Becoming His Muse, Part Three

by KC Martin

  Dr. T and Madeleine approach me together.

  “Good job, Ava. It was a close call between you and Ronnie,” says Dr. T handing me another glass of champagne. I down it more quickly than is appropriate.

  “Apparently, it was the depth and expertise of those two recent paintings that really tipped the cards in your favor,” says Madeleine.

  “But your dedication to your craft reached new heights this year, Ava,” says Dr. T with a proud smile. “I’m not the least surprised that you made such an artistic leap by the end of this term.”

  That reminds me of Lowell’s email to Logan about his ‘artistic leap’ with his writing. It seems we both helped each other reach new heights this year.

  “So it’s obvious that Professor Hare was your model for that painting,” says Dr. T, pointing. “But whose hands are those in the other one?”

  I share a brief look with Madeleine and say, “No one in particular.”

  My two glasses of champagne have not just gone to my head, they’ve gone straight to my bladder. I duck out of the gallery through the side door that leads to the restrooms.

  Chapter Twenty Two

  The hall is lit by fluorescent overhead lights humming and underscoring the echoing clack of my heels, which, thankfully, aren’t so high as to be tippy in my tipsy state.

  After peeing, I washed my hands, fluff up my tangled hair, and wipe on a bit of lip gloss. As I step back into the hall, I’m surprised to see Logan leaning with one foot hitched against the wall. I glance up and down the narrow hall.

  “You shouldn’t be here.”

  He looks at me with those intense green eyes. I see desire and challenge in his smoldering look.

  He reaches out and takes my hands, kisses my fingertips, and then places them against his zipper. I feel his rock hard bulge.

  “Logan, we can’t.”

  My protests are as weak as my knees. I can’t say no to him. I don’t want to say no. With him I always want to say yes, but the party, where my friends, family and faculty are gathered, is barely a stone’s throw away. And we are so close to the end of this ordeal. I feel dizzy by both the fear of getting caught alone with him and my desire to pull down his jeans and take him into my mouth.

  He leads me farther down the hall, away from the party, pulling against my meek resistance.

  “We really should go back to the party,” I say. “We said we wouldn’t take any more risks.”

  Without responding he opens another door with his free hand and pushes me through into a clutter of maintenance paraphernalia.

  “Logan, I don’t think —”

  He lays a finger over my lips.

  “Shhhh… No words.”

  He kisses me and melts all my resistance, which is mere propriety anyway. His lips, his looks, his touch never fail to kindle my desire.

  He undoes his buckle, his button, releases his erect cock into the stale yet sanitized air of the small cleaning closet. As I shift my weight to slip out of my heels, ready to drop to my knees and take him in my mouth, he places both hands on my hips, stilling me. He kneels down, brushing himself against the inside of my stocking calf, first the right side, then the left. He pushes up my skirt and buried his nose into the silky triangle of my thong, which is damp, and getting damper with each of his hot exhales.

  He draws the tip of his nose across the nub of my clit. My breath catches and I let out a little moan.

  His tongue curls around the silk seam of my panties and slides into me, widening and engorging with each lick and probe. There’s a metal shelf behind me; I spread my arms out against it for support. My knees, already weak, nearly buckle. My grip tightens on the sprocketed metal rim of the shelf as the rest of the room and its contents blur and dissolve into some other place.

  As his tongue works his magic, he slides two fingers into me. I begin to grind rhythmically against his mouth. Then he leans back, cool air rushing in where his lips used to be and I moan again, this time in protest. His fingers continue thrusting and dancing in my grotto of soft wet warmth and I focus on this, syncing my rhythm with his movements, adding my own. His tongue roves along the crease at the top of my right thigh, which is bare above my thigh-high stockings.

  His cock grazes my ankle. I feel his hand there, stroking, pushing his skin against my calf, sheathed in silk. As he rubs, the friction builds up a small pleasurable burn. His mouth moves to my other thigh, bypassing my clit, which aches with neglect. I try to rock forward to catch his lips but his fingers deep inside me pin me back. I’m tempted to let go of my grip on the shelf with one hand and force his head back to my center, where an orgasm perches deliciously on its edge ready to take me down, but he seems to have his own plans, though I feel, in only a few more seconds, I will explode. I gather up my overflowing arousal, feel it fill my belly and my heart as he chews and sucks my thigh. His cock rubs against my other leg now, his hand working steadily, rhythmically, sliding up and down his length.

  He could come himself, with his own touch; we could both come ourselves. I could let go of the shelf and with one twirling swipe across my clit, take myself over that edge and melt onto the floor. A few more fast hand pulls and he’d puddle the floor. But the sweet elixir we were resisting, in the holding back for one another, this almost painful elongation of pleasure, the extension of hunger the moment before it’s satisfied – this time and place outside of everything – is such a gift to share.

  Before I come, I want him in me. My pussy, my mouth, I don’t care. I wish he could be both places at once. Trying to picture that, I moan with the force of what’s building inside and it’s like a song to him, his mouth clamps on my clit for a split second and I emit a higher pitched sob of pleasure as he pulls his fingers from me and dips his tongue into the space they occupied, but it’s for the briefest moment and then he is away from me.

  Spread there against the metal shelf, trembling, he grabs my hips and twists me around. Holding me steady, he turns my body away from him. My arms reach for the shelf for balance again, his knees wedge between mine from the inside, spreading my thighs wide.

  His right hands reaches around across my vulva, his left tugs the string of my thong to the side and I feel the tip of his cock slide along the crack of my ass. With a sudden thrust he drives the full length of his cock into my wet opening. I gasp, moan, and arch my back before pushing back into him, the sensation of him sliding in and out, pushing deeper and then receding, then plunging hard again.

  Two fingers of his fingers play with my clit as if he might be dabbling at piano keys, and then they begin to swirl. So tender compared to his hard driving thrusts. I reach down with one hand, wanting to feel everything – his fingers slipping over me, his cock sliding in and out -- but he catches my hand and forces it back onto position on the shelf and then he drills me harder. His fingers leave my clit briefly and dip down to feel the two of us intersecting, his long thick slippery cock penetrating my swollen folds. He’s taking what I wanted for myself. So I drive myself back into him. He likes this, even though he wants to be the one who moves us, and then I pull away, press my body flat up against the shelves so that the tip of him almost slips out. He grabs my hips, hold me to him, and then pushes into me harder and deeper and faster, so that I am banging against the shelf. His fingers flicker and press into my clit. He quickens his rhythm. His other hand holds the base of his shaft, though I can’t see this hand, I can feel his thumb press into my anus, and the pressure there as he impales me while his fingers ravage my clit drives me into a wild oblivion. Behind my closed eyes, nebulous colors spin and implode, my breath rasps, and I cry out in release. The metal shelf digs into my palms and all I feel is pleasure radiating from my pussy, spreading through the core of my being, and oozing from my pores. He thrusts deeply several more times, each one slower than the last as groans his own pleasure into my back, emptying the lust he’s been carrying into the hot wet center of me, adding his warmth, his liquid offering, and his sated desire.

  We stand
there for a moment, breathing together, him clinging to me, me clinging to the shelf. The muscles of my arms and legs tremble. He leans into me and I’m not sure how long I can hold us up. I feel his cock soften, grow smaller. He slips out of me. The condom splashes on the cement floor between my heels. Evidence of our combined urgency and satisfaction. I smile, lick my dry lips.

  “Kiss me,”I whisper.

  He turns me around, draws me to his chest, kisses me on the forehead, the temple, the cheek and finally the lips.

  “I hope you don’t mind,” he says, leaning back and zipping up his pants. “I just wanted to congratulate you in my own way.” He attempts to adjust the triangle of my thong back into place and smooths down my skirt.

  I still have to support myself with one hand on the shelf. I am hot, spent, sticky and satisfied.

  “Thank you,” I say.

  “It’s hell being in the same room with you and not being able to be by your side.”

  I know what he means. I also wonder how much time has passed. Sex with Logan seems to transcend time and I can’t tell if it’s been an hour or five minutes. Probably the later or someone would have come searching for me.

  I pick up my purse, which I’d flung to the floor when Logan pushed me up against the shelf. I apply more lip gloss and hand Logan a tissue to wipe off the pink smears at the edges of his lips.

  “Should I go back in first?” I say.

  “Can’t we both be coming back from the restroom?”

  “Listen at the door first, make sure no one’s in the hall.”

  He puts an ear to the door, and then cracks it to peer out. The hallway is empty. We slip out, close the closet door gently. I feel a rush of relief, and a flutter of excitement at having done that. I realize now that the risk of getting caught sharpened my desire. I’m sure I’ll have bruises from being banged up against that metal shelf, but I don’t care. Logan’s driving desire was intoxicating. I would do it all over again. And again.

  “I’m going to stop in here,” says Logan as we pass by the men’s room door. He grabs my elbow and turns me around. “Just one more kiss, before I go.” His lips find mine and he sweeps his tongue inside my upper lip. I shiver with renewed desire as he palms one breast through my blouse, murmuring, “I didn’t get to play with these… You’ll have to come to my place later tonight. I have to have you again.”

  A hinge creaks as the men’s room door swings open. I whip around to see who’s there.

  Dr. T stares at us with wide-eyed surprise. Logan’s hand drops away from my blouse and we step away from each other.

  The hinge creaks again. “What’s the hold up, Rich?” says Dean Ascott. As soon as he sees us, his brow furrows and his mouth turns down in a frown.

  “What’s going on here?”

  Logan clears his throat. “Ava was on her way back from the restroom, and I’m just on my way in,” says Logan breezily. “I just stopped her in the hall to say congratulations.”

  Logan pushes past Dr. T and Dean Ascott to go into the men’s room. They make way for him, but Dr. T is looking at me strangely.

  “He just gave me a hug,” I say, blushing. “He’s proud of my work. He helped me a lot with my paintings.”

  I try not to fumble my words. Dr. T’s expression is disconcerting.

  “Of course he did,” says Dr. T with a tight smile. “As one of your mentors, he’s a vested interest in your success.”

  “Let’s get back in there shall we?” prompts Dean Ascott. “I’ve got another meeting tonight and didn’t you say one of the exhibits starts at a specific time?” He glances at his watch.

  “Right. Eight thirty,” says Dr. T. “That would be Derrick and Casey.” He checks his watch. “That’s in two minutes.” He looks at me. “Ava, can we talk later?”

  “Uh, sure.” This will give me a bit more time to make my hug story more plausible.

  I hear the sound of sink water running in the men’s room. Logan will reemerge soon.

  Dr. T leads the way down the hall and I follow him and Dean Ascott. I breathe a sigh of relief when I reenter the crowded gallery. That was a close one.

  Derrick and Casey seem to be almost ready to make their presentation.

  Aside from the strange puppets, painted curtains, and Hansel and Gretel type crumb paths on the floor in their quadrant of the gallery, they have set up a screen on the back wall and are now turning on a projector.

  Long, thin strips of gauzy fabric hang between the projector causing narrow, wobbly shadows to break up the screen images. The crowd does its best to gather in behind the projector so they can get a good view of the screen.

  I rejoin my mother and Warren as Derrick and Casey take the mic.

  “So we’re about to start the film part of our multi-media installation entitled, With Our Own Eyes, which really needs no introduction.”

  I roll my eyes at this. No one has a clue what their project is about. Maybe it’s not the responsibility of the artist to explain a project, but claiming it doesn’t warrant an explanation seems pretentious. For the first time I notice that the strange polka dots on their clothing are tiny toy eyes, the kind they might have sewn on to their eyeless puppets.

  In my peripheral vision, I see the door to the hall and restrooms open and close. Logan remains near the wall at the side of the room, whereas I’ve been pushed up closer to the front. Warren comes to stand close beside me. I hope he doesn’t smell sex on me.

  I shift from one foot to the other, conjuring up the feeling of Logan between my legs. What just happened was so sexy, so risqué, and I can’t believe we just did that with everyone, including my mother, just down the hall. I chuckle, marveling at my own boldness.

  Warren leans down toward me. “What’s so funny? These guys?”

  I look up at him. “Yeah, it’s all these crazy puppets.” I slide my arm through his, feeling happy he’s there with me as my friend. He smiles at me and I hope Logan doesn’t feel jealous. Or maybe it’s okay if he does. Just a little bit.

  “I love your paintings, Ava,” he whispers to me as DnC’s video begins to play.

  “Thank you,” I whisper back, feeling very proud and happy.

  I try to focus on the video now. The images start out quite choppy, with flashes of bright light every few seconds. The image is blurry and rather dark green, and then I make out two turtles munching on leaves. They’re Derrick’s turtles from the terrarium. Then there’s an image of them snapping at one another. Then there’s another sequence of one on top of the other. Oh, they’re mating.

  After an uncomfortable minute of slow turtle thrusting, the picture changes to a woman on crutches twirling. It’s Madeleine. With snow banks behind her. I remember that day.

  Someone in the crowd off to the left gasp-screams as one of the suspended puppets starts twirling overhead. The one with crutches.

  Next there’s a bit of video with Ronnie wearing an apron and sweeping. I thought I was the only one who knew he worked at that pub?…

  A puppet with a broom sweeps across the crowd overhead. A few people start laughing.

  Then there’s a clip of Ronnie kissing someone out back of a building. Not Owen. Someone else. The cook from the pub? The cook puts his hand down Ronnie’s jeans. Uh oh…

  Two puppets move together overhead. The movement above stirs the air and the strips of ribbon hanging from the ceiling start undulating. Their movement either blocks or reveals the images depending on where you’re standing.

  I look around for Ronnie but can’t see him. I’m not sure if Owen’s arrived yet but what will happen if he sees that clip? How could DnC be so tactless?

  Thankfully, the image changes from Ronnie being man-handled to what looks like a bird in a nest. Is that from the day I saw Derrick standing on a bench?

  People’s eyes jump from the puppets to the video screen. From the video to the puppets.

  Now there’s an over-the-shoulder shot through a window. Someone’s at a desk, typing or… the hand movements are rhy
thmic and intense. There’s a blurred image on the computer screen. Oh my god, is that Logan’s office? I cover my mouth, willing the scene to change and ignoring the masturbating puppet on the ceiling. The picture changes. It’s a close up of Casey eating something… Oh man, it’s Derrick’s… Oh, god. Everyone looks to the ceiling and sure enough, one puppet’s going down on another.

  Dean Ascot steps forward, “I think we’ve seen quite en—”

  Gasps cut him off as the scene fills, quite clearly, with an image of a bed covered with silk pillows and two people… a couple…

  Oh man, I think I might be sick.

  “Ava, that’s not …?” Warren looks incredulous.

  The black robe. Nothing under it. Logan under me…

  My head spins. Cut to the turtles mating. And then a shot of Dr. T kissing Madeleine Hare. What?

  There’s a shot of Logan behind the wheel of the white Aston, and me climbing in to the passenger seat. I can’t bear to look Dr. T’s way. Next is Jonathan, with his shirt off, flanked by Jenny and Laura, in the theater’s props room. And then me and Logan again at the height of rapture. And then everything we’ve seen already repeats at a fast motion as an African drum beat rises in crescendo and the ceiling writhes with puppets. Everyone’s looking at one another or getting up to leave, shocked and disgusted, some with mouths agape or heads shaking.

  Dean Ascott is trying to shove his way to the projector to turn it off, but the images just keep coming and I’m dizzy with confusion and rage and looking this way and that, trying to find Logan when I catch Dr. T’s eye and he looks so shocked and disappointed, and my mom and Caroline are staring at me, dumbfounded.

  I see Ruby yelling at Jonathan and Jenny’s trying to defend him and Ronnie’s in tears with Owen stomping away from him. Derrick and Casey stand off to the side of the monitor looking rather smug and proud. I look up then, realizing that they have probably placed cameras everywhere to capture the mayhem they have just created.

  Suddenly the image goes dark, as if the electricity’s been cut. The drumbeat is silenced and the puppets stop moving. The crowd is slower to settle. Dozens of people turn to stare at me, including Dean Ascott. Warren, who’s been standing stock still beside me as the madness unfolded, now wraps an arm around my shoulders and guides me out of the gallery. He practically has to hold me up, my legs are so wobbly.