Mendocino Coast

"Oh. Then what shall we do?"

"Oh, I think you know," I said as I snuggled, my shoulder tucked against his chest and my hand laying on his thigh.

"Oh mais oui."

I turned myself around and pulled his head down to mine so I could kiss him. He had the softest lips. Without breaking our kiss, which had progressed to dueling tongues, he lifted and twisted my body so that I found myself kneeling on either side of his thighs, my hands holding his cheeks while his caressed my butt. There was no doubt in my mind where this kiss was leading.

After a long sensuous kiss I pushed back and slid to the floor, my knees between his legs and my arms resting on his thighs. It took only a few moments to release his trousers and extract his cock. Ever since I was old enough to know what sex was about I had been, to put it frankly, a bit of a slut. Well sometimes more than a bit. As a result I considered myself an expert on cocks. I had seen a lot of them and I had developed very specific tastes. This was a great one. It was long, but not so long that it would be jammed uncomfortably against the end of my cunt if he became passionate. It was thick, but not so thick as to be painful, in my mouth or in my cunt. It had a beautifully formed plum shaped head, not a key factor in the physics of the fuck, but so important to the esthetics of the cock. A beautiful cock needs to have a well formed head. It was well ribbed with blood vessels and had a strong ridge leading up the underside from his balls, both important for appearance and for fucking. I loved the sensation of raised ridges on the shaft stimulating the interior of my cunt during a good fuck. I didn't know if this man was going to buy my art, but I was beyond caring. He had a great cock and at that moment, I wanted to fuck it as badly as I wanted anything else in the world.

I sat on my haunches and used both hands to stroke his shaft while I took time to admire the beauty of his cock. When I saw a drop of pearly liquid emerge from the tip, I used my fingers to smear it over the head, especially the sensitive part on the underside. He threw his head back and groaned as I fondled him. I had learned the art of a good hand job very early in my career as a slut. The precum began to dry out so I rose up to my knees and used my tongue to lubricate the head of his prick and then resumed my massage of the head with one hand while the other stroked his shaft and fondled his balls. He had nice, large, round balls.

Andre reached down and put his hands on my breasts. The sensation was delicious, even through the sweater and bra I was wearing. I leaned away from him and quickly pulled my sweater over my head and released my bra from the back so it fell away and returned immediately to my hand job.

Well it wasn't a hand job any more as I had sucked the head of his cock into my mouth and was swirling my tongue around all sides of it. As my tongue massaged the head I let a reservoir of saliva build up in my mouth which I then released onto his shaft as lube for my hands which were stroking with a twisting motion. Stroking that is, what there was of the shaft that I hadn't inhaled into my mouth and down my throat. God, I loved to suck cock, and this was a perfect cock to suck. Andre had a hand on each side of my head, his fingers entangled in my long, curled hair. He wasn't exactly face fucking me—just hanging on to my hair as I pumped up and down on his cock.

I had been sucking for a couple of minutes when I felt his fingers return to my now exposed breasts. Shit, his fingers were cold! That was when I realized something I should have thought of before I assaulted his mouth with a kiss. It was still very cold in this little cottage. It would take the wood stove another couple of hours to warm the place up. His fingers were like ice. I pulled back and rose to my feet. I stood before him, sliding my jeans and my panties to my feet and kicking them away so I was naked and then said, "There is a nice soft bed in the bedroom. It won't be warm yet, but we can get it that way a lot faster than the wood stove is going to heat up this room. Take off your clothes and follow me." I walked away toward the bedroom swinging my hips as seductively as I knew how, telling myself that I looked like a Charlize Theron perfume add. Nonsense of course, but fun.

Once under the heavy blankets we returned to kissing and snuggling close in an effort to share our warmth with each other and the blankets. He had his thigh firmly planted between my legs and was using it to rub my sex, which I could feel beginning to leak. As soon as his fingers warmed he began using them to play with my tits again, eventually sliding one hand down to my crotch and replacing the pressure of his thigh on my sex with a firm jab of two fingers into my now dripping cunt.

"Oh god yes, that feels good," I said. I realized as I spoke that I was seeing it too. Not in the sense of a visual cortex rendition of what his fingers were doing, but instead a synesthetic rendition somewhere in my mind of wild colors representing the physical and emotional impact of his finger fucking. This was the first time I had ever had this experience. In the past sex, even with someone as aggressive as Ernesto, was a purely physical, and mildly emotional, experience. If there was any synesthesiastic effect, I was suppressing it in favor of the physical and emotional. Now I was seeing it—not in the visual cortex, of course, but in whatever portion of my brain that experiences synesthesia. It was mind blowing.

Now he had abandoned our kiss and slid his face down to my breasts and begun to caress my nipples a bit with his tongue. I don't have big nipples and he found it easier to just use his tongue to caress each nipple than to try and suckle on them. That was fine with me. The sensations were fabulous—sending lightning bolts directly to my clit, and vivid images of blue and green across my synesthesiastic cortex, if there is such a thing.

"Andre," I growled. "I want your cock. I want you to fuck me. Now!"

There was no argument from Andre. We wrestled around under the heavy blankets until he was laying between my legs, his chest over mine and his prick pushing at my opening."

"Is this what you want?" he asked as his prick nosed at my opening. My mind pictured a red hot prong.

"Yes," I said, gasping. "And one more thing—talk dirty while you fuck me. I love it when my men do that." He did and I did also, the only problem being that his talk was in French and mine in English. It's surprising how just the tone of voice and the inflection can get the message across even if the specific words are unintelligible.

The most amazing thing happened as soon as I felt his prick enter my cunt. There was suddenly a burst of synesthesia induced color rushing through my head. I had never experienced anything that intense before. It made what was going on during our foreplay pale by comparison. With all the men, and women, I had fucked in the past my synesthesia had more or less shut down and my mind focused solely on the physical sensations and of course the titillation that comes from the dirty talk. But now something had changed. There were no real sounds associated with the force of his prick invading my cunt, nothing significant in any case. But this was the first time I had experienced the two step process of a force I was experiencing with sex generating colors as a sound would.

"Oh shit!" I said as I experienced a blast of flaming red generated by his forcing his prick into my cunt in one long smooth thrust. Than it retreated to a bright sparkling blue as he pulled back, with another bright flash of red as he jammed it back in. Yes, I still felt the physical sensations arising from what he was doing and they were great. Just like any other good fuck. But the emotional impact of the bright flashes of color generated by his thrusting overwhelmed the physical sensations. They were there, but not really relevant to my emotional experience.

I tried changing my responses to his fucking. First, I used my thighs and core to raise my hips up to meet each thrust. It increased the intensity (which I would have said not possible before I tried it), but the shade of the colors remained essentially the same. Then I wrapped my legs around his hips, digging my heels into his ass. I was trying to force him down into me on each inward thrust, while I used the muscles of my cunt to squeeze his cock as he tried to withdraw it. The blue color generated by each withdrawal became more intense and changed its shade to a deep purple. The use of my legs to force him to thrust deeper and harder had a similar effect. The intensity increased and color deepened until it was approaching a darkened blood red. I was gasping for air with each thrust.

"Oh God. Oh shit. Fuck, fuck fuck, fuuuuuuck. Don't stop, don't stop, don't stop." I said aloud.

He was saying something, but it was in French so I had no idea what it was, but it sure sounded dirty. I knew I would have to look up putain and salope later. But right now it didn't matter. My mind was overwhelmed by the synesthesiastic blast of color our fucking was generating.

And then it happened, really without warning. My body tripped into a violent climax. Usually I can feel my climax creeping up on me, but not this one. It was just suddenly there. Every muscle in my body, starting with my cunt and running from there through my core and to my extremities, was in ecstatic spasm. My toes curled and cramped, a sure sign of a violent climax. But coupled with the physical were the unbelievable flashes of color that blew across my mind. Each flash was intense but brief. But the effect continued to repeat as each spasm of my climax occurred. Even more amazing was how the colors of these flashes changed. The physical sensations of my climax remained the same but the light show in my head changed and evolved as my climax progressed. It was like fireworks, but I was in the midst of the color burst instead of watching it from a hundred feet below. Plus, because It was synesthesia, it wasn't something I was seeing. It was just happening in my head.

The climax ended, and with it the light show. I was physically exhausted and lay beneath Andre. He paused , holding himself above me on his elbows, giving me time to regain my breath. I could tell he wasn't done. I could feel his still hard prick filling my ravaged cunt. There was a color associated with it also. Not intense like the colors I had been experiencing. Just a soft almost pastel pink.

He waited a moment or two. Just until I had quit gasping. Then he pulled out raising to his knees and leaving me with the most desperate empty feeling in my cunt. That empty feeling was generating a slowly fading blue wash in my brain. He grabbed my knees and pushed them to the side. Then he pulled my ass up so he was behind it, my face head down in the pillow. I was aware of a glowing orange arising from the way he was holding my hips, his fingers biting into the soft flesh of my ass. Sliding one hand across my belly to hold me up, he used his other hand to line his prick up on the opening to my cunt. Then he slid it in, quickly and firmly, and the light show started again. He spent the next five minutes fucking me from behind. At first, I was like his rag doll, making no effort to control his fucking as I had before, but the sensations of his cock ravaging my cunt brought me back to life, and soon I was using my thigh muscles and core to push my ass back to meet each thrust. The lightshow intensified accordingly until we both reached a simultaneous climax. I could tell when he was approaching his climax. I could feel his cock swelling, pushing against the walls of my cunt. The changing sensation was accompanied by brief purple flash of color. Then we tripped into simultaneous climaxes and it all changed in an instant. The colors generated by my climax followed the same pattern as before, but not necessarily the same color patterns. He started his climax by going rigid, his cock jammed to hilt and his body held above me on his outstretched arms. Then I felt his cock squirting his hot cum into my cunt, filling it with squirt after squirt. I saw eruptions of something like lava, with a color that varied between a steaming red and an icy blue. Then it all faded to black as we collapsed to our side and fell into a deep post-coital sleep. The last thought I had was, wow what a fuck, but how do these colors work?

I was awakened around four in the morning to images of raging fires, burning shades of red, orange, with dark smoke. Once I was awake I realized that the colors were my synesthesiastic response to sounds. Normally I can filter the effect out, or at least ignore it and respond as others do to any given sound. But when it comes upon me in sleep or at certain other times, the colors are my primary perception. The source of the colors was the sound of the wood stove, roaring and belching through an open door, the draft wide open and a full fire box of wood being consumed. I found Andre sitting naked alongside the stove in the love seat, a half consumed bottle of Nuits-St-George alongside him on the floor, a jelly jar of wine in hand. Every light in the room was on, and arranged around the walls and furniture were all 18 canvases of the Sounds of Mendocino series. He was sitting naked alongside the roaring stove savoring the wine and studying the paintings.

"What are you doing? Trying to burn the place down?" I had to yell to make myself heard above the roar of the stove.

He looked over his shoulder, realizing for the first time I was in the room. "Mon Dieu. They're beautiful. Magnifique!"

"I thought we were going to wait until morning. The light is terrible."

"I couldn't sleep. Jet lag. I only arrived yesterday."

"And this?" I said, as I slammed the door on the wood stove.

"I was cold."

"You have no clothes on. Where do think you are, Cannes? This is the Mendocino coast. It's cold even in summer. Especially in summer."

He chuckled. "You didn't complain about that a few hours ago, and besides, you are naked also."

I realized he was right, so I stood next to him to absorb the warmth of the stove. He filled my jelly jar with wine and I took a sip. "It is how you say, manufique," I said, garbling the French. I meant the wine.

"The word, is 'magnifique'. Such color, such power. They will be famous."

I realized he meant the paintings.

"Sit down," he said. "We must negotiate."

I sat next to him and he refilled both jelly jars with the last of the wine. Then he turned to me and said in upmost seriousness, "I want number 8. I must have it. I will pay you $25,000 for it."

I was stunned. I had never sold a painting at any price, much less $25,000. I looked at him in silence not having the good sense to simply say okay.

"I know. I know. It's worth much more or at least it will be once the world discovers you. But I'll do something else for you. I'll introduce you to my partner, Gerard. He will make you famous and rich. Can you paint more like these?"

"Who is Gerard and how is he going to make me rich?" This was an absurd conversation to be having at four in the morning in my cottage on the Mendocino coast sitting naked before a roaring wood stove surrounded by my life's unsold art work with a glass of good Burgundy in my hand.

"Gerard is my partner in a gallery in Paris. He runs the gallery. I provide the capital. He sells the art. Mon Dieu can he sell. He will love your work and he will sell it—all of it and anything else you can produce. You can do more can't you?"

I decided that this was not the time to tell him I had created all 18 canvases in a two week long acid induced haze. During my time in art school I had lived in Mill Valley with a burned out rock musician and he had introduced me to a variety of hallucinogenic drugs including acid. After I completed my MFA, the relationship blew up, and I moved to the cottage in Mendocino. My goal was to simply sit and listen to the sounds of the coast and to focus my mind on the colors the sounds produced in my mind. I thought I could put those colors on canvas. I produced canvas after canvas of abstract painting, but none of them met my standard for reproducing the colors in my mind. Then one weekend I dropped a tab of acid that I found among my things I had brought from Mill Valley and voila, out came Sounds of Mendocino 1. Yes, this was what I wanted. I dropped more acid and daubed more canvases until I had painted a total of 18. Then I had to stop and regroup. I had learned from my years in Mill Valley that you can't live on a steady diet of acid forever. So, I stopped the drugs and focused on eating well, hiking the hills behind me, and so on. I subsequently tried painting without the acid, but I wasn't happy with the result. They were good, but not like the first 18. But, if someone could make me rich selling paintings like the Mendocino 18, I knew where to get more acid. Besides, no one had wanted the first 18. I didn't even try to sell the other paintings. I just gave up and moved to Yountville to sell the art of others.

He delayed his return to Paris for a few more days most of which we spent in bed, fucking and drinking his Burgundy. On the third or fourth day, he had to fly back to Paris. I drove him back to Yountville where he had left his car. He wrote me a check for $25,000, and I promised to ship him Sounds of Mendocino 8 as soon as possible. He gave me the address of a gallery on the Place des Vosges, in Paris.

Chapter 4. Paris; Claudine

I could see the fog bank off shore, lurking there, waiting for its opportunity to make land fall, covering the beaches and filling the draws and canyons first and then pushing up until it smothered even the higher reaches like the one I was perched on. But for now it was warm. The sun felt good on my naked chest as I sat watching the fog plan it's attack. I let my mind wander back a couple of years to my first trip to Paris.

Three weeks after I first met Andre, I was in Paris to meet with Gerard, following close on the heels of the rest of the Sounds of Mendocino series, which I had shipped ahead. I was in shock. Someone wanted to put on a one person show in a major Paris gallery focused solely on my paintings. In addition I was seriously worried about one thing. If the sale was a success, there would be a demand for more of the same. Could I do that without the acid?

When I had finally cleared Customs and Immigration I felt drained from the overnight plane ride, but still excited to be in Paris. As I flew across North America and the Atlantic I asked myself why I had never visited Paris before. With its history and it's concentration of art, museums, galleries, and artists residing there, it was an obvious place for me to visit and in the years when I had been practicing law I certainly had money enough. I think it was because I was afraid that if I looked into my prior obsession with art, I would lose the drive I needed to keep grinding through my law practice. This wasn't conscious of course, because to reach this conclusion consciously would have required me to admit to myself just how unpleasant my law practice was. But that problem was behind me, and now I was here, hopefully to help Gerard sell my paintings and, in any case, to see the art and history of Paris I had so long denied myself. To say I was excited was a massive understatement.

Andre had set the trip up, including business class air fare, which was nice. He told me that he would unfortunately have to be in Italy for a week or ten days visiting the family's properties there, but that Gerard would meet me at the airport. His description of Gerard sounded like "any man" so I wasn't quite sure what I was looking for as I paused just outside the doors from customs and looked at the army of people on the other side of the rails awaiting friends, business contacts, and loved ones.