Nellie's Sketchpad Ch. 05

I've filed this under Erotic Couplings, though it includes lesbian fantasies. So if that's not your thing, then you can move along without wasting any of your valuable porn-surfing time.

May also contain nuts.

Oh, there you are. Seems like ages since we last chatted. Let me fill you, then, shall I?

In the days before I met Nellie, I was a shy boy. A little backward, an only child, sexually naïve other than internet porn. My only experience in the flesh had been some heavy making out that concluded with a brief penile sojourn into the vagina of a girl named Stephanie, the daughter of one of Mum's tea friends. After several strokes, my moment arrived much earlier than I had planned and she bawled 'pull out, pull out, pull out!' When I did (Mum says I'm always to be a good, respectful lad), Stephanie jumped up and ran to the bathroom, cupping her hand under her stomach to keep me from running onto the floor. I cleaned up with a kitchen towel and left her flat before she came out of the shower, and I never saw her again.

After that I didn't date much. It was mostly just me and work and Mum. On rare private moments when I could, I would wank off to internet porn, nothing exotic, just fucking and sucking between a man and a woman. Just enough to get my cock to stand on end, and then my hand and I would take it from there.

When Mum's friends came for tea, I could hear them downstairs chatting around the Queen's Golden Jubilee commemorative teapot and the caddie with milk and sugar and spoons. Someone would always ask if I were dating, and Mum always had to tell them no, not anyone she was aware of. Once one of her friends asked, with some hesitation over her cup of tea, "You don't suppose he's...gay...do you?"

"Just hasn't found the right one, is all," Mum said defensively. She sounded a bit annoyed, either with her friend for asking or with me for seeming to be gay.

That all changed when I met Penelope Bell. Our boss Mr. Grisham assigned Nellie, as everyone calls her, to be my cubicle mate when she came to work at our advertising firm, Corporate Concepts. She was pretty but not in an over-the-top way, the kind of girl who might blend into a crowd, somewhere between middle height and short, with hair colour that changed like a chameleon, usually some shade of blonde, though occasionally a ginger red or some primary colour. Round, green eyes with thick lashes, like little emerald suns with black rays emanating from them. Nellie prefers short skirts with thigh high stockings in the summers and tights in the winters, blouses, frequently white, with no bra or a sheer one so that the nipples of her small breasts can be seen if they're erect enough and she's positioned just so.

Nellie's an artist and responsible for much of the work you see in magazines in the U.K. and in Europe. But back then she and I were unknown quantities in the world of London advertising. She was new to the city then, a girl from Nottinghamshire in the Midlands, all alone in a new place. A few days after she arrived in our cubicle, she asked me to go with her for drinks after work. But because I was a shy boy then, I stammered until I finally begged off. She seemed a little hurt.

To make matters worse, when she stepped out of our cubicle for a moment, I thumbed through her sketchpad and noticed some homoerotic drawings she'd made. The shocker was that several of them were me with other men. She returned just in time to catch me looking, and she cried. Maybe she was embarrassed at my having found myself in her fantasies. But she cried, cried that I had turned her down for a drink, cried that I had violated her by looking through her sketchpads. It's the only time we've ever quarreled.

It wasn't for long. Before she and I could settle into the trench warfare of long-term animosity, Mr. Grisham called me to his office with a proposal. There was an account Corporate Concepts was courting in Paris, a family-owned flooring business of three or four French brothers. We were considered longshots to land it. I'm fluent in French and a little knowledgeable on things like flooring. I owe this to my French Canadian papa, a man who was adept at laying carpet and women, which led to my parents' divorce and my being raised in mother's England rather than my father's Quebec. Because of my fluency and basic knowledge of flooring, Mr. Grisham chose me to represent us, and because Nellie had put together some lovely concept drawings, she was chosen to go with me.

On a cold winter day, we flew together to Paris to deliver our proposal, merely as two coworkers on a business trip. We were dressed for business, me in a suit, Nellie in a smart dark blue pinstriped pencil skirt, white blouse, with the hint of a lacy bra under it, and a dark jacket. Her hair was swirled back into a short rooster-esque ponytail, and she wore glasses, more for appearances than for eyesight. It was her first time to fly, and when the plane thrust us into the air, her sweaty hand grasped the back of mine as she nervously chewed the gum I'd given her. It was the first time we ever touched. I felt a certain electricity, but I didn't know what it meant just then.

We found the offices of the flooring company, Rousseau Frères, and I gave the pitch in Canadian French with Nellie's drawings and watercolors as a backdrop. They were fantastic, a visual treat, rugs and carpets set in exotic locales like Morocco and Japan. With each flip of the easel the eyes in the room became more and more enamored with our proposal, and the body language of the people around the conference table suggested that we had their full attention. Nellie and I had no sooner gotten in the taxi to go back to our hotel rooms when we received a text from Mr. Grisham saying that the Rousseau Frères had been wowed by our presentation. It was a major upset, a dark-horse finish, and the largest account ever landed by Corporate Concepts. By ten-fold.

Unable to contain his excitement, Mr. Grisham called right after we received his text. I could hear champagne corks popping in the background as Mr. G told us that he had moved us from our three star hotel near the airport to a five star hotel on the left bank across the Seine from the Eifel tower.

"You two take a week and enjoy the City of Lights and Lovers," he said.

When we got there, we found out that he had only booked one room, a huge suite with a bathroom that Nellie said was bigger than her entire flat. Perhaps it was an omission on Mr. G's part to just book one room. Or perhaps he knew what he was doing all along. He liked both of us, even before we had landed what became to be known at CC as "The Big Deal." I believe that secretly he wanted to see us together. Actually, I'm quite sure of it.

It happened that afternoon with the curtains open to the cold, rainy Paris outside our window. We made love and then just fucked, just fucked and then made love. We sucked, fingered, licked, arched our backs, panted, moaned, and then napped. Then we woke up and did it all again. It was more sex in one afternoon than I had had in my entire life. By ten-fold.

I learned her body. The vine-and-bird tattoo that meandered up the ivory skin of her side, the crossed ballet slippers at the nape of her neck just under the edge of her blonde hair. On that cozy afternoon we became the center of each other's universe.

Because she was an artist, she and I went to the Louvre, the Musée d'Orsay, Rodin's gardens, bundled up in winter coats, arm in arm under an umbrella. I watched her looking at the art, pausing here and there to sit on a bench and sketch, her feet in sensible black flats, the sole of one foot resting on the top of the other, her legs, shapely-white in the tights under a pleated gray plaid skirt, her small, perky tits in the bra that only I knew was sheer and lacy white under her blouse and sweater.

Between the museums there was good wine and good food, Nellie's eyes taking on a look of besotted adoration as I effortlessly conversed with the waiters in French. The winter nights fell quickly, and the lights of the Eifel tower rose above the Seine and the twinkling lights of the City of Lights, the city of lovers, Paris. Because we were lovers now, we felt like all lovers feel, that Paris belonged only to us.

We made love until we were sore, and then we made love some more. We bathed together, napped together, came together. Then, on our last day we bought a lock and wrote our names on it, Nellie & Pete, and attached it to the fence on the Pont-des-Arts. Then we threw the key into the murky green water of the Seine. We returned to London as heroes to the people of Corporate Concepts. And we returned as a couple.

Nellie and I got a nice raise and a flat together in Kensington, a really nice flat with a living room done up in white with a high ceilings and two gray Chesterfield sofas facing each other and a black iron fireplace at one end, a well-stocked kitchen (though neither of us cook much), a bathroom with a glass-enclosed shower, and a bedroom with big floor-to-ceiling windows and a four poster bed. A combination study-art studio. And we made love in every room.

"What shall it be tonight, Peetie? Studio or living room?"

"Studio, then living room," I said, barely recognizing the sexual confidence in my own voice.

Then she would offer me a sly smile through the braces she had recently put on to straighten out a twisted tooth. "You naughty boy. Studio first, then," she purred.

When I moved out, Mum was cheerful about it. She was probably relieved, I'm sure, that I wasn't gay. My bet is that she couldn't wait for one of her tea-mates to ask where I was.

"Peetie's moved in with a girl. Lovely one she is. Nellie. Isn't that marvelous news?"

I'm sure she finally felt vindicated.

I got used to sharing a bed with someone, used to her bare skin against mine, used to the way her golden (or platinum-white or orange or blue) hair splayed out over the pillow as she slept in in the morning, her long lashed eyes closed tight in sleep and looking so much like a little cartoon lamb's, and conversations in the morning as she sat and peed and I brushed my teeth.

One of the nicest parts of living with Nellie was not than having to hide my porn. There was no need to skulk about and remember to close out the browsing history with a dripping hand. That's because Nellie and I watched it together. Our faces were lit in colours as we lounged in bed or on one of the Chesterfield sofas fingering ourselves or each other, or as we fucked, I on top of her or she riding me, our faces turned to the screen and then into each other until they contorted in ecstasy and panting.

Her tastes in erotica were somewhat different from mine, mostly lesbian and gay male. The gay porn was never my thing, but I softened to it (hardened to it, really) as I saw how hot it made her. We usually compromised by watching bisexual porn.

It really worked for her. Watching it would make her cum over and over again until she could barely sit down the next day. Because it was a turn-on for her, it became a turn-on for me. Of course, it wasn't anything I would try, right? Sex with another man? Never. Think about it, masturbate to it, whisper a fantasy in Nellie's ear about it? Yes. Act on it? No.

I woke one morning after a dream in which Nellie had had sex with another woman. Oddly enough, it was Janice in accounting, a somewhat frumpy middle-aged lesbian who was always asking Nellie to go for a pint and a bite, pointedly leaving me out. Nevertheless, that morning, in between kisses and touching each other, I told Nellie about the dream. It made her sopping wet, and without the need for any further foreplay, she was on my cock and riding. As she rocked back and forth across my hips, I asked if she had ever been with another woman. In the heat of our passion she said yes. I stopped stroking her, but she kept moving her hips to and fro over me.

"Really?," I asked. "Details?"

She slowed a moment and smiled down into my face. Her hair was framed in a soft curtain of golden hair.

"Like what?"

"Who was it?"

"Well, no one you would know, really. A classmate here and there. A girl I worked with."

"You mean several times? Several girls?"

"Well, yes. But not all at the same time," she giggled as she resumed her back and forth movements over my body. "Wouldn't call myself gay, just, you know, experimenting. Exploring. Curious, I s'pose."

I resumed my thrusting, and she intensified her rubbing against the base of my cock. Long strokes became short, frantic strokes, her hair swayed, her tits swayed, my hands cupped them, my fingers toyed with her nipples, pulling on them and twisting them in quarter turns like she likes. Her eyes closed and her mouth opened and she came and then I came, the huffing, mingled sounds of two lovers' pleasure, and then she collapsed onto me. When our breathing became normal again, she rolled over and nestled into my side. I pulled her close to me and pulled a strand of her blonde hair from my mouth.

"I'm supposing you enjoyed it, then?"

"Just now? Course I did. Always do with you, love."

"Yes, but I mean, being with girls."

She put her mouth close to my ear and paused a moment and hissed 'yes' and pulled on my earlobe with her lips. "Does that turn you on?" she whispered. Her breath was hot in my ear.

"Yes," I moaned and took her bottom lip in my lips with a pulling kiss. "So―when was your first time? With a woman, I mean?"

There was a pause, and I wondered if she was going to answer, if I had crossed a line and asked too much.

"Well, it was when I was an understudy with the Birmingham Royal."

"Ballet? Understudy?"

"Yes, but I never danced in a production. Never quite good enough―"

My Nellie. Always full of surprises, that one. I was intrigued, but also sad for her, and angry, even, at whoever didn't think she wasn't good enough. I wanted to find that person or persons and give them an earful. Of course she was good enough! She's my Nellie!

"Her name was Renee. She was the principal―"

"―principal?"

"Principal dancer. Every ballet company has one. Usually just called the principal. Some call them the Prima Dona. I was a teenager then, and I idolized her. She was a few years older, just out of university. A fabulous dancer and a beautiful woman. Well, it was in the dressing room after a rehearsal. We were dressed in tights and skirts―"

"―the sheer ones?"

"Yes, fabric's called chiffon. Usually a shade of pink, though I had a lavender one I liked, and a light green one. We always wore old tees as tops to rehearse in. Renee never wore a bra for rehearsal because her tits were so small. Her tee was gray that day, and her sweat made it stick to her, and it made her nipples poke out against the cotton. We were all so tiny then. With the physical exertion, we went through a lot of calories. None of us could ever seem to eat enough."

Nellie was, and is, so trim and fit. She must have been on the verge of gauntness then.

"Well, I was attracted to her like a younger sister is to an older sister. Not sexually, necessarily. Idolatry, I suppose. One day after rehearsal she was on a bench in the dressing room unlacing her slippers. I could see the folds between her legs outlined through her tights. I suppose she caught me looking and smiled. She stood up and lifted her shirt over her head. Her tits were small and pert, about half of them nipple. I was undressing, too, but in a preoccupied way, stealing glances at Renee as she peeled off her tights. She was shaved, but all of us who were serious about ballet were either shaved or trimmed close. The pad of a big bush in your tights wasn't a look anyone was going for. Renee smiled at me again and strolled off to the showers, but not before taking a very obvious look at my naked body."

Nellie paused in her story and began toying with my nipples absently. My cock twitched, moving like a sleeper beginning to wake up. She saw it and kissed my nipples and continued.

"We showered next to each other, our hands pushing soap over our wet, sleek bodies. I waited until she had shampoo in her hair and her eyes were closed, so I could look at her without getting caught. Her small tits in the white foam, her flat, defined stomach, her muscular arse, toned legs. The lather moved like clouds down her wet body. I realized what I was feeling wasn't idolatry. It was lust. I was aroused. I longed to touch myself, but I didn't want to get caught. I thought I might have time to sneak one quick feel of my pussy. I reached between my legs and slid a finger along my slit. It was slippery, not from the water or the soap, but from my arousal. It felt so good. Maybe another stroke, I thought. Renee was rinsing her hair and couldn't see. Another pass over my pussy. I was getting wetter with each one. The water pattered on the tiles around our bare feet. Maybe one more, just one more. Like this."

Nellie opened up one leg and reached behind herself. From the front I saw her fingertip moving her lips and clit about. Her breath was becoming short and a little raspy.

"I'd lost all track of how many strokes I'd given myself when Renee's voice reverberated in the hollowness of the shower, 'You're going to fall over doing that in the shower. Come with me.' She had rinsed off all the lather and was shining clean. She put her hands on the small of my back and my stomach and gave me a slow turn under the spray of warm water to get the soap off me. Her touch on my bare, wet skin aroused me even more. My hair was wet, though I'd completely forgotten to shampoo it."

Nellie pulled her finger from her pussy long enough to lift a finger full of precum from the small pool of it under my cock. She put it to my lips and then hers. It tasted like both of us, rich and musty and salty. She kissed me on the lips and then reached behind herself again, her forearm resting in the cleft of her buttocks. Her fingertip reappeared between her legs making tiny revolutions on her engorged lips and clit which were swollen to twice their usual size.

"Stroke yourself, Peetie," she whispered. "But slow. Give me a chance to finish telling you my story."

My hand slowly went up and down my cock. I thought every stroke would be the one to make me erupt. I went slower.

"Renee and I dried off just enough to keep from leaving puddles in the dressing room. Our hair was slicked back, wet against our heads. She sat on the end of the bench and leaned back. She didn't need to tell me what to do. I kneeled before her and touched my tongue to her pussy. She moaned. I did it again and she moaned again. I began licking up and down, my first taste of another girl's pussy, enjoying the power I had over this woman, my idol. I explored her, pushed my tongue into her, traced the taut edges of her straining lips, then licked up the moisture in her slit, moisture that I had created with my lips and tongue. Her hand was on my head, following my motion. She began to move her hips. At first I thought, be still, so I can pleasure you, but I realized that she couldn't be still because of the pleasure I was giving her. 'Faster,' she groaned, 'Faster, Natalie.' 'Nellie,' I corrected her between licks. 'Yes―right―Nellie. Lick me faster, Nellie.' She jammed my face into her pussy. There were a couple of more wiggles, and then she stopped, and all I could feel was her vaginal muscles contracting, her clit and lips in spasms against my mouth which was smashed up against her pussy. I cut my eyes up to see her making a horrendous pleasure-face."

Nellie licked my nipple. I lifted her chin and kissed her a quick smack.

"Better stop that, for now," I murmured. "I could cum at any moment now. Tell me what happened next before I do."

She smiled and kissed my chest. She began rubbing herself from the front now.

"Renee pulled me up from my knees and kissed me, tasting herself, I'm sure. My face was covered with her. 'You're very good at that, you know,' she said. I smiled. No, I beamed at her praise. She got up and I sat down, thinking that she would go down on me. I was aching for her tongue. But she just went to her locker and started getting dressed. She put her bag over her shoulder, and she left me sitting there naked, feeling silly and horny, my wet pussy drooling onto the varnished wood of the bench."