by Sofia Connor
Gasping and moaning even more, he called out, "Oh yes, baby, that's it, suck my cock. Oh God, that feels so good."
And then, taking his cock out of her mouth and stroking it with her hand, she told him, "I want you to cum in my mouth, and I want to swallow your cum." Then smiling seductively, she asked, "Is that okay?"
With a wild, sex-crazed look in his eyes, all he could say was, "Yes, baby, please."
And then, she turned and put his cock back in her mouth, and started sucking it wildly, licking it, drawing her tongue up and down the shaft, and then pushing his cock deep down into her throat over and over again. Watching her every movement, he stared at her, amazed at just how much she was enjoying herself, and just how good she was at giving head, at sucking his cock.
Feeling like he was going to cum, he told her to stop for a moment as he tried to stave off the coming orgasm. But it was too late, and his cum started to squirt out of his cock and onto her face and breasts.
And then as he came, he moaned and yelled out, "Oh God, baby, I'm cumming. I'm sorry, I didn't want to cum yet."
She quickly put his cock back in her mouth and started sucking it again, obviously wanting to get every drop of his cum in her mouth. Wiping the cum off her face and tits with her fingers, she then licked them to make sure she tasted and then swallowed as much of his cum as she could. Watching her licking the cum off her fingers turned him on so much, and he realized that he had become much more fascinated by her than he had thought possible. He laid there panting, not believing how hard he had just cum while watching her still licking her fingers and playing with her tits. Then she laid down beside him as they both closed their eyes and fell asleep.
After a while, he woke up and turned over on his side. He laid there for a few minutes just watching her while she slept.
When she finally woke up and saw him looking at her, she smiled and said, "Wow, tonight has been incredible," with obvious amazement in her voice.
Still looking at her, he replied, "Yes, it has been amazing."
And then, with a quizzical look on his face, he said, "So, baby, where do we go from here?"
Startled, she thought for a moment, and then said, "Well, I don't know. Earlier, I thought this would probably be a one-night stand and that was fine with me. But now..." and her voice trailed off.
He looked at her tenderly, and then replied, "It doesn't have to a one-night stand unless you want it to be."
Wow, she thought, surprised at his response. "You mean, you want to see me again after tonight?"
Smiling, he said, "Oh, yes, tonight was so amazing that I can't imagine not seeing you again."
Then he paused slightly, and with apparent realization on his face, he said, "But I think you should tell me your name."
Names, she thought. Who would have thought he'd want to know my name? And then she laughed, saying with a chuckle, "Oh my, we're gonna do names, huh??? Well, I don't know..."
"Ah, come on," he said with a smirk, "my knowing your name, or even your cell phone number, wouldn't be the end of the world, would it? You're not married, are you?"
She smiled, and then said, "No, I'm not married. Are you?"
Laughing, he replied, "No, I'm not married. But then I'm not the one avoiding the subject of names."
Realizing he was right, she said, "Yes, that's true. So you really want to know my name? And my cell phone number?"
"Yes, baby, I do," he said in a serious tone, "and I don't want to keep calling you 'baby' all the time either."
She thought for a moment, and then said, "Well, baby, my name is Diane. What's yours?"
"Ah, was that so hard?" he said with a smirk. "Mine is Jack."
Snuggling up against him, she replied in a seductive tone, "So nice to meet you, Jack."
"Likewise, Diane," he said, immediately getting a hard-on in reaction to her sensual response.
"We have a song named after us, don't we?" Jack continued, becoming even more aroused as Diane began playing with his hard, erect cock again.
"Yes, we do," Diane replied, as she stroked his cock, running her fingers up and down its shaft.
And then he took her in his arms and started kissing her passionately, while they both wondered where this After-Work Adventure would lead them.
The End.
Camouflage
"Move closer to it. You'll be surprised what you can see."
Cath glanced at the man who had moved up beside her in front of the art photo. She gave a little shiver from just the quick glance. He exuded self-assurance and power—and a slight sense of evil, sensuality, and cruelty. She was accustomed to predatory men and knew how to handle them. But he didn't seem predatory exactly—more so confident in himself that women came to him. Although Cath had no idea why that would be. He wasn't a handsome man. His face was craggy and his demeanor almost gaunt. But there was something in the eyes. Their eyes had met for the briefest second, but she had sucked in air from that fleeting connection. And although, when considered separately, each feature she caught in the brief glance was imperfect and even thuggish, they seemed to work together in an effect that took her breath away.
She instinctively turned full face forward, looking at the framed art photo on the stark-white gallery wall again, determined not to focus closer on it if only because the man had invited her to do so.
Where was Grant? She looked away from both the photograph and the man, back into the interior of the gallery, down a long row of photographs similar to this one. Grant was chatting up the gallery owner, turned away from Cath, so that she couldn't catch his eye with a begging expression of needing to be rescued. He was taking business cards out of his wallet and cajoling the gallery owner to take them. The woman seemed no less susceptible to Grant's charms than any other woman, and she was holding her palm out to accept the cards.
Cath could see that there was no rescue to be had from that quarter for another minute or two even as it seemed that Grant and the gallery owner were parting; Turning from the gallery owner, Grant had spied a patron who looked vulnerably bored with art work the man's wife was gushing over with another patron. His back still to her, Grant was circling this man for the kill.
But why did she need to be rescued? The tone of the voice of the man standing close to her—a deep baritone—wasn't threatening or even challenging. And this was an art opening. There was no reason why the patrons who had come wouldn't be chatting with each other freely.
"I'm afraid of what I may see," she said. "I can get the hint of it. But the colors and patterns are so interesting. I think I prefer to see it in the abstract."
"Too shy to fully appreciate it then, I think—or perhaps a bit prudish?" the man responded. "What do you make of the title?"
Cath bristled at the mention of "prudish." She'd heard this taunt recently from Grant as well, and perhaps she was a bit slow in picking up the freewheeling lifestyle of New York, but that didn't mean she was prudish—necessarily. "The title? I hadn't noticed that they had titles."
"Yes, of course they do. This one is called 'Rachel Afterward #3.' Perhaps if we were to find numbers one and two, we would see yet another dimension in the art. But, then, if you are reticent even to explore the added dimensions right before us within this self-same work . . ."
"I enjoy it just in the dimension I can see from here. I work with colors and patterns, and I could easily design the furnishings of a room to play off these colors and patterns. The artist has a good eye for those elements."
"Ah, an interior designer then, are you?"
"Yes."
"And you've come to buy something to use as a foundation for an interior you're designing? Perhaps we can stroll down the line and just discuss the merits of these photographs in the dimension of color and patterns—although I do believe you are missing the most interesting aspects of them."
"I've just come along with my date, Grant Treadwell," Cath quickly said. "We were going to dinner and he suggested we stop in here—I think because we are e
arly for our reservations and the restaurant is nearby. He's more interested in the art patrons than the art, I think. And he's coming just now. So, thanks for the offer, but . . ."
Cath hoped she wasn't sounding too breathy. The man hadn't actually touched her, but she felt the goose bumps rise on her bare arms as if he had. But now that she thought about it, she sensed that there had been a hand lightly touching the bare skin of the small of her back. She immediately regretted having picked the cocktail dress with the plunging back on it.
"Ah, I see that you've met . . . but where is he? Have I scared him off?" Grant had reached her side, appearing at last with the glass of white wine he had left her side several moments before to fetch. Cath had known he would be a while in reappearing, though. Grant was a stockbroker. He didn't attend these openings for the sake of the art; he attended for the sake of the wealthy art collectors—or, more precisely, their bored husbands, who had been dragged from behind the protecting series of reception desks in their high-rise office buildings. Grant found it easier to run them to ground in venues such as this than in their bastions they called offices.
"Who? Oh, him," Cath responded. A glance to her right told her that—surprisingly with a slight twinge of disappointment, she realized—the man she'd been listening to had evaporated. For the briefest moment she shivered again with the fleeting thought that he had been some sort of phantom; that he hadn't existed at all. And perhaps more from the realization that he had given up so quickly.
"No, he was just a man who wanted to talk about the art work," she said.
"Oh, he wasn't just a man. Tried to sell one of these to you, did he? He's the photo artist, you know. Or perhaps you didn't. These are his art works. That was Hunter Winslow. Quite the recluse. I'm surprised that he came to the opening, even if it is his. He must have given you some interesting insights into this art. They all seem to be variations on the same theme. Rather intriguing, though. And very sensual."
"He tried to discuss them with me, yes," Cath admitted. "But I was afraid he was just trying to pick me up."
"You should be used to that," Grant said with a laugh. "I know I tried to pick you up for ages before you'd give me a look and a roll. Not that the effort wasn't worth it, of course."
Cath couldn't help but frown slightly. Grant had been much like a possessive puppy dog ever since they'd first had sex—he'd almost done a victory dance around the sofa they'd done it on, and she had felt at the time that he had been itching to text someone about what he'd finally managed. She assumed he'd done so as soon as he'd left her apartment. She indeed had made him work for it, even though his athletic, yet boyish blond good looks undoubtedly usually got him what he wanted without much of a struggle. Even now Cath could see the slitted eyes of the gallery owner following Grant around the room.
But he wasn't as reserved as Cath was comfortable with—another difference, she knew, between New Yorkers and the men she had known in Maryland. She didn't sleep around all that much. When she'd come up to New York, she'd been told that she had to be prepared to move into a hedonist world, but she'd just laughed and said that Annapolis hadn't been any tamer—it just wasn't as open about it. As the daughter of the governor's chief of staff, she'd been pursued closely by a succession of beautiful, young, full-of-themselves Naval Academy midshipmen, and she'd let more than one of them inside her guard—but only if she could vet them as being very discrete. Grant was just as beautiful as any of those young men, but perhaps not as discrete as she might like.
"Maybe we should get dinner over as quickly as possible," Grant was saying. "These photos have made me horny and I'm anxious to get on with the evening."
Horny? Cath thought. Is that it? Is that what I've been afraid of in moving in any closer to these photographs? She turned her eyes to the one the artist had said was titled "Rachel Afterward #3" and looked more intently at it. It was a purposeful maneuver. She didn't want Grant to think she was panting for what he planned after dinner quite so much as he was, although she had been panting for it most of the day. Grant was a good lover. She hadn't achieved an orgasm with a man that easily and intensely before she met Grant, and he routinely could give her two. He spent time with the sex; not like the puppydog midshipmen who came as quickly as possible and just as quickly evaporated over the academy walls to avoid a curfew detention. He paid her a lot of quite effective attention in the foreplay, not stopping until she had been satisfied—and then he had the staying power and depth to satisfy them both in the penetration.
Intellectually, she had already become a bit bored with Grant. Physically, though, she was still able to pant for him. Not husband material certainly. But a perfectly tension-relieving satisfactory stud.
From where she stood, the photo art was arresting. She hadn't lied that the colors and patterns—a swirl of blues and purples and reds—would be great to use as a pallet to furnish a penthouse apartment or mountain vacation home. But now that the somewhat threatening atmosphere that the stranger had exuded—the artist, Hunter Winslow, she now knew—and wanting to cool Grant's heels a bit, Cath did what she was reluctant to do before. She moved in closer to the photograph. It was large and had been printed to canvas. She had seen a hint of its camouflaged secret already, but as she moved in closer, she saw that it wasn't just an abstract pattern of swirling colors. It was a human figure—a woman. Nude. She was reclining on her back on a chaise lounge, and the riot of colorful swirls danced over her body. What was intriguing, though, was that the flow of the patterns wasn't interrupted by the margins of her body, but continued on over the chaise and the surrounding floor, so that the body was almost fully camouflaged. And you only could discern that it was a human figure—and a nude—by coming in closer and making your eyes focus on the edges where the body ended and the surrounding furnishings began.
As she stared at the photo art, Cath began to feel tingly and breathy—and she had the urge to touch herself intimately. The title. The title must have something to do with how the artwork made her feel.
She no longer saw the work as appropriate for a living room. It would need to be in a bedroom or a dressing room. It was much too sensual and sexually powerful to be displayed in a public area. Perhaps over the bed of one's mistress. Intellectually, she felt she should be disappointed at this limitation, but she couldn't take her eyes off the nude now that her eyes had focused on it. It was just too sensual for Cath to see it in any other light now than the erotic.
"Dinner?" Grant whispered, touching her on the arm, as if he was gently trying to coax her out of an entirely different world and back into his presence.
"Could we eat later?" Cath answered in a low, thick voice. "I'd rather go back to your place now—at least for a while."
Grant grinned.
Cath was panting and still moaning deeply from the release Grant had given her. She was laying on her side, in his arms, cuddled into his chest, his hard, yet-to-be-employed cock rubbing gently against the small of her back. One hand was cupping one of her breasts and teasing her nipple, while the fingers of the other hand, having made her explode, were still moving in their dance of rubbing between her folds and stroking inside her. Two fingers buried inside her, he palmed her mound and squeezed and then released; squeezed and released; and Cath moaned a deep, gravelly, almost animalistic moan.
She sighed as he pulled away from her, and she listened to the sounds of him fiddling with a condom packet. Then, still behind her, he pulled her up on her knees, wrapped one arm around her chest, and cupped her chin with a hand. He slowly slid into her from behind and the fingers of his free hand moved into her fold again, finding the clit. She moaned at the depth his cock was reaching and then started to groan as he began to pump her with powerful strokes.
She collapsed on the bed on her back after her second orgasm, and lay there, arms akimbo, purring with satisfaction. Looking up, she could see herself in the mirror Grant had positioned in the canopy over the bed. She'd always thought this was a silly, juvenile fetish of his and h
ad resisted watching their reflection as they made love, even knowing that Grant found it a turn on and that it undoubtedly increased his drive and stamina. This was the first time they had made love in his bed before nightfall, though, and the mirror was more noticeable.
As she lay there, the revelation of the photo art in the gallery, struck her. She began to breathe heavily again, and her hand involuntarily moved down her belly and into her folds. Seeing this, Grant, laughed and reached for another condom packet on the bedside table.
What she saw in herself in the mirror, mirrored what she had seen—and not fully understood—in the Hunter Winslow art photo. And now the title of the work became quite clear. "Afterward." The key was the word "afterward." The pose and expression of the model in the photograph—most likely a woman named Rachel—was postcoital. The woman had just had sex, exhausting, no-prisoners-taken sex. And the photo, one of at least three, had undoubtedly been taken immediately afterward.
Cath momentarily lost sight of the mirror while Grant moved on top of her, covering her body with his. But he moved from between her face and the mirror when he nuzzled his face into the hollow of her neck and as he positioned the mushroom cap of his cock at her entrance with his hand. As he slid inside her, Cath lifted her pelvis to give him deep penetration and moved her hands to his shoulder blades, reveling for perhaps the first time in how finely muscled his back was. And how his back tapered down to a thin waist and hips. Her hands ran down his back and cupped his finely mounded buttocks, enjoying the rhythm of their tightening and loosening as he stroked hard and deep inside her. His cock pulsed inside her, and her channel walls shimmered in response. They gave a mutual moan trailing off into a sigh in harmony.
"Oh, yes, yes," she groaned, as his cock head came out to rub across her clit and then dove—and then again, and again, and again. Panting hard, slamming her pelvis against his . . . feeling each drag of the mushroom cap across her clit and deep inside her. Clinch and release; clinch and release. Moooaan. Faster and faster; harder and harder. Tightening, fireworks, release, collapse.