The Illustrated Story

The Illustrated Story

Author's notes: Everyone is over eighteen. I hope you enjoy it.

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I love writing, and Literotica© has allowed me to practice, get feedback, and, hopefully, improve. My imagination can go wild, and it fills up the lonely nights since my wife passed. In writing, I like to try different categories, and one that intrigued me was the illustrated stories. No, not just because I like the pictures, but pictures add spice and sometimes clear up descriptions. The problem is that I am not an artist. I have trouble drawing a straight line with a ruler, and my grandkids laugh when we play Pictionary. Stick figures just wouldn't cut it. In reading several, I found that some use photographs. They can't be too pornographic, but nudity is acceptable, and I began to daydream about making something like that happen.

As a widower and grandfather, I have few single friends and none that I would approach with the idea of modeling nude for my illustrated wet dream. So, like most fantasies, it just simmered on the back burner, fueling a pleasant erotic daydream now and again, and so, it went on for several months.

I do have a friend. Funny, I never thought of her as a friend. Carol was the daughter of a neighbor down the street who had played with my daughter growing up. She was sensitive, polite and outgoing. On one Veterans Day, she saw my picture from the military on my dresser and asked me about my service. I opened up to her more about the war than I did to my daughter. No, not the nasty stuff, just the feelings of fear and loneliness. She was so empathetic she cried. It was at this point that we became friends. While in college, she wrote to me and visited me on her school vacations. I looked forward to them. After college, she moved in with her widowed mother just down the street. On weekends after her jog, she would talk to me on my porch, and we would share a pitcher of lemonade.

She was bright and beautiful. Sometimes, she would jog in a bikini and I would always scold myself for my eyes perving after her. Her large breasts, hard stomach, and rounded hips made it hard not to.

On this memorable day, in early summer, it was sweltering, and rather than sit on the porch, I invited her into the house with the air conditioning. She readily agreed, and I got the treat of watching her butt, almost wriggling out of her skimpy bikini, precede me down the hall.

"Is this your office?" she asked at the French doors.

"Yes," I replied.

"What do you do in your office? Aren't you retired?" she inquired.

"Umm...just the usual, pay bills, think and write," I replied nervously.

"Write? Really, you write? What kinds of things do you write?" she squealed enthusiastically.

"Oh, just things," I replied, even more nervous now, anticipating the obvious next question from her.

"Can I read something you wrote, Bill?" she pleaded, using only my first name for the first time.

"Well, writing is a private thing, Carol," I anxiously replied.

"Oh," she replied sadly. "I'm sorry."

The look on her face was profound sadness. It was as if I had told her of some tragedy.

"I'm not any good. You wouldn't be missing anything," I laughed, trying to lighten the moment by denigrating my abilities.

"I understand," she said, "I guess I better go."

I will admit this took me totally by surprise. Expecting a half hour of the young woman's wit and outgoing, youthful energy, I was devastated. I hadn't realized how much her presence had enriched my life.

"Wwww...wait, why?" I now pleaded.

"Well, I guess you don't trust me to be around," she sighed.

"What? I love you being around and as to trust. You have never given me a reason to mistrust you. Even when you were a kid," I stuttered.

"But you don't trust me to see some of the deeper things that make you who you are, like your writing," she countered.

I scrunched up my face and said, "Why would you want to learn about the deeper things that make me who I am?" I said incredulously. "I am just an old man."

Her expression was of wide-eyed, open-mouthed, incredulous exasperation.

"Why would I...I thought we were friends, Bill," she spat out. "I don't care if you are my mother's age or even my grandfather's. We are friends. Aren't we?" she pleaded.

Struck dumb, I garbled a few unintelligible words and then stopped and took a deep breath.

"Yes. Yes, Carol, we are friends," I sighed, lowering my eyes.

We stood facing each other, avoiding eye contact for several moments. Finally, I reached out and pushed open the French Doors. She looked up at me and smiled. Placing my hand on her shoulder, I directed her into my office. I sat down and logged onto my computer, selecting a selection that was from the non-erotic category. It was short and sad but had gotten reasonably good reviews, scoring over 4.5. When she finished, she looked up at me. Tears were running down both her cheeks, dripping onto her breasts.

"That was beautiful," she said, taking my hand and rubbing the back of it on her cheek. "You lied. You are talented."

Embarrassed but as all writers are, appreciative of any positive reaction, I patted her head and said, "Thank you."

"Can I read some more?" she asked excitedly.

"You must understand, Carol. Most of what I write is not this vanilla," I ventured.

"Vanilla?" she said, scowling.

"I write mostly adult things," I stammered.

The light bulb went on in her head, and excitedly, she exclaimed, "Oh...Sex...Great!"

Not only did she spend the next hour reading a couple of my short stories, but she also insisted on discussing them and not in a vanilla way. I should have realized she was a grown woman in her mid-twenties, not the little girl I once picked up in the street and tended to her skinned knee. I said she was brilliant. She had majored in business but minored in literature and was more of an expert on literature and writing than I was. It was really a bit intimidating.

In the conversation, she discovered I was writing on Literotica© and my author's name. When it came time for her to leave, she stopped at the door, turned, embraced, and kissed me chastely before exiting.

Over the next several days, she would stop by and insist on discussing things I had published. At first, it wasn't very comfortable, but she was encouraging and supportive. I had hidden my writing from everyone and could never discuss it with anyone. It felt good, I must admit, to have an avenue to talk about it. She actually gave me advice on story development, character development, and even ideas for sequels and new stories. Finally, she asked the monumental question.

"Bill, what are you working on now?" she asked innocently.

It could be that rather than meeting in the morning after her jog, it was a rare late afternoon porch conversation in another afternoon of sweltering heat, with Carol in a bikini and over a couple of glasses of Chardonnay rather than lemonade that I opened up. In my alcohol-sotted state, I mentioned my desire to publish an illustrated work.

"Wow, that sounds great! What one of your works are you thinking of doing, or is it something you will work on?" she exclaimed.

Her enthusiasm was encouraging and buzzed, I explained.

"I just wrote it. I haven't even figured out what types of pictures I would want to be taken," I said, embarrassed at my even mentioning it.

"Oh, can I read it?" she bubbled.

"Yeah, sure," I said, defeated, knowing she would eventually find a way to read it. "Just a minute."

I went to my office and, for the first time, printed on paper a story. It was a rough draft I had just run through Grammarly©, so I knew the commas were mainly all there and in the right places. I returned and handed it to her.

"It is just the rough draft," I said, sitting down, finishing my glass and pouring my third.

It was a cuckold story. The couple invites the guy from work to dinner, and well, you know the rest. It wasn't very original idea-wise, but I like to develop the characters a little bit more than a screaming slut takes it in all holes. In this case, it was sad, an old veteran disabled and unable to satisfy his wife because of war wounds, yadda, yadda, yadda. She read it like a legal document, even stopping and asking questions. When she finished, she looked up at me.

"I thought I could help you and model for you, but the descriptions of the woman don't remotely match me," she lamented.

"Yes, it is a story about a mature couple. What? You would model?" I replied, surprised she would volunteer.

"Sure, It's art. I would love to model for you on a project like this. I know I don't fit this one, but I do know someone who would fit this description to a tee," she said thoughtfully.

Surprised and taken off guard because I still hadn't seriously thought of actually doing it, I innocently and without thinking asked, "Who?"

Straight-faced, she replied, "My mom."

Incredulous, I stiffened and sat up straight, saying, "What? No."

"Why not? She matches the description age-wise, looks-wise, and even tit size-wise. Why, I could almost claim you wrote the description thinking of her," she said, laughing.

Mortification was too weak a word to describe how I felt, and all I could get out of my mouth was, "B...b...b..."

Carol then talked right over me, "I bet she would do it too. Mom is kind of liberal and uninhibited. I know she looks like the conservative suburban house frau, but deep down, she is quite sensual. The walls in the house are pretty thin," she chuckled.

"I...I...I don't know. Someone in the neighborhood," I croaked.

"News flash, Bill, I live in the neighborhood and know. Mom would be discreet. Here, I will take it and let her read it and let her decide," she said, starting to rise.

"Carol," I said way too loud and in too angry a voice.

She looked at me, squinting, like a body language way of saying What? Then I saw it dawn on her.

"Sorry, I am over the line on this. I will show it to Mom with your permission," Carol said contritely.

Terrified, I didn't know what to do. Like a deer caught in the headlights, I could neither think nor speak. Patiently and expectantly, she stood. A trickle of sweat started its journey down her neck and chest to disappear between her breasts.

Finally, coming out of my paralysis, I shrugged and said, "Fine."

She smiled, squealed, and rushed to me, bending to kiss me as usual. This time, however, it wasn't a chaste peck on the lips. She grasped the back of my head, pressed her lips hard onto my mouth, and opened hers. Then her tongue ventured in. I was shocked, but my body short-circuited my brain, and our tongues danced. It had been a long, long time.

I finally came to myself and ended the kiss. She didn't straighten up quickly and just looked into my eyes. There was something behind those beautiful Hazel eyes, a spark I don't know. Slowly, she straightened up, and another drop of sweat began a course down her chest to disappear into her cleavage. As she turned and I watched her tush wiggle down the driveway, I felt things I hadn't felt in years.

It was a couple of days before we got together again, in the late afternoon, mid-week, over a couple of glasses of merlot this time. I felt somewhat relieved that there was no mention of the previous discussion and relaxed, thinking this was now out of sight, out of mind. I was wrong.

"By the way, Bill," Carol began. "Mom read your story, and I explained what you were thinking about doing. She said it was interesting and would like to meet with you and talk about it. Mom suggested you come to dinner on Friday. Would that work for you?"

I must have looked shocked, but Carol didn't even bat an eye.

I took a deep breath and croaked, "Fine."

"Wonderful," she said as we both rose.

Sensually, she walked to me and, putting both arms around my neck, pulled me into a lover's kiss. Our tongues danced, and we sucked on each other's tongues for an obscene length of time.

Panting and breathless, she arched back to look me in the eye and cooed, "Until Friday at five."

I looked more like a statue than a man as I watched her leave. To say I was a basket case would be an understatement for the next two days. By Friday afternoon, I was a nervous wreck. With great trepidation, I began the journey six houses down. Trying to be a good guest, I brought a bottle of wine, a nice pinot grigio, and a small bouquet, hoping that wasn't too much. I rang the doorbell, and momentarily, Carol answered. She wasn't dressed in a bikini but in a Club Party Mini Dress in white. The low-cut top displayed her tits erotically. It was skin-tight form-fitting with a White Satin Stripe Mesh, and the in-between stripes were semitransparent. With no bra or panties on, the shadows of her areolas were evident, and the little tents created by her erect nipples indicated some excitement. There was no shadow of a bush below decks, so I surmised she was waxed down there, and the dress ended above the midpoint of her fit thighs. Sky-high heels and a sexy matching choker topped off her outfit.

"Hi, Bill. Come on in," she seemed almost to sing.

Carol stepped back to allow me to enter. The entrance was a long hall with rooms off it on both sides, ending in the large open kitchen, living room, and dining area. Stepping into the hall at the far end was Carol's mom.

She was Carol's height and truthfully looked like a slightly older image of Carol. Her large breasts and comely figure were youthful, and she was dressed like the character in my story. She had a white cotton button-down blouse and a knee-length wrap-around skirt in black. Matching black high heels topped off her outfit. It wasn't until I got closer that I noticed the bumps in the fabric of her blouse, indicating she had no bra.

I walked down the hall and fumbled with the two things I was carrying, trying to figure out how to extend my hand to shake hers. Carol came to my aid.

"Here, I'll take those," Carol said as she took the wine and flowers.

"You are most kind," Carol's mom said.

"Think nothing of it, Mrs...." I began.

Before I could finish with her last name, she said, "Amy, just Amy will do."

Smiling, I replied, "Amy," and shook her hand. She had the usual watch, bracelet, and a couple of rings.

"Can I get you a drink? Dinner will be ready soon," she said gracefully. "According to Carol, you like scotch. Is that correct?"

Still a whole lot of nervous, I stammered, "Yes."

"Is Glenmoreange, ok? The label says twelve-year-old. My late husband drank scotch also, but I know nothing about what is good and what is not," she said.

"Yes, fine, it is a good scotch whiskey. Thank you," I stuttered.

She motioned for me to sit on the couch and turned to go to the bar. Her tush was much like her daughter's, and I enjoyed watching it. Carol returned and sat in an overstuffed chair to the left, her minidress riding up scandalously and erotically. Amy returned with two glasses of wine and a whiskey glass for me. She gave Carol one glass of wine and handed me my whiskey, sitting on the couch next to me, perhaps a foot away.

Nervously, I took a sip of the Glenmorangie, reveling in the fragrant bouquet and smoky flavor. The conversation, although starting somewhat restrained, picked up as the alcohol livened us up until we were talking like old friends. We ate the meal without discussing the project and settled in again on the couches. Carol sat in the chair, her dress riding up to the point I could see her pussy, and yes, she was waxed. Amy sat next to me again, but hip to hip this time. She had made each of us an Irish Coffee.

"I made ours with brandy. Neither Carol nor I are much into hard liquor, and brandy seems as strong as we can take. I put Jameson's Irish whiskey in yours. Is that ok?" she asked.

"Yes, a fine whiskey, thank you," I replied.

We sat chatting and finishing our drinks. Carol rose and took the cups to the kitchen.

"Now, as to your project," Amy began only after Carol had returned and sat down.

I sighed. The rubber was now about to meet the road. I intended to call it off and cancel the crazy idea, but Amy continued.

"Carol and I have looked at this and discussed it. We have several ideas about what pictures should be taken and where they fit. For example, here," she said, pointing to the printed copy I had given Carol that magically appeared on the coffee table. "A picture close up of the front of the blouse showing the protrusion of erect nipples. And here, a longer shot of her blouse open and her skirt hiked up," she continued, pointing to different paragraphs. "Here we should show the nipple, and here it is being suckled. It is vital to contextualize each shot and make it relevant to the story. So, the picture should portray the action as well, the nipple being sucked. We must take several photos like this and pick the ones that best fit.

Here we should see the cock being sucked," she said, and I broke in.

"Cock being sucked?" I blurted out.

"Yes, the storyline has the woman and man...fuck...and fellatio is a common part of fucking. You even mention it here on page..." she leaned forward to point out the place.

"No, I mean, who's cock? Does Carol know some boy who is willing to do this?" I asked.

Stunned, the woman squinted and replied, "This is a story about two people fucking, not a lone woman masturbating. I am not going to be the only one in the pictures. It's your story. It should be your cock."

Talk about being forced to put skin in the game!

"Well, I wasn't planning on..." I fumbled.

"It won't be very complete as a story without the male genitalia represented, but it is your story," she sighed disappointedly.

"I...wasn't thinking along that line, but yes, it is right and only fair," I replied,

"Good. Here we need to show the pussy, and here, it is being licked, and if we can't show it inserted, at least we can show a cock next to the pussy. Finally, here we should show cum on the pussy and perhaps it ejaculating," Amy said, sipping her wine and sitting back.

Gob-smacked, I just stared at her.

"Oh, and Carol and I thought we should probably have several meetings to discuss the inserts and how they should be staged. Perhaps we should have practice shots to see what works and what doesn't. My thoughts are that it will take several days to accomplish the shoots. Also, this is too much for us to do, so we need a photographer. Carol took several photography classes and has the skills to accomplish that. "What do you think?" she said as if talking about a list of chores to do around the house.

"A...I guess this is fine," I stuttered.

"There is just one thing that bothers me," she said.

"What is that?" I replied.

"The nipples. You describe them as long and hard. My nipples do get erect and hard when I am aroused, but I have no idea what long means in reference to a nipple. I am not sure mine are very long," Amy replied as if talking about shoe size.

"Well, I am sure they are fine, or we could just eliminate the reference," I suggested.

"I don't want you to compromise," she stated flatly.

"I guess we could use lighting and create shadows," I squeaked nervously.

"Why don't you just show him, Mom, and then we can all decide," Carol said for the first time.

"Good idea," Amy replied.

My mouth just hung open.

Amy, using both her hands to push her hair back, thrust her tits forward and turned to me, saying, "Would you do the honors?"

"Honors?" I replied.

Looking confused, she said as if to a clueless child, "Unbutton my blouse, Bill."

Tentatively, I undid the top button and stalled.

"You can't see them with only one button undone," she said, showing a bit of exasperation.

I undid the next one, halted, and with an exasperated nod, she motivated me to continue.