Gesso Pt. 01

Note to Readers: This series concerns the adventures of a friend of ours. It's been embellished and fictionalized, partly by her as she told it, and partly by me. I have her permission to repeat it.

*****

I'm a lucky girl. It's Friday, five o clock in the evening. I shut down the computer, and get up from my desk, my tablet, my pencils and brushes. I didn't quit early, but I'm not working late either. I have a date tonight.

It's a short commute, I walk from the spare bedroom where I've set up my studio into the master bathroom. I'd gotten a little sweaty during my lunchtime run, but nothing serious. My shower will be quick and efficient, my dressing and preparations afterwards somewhat more leisurely. There's no rush.

I pause at the sink, and do a quick study of myself in the mirror. I've gotten in the habit of this lately, and I like what I see. I'm not ravishingly beautiful, my face is pleasant, but maybe a little wider and rounder than what would be considered "classic." I have nice green eyes, though, a clear complexion, and an olive skin tone that has deepened to near-bronze over the summer months. My heritage is Greek, Ionian actually, and I like to think of myself as a direct lineage of the princess-goddesses of Minoan Crete. Not that I have the prominent breasts that are so proudly displayed in those elegant, bosom-baring dresses from the sculptures and wall frescoes, but at least I share the slender waist, the strong shoulders, and the womanly hips of the images. I look better without the dress anyway, I tell myself. I spend most of my day nude, except for the necessary outfit I wear during my run. I keep a smock close at hand while I'm working, in case of unexpected visitors, but rarely have a need to grab it. I'm truly comfortable in my own skin.

I was downright scrawny until a couple of years ago, and I've worked hard to sculpt my body into one that I can be proud of, one that is visually arresting. I have no tan lines, quite an accomplishment for someone living in a two-bedroom apartment with no private yard, but my skin responds well to the sun, and it darkens deeply and effortlessly when I'm able to be naked outdoors. I'm a lucky girl.

I'm thirty two years old, and physically I feel like I'm in my prime. I'm not rich, but I'm not the stereotypical starving artist either. I do ok. I sell some of my work online, and some in a couple of galleries downtown. I mostly paint old-style, in oils. I do a lot of pencil sketching for my detail studies, and I use a combination of Inkscape, GIMP, and Blender to work my ideas up into templates, which I then translate onto a classic self-gessoed canvas using paints based in linseed oil. It's a lot more time consuming than acrylic, but I love those deep, glowing colors, and my customers seem to like them too.

My dirty blonde hair looks slightly disheveled, but I've seen it worse. It would be shoulder length if it would hang down like normal straight hair, but it's always had a mind of its own. Taming it will be the most time-consuming part of my evening preparations, but by the time I'm done...

The shower takes a little longer than I'd planned, running my fingers along my skin made me realize it's time for a shave. In short order my armpits, legs, and cunt are silky smooth, but then I spend more time caressing them and enjoying the sensation. I caress them often.

I dry off, and settle in to make myself socially acceptable. While I'm putting on my face and adjusting my hair, I activate my tablet and open a porn video from my list of regulars. I'm a visual, aural, and tactile person, and while porn is a hidden and guilty pleasure for many women, I've never felt any guilt about it, nor the need to hide it. I like porn - at least the concept. Finding a good example of it is rare, with most of it being either boring or annoying, and sometimes offensive. This one isn't too bad, a group of college students picnicking at a lake, which predictably turns into an outdoor orgy. Taylor will enjoy it later. It's enough to encourage a little self-rubbing, just enough to dampen me between the legs, and release a whiff of sex pheromones onto my skin. I don't want to overdo it too soon.

By six-thirty I'm looking pretty hot. My wild hair has been shaped, thickened, and slightly reddened. My eye and lip makeup is minimal, just the barest of highlights do the trick. My earrings are homemade, a somewhat abstract triangular design of wires and tiny hanging pendents. I put on a gold chain necklace with an emerald hanging just below my collarbone. I like how my skin color compliments it. I don't need a bra, and my cream-colored short tie romper doesn't need any panties either. A pair of lace sandals finishes me off, and I'm out the door, into that sweltering oven that is Austin in July.

It's a fifteen minute drive to Taylor's house, in one of the newer cookie cutter neighborhoods with small plaster-walled homes on identical cul-de-sacs. Definitely a nicer neighborhood than my own apartment complex, but I'm not sure it's worth the extra payments. It has a river rock front yard with a couple of small, straggly willow trees and a boxwood hedge. I pull into the driveway and ring the doorbell.

"Step on in!" comes the cheerful male voice from inside, and I pull open the screen door. Taylor practically leaps across the hallway towards me, wraps me in his arms, and gives me a long, enthusiastic kiss. His shining eyes are crinkled in joy. He steps back to take in the sight of me, and the eyes widen.

"Tethys, you are so fucking sexy!" he breathes. "You look fantastic in that outfit." I follow his eyes down to my nipples, subtly visible through the soft hemp fabric. The blouse hangs off them, and gives just enough stimulation to keep them a little extended. I like the feeling, and I like that Taylor likes the view. His attention stimulates my nipples even further, and I feel them tightening under the cloth. Taylor notices. I can see it in his eyes.

His eyes. Those eyes! Those eyes are what captured me from the very beginning, and never yet have let me go. They're green, like mine. Almost the exact same shade, but they somehow seem brighter, clearer, deeper. If they truly are a window to the soul, then Taylor has a very green, clean soul. But there's lot more to him than that, more that thrills and captivates me. On paper, maybe he's nothing special: average height, average weight, average proportions, the shape of his face is almost exactly the standard you'd find in a drawing manual. But those averages belie the qualities that make him so exquisite. He's fit, that average weight is distributed over a tight core, a nice chest and abdomen, the body of a good runner. There's rarely a 10k or half-marathon run in town that he misses. I enjoy my daily lunch runs, but he puts me to shame in that department. He doesn't do full marathons, though. He stops before he runs out of glycogen, he's explained to me. He wants his exercise to be aerobic, not catabolic. He won't break his body down just to race.

He applies a wide smile generously in my direction, his mellow sonorous voice can sing all my favorite songs, a somewhat pale skin color contrasts nicely with his dark hair and eyebrows and with my tan, his ass is tight and fine, his cock large and skilled, and when he's not displaying those assets to me he knows how to dress well, too. I adore this guy.

Taylor is a software developer, putting together apps for phone interfaces on the front end, and cloud servers on the back end. He works mostly in Java, or Swift, or Objective C, but at home he programs in Python, just for the fun of it. He's built some impressive stuff for himself and friends; a gravitational program that allows the user to build their own solar systems or star clusters or even galaxies, an evolution simulator that puts a population of a species into a changing habitat and tracks how they respond, using both natural and sexual selection and genetic drift. Currently he's building an app for our mutual friend Carl to help him track his weight training progress.

At the moment, Taylor is indeed dressed well, a little fancier than me. It looks a bit much for this central Texas blast furnace, but he's not sweating yet. He takes another step back, eyeing me appreciatively once more.

"Nobody in the place tonight is going to be able to eat a bite, they'll be too distracted looking at you."

I blush, even though I know it isn't true my nipples and my pussy don't know that, and they both react with anticipation. The very faint aroma of sexual excitement reaches our nostrils.

"So, are you ready to go?" he asks. "The reservations are for seven-thirty, we'll make it in plenty of time."

We step through the utility room into the garage, and the door begins to rise. We'll be going in his car, of course, his pride and joy, a brand new Tesla Model 3. The grayish-green color seems understated, but it's all elegance to me. My ten year old Hyundai will be in no danger in his driveway while we're gone. It takes nearly half an hour to get to downtown Austin, Friday night traffic is always a pain. It's a pleasant trip for me, the Tesla is a great ride, and Taylor is great company. He keeps me entertained with stories and jokes as we wind our way into the city, he laughs easily, and it's easy to laugh along with him.

We finally arrive at our destination, one of the side streets connecting Fifth and Sixth street, a small restaurant called "The Taino", advertising Caribbean and Cuban cuisine. It has an even smaller outdoor courtyard, but the heat drives our preference for indoor seating today. Small though it is, it's furnished very nicely, the menu is pricey, and reservations need to be made several days in advance. We are quickly ushered to our small booth near a corner. The menu is a little bewildering, but enticing. Taylor orders a spicy sea bass with red beans and rice. I go for the jerk, the pulled pork with mango salsa, black beans, sliced sweet potatoes, and amaranth greens. It's all beyond delicious, with complex flavor mixes that I can almost identify, but completely savor!

About halfway through the meal, the chef, Henri, makes his appearance. He casually visits each table, chatting amiably with the guests, absorbing the heartfelt compliments and expressions of delight with experienced grace. Eventually he makes his way to our table. Visually, he's a striking man: tall, a face that's young for his age, a broad smile, shining eyes, and the blackest skin I've ever seen. I've read that African Americans generally carry a significant amount of European DNA, but Henri is Haitian. According to the bio on the back of the menu, he came to the United States as a child in a refugee boat. I'm sure there's very little similarity between what we're eating this evening and any traditional Haitian or Caribbean fare, and Henri does not claim to be a traditionalist. If anything, he's a culinary adventurer.

Henri reaches out towards Taylor, one hand resting on his shoulder and the other grasping in a firm handshake. Both men have sparkling eyes, and when their glances meet I can almost feel the electricity.

"Good to see you, my man," Henri intones in his deep, musical voice. "You have excellent taste in your menu picks. That sea bass was unusually good today."

"It's beyond good," Taylor gushes. "Best I ever had!"

"Thank you kindly," continues Henri. "I'm sure that's also true for your lovely companion here. Again, sir, you have excellent taste, and you're a gentleman of discretion and discernment!"

He turns to me, takes my hand, and lifts it to his lips. "My lady," he says with a slight bow, "my drab little space is so much brighter since you've chosen to grace it with your beauty."

It's some of the most mawkishly insipid phrasing that I could have imagined, but coming in that voice, from that face, with those bright-dark eyes fixed upon me, it works. My face burns, and my groin gushes. I can feel the moisture spreading into the crotch of my romper, and I suddenly feel genuinely shy. That is not who I am! Henri sees. He knows exactly how I'm reacting. His smile broadens almost imperceptibly, and he winks.

"Enjoy the rest of your meal," he says as he steps back slightly. "I'm glad you both came. Be sure and call me if there's anything you need."

It takes me a few minutes to recover my composure. Taylor is somehow immune to Henri's charms. He is chatting happily about the delights of the meal, and somehow segues into current events and politics. There's nothing he says that I disagree with, so I feel comfortable enough with a few approving grunts and expressions of "that's right" and "exactly", until my brain starts to kick in again. Once it does, I can focus my entire attention on Taylor, the cheerfulness in his voice, his animated expressions, his enthusiastic gesturing. Taylor is nothing if not enthusiastic - about everything. You rarely meet a more fundamentally happy person than Taylor. It envelops you, makes you feel that all is right with the world. He's a calming, loving, beautiful man.

I wait for him to pause. "Have I ever told you that you have beautiful eyes?"

He knows I have. But still, coming so unexpectedly now it leaves him flustered. He blushes, and chuckles with embarrassment.

"They're nothing compared to yours," he finally stutters. "You are the most beautiful and totally sexy woman I've ever known."

This may be as deep as our conversation gets the rest of the night. I'm not here for profound insights into the human condition. I slip out of my sandal, reach my foot out under the table and stroke his shin.

"I can't wait to get you alone," I respond.

The check arrives, and Taylor takes it. I want to pay half.

"No way!" he says firmly. I asked you out tonight, I picked the restaurant, I knew what the prices were before we started. This is my treat."

"Can I at least get the tip?" I beg.

"Not a hint of Dutch tonight. This isn't charity, you know. You've already made this evening well worth it."

Yes, Taylor brings home about triple what I do. This is not a major expense for him. But I'm terrified of appearing financially dependent on him, or anyone else. I pay my own bills. Money is tight, of course. But I do get by. I can feed and house and clothe myself, I've got my computer and tablet and phone, and I can buy the supplies I need for my art. I'm with Taylor because I choose to be, not because I need to be. I don't want to appear bought for the night.

He seems to read my mind. "Look, Tethys, I'm not trying to get all male-dominant patriarchal on your ass," he says. "This was my idea, and I intended to pay from the very beginning. You'll get your chance to buy me lunch soon enough."

"Ok," I sigh. "I just have one other request, then. Can we skip the movie and just go back to your place? I am so horny for you I'm about to explode."

"Well, it's a big sacrifice on my part, but I guess I can make it," Taylor intones. "Just for you, though. Nobody else could talk me into that."

We had planned on a movie after dinner, the latest blockbuster superhero spectacle. I wasn't the slightest bit interested. Taylor enjoys the genre, but of course he can watch it anytime. It's already nearly nine. A two hour movie plus drive time would get us back after midnight, and tonight the last thing I want to be in his bed is tired. Not yet, anyway.

No sooner do we get seated in the car than I unzip his pants and pull out his cock. It's completely cooperative, and Taylor is all sighs and smiles the entire way home. I don't think he's too upset about not seeing the movie. At a couple of stoplights I manage to lean over and give it a couple of full strokes with my mouth. Taylor gasps, and I giggle. There's no reason to put it back in his pants, and it's still throbbing eagerly when we pull into his garage and lower the door behind us. My hand is back on his cock, squeezing firmly, once he unlocks the door, and I lead him confidently into the bathroom. I let go only long enough to drop my romper and my sandals, place my jewelry into my purse, and for him to dispense with his clothes.

Showering with Taylor becomes a tug-of-war. Usually we take turns leisurely washing each other, but tonight neither one of us wants to wait. I desperately need to feel his skin sliding under my fingers, to feel the curves and angles of his body, and to examine and manipulate that wonderful cock. It's not just wonderful, it's striking, and unique. Flaccid, it's handsome enough: large and thick, proportional, not too much of a lean to one side. Erect, though, it's remarkable. His corpus cavernosum expands outward to the sides more than it does upward, giving the upper surface a broad and nearly flat top, curving along the sides like a very thick tongue, with a cylindrical bottom acting like a deep keel. The entire shaft curves smoothly upward, tapering below an expanded glans that protrudes mushroom-like towards the sky. I've occasionally had him pose while I sketch studies of it, and I've taken quite a few photos of it from different angles. After viewing them, he began calling it "my aircraft carrier", or "the flight deck." Still reminds me more of a thick tongue. Taylor used to be a bit embarrassed and insecure about it, but I think I've corrected that misunderstanding. I love it. I love the way it looks, and I love the way it feels inside me. It's instantly recognizable, if I were blindfolded and fucked by a group of men, I'd know by feel whether any of them were Taylor.

I can't ignore the rest of him either. Slender, but not too skinny. Nice round ass, tight waist, strong legs. Body hair not too thick, pubic hair soft, not too bristly. I soap him up and scrub him down, getting all the good parts and of course paying extra attention to his cock and balls. I'm ready to pull him out of the shower, but he won't go until he washes me just as thoroughly. I hate waiting. I was too impatient for the movie, I want my own action.

It's not always like this. I'm with Taylor nearly every Friday night, and have been for more than the last year. Sometimes it's a movie, sometimes dancing, sometimes karaoke (Taylor has a great singing voice; I can't carry a tune in a bucket), sometimes just hanging out at a pub with him and his friends. He's got fun friends. He's a great guy, I love his wit and his laugh. And oh, did I mention his eyes? But not tonight. I've been desperate to fuck him all day, I've thought of little else. It even interfered with the design of my current painting project. I need him now!

Finally we're both clean. A quick dry with the towels, and we're off, still a little damp - me VERY damp! - to the bedroom. I pause for a moment to pull a USB stick out of my bag and plug it into his computer monitor, which conveniently faces the bed. I quickly find and select the picnic orgy video. Taylor loves porn almost as much as I do, and the right subject matter can get him intensely aroused. This one works, despite the cliche' theme, it's languid, sensuous, full of sighs, caresses, kisses, not the simple fuck and suck quickies that we too often see.

Taylor's eyes light up - those eyes! He pushes me down onto the bed and spreads my legs. For a moment, I close my eyes, awaiting the delight of that big puffy glans and that odd-shaped shaft to slide in. I'm completely ready, I need no foreplay at the moment. I want to fuck, to be fucked, to be fucked hard. It's almost a letdown when instead I feel his tongue, his real tongue this time, dipping into my sloppy cunt, and his lips and chin and nose all sliding around my labia. His fingers crawl up my body and find my hard nipples. Ok, I guess I can wait! It's exquisite torture, the gentle pinching, the wet clitoral nibbling, the sucking, the licking, the dipping.

But I want that cock! I protest, but all I can garble is "I want it! Fuck! Ahhhh! Don't... stop... fuck!" It takes only a few minutes, and the growing tightness in my belly both focuses and explodes simultaneously, it feels like every cell of my body orgasms as one. I'm dizzy, gasping, collapsing while already prone. Taylor laughs. He always laughs at my orgasms, and it's a beautiful, rumbling laugh that comes from a face soaked in my juices. Once I've caught my breath a little, I start laughing too. Taylor is so joyfully passionate in his lovemaking, I can't help but share the joy myself.