Her ToyBear

by Bonnie Burrows

  Seized by a muscle-ripping orgasm, he had just enough presence of mind to aim himself upward at his stomach so as to shoot his thick white fountain of seed onto his abs instead of onto Jennifer’s bathroom floor. The heat of his climax slowly subsided, and Wesley relaxed against the door, feeling the warm, wet stickiness dribbling down the plates of his midsection and into his pubes. Some of it had also gotten onto his hand. He groaned softly, “Oh, man. Where the hell did that come from?”

  No sooner had he put the question to himself than he knew. What had caused that was sitting back in her studio. He had told her the truth when he’d said that no one had ever asked him to do that. Something about this being the first time that an artist had made this request, and something about Jennifer being that artist, had prompted this response.

  And now he was staying for dinner.

  Collecting his wits, Wesley found the spool and the roll of paper by the toilet. He unrolled and tore off enough to wipe his hand, his stomach, his bush, and his now flaccid but still formidable member. He winced a bit at the spasm of residual pleasure when he squeezed the last dollop of his seed from his sensitive, tender glans into the tissue. Finally, he opened the lid of the toilet, tossed the wad of tissue containing his wad into it, and flushed. He went to the sink and washed his hands, then leaned over the sink with his head bowed almost as if in prayer, breathing deeply in a post-orgasmic haze.

  Wesley looked up into his face in the mirror and gulped. There was a reason, he knew, for all this. A reason that had suddenly snuck up on him like a hunter in the forest and opened fire on him with both barrels, catching him unawares. He was aware now—very much aware. Or, in a moment of the greatest honesty he had ever faced since his breakup with Adela, he realized that he had been aware of something all along.

  Jennifer snapped back to attention at the sound of Wesley's voice calling to her from outside the studio. “Jennifer? Uh…Jennifer?”

  “Yes?” she called back.

  “Yeah, uh…listen. You mind if I stay in here and take a shower before dinner? I won’t make a mess, I promise.”

  She smiled a steamy smile at the thought of that superb young lad using her shower—and of being in it with him. The thought of offering to join him crossed her mind. But somehow she heard herself simply answer, “It’s no trouble; go right ahead.” Then, silently: You idiot! You were brave enough to ask him to touch himself. Why choke now?

  He called back, “Would you mind bringing me the robe?”

  Jennifer smiled more broadly. Yes—a second chance. “Not at all. Be right there.”

  And she fetched the robe from the futon and stalked, almost cougar-like, out of the studio.

  However, when she reached the bathroom threshold and found it ajar, Jennifer frustrated herself again by simply putting the robe in his outstretched hand in the bathroom door.

  “Thanks,” he said, taking the garment and pulling it in with him, shutting the door again.

  Jennifer, alone in the corridor, scowled at herself. Good, Jen. Way to miss an opportunity. You might as well just go and make dinner.

  “I’ll be downstairs in the kitchen,” she called through the closed door.

  “Okay!” he shouted back. And in another moment there was the sound of the shower running.

  Fighting back the image of that body stepping into her shower and wetting itself down with her hot water, Jennifer shook her head and withdrew to the kitchen.

  _______________

  While setting the table, Jennifer listened carefully for the muffled shower sound to stop. When it did, she quickly went to the bottom of the stair and called up: “Wesley? Wesley?”

  In a moment, she heard the bathroom door open and the picture of him wet, steamy, and naked seared itself into her brain. His voice came down: “Yeah?”

  “I’ve got dinner started; it won’t be very long. You can relax up there until I have it ready, if you want.”

  “Okay,” he called back. “I’ll just get myself dressed and hang out up here.”

  Jennifer felt something like at hot knife twist inside her chest—for want of something else hard and hot and not at all painful that she wanted someplace lower in her body. And another impulse seized her, one that this time she did not resist. “You could just put on the robe if you want.”

  There was a beat of silence. Heavy, leaden silence. Her entire face contorted into a wincing frown as she wondered whether she had gone too far with that. Jennifer felt her heart seem to stop, waiting for his answer. A moment later, she heard: “Okay, that sounds fine.” And the sound of the bathroom door closing followed.

  Her sense of relief felt as if her entire body were a knot suddenly untying itself. She smiled with pure delight and hammered a fist in the air like a spectator at a sporting event. It looked as if very soon she would become much more than a spectator on a field where she had not played in too long a time.

  Upstairs in the bathroom, Wesley was as naked as ever, his muscles glistening from the shower, the water beaded in his body hair. He stepped back to the mirror and looked himself over. She had actually suggested that he come to dinner wearing nothing but that robe. He felt a surge down below at the thought of sitting across a table from her, clad in nothing but that. He imagined Jennifer, slipping off her shoe under the table and lifting her foot up under the hem of the robe, between his thighs—which he would have conveniently open for her—and her toes just touching what awaited her there. The idea made him grow stiff again.

  He shook his head at his reflection. Oh, hell, this is so happening…

  After toweling himself off and slipping the robe back on, Wesley went back to the studio. It was the first time he had ever been there by himself. How strange that it seemed so empty, occupied now only by the model and not its artist-in-residence. He looked at the easel, standing unadorned with the usual sketch pad or watercolor pad. And beside it sat the table where she kept her art supplies and her stacks of pads filled with finished works. It occurred to him that Jennifer had never shown him any of her drawings of any subjects other than himself. He didn’t suppose she would mind if he had a look through her pads. She had mentioned to him that she had not worked with live models for a while, and he wondered who her other subjects were and where she had found them. He guessed that since she’d found him on Mucho Models, she had probably looked up some of the other models there and probably drawn them from their online shots.

  For a live model, she had chosen him personally, which gave him a little swell of pride and satisfaction to match the swelling of his loins whenever he posed for her. Wesley was now curious to see who his “competition” had been. Who had she passed over to select him?

  He stepped over to the table and picked up one of the sketch pads. Upon opening it, he saw that it was filled with drawings of him. This was only to be expected; naturally her newest and most recent work would be at the top of the stack. He would have to do a bit of digging to find her other subjects.

  Thumbing through the drawings and admiring the job that Jennifer had done with him, Wesley noticed that some of the sheets in the pad were loose and she had inserted them at the back. He wondered what those might be. Perhaps they were the drawings with which she’d been less than satisfied.

  He knew that artists were sometimes their own worst critics and were inclined to tear off and toss out the work they didn’t like. It struck him as odd, though, that Jennifer would simply stick what she considered the bad drawings at the back of the pad instead of discarding them. He pulled back the attached sheets to have a look at the loose ones…

  …and his eyes widened and blinked, and his lower jaw dropped at what he saw.

  Whoa! She’s got close-ups of my bits!

  He flipped his way through the secreted sketches and found they all covered the same region of his anatomy. She tore off the drawings of my bits and my ass!

  Wesley felt oddly like a voyeur, examining Jennifer’s studies of his impressively proportioned staff, the full basket of manhood b
ehind them, the dark thicket of hair that wreathed them, and the hair-dusted, hilly prominences of his buttocks. She had concentrated specifically on them and had drawn them with every bit of the tender, loving attention to detail with which she had rendered his full body.

  With every successive drawing of his nether parts, Wesley was more impressed—and more aroused. He was again starting to feel the same stirring and hardening that he’d felt while playing with himself as Jennifer drew him, and he was afraid that if he continued this way, he would need a second shower.

  That, however, didn’t stop him cracking open another sketch pad and having a look at the drawings stuck at the back of it. And another, and another. He was almost relieved at the thought of how Jennifer would react to the knowledge that he was going through the drawings she had kept from him because they held pictures of his erection somewhat at bay.

  At length, he heard her calling from the bottom of the stairs: “Wesley! Dinner’s ready!”

  He looked up with a start, shutting the pad whose back contents he was examining. He composed himself, went to the studio threshold, and called back: “Okay! Be right there!”

  Wesley returned the sketch pad to where he had found it and carefully arranged all the pads the way they had been. As he did so, he thought how appropriate it might have been if she had told him, Come and get it! More and more he was starting to see in this evening the distinct possibility of “getting it.” And not just a trout dinner.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  And it was delicious. The dinner, that is—served in an elegantly dim dining room with lit candles. The sight of Wesley, clad only in that robe, partaking of the meal, was as sumptuous as the food.

  Even more than the meal, which she had prepared to perfection, Jennifer enjoyed sitting across the table from Wesley and watching him clean his plate. She only hoped that trout was not the only thing the handsome boy ate with such pleasure.

  “You really like it then?” she asked, smiling in the candlelight.

  “It’s great,” he said, swallowing a mouthful and helping himself to a sip of wine. “I’ve never had anything like this. I didn’t know what I was missing.”

  “Well, thank you,” she replied. “But you said this isn’t the first time you’ve had trout.”

  “Oh yeah, I’ve had trout lots of times. Just, like I said, not like this.”

  “You had it back home, in Quebec?”

  “Yeah. We’d, um…go to the brook and get ‘em fresh, right out of the water. That’s how we’d have ‘em, right straight from the brook. Still flopping around.”

  “Oh, so you and your family like to fish together, then.”

  Wesley now had the awkward task of trying to answer her question discreetly without seeming as if that were what he was doing. “Uh…yeah. We like to go out fishing. In the forest. That’s what we’d do, go out and catch dinner.”

  “I see. Well, I have to admit I’m a complete city girl. I never went camping or fishing or did any of those things. My family would go to national parks, and we’d hike a little and go on the nature trails. We went to the Grand Canyon once, and we loved looking at all the views there. But then we stayed at hotels. My idea of roughing it is a hotel without an AAA recommendation, I’m afraid. But your family…you’re the outdoors type?”

  Wesley’s expression went blank for a moment. He felt his shoulders slump. Oh, crap, how am I supposed to answer that one? “Yeah,” he answered. “My folks and me, we love to be in the outdoors, out in the forest, as much as we can. Any time of year, any season, that’s where we like it best. Outside in the forest.” And he hurriedly took another swallow of wine, then wondered what a good idea it was to risk getting plastered now.

  “You know,” said Jennifer, “that must be nice, to appreciate nature so much and love to be out in it so much. I mean, I appreciate nature too. I guess my appreciation is more artistic than anything else. I love being close to it and everything. I just enjoy being able to step out into nature and then step right back into civilization, I suppose. I’m just too used to creature comforts, I guess.”

  In spite of himself, Wesley began to chuckle, a small laugh that threatened to become a bigger one. He sat there over his empty plate, melting into laughter he could barely contain.

  Jennifer watched him dissolve into mirth and wasn’t quite sure how to take it. “I’m sorry,” she asked, “did I say something funny?”

  Sputtering through laughter, Wesley croaked out, “Creature comforts…” He broke into a cough, covering his mouth, then, his laughing only barely restrained, he shook his head: “Creature comforts, that’s good…”

  Sensing very much that she was not in on the joke, Jennifer said, “I’m sorry, I don’t get it. What’s funny about what I said?”

  Finally containing himself, Wesley said, “I’m sorry, it’s not you. I guess that’s not an expression I hear a lot. I don’t hear a lot of people my age saying that.” At once, he regretted his choice of words when he saw Jennifer looking off and rubbing her neck as if feeling a sudden strain. “Oh, no, listen, I didn’t mean it like that. I didn’t mean it like…I mean, we’re not the same age and all that, but I don’t want it to sound like…”

  She looked back at him and felt as if a space had abruptly opened between them, a chasm becoming as wide as the Grand Canyon itself. After all the arousal of the day and all the anticipation of the evening, it was a feeling that Jennifer did not like at all.

  This simply would not do. Jennifer refused to accept anything breaking the mood or the spell, anything spoiling the scene and perhaps making him want to go back up to the studio and change out of the robe and back into his clothes. The last thing she wanted now was Wesley in his clothes again.

  “I know how you meant it,” Jennifer said. “It’s natural we wouldn’t use all the same expressions for things when we didn’t grow up at the same time. And generational differences, what do they really mean? You and I, we’ve never had a problem communicating, right?”

  The mood turned profound. There was a glow in the dining room at this moment that had nothing to do with the light of the candles. “No,” Wesley said, “we’ve never had that problem.”

  “And we can say whatever is on our minds, I think. I mean, that’s the way I feel. I hope you feel that way, too, Wesley.”

  He looked deep into Jennifer’s eyes and saw for the first time how clear and blue they were. They reminded him of the brook back in Quebec where he and his parents had gone so many times for fish. He felt as if he could wade on all fours right into those eyes.

  “Yeah. That’s how I feel, too,” he said.

  “Good,” said Jennifer.

  “So,” said Wesley, “since we can talk about anything…maybe there’s something I ought to tell you. I hope it won’t make you mad, ‘cause we know we can be honest with each other.”

  Jennifer gulped a bit. What was this now? Something else to spoil the mood and potentially cut the evening short? How would she deal with this one?

  “Tell me,” she said.

  “Well…,” he began, “you know when I was up in the studio waiting for you to get dinner on? When you said I should just relax up there?”

  “Yes…?”

  “It turns out…I did a little more than relax. I…um…had a look at some things. I…” He paused and took an anxious breath before finishing, “Look, I opened some of your sketch pads and looked at some of your artwork. I didn’t think you’d mind.”

  “Is that all?” she said. “Of course I don’t mind. You’ve been the subject of all my newest work, and it’s all come out so beautifully…”

  “Even the stuff that you stuck in the back of the pads? You know…the pictures that you tore off and tucked in back?” He studied her reaction and saw her face go blank. At once, he was afraid that in spite of everything he should have just kept his mouth shut. “I’m sorry if you didn’t want me to see those. I shouldn’t have looked…”

  “You looked at…those drawings? The ones of just�
�”

  “Of just my tool and my ass. Yeah. Listen, I’m really sorry…”

  She held up a hand, cutting him off. “No, Wesley. You have nothing to be sorry about. You posed, I drew, and I paid you. I actually didn’t show you those particular pieces…drawings, I mean…because I didn’t want to embarrass you. I didn't want you to think…what someone might think of a woman who has a young man sit nude for her and draw…only that.

  I didn’t want you to be uncomfortable.” In a further note of honesty, she added, “And, I suppose…I didn’t want to be uncomfortable myself with any discomfort you might feel. Honestly, I’m an artist; I have no business thinking like such a prude. I’m not a provincial person, Wesley.”