The Virgin Artist Ch. 02

The glass cupola on the roof is the studio. It's a single giant room with walls made of segmented glass triangles. Looking out, Winston can see for miles in every direction, which is mostly forest. A simple oak table with four rough-hewn wooden chairs stands in one corner of the room. Near it is a metal basin, like a bird fountain, clearly a sink of some type. The professor -- or his maid anyway -- has setup an easel in the center of the room, with several empty canvases stacked against it. In front of the easel waits the only other piece of furniture in the room, a single comfortable looking chair with velvet upholstery. Aside from this, the room is empty. It is one giant space.

Winston removes his shoes and pads barefoot across the hardwood floors to the easel. Below, on the floor, is a cup filled with brushes. He picks one up and then closes his eyes, to take in the space. The glass walls seem to melt away. He feels connected with the world at large.

Luna laughs. "I take it you're ready to begin."

Winston smiles, embarrassed, feeling exposed. "Um. Yeah. I like it. I feel at peace. But we don't—"

"I'm ready to start if you are. Are you?"

"Sure," says Winston. "I'm eager to paint you."

"Okay. Let me just go get changed."

She retreats down the tiny circular stairwell. In the meantime Winston hunts for and finds a chest filled with paints and other supplies. He retrieves a small tripod, which he sets up near the easel to hold his color palette. Then he begins mixing colors, hunting for a caramel to match Luna's complexion. It takes several minutes of tinkering, and occasionally testing it on a scrap of paper, until he feels satisfied.

Shortly after he does so, Luna returns, wearing a black robe.

"Hm?" says Winston.

She slips off the robe. She's wearing nothing underneath.

He blinks rapidly.

"Well?" she asks. "Where do you want me?"

He points to the velvet chair. She moves to it with light steps.

"And how do you want me?" she asks.

"Um, wow," he says. "I want you every which way. I—"

"No," says Luna, rolling her eyes. "I mean how do you want me to position my body for you to paint?"

"Oh. Right. Um. Whatever makes you comfortable."

She sits down and folds her legs and then places her folded hands on top of her thighs.

"No," says Winston. "Keep your legs apart."

Luna raises an eyebrow but does as he says and then Winston begins.

He has, in mind, a portrait of Picasso's, of his mistress, called The Dream. Only... different. Less languorous. More intense. And not cubist. His favorite Monet is called Woman with a Parasol, which is of Monet's wife and son. He likes its ethereal qualities. The brightness and clear love evident in the color palette. He envisions something like that, some combination of The Dream and Woman with a Parasol. The intensity of The Dream but the optimism of Parasol. Pinning this emotion in place, he puts his brush to the canvas and begins to paint Luna's feet.

Neither Winston nor Luna speaks. She sits. He paints. Outside the sun slowly moves on its circular path across the sky. There is only the occasional cloud, blocking the sun, altering the light. When this happens, Winston takes a short break. He stops and looks at Luna and reaffirms in his artist's mind what he wants his painting to look like. When the cloud moves on, he resumes painting.

Many hours later, Winston finally puts down his paintbrush and closes his eyes.

"Are you finished?" asks Luna. "Can I see it?"

"No, not yet. I'm almost done. Maybe twenty more minutes."

"I see."

He rubs his hands together, working the ache out of them. Painting isn't easy.

"Winston," says Luna after a few moments.

"Yes?"

"When you finish, I want you to make love to me."

He smiles. "Not make potatoes?"

"Winston!" protests Luna. "I'm trying to be sexy."

"Sorry, sorry," he says. "I want that too."

"Good. Okay. Then, just so you're ready, I'm going to tell you all about it."

"Okay," says Winston, his already hard cock twitching at her words.

"Go ahead, pick up your brush and paint."

He does so and it just so happens that he's applying some final touches on her breasts.

"After you finish," begins Luna, "I will go downstairs first. I would let you have me here, but considering how hard I want you to end up fucking me, we will need a bed. And I want to put on some clothes. Don't worry. I'm only putting them on so you can take them off. I will be in the bedroom, wearing my 'board room' clothes. You know, the ones I wore the first day of our plan? After you clean your brushes, you will come down and find me in the bedroom, wearing these clothes. You will come up behind me and first, unzip my skirt. I want you to struggle with it. I want your hands to be trembling with anticipation. That's not so much to ask is it? Don't answer that. You must paint. I am only telling you about what will happen once you finish."

"When you manage to unzip my skirt," she continues, "it will drop to my feet. I will kick it aside. Then I want you to remove my jacket. I want you behind me. You will have to reach around to undo the buttons. Wrap your arms around me. Pull me close. I want to hear your breathing in my ear. After you unbutton my jacket and pull it off my shoulders, you'll have to take off my blouse. I will raise my arms to help you. Pull it off. And then, then, I will be in front of you in nothing but my underwear and my bra. Take a step back if you feel like it. Look at me if you want. I like it when you look at me. I like seeing that look in your eyes. It makes me feel beautiful. But do not look too long. Come back to me and again wrap your arms around me. Slip the straps of my bra off my shoulders. No need to undo it yet. Just pull down the cups and grab my breasts. This week, they are yours. I will not hide them from you. Squeeze them. Play with my nipples. Kiss me on the neck as you do so. Whisper in my ear that you love my tits. Tell me all the naughty things you want to do to them. Tell me—"

Winston sets down his brush. "Luna, you're driving me crazy. I need you. Like now. Like so bad that I want you to invent a time machine, so I can go back in time and have you earlier."

Solemn and serious, Luna shakes her head. "Too bad. You can't have me until you finish the painting. But. If you can handle it, I will allow you to stroke yourself."

"Hm," says Winston with a smile. "I'll try."

"Then take off your pants."

In two swift moves, Winston snaps loose his belt and pulls it free. He undoes his jeans and slides them and his boxers down to his ankles. His hard cock springs outward, free.

When he looks back up, he sees Luna is eyeing his hardness appreciatively and even possessively. She slips her hand between her legs and begins gently rubbing herself. "Will this interfere with your painting?"

"No."

Winston picks his brush back up. With his left hand, he strokes his cock, long full movements that stop just short of his sensitive head. With his right, he paints. All that remains is Luna's face.

Her lips slightly open, eyes fixed on Winston, Luna continues talking, "After you take off my bra and let it fall to my feet, you must next remove my underwear. Take your time with this. Run your hands down my body, over my breasts, my stomach. If you want, slip a hand into my underwear. Check, if you want, my wetness, so you know how much I want you. But do not play with me. Do not mess around down there. My wetness is not for your fingers. It's for your cock. Take off my underwear then, but do it slow. I want to feel you sliding it slowly down my hips, then my thighs. I want to feel your fingers on me all the way down and when you get down there, kiss my ankle. This will be a code, a signal we are agreeing upon now. It will mean that you think I'm beautiful. Every time you kiss me, it means you think that part of me is beautiful. So you will need to kiss me everywhere."

She pauses then and, for a space of several minutes, concentrates on masturbating. She speeds up, slows down, perhaps even extends a finger into herself. Winston barely notices. He is focused entirely on her face, watching the gradations and shades of her pleasure. He can tell, by the widening and narrowing of her exotic eyes, her proximity to climax. Whenever she grows close, the look in her eye grows inward. She slows down when this happens. She is waiting. She wants what he wants. To climax together. He can, in fact, practically read her thoughts. It's like her whole essence, visual, mental, spiritual, has become imprinted on his mind in the process of painting her. He has entered some ultra sensitive state, a sort of aesthetic threesome between himself, Luna, and his canvas. He knows she is about to speak five seconds before she does.

"But you will have all week to kiss me everywhere," she continues. "Tonight, I want you inside me. My clothes will lie on the floor. My skirt. My bra. My underwear. I will be revealed, stripped of modesty by your lust. I will crawl onto the bed and lie down and spread my legs, opening myself to you. Crawl on top of me and kiss your way up my body until you kiss my lips. Then you will enter me." She pauses and again focuses on her masturbation. Winston slows his own stroking down, intent on painting her face. Several minutes later, she continues, "You will not be gentle. I am wet now. I will be wetter then. Push your full length into me. Thrust into me powerfully, Winston. I want to feel you deep inside me. I want you to pierce my core with your hardness. Drive me into the bed. Make me cry your name. Unleash my orgasm, unleash—"

"Done!" Winston puts his brush down. "To the bedroom."

"What?" asks Luna. "Don't I get to see it?"

"Okay fine," he says and steps back.

Luna uncurls from the chair and quickly steps over to look at his painting. She looks back at Winston then at the painting. "It's beautiful," she says. "Like..."

"It's you. No more, no less. That's all it needs to be."

Luna's smile is radiant. "You're such an ass kisser."

"You wish," says Winston. "Now... bedroom?"

"Uh huh. Gimme a headstart while you clean your brushes," she says as she walks toward the stairwell and begins descending them.

Winston cleans his brushes at warp speed. He's done in about 3 seconds then rushes after her.

"Hey!" cries Luna from just below. "You haven't given me a headstart!"

"Too bad!" he says. "I'm coming!"

Winston's only about three steps behind Luna when she makes it to the bedroom. She dashes inside and leaps onto the bed. Winston stops.

"Winston!" says Luna, scrambling around to face him. "You didn't let me get dressed."

"Oh well," he says walking toward her, eyes intent.

She raises an eyebrow. "Yeah oh well." She leans back against the pillows and spreads her legs. After painting her for several hours, he is intimately familiar with her womanhood, its shape and color. Yet approaching her now, as she reclines on the massive bed, as the late afternoon sun casts its orange light through the bedroom's many windows, her womanhood again becomes exotic and feminine, mysterious.

He makes it to the bed and climbs between her legs. He kisses her once on the lips. "You're beautiful," he says, "and I love you."

"You're beautiful and I love you too," says Luna back.

She grabs hold of his cock and guides it to her slick entrance. He presses forward, opening her up, watching her face as she watches his. Every inch forward is accompanied by shivers of pleasure moving up his spine. It takes approximately nine million years, an infinitude of pleasure, to push all the way inside her. Luna breaks their stare to look down at where they joined, groin to groin, and Winston follows her eyes. There is not a single inch of his cock visible. He is completely subsumed in her.

The sight sends such a huge shock of pleasure through him that Winston freezes, half-expecting to immediately orgasm. He doesn't. The pleasure is like an orgasm, but isn't one. There's some sort of extra-physical lock on his climax. He can't, he realizes. Not until Luna does. But the pleasure, oh man, the pleasure doesn't stop.

"This feels..." starts Winston.

"...so good," finishes Luna.

He pulls out and thrusts back inside her, eliciting the first sounds of pleasure from her, a deep groan like an old house creaking as it shifts in a storm. It wouldn't even be sexy, except for its depth and rawness. He wants to capture it with his lips, to inhale her pleasure, so he leans over and presses his lips against hers. He pulls out and thrusts back in. She groans and he kisses her mid-groan, stealing it away.

It only adds to his pleasure, like raindrops rippling against an already full lake.

She wraps herself around him, arms around his neck, legs around his waist, pulling him into her as if she hopes to melt their bodies into one. Every time he pulls back, he has to fight to withdraw his length from within her depths. He watches her face as he does so, notes the combination of disappointment and hope when he manages to extract most of himself out of her. And then the flash of pleased satisfaction, as bright and hot as the crackling bulb of a camera, when he buries himself into her womanhood once more. He doesn't dare blink. He doesn't dare miss anything.

Her arms and legs are strong, and it's hard work to keep fighting against her. "Let up," Winston eventually says. "Let me fuck you."

She nods and the pressure lowers a tad.

He does what she wanted him to do then, pressing himself into her, driving her into the bed, trying to get as deep as possible, trying to pierce her core. Their groins slap together with each inward thrust.

Her moans -- a combination of "Winston" and "fuck" and "yes" and "oh" and "please" -- sound continuously now but still her orgasm does not come cheaply. The pleasure for Winston only grows. Where once it was a lake, it is now an ocean. Luna's moans and the sounds of their fucking, her eyes staring into his, the warmth and wetness inside her, it's like some giant hurricane hovering over this ocean, stirring it up into a boiling, frothing maelstrom. It's like he's become one giant lightning rod for the pleasure of the universe. Every thrust inside her feels new and different, her tightness stimulating him in new ways. He penetrates Luna over and over, pulling all the way out before thrusting his full length back into her, sharing with her the pleasure that seems to be exploding in every nerve cell in his body.

Luna's moans grow increasingly incoherent, not English anymore, but some combination of English and Japanese and cavewoman, mere letters and sounds, like some universal language of pleasure. Winston begins to feel transcended, begins to sense that greater connection between all things. Aesthetic and sexual pleasure combine. He feels as van Gogh must have felt when painting starry night or as Newton felt when he formulated the first laws of gravitation. The entire sensory summation of this universe of pleasure is combined in this fuck, in the lewd squelching of Luna's pussy as he pounds her over and over, in the bounce of her tits, in the pleasureable 'O' of her mouth. He stares into her eyes and she into his and each knows what the other knows, which is the same infinite pleasure.

It's time. Winston thrusts into her, pushing desperately, as deep as he can and holds it there. Electric pleasure radiates upwards along his nerves, but still he does not come, waiting. Luna's eyes scan back and forth, reading his expression. Her lips are curved upward in a slight smile.

"Luna," Winston says, desperately.

"One more," she says.

Winston pulls himself out and thrusts forward once more. Luna climaxes as soon as he does. He can feel it against his cock. The lock on his climax breaks, but he holds on for a few moments more, pushing himself inside, seeking the core of her pleasure, wanting to be as deep inside as he can. When he's completely inside her, he lets go and his pleasure ignites in a massive orgasm.

Winston returns to his senses a few minutes later, lying next to Luna. They turn their heads to look at one another. Then simultaneously they burst out laughing.

They can't seem to stop and after a couple minutes, when he becomes genuinely afraid he might suffocate, Winston turns away and manages to regain control of himself. When he finally turns back, Luna has also managed to stop laughing.

"Ummmmmmm," says Luna. "What?"

Winston shakes his head. "Did you—?"

"Yeah... it was like I suddenly understood how the universe was all connected. How the equations of the curvature of space were identical to the rules of art. It was almost like our pleasure was connected to some giant mammoth spirit, to all the other lovers out in the world and even beyond our world, to the pleasure of Hydrogen coupling in the heart of a star to form Helium." She shakes her head. "Is that what you felt?"

"Pretty much."

"Wow," says Luna. "Man. Wow."

"Yeah."

She reaches down between her legs, where Winston's semen has leaked out of her and onto the sheets. There is a huge wet spot there. "Jeez Winston," she says.

He blushes, embarrassed. "Your fault. Your second law of coitus-Mechanics."

"Coitus-dynamics," she corrects. "And it worked didn't it? Holy crap it worked..." She perks up. "Anyway. Let's go put the sheets in the washer before your man-milk soaks through. No need for us to be rude guests." She climbs out of bed, naked, and begins to pull the sheets off the king-sized bed. Winston watches her bending over, her large breasts swinging as she does. The muscles in her thighs and shoulders shift attractively. It says something about his sexual depletion that the sight doesn't make him hard.

"Stop looking and start helping," says Luna. "Or I'll put my clothes back on."

Winston scrambles to the corner and helps pop the sheets off.

#

After they get the washer going, they both retrieve their luggage and hang up their clothes. Or Luna does, anyway. Winston just kinda throws his into the closet. When they finish by putting their toothbrushes into an empty jar, Luna's stomach growls, and she announces she needs sustenance.

The pantry and fridge are fully stocked, and Winston grabs a couple of steaks and takes them out to a large outdoor grilling area around a pool covered with a big blue tarp. Luna makes them a salad and prepares a couple potatoes which they also throw on the grill. As they're cooking, they talk about a little bit of everything, particularly the future.

Winston talks about running an art studio. In New York City, maybe. Or somewhere in California. Or Paris. An art studio in Paris would be awesome. When Luna objects that he doesn't know French, he shrugs. He'll make do. Or maybe he can do some graphic design. He's taking the Intro class next semester. Maybe he'll like it. But not for a corporation. The whole branding culture is mad lame. But maybe as a consultant. That could work. Above all, he says, he wants to travel, to spend time in other places, not just settling down in one location. He finds the life of van Gogh and other painters romantic and wants to spend some time out in the middle of nowhere. Two weeks at some random village, painting whatever he sees. Maybe even in Japan.

Luna, on the other hand, has her future plotted and planned down to the day, just about. She knows the research projects she's going to get involved with in Cornell. She knows the professor she needs to butter up so he can give her a recommendation so she can go to the University of Tokyo, where she will study robotics and AI. She'll work in Mitsubishi's robotics division, but only for a few years before she returns to research. She wants to build an AI. That's where her heart truly lies. Creating artificial life. She makes no mention of kids, or of family. And she doesn't care where she lives. For her, it's all about the work, not about the place.