Cass takes it, strokes it during her examination. “I think my girlfriend and I would prefer a strap-on…just for me.”
I gulp and swallow my own saliva. No one notices how tense my body has just become, how my knees are beginning to tremble. I shift from leg to leg, every sensitive area twitching. I fight the impulse to orgasm right here in the store.
“The leather harness is more secure. You can really move around with it. The velvet is soft but you can’t be too rough with it—”
“Oh, so when I want to make her scream I’ll wear the leather. But if I just want to make her pant a little bit, I’ll wear the velvet.”
Cass and the saleswoman laugh. I take a shallow breath, my arms stiff at my sides. I—the one who wants to fuck like a madwoman and scream at the top of her lungs how much she loves women, how much she loves tits and pussy and smooth, fleshy asses, the one who thinks so frequently about having a cock of her own to enjoy, of being in a woman, of sliding up into the welcoming wetness, with her tightness around my rock-hard cock—I stand like a soldier, jaw squared shut, ass muscles tightly clenched. I imagine Cass on top of me in her bedroom as I lie under her on my stomach. I say stiffly, “Get that one, Cass.”
I meander toward the other end of the case, then point. “What’s this?”
The saleswoman reaches under the glass before me and hands me a fleshy, fat beige dildo. “Rub your thumb on it.”
It feels like a slightly overripe peach.
Cass laces the fingers of her right hand through mine. The saleswoman pats Cass’s left hand and smiles. She walks away.
Cass takes the dildo and beats it lightly against my thigh. “If I were to stand you up and take the head of this and press it against your clitoris, and say…dip into you just a little and pull out…and then rub your clitoris with this covered in your come just under the head…and let you feel your own wetness… How would that feel to you?”
Before I answer, she strokes my lips with her fingertip and kisses me, wetting my mouth fully with her tongue before thoroughly filling me. She withdraws from between my lips. “Ma’am?” she calls to the saleswoman. “We’ll take the leather harness and this velvet cock.”
*
Cass and I stroll down the street, her arm wrapped tightly around my waist, my arm wrapped around hers. I am filled with a searing desire that has threatened my quiet life with destruction. Those fantasies have brought me here. Unknowingly, every beautiful woman I’ve ever met has brought me to this moment. I am a lesbian now. And I’m ready for a new life…with wild and lovely possibilities.
Appalachian Canticle
Saggio Amante
Sex is easy. Love is hard. At least that’s what I used to think. So, when love walked out the door after four years, three months, and two days, I made a decision: sex. Lots of it, with no attachment. What I hadn’t counted on was how empty, and ultimately unsexy, a life lived without attachment could be. That’s when I chose celibacy. I packed up my easel, brushes, and paints, and headed for the farthest hills, which in this case meant an A-frame deep in the woods in the Appalachian Mountains.
I established a ritual. Each morning I rose a little before dawn, made a cup of tea, and took it out to the porch. I sat and watched the sun rise in postcard-perfect splendor over the mountaintops and listened to nature’s wakeup calls. The sounds and smells of the forest in the early morning were like nothing I had ever known. Here, coves of hardwood mingled with tall fir, and blankets of rhododendron crept into small trails that wound in and out among the trees.
Down below, I could see the river meandering through ancient rocks, flowing over them in small waterfalls into a pristine pond large enough for swimming. This property had been handed down through our family for generations. The land was posted and people seldom came here except by invitation, which I sometimes grudgingly gave. But mostly, when I came here, I stayed alone and basked in the serenity and sense of renewal that this place visited on my soul. It had always been a place of refuge for me. I’d been here for three months now, and I was beginning to feel almost human again.
I had no radio, no television, got no newspaper, and seldom even plugged in my phone. My laptop sat in the corner gathering dust. I did check my e-mail now and then, and I stayed in touch with my agent and a few close friends on a semiregular basis. As for family, I have none, which can be both a blessing and a curse. Now, it was a blessing because there was no one to infringe on my privacy or make demands on my time.
Well, there was no one until I saw Rêve. The day I first saw her was extraordinarily clear and bright. The normal morning fog didn’t appear, and the sun seemed to have warmed the earth much earlier than usual. I decided to bring my easel out onto the porch and try to capture the beauty of the mountain morning.
I had just begun to put a splash of color on the canvas when I heard the snort of a horse carried on the forest air. I watched with surprise as a large, beautiful chestnut mare walked slowly out of the woods and stopped at the edge of the mountain pool. Even more beautiful was the woman who slung her leg over and slid with practiced ease down the side of the horse and onto the grass. She was tall and slender, and her long, auburn hair was a perfect match to that of her mount. She wore black riding boots and black breeches that fit her like a second skin. She put her arms around the horse’s neck and pulled the reins over its head, letting them dangle on the ground, and then she turned to grab a saddlebag as the horse stood there grazing.
Under normal circumstances I would have yelled down to the offending person that she was trespassing and to please leave, but this time I had no voice. I could only stare in breathless awe as she pulled a blanket from the saddlebag and stretched it carefully out on the ground. Next, I watched her disrobe slowly, piece by piece, dropping each article on the blanket as she welcomed the touch of the morning air against her skin. When she was through, she stretched her body languorously, arched her back, and dove into the cold water.
She stayed for almost two hours, floating in the water and then lying on the blanket to dry. I watched as she lay there without moving, one arm behind her head, a knee bent. I sketched furiously, afraid she would leave before I could get the scene down on paper. She seemed as oblivious to me as I was aware of her.
I had almost completed the drawing when I saw her move her hand out from behind her head and reach down to touch her breast. She took her nipple between the fingers of one hand as the other hand moved between her legs and she began to stroke herself. I felt each stroke between my own legs, felt the heat rising in my loins. I was swollen, and wet, and hot.
I tried to continue sketching, but the sight below me was too mesmerizing. Without conscious thought, I laid the pencil and pad onto the table and stared with glazed eyes as she pleasured herself. My breath came in short gasps as she tightened her legs around her hand, and I could feel myself responding as though she were touching me. I continued watching until she rose and slowly dressed. She placed her foot in one stirrup and smoothly pulled herself up into the saddle. She rode away at a canter without looking back, and as I saw her figure fading in the distance, I prayed that I would see her again.
The next morning I bounced out of bed and hurried to the porch in my robe, hoping to get another glimpse of the beautiful woman with the chestnut hair. She didn’t disappoint me, but this time instead of undressing and diving directly into the water, she disrobed and began a series of yoga movements and stretches, beautiful rhythmic poses that I couldn’t get down on paper quickly enough. It was as though she were putting herself on display for me.
I watched as she stood facing the sun, her hands palm to palm at her heart. Slowly, she arched her back, lifting her breasts to the sky. Her movements were lovely and fluid. I wanted to go to her, run my hands along the beautiful lines of her body as she moved and stretched in the morning sun. Instead, I remained the voyeur, touching myself and imagining it was her hands I felt.
I became addicted to the mornings. My creativity was soaring along with my libido. On the fifth
day, I sat on the railing of the porch, sketching her, and when I looked up, I saw her looking back at me. She was standing on the blanket, her clothes at her feet. My hand froze over the sketchpad and then I raised it, waving tentatively at her. I held my breath, not knowing what her reaction would be, and exhaled with relief when she waved back at me. She wasn’t embarrassed by her nudity or my presence, and I wondered if she had known all along that I was watching her.
Now we had a new ritual. She would do as she always did; I would watch her and sketch. When she left, she would look up at me and wave. I began to translate my sketches to oils but couldn’t get them exactly right. They were good, but there was just something missing. Tomorrow, I thought, tomorrow I will ask her to pose for me.
During the day, when she was gone, her image filled my mind; during the night, her image filled my dreams. More than once, I woke up midorgasm, my hand between my legs, caressing my wetness. Celibacy was not as easy as it sounded, though I told myself masturbation didn’t count as a broken vow.
I woke up on Tuesday with a sense of anticipation and sat on the porch waiting for her…and waiting…and waiting. Over an hour passed since her normal arrival time, and she still did not appear. You idiot, I thought, why did you wait so long to talk to her?
I could hardly contain my sense of disappointment when suddenly, there she was. She was riding an Appaloosa instead of the chestnut. She looked up at me and waved, hello this time instead of good-bye. Although she was a good distance away, I thought I could detect a faint smile on her face.
“Come visit after your swim,” I shouted down to her.
She started to dismount and then sat back down in the saddle, guiding her horse into a slow trot up the hill toward my house. “Perhaps I’ll skip the swim today,” she said as she brought the horse to a halt at the bottom of the steps. “I think it’s time we met, don’t you?”
I was surprised to hear a touch of a French accent. Her voice was deep and breathy, just as I had imagined it, and her eyes twinkled with amusement as she looked at me. She had no guile at all, no sense of shyness. She was more comfortable in her own skin than anyone I had ever met. Her look was direct and confident, and her eyes were greener than I could ever have imagined them. She slung her leg over the saddle and dropped to the ground, then tied the reins to the railing.
I held my breath as she strode up the stairs on legs that seemed to go on forever. At five feet nine inches, I’ve always considered myself tall, but she was two or three inches taller than I. My hair is blond and cropped rather short; her chestnut hair fanned out in flames around her face. From a distance, she looked beautiful; up close and personal, she was breathtaking. There was something familiar about her, but I couldn’t put my finger on just what it was.
She stuck out her hand. “Rêve Lémarique.”
Rêve, her name is Rêve. My mind scrambled to translate the name. Rêve—dream—it finally came to me. What a perfect name; what an absolutely perfect name.
At the sound of her voice, the hairs stood up on the back of my neck and the blood moved quickly south. I stood staring at her, ignoring her outstretched hand.
“Are you all right?” she finally asked, jarring me out of my reverie.
“What? I…oh,” I stuttered. “I’m sorry. Logan Blair.” I grasped her hand and felt the sensation of our touch in every nerve in my body.
Her fingers were long and tapered, like I would imagine a pianist’s hands to be. And then I remembered. Of course! This vision, this woman who had occupied my thoughts twenty-four hours a day for the past two weeks was the Rêve Lémarique, the composer.
“I enjoy your works very much,” I managed to say, hoping I didn’t sound as foolish as I felt.
“And I have enjoyed yours as well, Ms. Blair. Perhaps you will show me your latest work, no?”
I reached for my sketchpad and handed it to her. I sat in an Adirondack chair while she sat on the top stair with her back against the baluster. She turned the pages slowly, contemplating each sketch intensely. Finally, she looked up at me. “These are wonderful.”
“Thank you.” I was filled with gratitude that she liked them.
“But they are not finished.” She said it as a statement, not a question. The artist in her had recognized that an element was missing.
“No.”
“Will you translate them to oil?”
“Yes. When I can get them right.”
“I see.” She looked at me, one artist to another. “What can I do to help?”
I inhaled deeply. “Will you pose for me?” The question did not even hang in the air.
“Of course,” she answered immediately. “These must be finished.”
Relief washed over me. “Would you like some tea?” I asked, hoping that I didn’t sound too giddy.
“That would be lovely.”
I stood, and she followed me inside. While I brewed the tea, she looked at the paintings I had stacked around the room. She didn’t say anything; she just walked from painting to painting, lifting one up now and then to view it in a better light.
I watched her move about the room. Her body was long and firm; her breasts pushed against the silk of the blouse that she was wearing, and I could see the hardness of her nipples. I wanted to paint her; I wanted to touch her. Get a grip, Blair, I thought. Don’t scare her away. Even as those thoughts crossed my mind, I knew that there probably was not much that would scare this glorious woman.
“Your work is very good.” Her voice was warm and sincere.
“Here,” I said, handing her the cup of tea.
She took it and sipped slowly, her thumb and forefinger holding the ear of the cup, her pinky slightly crooked. Each time her lips touched the cup, I fantasized her mouth on mine.
“So, when shall we start?” she asked.
“What?” I was so lost in fantasy that I didn’t hear her words.
“When shall we start? When would you like me to pose for you?”
“Would today be too soon?”
“Not at all. Today would be fine. What would you like me to do?”
“I, uh…would you mind…” Somehow, I just couldn’t get the words out. I wanted her naked, but I didn’t know how to tell her. I had been sketching her naked for days, yet I couldn’t find the words to ask her to get naked here, in my house.
“You need me to be nude, yes?”
I looked at her, stunned. Nudity seemed as natural to her as breathing, and naked models were nothing new to me. But the thought of her this close, modeling nude for me was almost more than I could take.
“Yes, I need you to be nude.” This time I matched her directness.
“Of course.” Her smile lit the room.
“I’ll set up in here. You can change in the bathroom if you’d like. There’s a terry robe behind the door.” I hoped I sounded more professional than I felt.
She walked away from me toward the bathroom, and I turned my back to busy myself with setting the scene in front of the large glass window that ran from floor to eave at the front of the house. I pulled an air mattress from the closet and inflated it. It was a handy thing to have on hand for company, and I was glad to have it now. I placed the mattress in front of the window and covered it with an emerald green satin sheet, knowing that it would bring out the color in her eyes. Then I put large pillows here and there atop the mattress and grabbed a matching emerald sheet to drape her form.
She padded from the bathroom in bare feet, wearing the white terry robe that was just a little too large for me but fit her perfectly. She looked at me questioningly. “What do you want me to do?”
Let me touch you, I thought, swallowing my words. I held the sheet out to her. “Lie down there.” I pointed to the mattress. “On your side, and drape this sheet over you loosely.” I turned away from her and held my hand out so that she could pass me the robe.
In a moment, she asked, “Is this what you want?”
I stepped back and turned. She was on her side, the green s
heet draped across her hip, barely covering her breasts. She had propped her head in her hand and her long auburn hair hung down to the side. Her eyes were lidded and her lips slightly parted. She had captured a perfect look, midway between desire and satisfaction, and I knew I had to get it down. I grabbed a brush and began to paint. The background had been painted days ago. The waterfalls, the pool, and the horse were fine, but it was the woman on the blanket in the picture that wasn’t quite right. Now, looking at her so close to me, I was possessed. The image flew effortlessly from my fingers through the brush and onto the canvas. Never had a painting come so easily.
And so, a new ritual began. Each morning at precisely 10:00 a.m., Rêve would arrive at my door. We would have tea and talk a while; then she would disrobe, and I would get to work. I began to get more and more familiar with her body. I became used to touching her, rearranging her pose. She acted like the consummate professional model, I like the consummate professional artist. I couldn’t let her know the passions that were seething underneath the surface. I couldn’t tell her how I touched myself in the night and whispered her name as I came against my own hand. I treasured the time we spent together and was in awe of the work that was happening. I vowed I would do nothing to ruin either.
I knew the series of paintings was coming to an end. There was just one more left to do, an idea that had been percolating in my mind. I wasn’t sure how to approach Rêve about the concept, but my inner self told me to be honest and direct. All she could say was no, which would be a disappointment but certainly not a catastrophe.
I was nervous as I opened the door that last day. Rêve seemed amused at my nervousness, but she never said a word.
“We’re almost through,” I said, handing her a cup of tea.
“Yes. Perhaps you will let me see them now?”
“I’d like to do the last painting, and then you can see them all.”
She put her teacup down and started for the bathroom to change.
Stolen Moments Page 15
