Temptation's Tits

Chapter One -- Temptation's Ass

Temptation never showed her tits off. But the 27 year-old songwriter could never fully conceal those bangers either. While she strummed her Martin acoustic guitar, they rested atop it. Temptation wanted the men and women in her audience to appreciate her for the value of her music, and not just her sex appeal. So she performed in modest clothes with neckline cuts and jeans that weren't too tight. Until today, that is.

Men still gooed over her as she sang her biggest local hit "On my Back," dreaming of getting her there. And even if she showed no cleavage, they still stared at her tits.

She had D cups and ten percent body fat. Her belly didn't even bulge beneath those knockers. Beneath her bellybutton, she was tattooed in black floral patterns over her crotch and left hip. Her tattoo artist Torrey was the third to last man to see that handiwork, as he finished it. Her other mono-black tattoo, in italic script, read "You wish", right below her right collarbone. That was the one that most people got to see, and even that she kept covered most days.

It's not that I'm not a sexual person, she thought. I just don't want to sell my music on the altar of sex appeal.

Her last boyfriend, Mike, was a blonde-haired farmboy, strong as an ox but gentle in spirit, who had re-located an hour to the nearest city to try to learn computer coding for the future to come. He got Bs and Cs in class, having the work ethic but not the imagination to succeed in the field.

He was also a skilled trumpet player, trained from age 6 in the rural school district. Temptation had met him while he played downtown one evening for tips on the sidewalk. Letting out a long flow of randomly melodic jazz with no accompaniment. Most people tipped him out of courtesy, but Temptation had found something profound about his obscure improvisations, something that spoke to a quiet listening space within her. She had tipped him a twenty into his trumpet case, glittering in the lamplight with loose change, and she had asked if he would play accompaniment on her next album. He had agreed with delight, obviously flattered.

Within two weeks, they were making sweaty sex, and within two months after that they were done. Mike had proved too clingy for her disposition. They had finished one track together, "The Rising Tide," which was probably the best track she had for her new project. But despite their working musical bond, she needed the space. The space to be herself creatively and fully. So she spilt it off neatly, saying it was her and not him, and his heart broke in silence.

The best sex they had ever had came in her third floor studio, on her floor-bound mattress. On her behest, he had slapped her ass until both cheeks were bright red. Then he had grabbed her by both cheeks, forced her onto her back, and fucked her from top with a rhythm that went from extra slow and gentle to rollicking fast, and she screamed "MORE" when she finally came. He had jizzed on her belly. She had scooped up the come and smeared it across his chest hair. She had liked that he hadn't liked that.

Temptation made it up for him in the shower. She offered him her anus, but he merely took her from behind, fucking her through the vagina while her forehead pressed into the tile wall. She was still begging for more when he came this time, spewing his jizz onto her ass-crack.

"That was fun," she had said, standing in her flat with a white towel draped over her tits. "But why don't you like anal?"

"I dunno," he said. "Never was interested in trying it."

"But it's so tight in there," Temptation said. "You're too old-fashioned."

Her previous boyfriend, Texan, had treated her to anal tongue darts on multiple occasions, before she caught him screwing some blonde on her own mattress, when she was supposed to be out shopping for the afternoon. Temptation had kept the woman's pantyhose as a memorial trophy, after the blonde had forgotten them in her rush to get out the flat.

"I'm sorry," Texan had said, flashing his pointed tongue a few times. But it wasn't good enough for Temptation.

"Leave," was all she had said. Six months later she had met Mike. Some days she still missed those tongue darts.

She finally did talk Mike into fucking her asshole, in the last week of their relationship. His inability to go hard enough on her, which she took as a lack in courage, may have been a deciding factor in the break-up. In the end, he hadn't been that clingy.

Today, at the pool party of a billionaire magnate in structural steel, she was a single woman, and hired as she was to play a 90 minute set, beginning at twilight, she wasn't able to turn down the stipulation that she attend the party, and play the set, in a bikini. So she bucked up and put on a pink polka dot string thing that was quite obviously super sexy.

Luckily for her, all the bitches there were wearing equally skimpy attire, many of them were flashing their titties throughout the hot July afternoon, and the rich men in attendance had no reason to stare at her more than they stared at anyone else.

Still, those tits, in the bright pink polka dot string bikini, were drawing plenty of attention.

"That's the kinda rack I'd mount in my den," said a middle-aged man in an unbuttoned Hawaiian shirt and loose khaki shorts. He looked down not twice, but three times at her breasts, and Temptation thought he might be ready to grab her.

"How would your wife like that, asshole?"

"I pay her handsomely enough not to care."

"Sorry, but I'm not for sale."

"That's too bad, honey. A woman like you could go a long way in this world."

Just then, a young gal ran by with her nipples flashing, and did a cannon-ball into the pool. The man left to follow the other gal's path to the edge of the pool. He clapped, and other men cheered, as she resurfaced amidst a swirl of bubbles, her small but perky tits floating on top of the water. He stooped over the edge of the pool and made little twisting gestures with his index finger and thumb.

Another young gal swam over, grabbed her by both tits and pushed her under the water again. Rich men toasted their drinks while the two gals made out in the water for all too see. Someone threw a couple of crumpled hundred dollar bills into the pool, and the gals swam to them, stuffing them in their bikini bottoms.

Temptation ordered two vodka tonics at the open bar and decided to see what the inside of the mansion looked like. She still had three hours til she had to take the stage, and she really didn't want to be here.

She passed through the woman's changing room. There was a forty-some year-old guy with an overly hairy chest and substantial gut overhang, sitting on one of the benches in there, waiting to see what he could see. Temptation hurried past before she could invite his harassment.

She exited the changing room into a long bright corridor, lined with guest rooms, some of them open and unoccupied, others shut up and leaking the various noises of spontaneous passion and pleasure.

Temptation didn't think there was a single man at this party she'd be willing to fuck. As it were, she liked the artist types of this world. And she couldn't help but to judge these money-hungry young hos for doing what they were doing.

The long corridor ended in a marble staircase that she followed up into a great hall dominated by a long rectangular table and walled with mirrors that went from floor to ceiling.

She looked herself in the eye in the mirror and sipped her drinks from straws, sucking from both cups at once. She admired her rack in the pink polka dot bikini top. She was getting drunk and enjoying the sight of herself.

When a tall grey-haired but well-groomed man in a rich three-piece suit approached, she couldn't tell in this hall of mirrors which direction he was coming from. She turned around and stood face-to-face with him, having to look up to make eye contact, which he was great with, even as he pulled his gaze down to her breasts for a few long seconds and then lifted it back up to look quietly and confidently into her steel-and-grey eyes.

"You're the musician," he said, not a question.

"Temptation."

He took her hand and kissed the back of it. "The temptation is all mine."

"Lol," Temptation said. "I've never heard that one before."

"You must've heard by now you have perfect tits. In fact, you must've heard that a million times."

"Along with the injunction to 'take it off', yeh I've heard it all a million times before."

"Sorry to change the subject, Temptation, but I have to ask: how do you like my home?"

"You're the owner?"

"Believe it or not."

Temptation crossed one leg over the other and squirmed a little with the need to pee. "It's really nice. Can you show me to a bathroom? I've got to tinkle."

"I'd be happy to." He led her out of an exit to the north side of the great hall into another wide corridor that went on and on in both directions. "Fifth door on the right."

"Thank you."

"Would you mind if I joined you?"

It took Temptation a moment's delay for her to process what he said. "Yes, I would mind. What kind of pervert are you?"

"A very rich one, who is accustomed to having his way."

"You want to watch me pee?" she said in mild disbelief. The drunker part of her didn't mind the idea as much as she probably should have.

"I have something of a fetish for women on the potty. Let me let you in on a little secret. All my bathrooms are wired with surveillance equipment. If I don't see you now, I'll see you later. I love your earrings, by the way."

The last line, concerning her giant silver hoops, threw her off. She wasn't sure what part of what he'd just said that she wanted to respond to. She let it go, mostly because she had to go so badly, but also because he couldn't have been serious.

Fifth door on the right, Temptation locked the door to the closet commode behind her. She sat down and dropped her bottom down around her ankles. While she peed with great relief, she looked around and tried to find the camera he had promised was in here. She thought she found it, in a small circular lens embedded in the ceiling tiles overhead.

She looked into the lens and flipped it the bird. She finished peeing and wiped her vagina dry with toilet paper.

Her rich patron was waiting for her when she came out. She almost didn't recognize him, amazed as she was that he had been able to dress down into a white cotton v-neck shirt with criss-crossing drawstrings and teal swim trunks.

"Did you find that relieving? I can't wait to see the footage."

"Lick my asshole, fucker."

"As you wish," he said, checking out her ass as she walked away.

She didn't look back but for a moment, wondering if he were serious, felt a titillating surge deep behind her belly. The wrinkled curves of her asshole veritably tingled while she focused her attention into that most-admirable place on her body.

"I'd love to take you up on that," he called out, reiterating, as she started to ascend the next staircase.

The third floor was quite a surprise, a shock to Temptation's assumptions about everyone present at this event: it was an art gallery. A sequence of small white rooms wandering like a labyrinth though the space, and in the dim light of suspended sconces, unknown paintings, all original, of the highest standard of beauty.

The first was a landscape, almost, a vertical frame beholding a view of a mountain carpeted in pine forest all the way to its peak. A huge hill, she surmised, set against a bluish purple sky.

The second looked like a panoramic high definition photograph, ten feet long and only eight inches tall, it went from wall to wall, and you had to squint to see the scene it beheld. A work setting, a farm scene, from the field of silage on the far right to the grain silo, the barn, a tractor crossing the turf before them, the farmer himself behind the tractor's wheel, wearing a camouflage baseball cap, little yellow dandelion flowers like star-pricks of yellow color in patches of untrodden grass all around, to the cattle barn to the spotted cows milling in the slew behind the house, beyond which alfalfa grew to the horizon, to the house itself, where Mom stood on the porch, forever ringing the lunch bell, to the young lad with a stalk of grain jutting from his lips, looking over his shoulder at his Mama, while he drove the green 4-wheel Gator away, with boxes of fresh carrots, tomatoes, onions, potatoes, leeks, asparagus, and parsley in the bed of the vehicle, to the chicken barns on the other side of the house, with the odd little birds skipping over the packed dirt of their pen, pecking over pieces of vegetable scrap, carrot greens and such that another younger boy was lofting over the chicken pen to the hens and one rooster, to the boy's four-wheeler with a small wooden box trailer behind it where it was pulled up to the chicken coop, more vegetable trim and a shovel tucked into that trailer box, to the field on the far left of the picture, lying fallow, with grey rocks surfacing among the weedy soil, and lastly a line of trees going back toward where the fallow field met the horizon. The sun was a blur in the sky above those trees, which Temptation couldn't name by sight, but she spent at least ten minutes attending to every detail of this piece up close. The hyperrealistic image seemed to transport her back in time.

Her last thought before she moved on was of Mike, who she could've placed in the place of either boy, at one point in his life or other. She thought of young Mike, craving his mother's rhubarb pie as he hears her sound the bell. She thought of an even younger Mike, feeding the chickens, dreaming of making a name for himself in the big city, after his life of enforced labor was over. She had a tender feeling for him in her heart, in that moment.

Then she thought of how Mike wouldn't fuck her ass, and that made her start thinking about getting her ass licked, and that made her ass tingle all over again.

She tucked herself into a corner of the dim room and rubbed up and down against her vulva from outside her swim bottom, but only a few rapt times. She thought about a rich, obsessive mind with a million cameras everywhere, and with that thought she exercised some restraint and moved on to the next exhibit.

It was an abstract piece, less appealing to Temptation, something that reminded her of Kandinski but more juvenile: red streaks of brush strokes making hollow shapes that suggested something ineptly symbolic, surrounded by equally-shaped fields of very light mauve color, against a backdrop of a somewhat reserved and opaque, yet pure red. Temptation wasn't offended by the four foot by six foot canvas, but she wasn't impressed enough to dwell upon it. She moved on to the next room.

Where she found the last thing she wanted to see. A nude portrait. A woman with long flowing brown hair, sun-stained on the top layer, and a down-turned gaze. The emphasis, of course, was on her breasts, which were both bare and impressive as they went down then turned back up at the broad nipples, her areolas large but almost faded to an invisible pink, surrounding her proportionally big jutting nipples, and beneath that rack her flat bellybutton, pierced bellybuttonhole with a dangling chain and a white jewel descending toward her womanhood which was covered by the green leaf of a philodendron vine that ran from the top right of the canvas down to the bottom left, perfectly positioned to apply some artistic modesty to the overly sexual image. A chill ran up Temptation's back; there was something uncanny about the image.

Then she noticed a detail that blew everything out of proportion. There was a pair of matching moles on the bottom turn of the woman's left breast. Temptation held back the urge to scream. She examined the details of the woman closer. Her collarbone was covered by her hair and downturned jaw, where the "You wish" tattoo would be, were this a painting of Temptation herself. The crotch was covered with a leaf, but yes, there on the left hip, the black flowery tattoo, undeniable as day itself.

Suddenly, Temptation wanted to get out of there, and just as suddenly a man appeared in the exit of this exhibit, wearing nothing but a dark purple Speedo. He had a good body, a lot of strength without obscene musculature, a decent bulge in his Speedo, thankfully no erection, yet, and the only thing Temptation found as a possible turn-off was the grey and white hairs on the man's midriff. Only she wasn't bothered by that at all. A weight of infinite possible experience imbued the man, whom Temptation recognized as the self-proclaimed owner of the mansion, her employer, host of this decadent event. The only thing she hadn't seen yet were lines of coke being snorted off hookers' bellies, but just because she didn't see it, doesn't mean it wasn't happening, within these walls.

But even as turned off as Temptation was at the poolside, and as aroused and then turned off as she had been in the art exhibits, there was something undeniable in her budding attraction for this villain antagonist of her's. It was an itch she felt she could scratch, if need be, but for now she didn't absolutely need to.

"Do you like my work?" her boss asked, then after a quick beat: "I hope you don't mind my embellishment. It's something of a fetish for me. A high lyer among a big litter of others."

"What are you talking about? And what's with the ridiculous Speedo?"

"The bellybutton piercing. I know you don't have one. I mean, I am trained to give you the piercing safely and quickly, if you were so inclined."

"You expect me to let you pierce my bellybutton? To satisfy your fetish? And what kind of fetish do you have that involves me being so dumb, and having so little respect, that I would play along? You must think I'm retarded."

"There's no need to speak so vulgarly. To your point, I do have a fetish for women put in vulnerable or even powerless positions, who have to learn to use their sexuality creatively to find their way through. But I always make it well worth any woman's time who happens to fall in my web."

"Your web?"

"By now you must have some inkling of both my industry and my creativity."

"You want to pay me for sexual favors?"

"I will not under any circumstances pay you even a single cent for your sexual services, so to speak. Everything done must be freely given," he looked over her shoulder then, and said, "You still haven't told me what you thought of my art?"

"You made these?!"

"The portrait behind you is a pen-and-ink piece with a watercolor backdrop. The abstract piece in the next room is oil on canvas."

"What about the farm piece?"

"So you like my masterpiece? It's an ink dot drawing condensed from a hundred foot roll of cotton-weave paper that was about nine times as tall as the piece is now."

"What you're describing...sounds impossible."

"It took me almost seven years to complete, in my free time, which is never so ample as one might imagine of an eccentric billionaire living on a hill."

"More like a sex-depraved madman."

"Again with the obscenities. Please, we could be civil. Especially since your feelings for me have become more complicated than the simple contempt which you display."

"And what makes you think that?"

"I have certain gifts, of a mental nature. Some go so far as to think me psychic. I just think of mine as a profound and refined intuition."

"Something's telling me I should get out of here, fast. Before I find the need to notify the police."

"And what have I done that would be of their concern? I haven't laid a hand on you this whole time. If anything, it's you who is trespassing in my property."

"You've obviously been spying on me?"

"What proof do you have of that?"