And that fits me just right, if you ask me. I’ve been missing out for the last two decades; I have absolutely no intention of going without sex even one single day for the rest of my life.
What can I say? Now that I know how good sex is, there’s no way I can resist it. Plus, Palmer… he just makes me like this. I mean, I’m sure that he has this effect on pretty much every woman he comes across, but now he’s mine.
Just mine.
As I grind against his face, he moves his hands back to my navel and allows two fingers to fall over my clit. Pressing down on it, he starts rubbing it fast, his fingers tracing circles around it.
My body tenses up and relaxes, the orgasm washing over me with an ebb and flow. The tides of pleasure are lulling my mind, the high waves of this ocean of ecstasy lapping at my body and spending the few reserves of energy I still have inside of me. But I still want more…
And I want one last showdown before making him fuck me for the last time.
I lift my legs and turn around and, with my ass turned to him, I go on all fours on top of his body. I reach for his cock and, grabbing it, I point it straight at my mouth and lower my head.
At the same time, he hooks his fingers on my hips and forces me to ease my pussy down on his face. The moment I feel my wetness against his lips, I start to sway my body at a frantic pace, bobbing my head at the same rhythm.
We go like this for God knows how long, the whole concept of time becoming completely meaningless. With his mouth on my pussy, and my mouth on his cock, I can’t really focus on anything else. And, as he licks my clit with renewed ferocity, I feel my brain on the verge of shutting down.
Still, I manage to remain unconscious, only to have another orgasm explode inside of me, the shock waves of it rushing through my muscles and forcing me to take his cock out of my mouth.
Coming up for air, I scream as loud as I can.
Breathing so hard that I’m dizzy, I climb out of Palmer’s body and, without waiting to see what he wants me to do, I go on all fours on the couch. He gets up in a heartbeat, kneeling behind me, and smacks my ass harshly with the palm of his hand. He does it again and again, and only stops when the pain becomes so deliciously unbearable that I’m moaning in ecstasy and thrusting back at him.
I have my head bowed down, my hair cascading down my shoulders. And so while I can’t see him, I can imagine the wicked grin he has on his face as he presses his tip against my pussy.
With one simple thrust, he’s in me again, stretching me as wide as only he can do. I moan and scream, the sound of it blending into something almost inhuman. My voice caresses my eardrums and then claws at it, all while a firestorm rages inside of me, threatening to consume everything that I am.
Maybe I’ll die of pleasure now; maybe my final orgasm will be so intense that I’ll stop breathing, my heart will stop beating, and then my brain will shut down. My soul will float away into the afterlife and, if all this happens, I’m sure that I’ll be going with a grin on my face. I mean, to go out with Palmer’s thick cock ravaging me wouldn’t be such a bad way to go, would it?
No… no, it wouldn’t.
When I finally come, there’s no screaming or moaning; I throw my head back against the couch and just hiss like a rattlesnake, my throat too ruined to carry on. I almost think that Palmer’s done, but when he pulls his cock out of my pussy he keeps its tip pressed against my inner lips.
Oh, sweet God… I think I’m really going to OD on pleasure.
“Do it… Do it…” I beg him, and he starts to push his cock back inside me. It moves in at a slow pace, but it goes steadily all the same. Even though my throat has given up on me, I force myself to scream one more time, the pressure of Palmer’s cock on my insides too good for me to remain in silence.
“Hard… I want it hard,” I continue, and he doesn’t need any further instructions; he starts to thrust as if his life depended on it, ravaging me like he never did before.
He buries his cock so deep inside me that I have to scream again. At the same time, he slides one hand around my waist and presses down on my clit with two fingers, immediately stroking it at a furious and almost too violent pace.
It doesn’t take long for me to come undone — one more thrust of his cock and my mind snaps, my soul shattering into a thousand little pieces with it.
I thrust back, forcing him to push his cock deep into me, and then I hold that position as a violent convulsion takes over me. My muscles are burning, my skin is boiling, and both my heart and lungs are working overtime to keep me alive. It’s a wonder that I still haven’t passed out… I feel exhausted enough to fall unconscious, but I refuse to do it as pleasure still courses through my veins.
Even though Palmer and I have a lifetime ahead of us, I don’t want to waste one single second of what I’m experiencing now.
“I want you to come,” I find myself telling him, my brain seemingly having no say about what words leave my lips. As if my voice has a magical effect on his body, his cock starts to spasm and, half a heartbeat after that, it throbs violently and I feel the warmness of his seed filling me.
Instead of gushing all his load inside of me, Palmer pulls his cock out and, still on his knees, starts to stroke himself. I feel his thick ropes of cum cover my lower back, beads of it sprinkling my skin.
By the time he’s done, all I can do is roll around so that I’m lying on my back. I take a few deep breaths, and then I sit up. He’s sitting up as well, his head thrown back against the couch as he tries to catch his breath.
Slowly, I run my fingertips down his forearm and take them to his hand. I tangle my fingers on his, and then lean into him and press my lips on his face.
“I love you,” I whisper again, somehow knowing that I’ll never grow tired of these three words. As silly as it might sound, I feel like I’m the luckiest woman on Earth.
“I love you too,” he whispers back at me, his fingers tightening around my own. My body grows cold suddenly, and perhaps feeling it, Palmer reaches for his discarded shirt on the floor and makes me wear it. He dresses me as one would do to a small child, and I keep my eyes on his as he does it, just enjoying the delicate way he’s handling me.
For a man capable of such dominance and raw power, I can’t help but be surprised at how kind he truly is. I can’t believe I used to see him as someone cold and heartless, a total asshole even.
To say that I was wrong doesn’t even begin to describe it.
Standing up, his large shirt covering most of my body, I make my way toward the large windows of his living room.
“Where are you going?” He asks me, picking his boxer briefs from the floor and getting inside them. He goes up to his feet and then joins me by the window, his arm laced around my waist.
“The city… it looks so beautiful from up here,” I whisper, not even knowing why I’m saying. At ground level, from the windows of the Old Tale, the city is nothing but a blend of smog and dirty concrete. But from up here, there’s a certain magic about it all.
The streets have an orange glow at night, and the tall spires of office and apartment buildings rise up in the air like Christmas trees. And though I know that no one really sleeps in a big city, right now it feels so… calm.
It’s almost relaxing.
“It does,” Palmer agrees with me, and then he’s the one brushing his lips against my cheek. “But only because you’re here with me.”
I look into his eyes, but this time I don’t say anything.
Sometimes, words just get in the way.
Smiling, I go up on tiptoes and kiss him, closing my eyes as I let the memory of this moment be forever imprinted on my mind.
Love—sometimes it’s even better than what we imagine it to be.
Painting Her
I'm going to splatter all over you.
Your body is magnificent.
I knew from the moment I saw you that I needed it.
Those curves are to die for.
That face is angelic.<
br />
You define the essence of beauty.
But you're hurt.
You find it hard to trust.
You don't want to be touched.
You shy away from being tasted.
At first I don't know why.
I mean, have you looked at me?
I've got the body of a god.
I couldn't have painted a better physique.
And I'm the most famous painter in the world.
Untold wealth.
And a notorious reputation.
I paint my women. Then I sleep with them.
And then we're done.
But you're wary.
So rather than try and seduce you, I do something else.
Something that will get you to let me paint you.
It's dangerous.
If it works, then the rewards are endless.
But if it doesn't then it will have destroyed us both.
I'm going to paint you into my life.
I'm going to fall in love with you.
Blake
Call it a universal truth. All men want sex, myself included. But why then—with this hot, naked woman in front of me—am I feeling…uninspired? I'm in my studio, mixing paint and brushing it across a canvas in fast strokes. I've even found the perfect pink to brush on a nipple. It's night, and the lights of New York City can be seen just outside of my window.
The model—Mia, or Marissa, or Melanie—has one hand shoved down my pants, and she's petting me and parting her legs, and all I can think about is how pathetic this art is. It feels like something I've done a million times already.
"Blake, baby, you feel so good," she purrs. "Give me that one-eyed python."
"Don't do that."
"Do what, baby?"
"Give it a pet name," I say.
"But it's so impressive," she purrs again, "that it deserves its own name."
She slides her hand down further, and I don't stop her, but I ignore her advances.
Why? Because this painting can't wait.
When I start a new piece, I'm compelled to finish it, and like a fish on a hook, I have no choice but to be pulled in and see it through.
Art is as much a part of me as breathing, or eating. It's my life.
I place the long, wooden handle of the paintbrush between my teeth and sit back.
Something is missing…
It's flat.
I decide to bring in white paint, mixing it with my current palette and hoping to add light to the piece. Maybe give it some depth and dimension.
I use a palette knife to scrape on rolls of paint for texture. I use a thin brush for details, and work with the concentration of a greyhound eyeing a rabbit—my focus is singular.
I drag the brush against the canvas again, adding color here and there, then finally finishing the last of the model's curves—her legs and the curve of her inner thighs. I just need to get those right. There's something about legs that can be so expressive.
"It's perfect," she coos, looking up at the canvas.
The truth is, it's far from perfect. Sure, it's good, but it looks like every other piece I've painted.
I want something new. I want something more.
No, it's more than a want; it's a need—to elevate my art.
The media will tell you that what all men only care about are a woman's physical attributes—her scent, what she's wearing, whether or not her push-up bra is bringing her tits front and center. Don't get me wrong—I'm more than happy to sleep with a hot woman with any of those attributes, but what the media doesn't tell you is that guys also like a woman who is confident and independent.
And this model here in front of me? She isn't showing me any of that.
I walk away from the canvas, and the model stops me.
"Should I stay?" she says, with one hand on my arm.
"For what?"
I can tell that my answer disappoints her.
"I could stay and pose some more," she says, "so you can finish the painting."
"It's done. I don't want to look at it any more."
"In that case," she says, "we can have a little fun now."
Her mouth curves into a suggestive smile.
She walks over to me, swaying her hips, and presses her lips to my neck, giving it a playful nibble.
Then she brings her mouth to my ear and whispers, "Tell me, baby…what's your biggest fantasy? Do you like it rough or romantic? Did you dream about me last night?"
Those words send a thrill down my body but I resist the urge to react, and when I don't respond, she continues.
"Where should I put my mouth next?" Her eyes wait for an answer, but when I don't give one, she returns to my body, both of her hands on my chest.
"Here? Or maybe here?" she asks, moving her mouth down my bare chest in slow circles.
I still don't respond.
"No? Well, how about here?" she says, moving her warm lips down until they are resting at the top of my waistband. My cock is now standing stiffer than any of the tools in this studio, and she smiles.
"I think I'm getting warmer," she purrs. She starts to unbutton my pants. "Now let me kiss that big, hard—"
But I stop her. I need a woman that inspires me in this studio. Not another nameless model eager to get into my pants.
Been there, done that…and more than just a few times.
"Maybe some other time," I say.
Her surprise turns to shock, and I watch as she gathers her things, still in disbelief. As soon as she leaves and I hear the door to the studio shut behind her, I walk back over to the painting.
It's not a bad portrait, but it's not great either.
There's simply no emotion. It doesn't evoke anything in me.
The longer I stare at the painting, the angrier I become. I can feel a new sense of irritation wash over me.
I can't hold back. I ball my hand into a fist and punch it through the canvas. The material rips open, and where the model should be, there's now a gaping hole.
There. Now no one will be able to look at this.
Then I grab a can of black paint, along with a wide brush. I dip it into the paint and in big angry strokes I destroy the remaining canvas, painting obscene Xs over my work.
I'm destroying the canvas so hard and fast that I feel a bead of sweat zigzag down my face.
I look down at the destroyed art and kick it away in disgust.
What the fuck am I doing with my life?
I need to be creating great art, not mastering mediocrity.
I need a new muse.
Katherine
Writer’s block.
I’ve heard about it. But for all the years I struggled to become a published writer and even after my first book sold, I was never at a loss for words. Until now. They say this happens after you’ve had a bestseller.
Well, I’m not only blocked, I’m paralyzed, motionless, incapable of putting one word next to another.
My agent called today. Just like every other day for the last two weeks. I’m behind with the first draft. I’ve sent every call to voice mail. I just can’t face her.
“Katherine, I know you’re listening to these. At least send me a text. Let me know you’re alive.” The messages are beginning to sound frantic. But I still can’t respond.
What would I tell her? That I feel like Jack Nicholson in The Shining? That I don’t have a first chapter, let alone a first draft.
No, it’s better for everyone concerned that I let it go to voice mail.
Maybe she’ll get the hint, and tell the publishers I’m dead, or at the very least I’m in a coma.
That’s the bad news.
The good news is, Dale is coming home tonight and I’m planning on holding on to all six feet, two inches of his deliciousness. His light-green eyes pull me in every time. And tonight will be no exception.
Besides, I have writer’s block. And I personally know of no better way to unstick the flows than to, well… sometimes a girl just needs a good r
elease…or two…or three.
My best friend Robin thinks I should leave him.
Robin and I have been bffs since forever. Well, actually since we were both kicked out of Mr. Stubbin's ninth grade science class for giggling uncontrollably while he explained the reproductive system of a frog. We just couldn’t image kissing a frog no matter what they say in fairy tales.
Anyway, from that day in detention until now, we’ve been besties, and pretty much agreed on everything.
Except when it comes to Dale.
She called the other day and when I told her he was out of town, she made some cryptic comment about him staying away longer. I didn’t respond so she took it as a sign to launch into one of her infamous diatribes.
“Look, girl. I’ve held my tongue for two years. But you’ve gone past my threshold of watching what is surely going to be a future train wreck. He’s not the one. He’s a player. He thinks the world is in love with him. And he’s never going to ask you to marry him.”
Robin was never one to mince words. But I couldn’t agree on this.
“Dale is the guy I want to spend my life with,” I said, sounding just a tad too whiney. “I want to be married to him. I want children, the seven-thousand-square-foot loft in SoHo. I want the whole thing.”
Robin just sighed. Loudly.
Yes, I know Dale could be arrogant. But his attributes outweighed his arrogance. As the owner of the hottest gallery in New York, a little haughtiness is sometimes necessary. It's gotten us on everyone’s opening night guest list and the best tables at all the must-be-seen-in restaurants.
Okay, so the sex isn’t completely mind-blowing. But after two years, you’re likely to hit a bit of a dry spell. Like my writing.
But tonight’s going to be different. It’s a surprise. Dinner and a show.
Oh, and I’m the show.
His plane lands at seven and he’ll be home by eight. Just enough time for me to get to his apartment, cook his favorite steak dinner, open a bottle of red, get the candles going and slip into that barely-there slip I got at La Perla. A little red-laced thingy that will reignite the spark. And hopefully spur my creative juices. A girl can hope, can’t she?
Caught On Tape Page 67
