The Girl at the Back Door

She'd lived there for nearly a year. What I knew about her was simple really – she is an artist – art student apparently. She also had a certain look of innocence about her. Not true innocence but more like inexperience. As any good student she was also a keeper of somewhat odd hours. Never overnighters anywhere though but there was the occasional weekend when her car wasn't there. Not often though. I'd seen her with friends – girl friends – from time to time. There was always laughing involved with her interactions.

Her voice has laughter in it too. I heard bits of stuff through her sometimes-open window as she chatted on the phone with someone. Never saw her party in her place – way to small I suspect since it is essentially a very small studio apartment. The proximity of my back door to hers was always an intrigue especially due to the laughing.

Then one day we emerged from our backdoors simultaneously. Melanie, it turned out, was not laughing. Things were going somewhat on a downer for her. This was only evident in her countenance, not through an in depth conversation at the time. Perfunctory inquires as to how things were going were not enough to pry information out of her. Still, this smiling, now upon closer inspection, very young woman was on a bit of a downer. It was only later that day that I found out more and had our conversation.

Returning from a grocery run, we nearly bumped into one another literally – me on ingress and literally – me on ingress. She made a remark about the shopping contents I was hauling into my place. I explained that it was dinner. A fast, flirty and yet really-looking to be of aid to a downcast young woman question as to the prospects of her joining was – well there was the surprise.

Melanie, it seemed, was on her way out to find something to dine on and, well, seeing as how things were not looking particularly interesting – she accepted. All that was required was to just give her a minute and she'd be right "over."

I admit that I had nothing more in mind than to buck up the countenance of a young woman who I thought needed an ear. I scurried and set up the dining area quickly while she took her minute. Then, there she was. At my back door.

The dinner went well, barbecue, fish, veggies etc. The conversation was a mixture of delight and, finally, revelation. Seems she'd gone through a bit of a downturn in her creative process and the results were showing in the appraisals she received in her classes. I volunteered to be a truly inexpert judge and offer a second opinion. When she popped out and returned in a flash with three works (oils) that she had been critiqued form. By now the wine served had gone and the second bottle nearly so. My evaluation of her material was far more positive than that she'd received earlier. This seemed to help and that made me feel good.

As we talked more, the music in my house flowed easily over us. Sitting with her on the couch and conversing, sipping still more wine, and learning more about one another moved rapidly toward the darker side of evening. Her gratitude for my "kind review" of her work was repeated over and over. Touching someone's soul when it is bared in an artistic fashion is a risk. When that soul is sullied by criticism it is difficult to handle. That's about the time, later in the evening, that I truly noticed her in a more physical sense.

Melanie is one of those scrubbed-clean young women with rosy cheeks and shoulder-length brown hair. Once warmed up that laughter in her voice returned and spread through the rest of her. Then there was the little matter of her attire that caught my eye at last. Denim and cotton is the best description. Cotton blouse – white – not tight but that was only due to her likely having a habit of underexposing her most imposing assets. Her breasts are not overly large but they are present and accounted for. It was only then too that I noted just how far down the buttons on that blouse were undone. Had one slipped open while we dined – I mused to myself? Must be the wine I thought.

As I went back to the "cellar" to retrieve one last bottle of wine – she excused herself and used the restroom. Upon returning we converged just shy of the sofa. It was just a first touch of her arm as I guided her ahead of me around the coffee table. That touch lingered longer than I would have normally. Then she turned, probably in politeness, and our eyes met and held for just a moment. It was in that moment that, wine, soul touching and pleasantness combined to press things forward. I offered a sincere compliment as to the color and depth of her eyes. Her acceptance of the flattery did not include turning her head away. She is not tall – but then who is when standing next to me. I swear she lifted up a bit onto the balls of her feet – at least that's my excuse and I'm sticking to it.

Well, it was my move that came next. I slowly lowered my mouth toward hers and kissed her gently. The real surprise came when she reached up after our initial buss and slipped one arm around my neck and urged me forward again. That's when we both became teenagers in heat.

My hands went to her sides – then around to her back and I lifted and pressed her close as we kissed again – this time with some fervor and purpose. We chuckled for just a moment in a kid of mutual embarrassment but went back to making out immediately thereafter. Not without skills am I so I carefully explored the exterior periphery of her upper form. Discovering among other things that yes, she was wearing a bra and that she didn't mind having my hands make such a discovery. One more chuckle in between osculation and my hands became bold. Straight to the front of the bra – not the mention those assets of hers. As we kissed now she moaned just a bit. This was probably to let me know that it was OK to perform as I was. That and the fact that she turned slightly to insure that my hand fell squarely atop one of them. Or maybe it was the fact that she now had moved her hand to my ass and was pushing forward as she leaned her jeans-clad hips into me.

Whatever, it was little time later that we sat beside one another and I unbuttoned the remainder of her blouse. Slipping it from her shoulders as she watched my eyes to see if these works of art met with criticism or approval. The answer she found there insured that I would be allowed to proceed. Rather – she proceeded. She proceeded to unbutton my shirt and run her hands over my chest as she looked in appraisal. So, we established that we had mutual attraction for one another's chests. Then, as I slipped the hook at the front and center of her bra she let me know that she liked what she saw as well. Her mouth went to one of my nipples and nipped at it while I removed her undergarment – wishing to return the favor. Once our chesty explorations had been completed – actually only an initial survey on both our parts, she stood. As she looked at me she slipped the denim from her hips. Those hips were ample but not out of proportion. Her breasts were firm and self-supporting in spite of their size. Once the jeans were off and piled to one side I could see the artist expression in clothing form. Thong. The fabric in the front covering the well trimmed and shaped patch of hair. I might add that the front of the thong was not very large either to give some impression of the degree of shaving involved.

Before she could sit I reached forward and ran one hand tenderly up one inner thigh. Fighting the immediate urge plunge full forward I merely allowed her legs to move apart and then let my fingers reach underneath her and slide over the tiniest of coverings. Already damp her thong was closing in on time for disposal.

She moved around a bit and stood in front of me. Her nipples just above eye level if I sat up straight and her mound squarely in front of me. Not knowing what part of her to explore first – I took the coward's path and did both. One hand reaching up and cupping, caressing and squeezing lightly at her breasts. Pulling one nipple at a time forward with my index finger and thumb. This would have had one effect but for the business the other hand was involved in. Between her legs now and without hesitation my long fingers pried the eponymous part of the thong aside from the center or her. The first order was to test for humidity. Slipping one finger between her pussy lips and slightly inside her was tantamount to dipping into a soaked sponge. Already wet and getting more so. Technique, I suppose, is something that one acquires with experience. I judge this by the fact that her expression as I proceeded with what followed was a mixture of some self-surprise as well as pleasure. As she stood, I continued to play.

Spreading her was the simple part. Those lips coming open easily at my touch. The slipping of one finger over her clit was next – not too much talent necessary. It was when the opening of her pussy lips was full and the drawing of her clit into the open occurred that the first treat of surprise passed over her features. There, one finger still, rolling over and around that clit. IT was slick on its own but now swelling. One piece of it at a time is touched. Yes, it's what I do. Sliding over the top of it slowly and with barely a touch seemed to yield the best results. Melanie became a bit shaky after a time as I did this. That along with the kissing at surprising erogenous zones that are hers and uncommon. Kissing the points of her hips, for example, while continuing the fondling of her breasts and the delicate touching of her clit seemed especially hot to her.

She leaned over at one point with her hands on my shoulders and kissed me again. At that point just as our lips met, I slid that previous clit-finger into her. Sliding the tip of it expertly deep and just deep enough to reveal to her that her previous encounters had only just barely shown her what was hidden inside. Her sweet spot was obvious in touch. How it had been missed previously or more accurately ignored, remains a mystery.

When the tip of that inserted finger landed squarely on her spot, she jumped. Bashing her ample breasts into my face and then returning her head to kissing position again. It was when I started to rub with sincerity over that spot of hers that she started to vocalize. It's a good thing she wasn't home – the sounds might have disturbed her. Oh well.

She stood back up again as the fingering inside her continued and she rubbed the breast my hand was not working while my lower hand continued to move over her sweet spot again and again. The benefits of youth I suppose – she came hard and rather quickly. Shaking fast and gyrating her hips at the release. The shine in her eyes afterward as I continued to slowly stroke in and out of her indicated that was both pleased and surprised. She also knew there was more coming.

I lay back on the sofa with my head near a third down from one end. Face up I encouraged her to kneel over my face and tongue. She complied and thought, likely, that this was very kinky. Sheltered woman that she was. She lowered her dripping pussy onto my tongue where I demonstrated the necessity to hold those lips open while running the tip of it over her clit in order to achieve maximum impact. This time, the orgasm she felt was not as intense but it still counts.

Thinking it appropriate that we should exchange some of the favors we worked our way around to a reversal of roles for just a time. She seemed eager if inexperienced in the ways of meat pole gobbling. Still, her efforts were most satisfying. Her lips worked as she knew how and her tongue, though not overly practiced, was fortunate in its strokes around the head of my cock and down the shaft. A little mutual gratification here, allowing her to catch her breath while choking on the sausage in her mouth.

We didn't even make it into the bedroom for some time. There was all that business of fucking her as she leaned over the sofa arm. Fucking her while she leaned over the kitchen counter. You know, the usual stuff.

When finally we made our way into the bedroom and onto the mattress proper the technique did not change. Slow, simple entrance to her modestly raw entrance. First slipping the head of my cock into her. Then moving it slightly around inside her. Withdrawing fully. Rubbing it over her clit. Dependent on position, running it against her other hole as a tease. Then back into her sodden canal – just an inch or so. This progressed slowly and carefully until with each long slow stroke she received all of the love stake – driven to the heart of her.

The last round of the evening was the most vigorous as it should be. Face to face, her legs held open by my arms – half-rolled up and wide open. Sliding my cock into her an inch at a time. The pulling it out at first as slowly. The seed increasing with each stroke and the firmness of the stroke also building in intensity. I taught her to participate as well during this very late night push to the finish. While fucking her fully and deeply she had a guided hand (her own this time) atop her external places – rubbing her own clit while being drilled to the depths of her self. As she came again and again, it is unclear still whether she remembers the final push.

The cock inside her swelling must have been a clue. The noises I made as I thrust into her and arched both my back and neck to bellow. Just as the first hot spew shot into her, she came once more. This served to completely break up the pace and rhythm of our encounter. But no mind. It was magnificent.

As we lay together, entangled and still penetrated, I thought of this woman as an artist. She has talent to be sure. The pourings onto her canvasses evidence that. A bit more experience will serve her well. I was most grateful to be of help.

So now today, as I see her move the last of her meager belongings to the truck and prepares to move on to a whole different venue – far north of here – and into a different art program there is a simple smile that comes from her to me. Then she went inside one last time and brought the painting she'd made after the night of her criticism rework. It's an oil – she just likes that medium – but much more abstract than her other stuff. Dark reds serve as a background for what are shaded people locked in coitus. Legs akimbo, backs arched (although vertical). There is passion here. Real passion. The polish is coming to her talent. Maybe she will find other expansions of her soul as she progresses. Regardless, I now have a wonderful small piece of art from someone that made for a delectable evening.