine into my chest, her arse into my groin I wrapped my arms protectively around her and held her spooned. She couldn't keep her eyes open. Her breathing grew quiet and even. Tired and content, we slept.

IT WAS WARM AND HUMID when I awoke. The covers had fallen to the floor and Bea lay half on top of me, her head resting on my shoulder, one leg draped across my hip. Trapped under her back my arm was numb.

A glance at the clock showed it was a lot later than I had thought. Yet the light was poor, almost twilight. Another front had moved in overnight leaving the sky grey, with a fine, penetrating drizzle smearing the windows. Annoying, for I'd wanted to continue with the painting, yet the light was really not good enough. However all was not lost, since a quiet, lazy morning would provide time for me to further assure Bea of my commitment to her.

Easing myself from under her I padded into the kitchen and put the kettle on. Carrying the hot cups to the bedroom I gently roused my magical muse. 'What are we doing today?' She asked, stretching beguilingly.

'Nothing much,' I replied enjoying the view. 'How are you feeling?'

'Wonderful.'

I wanted to ask if she'd got over her doubts, but decided it was better to let a sleeping dog - or rather a satisfied nymphet - lie. Then the sight of her luxuriant muff reminded me. 'I promised to shave you sometime. We could start of with that.'

'If you want. I can think of something else.'

'I'm sure you can. But let's leave that until after I've prepared you. Then I'll show you how a smooth pussy adds to the pleasure.'

Eventually we got round to a late breakfast, or early lunch - what some call brunch. Between mouthfuls of needed muscle fuel Bea gleefully agreed that my forecast had been spot on and vowed to keep herself properly smooth - as much for her own pleasure as for mine.

During our so agreeable labours the weather had been gradually improving. The light, although still not as I would have wished, was good enough to allow me to do some painting. I didn't push Bea too hard, she wasn't an experienced model yet. So after an hour or so I sent her off to play while I sketched in part of the background and generally prepared for the visit of Wesley the next day. Early evening she reappeared to ask, 'Do you realise what the time is?'

'Eh, no.'

'I've made us a meal. Come and eat.'

'Okay. The light's just about gone again. Give me a moment to clear up.'

'Don't take too long.'

Who taught Bea to cook I have never discovered. Her mother I presume, though she's not above consulting a cookbook. Anyway she's excellent with the standard, simple dishes. Being used to preparing my own meals - and often forgetting when carried away painting - having someone else do it was a real pleasure. And I told her so.

'What do I get as a reward, then?'

'Well I know what you want. But we can save that for bed time.'

'Wrong! First time I've known you get me wrong.'

'Alright, what do you want?'

'To go to that pub.'

'You sure? I don't want you all upset if that hussy is there again.'

'No. I'm over that. You're a man and if you want another woman, go ahead. As long as you come back to me.'