Lady on Beach

"Are you all right?" he asked again.

I smiled at him and answered, "I'm fine, darling; I'm just a bit weak at the moment. You do the most shocking things to a girl, you know."

He sat on the floor beside the divan holding my hand and looking at me anxiously.

I began to recover and to reassure him I said, "Its all right darling, but next time we do it to each other and at the same time."

"You mean the sixty nine?"

"That's exactly what I mean."

He stood up and was about to sit beside me when I stopped him. His shaft was right in front of me, the purple crown with the juice oozing from his urethra within inches of my face. I took hold of it and gently pulled him towards me. As I closed my lips over his crown he tried to pull back, protesting.

"No Hannah, you mustn't. I'm right on the edge...I won't be able to hold back...Oh God...Aaaah."

I had ignored his protest. He had tasted me and now it was my turn. The first beat of his sperm hammered into the back of my throat, and now he was the helpless one. All protest gone he gave himself up to the wild carnal animal that now controlled him. This was my sweet revenge for my own exquisite agony. Like me he surrendered to the beast that held him in its power. His hands came behind my head and he worked his shaft back and forth as I strove to swallow his copious emissions.

The salty viscous fluid overwhelmed me and I felt it begin to run out of the corners of my mouth to run down my chin and drip down on to my thighs.

As his jerking movements diminished I sucked the last drops of his love juice out of him, and then released his penis. He dropped back to his knees in front of me and buried his head in my thighs. I let him rest there for a moment, then raising his head I said through a mouth still gluey with his semen, "Here's a present for you, darling."

I kissed him, forcing his lips apart and thrust sperm into his mouth. As I did this I tasted and smelt my own vaginal discharge that still lingered on his face and lips. This combination of our fluids and genital odours had a stunning effect on me.

I suppose you might crudely say I became like a "bitch on heat." Hart must have been experiencing the same effect because suddenly he was striving to open my legs and I could see he was erect and ready.

"Not here, darling," I pleaded; "take me to the bedroom."

He lifted me up and carried me to the bedroom and lay me on the bed. He began kissing me, continuing to intermingle the residue of our fluids. Then he almost hurled himself on my breasts, sucking each nipple in turn while his hands roved over the firm mounds of flesh.

I took his penis in my hand and began to stroke his foreskin back and forth until neither of us could stand this stimulation any longer, and I opened myself for his penetration. It was a long and very sweet union, neither of us being in a hurry, but we were content to simply revel in the merging of our genitals.

This is perhaps the closest a man and woman can come to physical oneness, and when love is present, it becomes almost a sacred act.

We spoke to each other of love and let each other know the effect of each change in the angle of penetration; "Darling...do that again...Mmm, that's lovely ...press a little harder there, sweetheart."

We must have loved an hour away like that before Hart finally gave in to the pressure of his testes and spurted in to me. I had not had a big orgasm this time, but had enjoyed a series of fluttering little climaxes, an experience I had not had before.

With the end of Hart's ejections we were both sated, at least for the time being, and I dozed off. By the time I awoke it was after midday and I shook Hart, who had also slept.

"I'll get some lunch, darling," I said, "I think we can both do with some nourishment."

After lunch we decided that some work should be done on the portrait, so off we went to the beach again. Hart worked away for a couple of hours and then said, "Enough for today, and I think we might finish tomorrow."

I felt a shiver of apprehension run through me. Would the end of the portrait painting mean the end of our love making? I did not dare to ask the question, but prayed that Hart's words of love to me had been sincere and not simply a response to the passion of the moment.

I felt the vulnerability that many older women must experience when they have taken a young lover. In my case I wondered if it had been merely the absence of young women in the area that had led him to relieve his sexual tensions in me.

Carrying those thoughts unspoken in my head I heard the distant buzz of an outboard motor, and knew Grant must be on his way back.

"I must go," I said.

"Tomorrow?" Hart asked with an anxious look.

"Of course, darling," I replied.

He took me in his arms and kissed me, making me almost forget Grants incoming boat.

As I walked back up the track to the shack I asked myself, "What has that guy done to me to get me like this. I swear he could fuck me ten times a day and I'd still come back for more."

That might have been something of an exaggeration because throughout the meal preparation and its consumption I was constantly yawning and as soon as we had cleared up said, "I'm having an early night."

Grant grinned and said, "Don't know why you're so tired, all you've been doing all day is holding still for that young guy to paint you."

I felt a pang of guilt spear through me, but quelled it by telling myself I was getting from Hart what Grant could no longer give me.

I slept, as they say, "like a log."

When I woke up it was to the distant sound of Grant's outboard engine just kicking in as he went on one of his interminable trips to the fishing grounds. I ate breakfast and raced through a few chores, and headed for the beach.

I was early, but Hart arrived well after the time we had arranged.

In my insecurity about Hart I interpreted this late arrival as a sign of his waning interest.

True he kissed me somewhat avidly, but then said, "We'll put in a lot of work today, because I'd like to finish."

"Finish the portrait" I thought, "and with me?"

I adopted the pose feeling more than a little disgruntled. After a while Hart, who seemed to sense my mood asked, "Is there something wrong, Hannah. You seem to be out of sorts."

"I'm okay," I snapped.

He stopped working on the portrait and came to me with a worried frown on his face.

"Hannah, you're not regretting what we've done, are you?"

"No, are you?"

"Of course not, you must know I'm not...how could I after how it's been between us? I thought we'd find a way of still seeing each other...and...loving each other."

I felt relief wash over me and tried to turn the subject off.

"Have you nearly finished the portrait, darling?"

"About another half an hour. If I go on any longer I shall make "improvements", and they'll wreck the thing."

In a much happier frame of mind I posed for another twenty five minutes or thereabouts. The Hart stood back and said, "Done, you can look now."

All along I had been itching to see the work, but now I felt some trepidation at the idea of seeing myself, as it were, through Hart's eyes and hand."

I walked to the front of the easel and stood still. I suppose it was something like shock that paralyzed my tongue.

What I saw was me, but not me. Taken piece by piece, yes, it was me, the nose, the mouth, breasts and so on, but looking at the whole I could not see myself.

"Don't you like it, Hannah?" Hart asked anxiously.

I found my tongue and whispered, "It's beautiful, Hart, but it isn't me."

"But it is, Hannah," he protested, "it's how I see you."

"B-b-but she's lovely, Hart."

"Of coursed she is, because you are lovely."

I was overwhelmed. My legs seemed unable to support me and I dropped to my knees before the picture and wept and wept.

Hart knelt beside me cradling me in his arms and whispering soothing words. I clung to him unable to stop the sobs that shook me. How could anyone see me like that? What was it that Hart saw in me that produced so stunning a portrait?

As I recovered and Hart wiped my tears and nose with his paint spattered beach robe he said, "I'm calling it, 'Lady on Beach'."

That nearly set me off again, but I exercised some self control and flung my arms round him saying, "Thank you, thank you darling, it's the most lovely thing anyone one has ever done for me."

"He smiled at me and said, "I thought there were some other things we've done that might at least be equally lovely."

I laughed, through my diminishing sobs and agreed that yes, we had done some equally lovely things.

I stood up looking at the portrait again and felt myself blanch. "My God, Grant! You've not only painted me naked, but you've made me look like a sex goddess as well. He'll go raving mad when he sees this."

"He won't see it," darling. "I told you, I've got it all worked out."

"How? He's sure to want to see the portrait."

"And so he shall, my love. Now suppose you go back to the shack and prepare some lunch, and I'll join you shortly."

Still puzzled as to how Hart was going to show Grant the portrait and yet not show it, I obediently went to the shack and prepared lunch.

After about fifteen minutes Hart turned up carrying the portrait with some cloth over it.

"There you are," he said, "we can show Grant your portrait as soon as he gets back."

With that he set the portrait against the back of the divan and took off the cloth.

It was my second shock of the day. It was certainly a picture of me, but it had none of the depth of feeling I had sensed in the other one. Moreover, I was demurely clad in a fairly respectable bikini.

"How...?" I began.

"In whatever time I could find between doing the real portrait and...and other things."

We both burst out laughing.

We left the painting propped up on the divan and ate lunch.

Since the work was finished and Grant would not be back for at least another couple of hours, we wiled away the time doing some interesting things with each other's bodies.

When I thought that Grant would be on his way back we showered together to remove evidence of our activities, and by the time we'd finished I could hear the approach of the boat.

We sat down demurely as if we had been discussing a Sunday School picnic and waited for Grant's entrance.

When he walked in he saw the portrait immediately and stood in front of it appraisingly.

After while he said, "Not bad, young fellow, not bad; pretty creature, my wife, don't you think?"

"Ah...yes," replied Hart, "very pretty."

"For her age, of course," Grant went on.

"She'd be considered pretty...beautiful whatever her age," Hart responded.

"Grant looked at him shrewdly for a moment, and then at me."

"My God," I thought, "He's realized about Hart and me."

"Yes, you're right young man," he said, "She is something of a beauty. Tell you what I'll do; I'll give you three hundred dollars for the picture."

"Done", said Hart, as I felt a wave of relief pass over me. "He doesn't suspect."

"You'll stay and eat with us," Grant asked.

"Thank you, yes, I'd like that."

Nothing much happened for the rest of the evening except Grant behaved in a very patronizing manner towards Hart, never calling him by his name, referring to him as "Young fellow."

As Hart left for his camp I went to the door with him. "I'll see you tomorrow morning," he said, "I'll come here after I hear the boat leave; I've got an idea."

The morning found me anxious to know if Grant was going out fishing that day. Fortunately he was, and after he left the house I waited impatiently to hear the outboard motor start.

Within five minutes of the boat leaving Hart was at the door complete with his artists gear. "I've had an idea, darling," he said, picking me up and carrying me into the bedroom.

"I know you have, you said so last night, and do put me down, we can't make love properly like this."

He put me on the bed and I asked, "What's the idea?"

"Another portrait of you."

"Not another nude?"

"Yes, another nude, but this time right here."

"On the bed?"

"Yes. I'll show you how I want you."

I was laying on my back my legs slightly open and partly turned towards Hart. I was about to suggest that we made love before we got down to any more portraiture and I extended my hand towards him.

"That's it Hannah, that's just what I had in mind. Now don't move, please."

Click went the camera followed by a series of clicks as he took me from different angles.

"For goodness sake, Hart," I howled, "do stop clicking with that blasted camera and come and make love with me. I've been horny ever since I woke up."

"No problem," he grinned as he started to undress me and himself.

In no time we were moaning together in our early morning coupling, and when we had both exhausted each other's libidos temporarily, we got to down to another sort of work.

Hart had brought no easel with him, and sat on a kitchen chair with a large pad of cartridge paper sketching away with a pencil.

We broke away from the work for sex and food several times that day, and by the time we heard the sound of Grant's boat Hart had still done only pencil sketching.

At the risk of Grant walking in at any moment Hart insisted on a final act with me bent over the kitchen table as he came into me from behind. When he had finished he dressed, and grabbing his gear, he fled, saying, "See you tomorrow."

That evening Grant almost had me laughing when he said, "It must be a bit boring for you now the portrait's finished; like to come out fishing tomorrow?"

I made some excuse about still catching up on the jobs I had left undone while sitting for the portrait, as I certainly wasn't going to tell him about the new one.

Grant soured things for me a bit when he added, "The fishing's going off a bit, I thought we might head for home next week; what do you think?"

The thought of a return to our suburban house, normally a very welcome event for me, was now devastating. In my sixties I had got myself a young lover who couldn't leave me alone. He was what I think many women dream of; loving, ardent and with a seemingly endless supply of sperm that he was eager to discharge in or over various parts of my anatomy. He was like a drug that I felt I couldn't do without. "What the hell am I going to do without him," I thought frantically.

I needn't have worried. When I put the problem to Hart he laughed and said, "Well, I've only been staying here because you're here, I can pack up and leave the same time you do. Surely we can find a way of being together once we're both back in town?

We could, I'd make damned sure of that. I wasn't going to let his penis go wandering elsewhere so long as I had him in thrall.

Hart was now at the painting stage, and before we were due to go home he'd finished the work.

If I had been stunned when I saw the first portrait, this one really turned me on my head.

"I'm calling it 'Lady in Waiting'," Hart said.

What the lady was waiting for was very clear. The extended hand, the body turned a little towards the viewer, the slightly parted legs all spoke of a woman almost imploring her lover to come and take her. The detail was amazing. As I looked at the strip of pubic hair that, starting at her (my) mons, ran down to just above the firm cleft of the vagina, it seemed that every hair had a life of its own. There was a hint of lubricant on the lips of the vulva and the nipples of the sharply defined breasts were erect.

I don't think I had ever seen such an erotic picture before. Everything about it spoke of a woman ready for physical love and pleading for gratification.

As I looked at it I almost had an orgasm and I said, "For God's sake Hart, fuck me before I explode."

He is a very obliging fellow and without hesitation attended to my needs, and incidentally, his own.

Following this painting Hart had some more "ideas." He occupied a small cottage in a suburb not too far distant from ours. This became our main trysting place and included more portraits of me; naked of course.

One of Hart's bright ideas was to paint a picture that included both of us. This entailed Hart setting up a camera with some sort of timer on a tripod. Once he set the gadget in motion he lay on the bed while I sat across him with his penis inserted in me while his hand reached up to touch a breast.

The camera whirred and clicked, and that was it, except we finished what we had started.

This picture he painted entirely from the photograph.

One day I was greeted by Hart at the door of his cottage with an exultant look on his face.

"I've won fifteen thousand dollars, Hannah."

"You haven't been gambling?" I admonished.

"Of course not, I've won the Sinclair prize for erotic art. I submitted 'Lady in Waiting'."

I was delighted for him and hugged and kissed him all the way to the bed.

When we were feeling somewhat more relaxed he said, "You know, darling, there's going to be heaps of money in this. I can put out limited edition prints of it, and now I'm known I'm expecting to get commissions."

"Not to paint nudes," I asked uneasily.

"Well, not necessarily," he replied seriously. "I'll stick with the nude I've got if you don't mind; but if a commission to do a nude portrait comes along, you can sit in to see that I behave myself."

We both laughed at that idea, but I think my laugh was a bit nervous as I imagined Hart painting beautiful nude young women.

He certainly "stuck with the nude" he had, and more portraits of me were made.

It was the "limited edition prints" that nearly got me in to trouble. One day Grant and I were walking past a shop that sold prints. In the window was one of Hart's prints. The print was of me standing naked with my hand resting on a tall lamp stand. It was entitled, "Lady and Lamp."

Grant glanced at the window and then stopped. "Huh," he said, "She looks a bit like you." He looked closer and saw the name of the artist. "Hey, that's the young fellow who painted your portrait."

He looked more closely at the print and said, "She's a good looking bird, I wouldn't mind having her picture on my wall."

"No you don't," I said, trying to fight down a rising panic, "You can look at me when I'm undressing for bed."

Thankfully we walked on and Grant muttered, "Funny how she looks a bit like you."

In the meantime there was the worst possible news concerning Grant. The cancer that had led to the removal of his prostate gland had apparently spread to other parts of his body, and there now followed a series of operations and chemotherapy that gave a little respite but in the end failed. Grant died aged sixty seven.

For all my infidelity in the latter part of his life, I was distraught by his death and the manner in which he died.

Hart was wonderful, and oddly, in my grief I was more libidinous than ever. Perhaps it was the sheer closeness of another human being and the comfort of sexual contact that brought about this increase in sexual urge, but Hart serviced me as much as he could, but I even began to outrun him in my need.

Sometimes a woman can become too cloying and the consoling partner weary of her constant need for comfort, but Hart hung in.

As the sharp edge of grief began to blunt I had to consider my future. Hart made the suggestion that I should move in with him at the cottage, but I declined this and made a counter offer. I suggested that Hart move in with me.

"You can use one of the rooms as a studio," I said, "and I can keep an eye of you when you've got naked young models."

That is how it worked out. One room was converted into a studio and Hart shared my bed. I am sixty six now and still I have to pose naked for him as he comes up with ever more new ideas for a portrait.