4 comments/ 14435 views/ 3 favorites Vignette #01 By: DawnJ The nude swung her hips gracefully off the stool and turned to look at the class. "I believe time's up, people!" She draped the bright red robe over her shoulders casually, and stepped down from the podium on which she had been seated for an hour. "At any rate, I'M taking a break," she added, and glided from the room. In the little dressing room she had been assigned, off the classroom, she sank wearily onto the sofa and stretched out, closing her eyes. She heard the music students across the way practicing their piano and violin pieces, and the cars that passed on the highway. She sighed. This was the first long-term job she had had as a model, since Jack had died, and it was helping to pay the rent, and keep body and soul together. That, and the small change she made from her late night radio show. Now, if only she could keep James from finding out.. She heard someone enter the studio, but she did not move. It was probably David Stein, the art teacher. He never came into her space, for which she was grateful. So when she heard the door open, she dragged the robe around herself and sat up. James walked in, locking the door behind him, and she was speechless. Her cheeks flushed with color, and her heart began a rapid fire tattoo against her chest. She had told her week-old fiance, when she had first met him, that she was a model, and he had never asked her where she worked, or demanded to see pictures. She had always found it odd, but never questioned her good luck. Now here he was...how on earth had he found her? And what was she going to tell him? "Morning," he said conversationally, removing his jacket. "Warm enough in here for you?" She swallowed. The room was comfortable, and she nodded. "I thought you might like some company between classes," he said, removing his suit jacket, and his tie. "Mind if I join you?" He removed his shirt, and she was treated to a view of his broad chest, with the chest hairs she loved to play in lying velvety on his tanned skin. "What are you doing?" she asked, a frown marring her brow. "Getting comfortable, like you are," he answered. "You don't mind, do you?" He unbuckled the belt in his slacks, and unzipped them, pushing them down and stepping out of them. "James, this is crazy!" she protested. "Why? You do it every day, don't you?" he demanded, removing his boxer briefs. She watched him hang up his clothing or fold them neatly and then he turned and moved over to her, proudly displaying a full erection. "James..." she said, her eyes wide. "Donna," he replied, reaching for her robe when he reached her, and pushing it off her shoulders. "I...I..." She stopped. "You...you...?" he returned, pulling her in to him. "You love me? You were scared to tell me? You thought I'd be mad? You love me?" He paused, her body next to his, his mouth on her throat. "Wait," he mumbled. "I said that already, didn't I?" Donna gave herself up to the thrill of his mouth on her throat, his hands oh her breast, in her hair... Explanations would wait, she guessed... James's hand wandered over his lover's body. Her small butt, round, and perfectly matching her size, her tight, muscular legs, her flat back...He was on the ragged edge of control, and had been all morning, thinking about how he would come here to where she worked, to surprise her with his knowledge, and his understanding, and his passion, and his love. The thought of her nude, being drawn by people who may or may not be turned on by what they saw, being watched by a knowing artist, both annoyed and aroused him. And the sight of her on that stool, posed impossibly still, her back half turned, a breast exposed, the mound of her belly hiding that other mound of pleasure, had made him ache for her as he watched, from the shadows in the furthest corner of the studio. When she raised a languid arm to change the pose, and her breast rose, he had had to struggle to keep his chair. Now, here she was, exposed for him alone, the way he loved her best. His hands trembled with the urge to ravish and the need to wait. "I have known about this job almost from the beginning, you know," he murmured as he slid his hand over her belly to that second mound, and he slipped a questing finger between its folds to sample the delights beneath. He heard her groan with a mixture of pleasure and pain. He loved the way he could pull an uninhibited response from her, and hated that he could not make her wild for him, the way he was for her, because she had to work, and he had to leave, and this was a semi-public space. "I know so much more about you than you think, sweetheart!" he continued. "But I don't love you any less." He slid his fingers down each side of her tingling clit, not touching it, but sure she wished he would. She pushed her hips against his fingers, trying, no doubt, to make him go where she wanted, and do what she willed. He smiled, resisting her attempts to make him stray from his decided course. He was here to make her die a little death or two of pure pleasure for him, and then he'd take her, hard and fast, before the next class. "Everyone has to make a living," he commented, bending his knees so he could push his finger into her waiting body. "As long as you keep this," he finally slid his thumb across her turgid clit, eliciting a deep groan of pleasure from her, "and this," a plunge with two fingers into her wet heat, "and this," he slanted his mouth over hers passionately, "for ME," another kiss, and a hard, circular rub of her clit, "I won't object." He removed his hand, knowing she was on the point of orgasm, and lowered her to the couch. "You had this job before you knew me, sweetheart!" he said, returning his hand to her waiting pussy. "I have no right to object, unless I can provide you with another immediate way to make a living." He slid his thumb over her clit again and again, and then lowered his head and bit her nipple gently. Donna came, hard. He felt her muscles contract around his fingers, and he grew so hard himself that he had to blink to refocus his attention, and his mind, on his plan. His breathing grew ragged, and he kissed her as she came down off her high, before removing his hand and replacing it with his hard cock. Donna remained speechless, unable, it seemed, to voice her desire, or any other statement. She merely threw her arms around his neck, as though to anchor herself on a solid rock in the turbulent sea of his passion and her own. James pumped in and out of her, slowly at first, to savor the sweet torture of her tight pussy around him, and to raise the pleasure factor immeasurably. But when she squirmed against him, and began to circle her hips, grinding herself against him, any control he had remaining dissipated like mist in sunshine. He fucked her. Hard. Fast. Over and over again. They moaned into each other's mouths, kissing and caressing each other with fevered lips and hands, fanning the flames that had ignited between them, and that nothing could now put out, unless it were the orgasms waiting at the end of the hot, bright place where they were loving each other right then. James's hips rocked into her, and Donna's hips rocked back. They loved each other frenziedly, passionately, until the dam burst, and the waters of their lust rushed them over the edge, and they fell...long, tumbling, rolling, losing themselves to the ecstasy of free fall. "James!" Donna's voice sifted through the fog of his repleteness, and he heard, with deep male satisfaction, the fullness of her completion. God, he loved her!! Donna!" His answer held the wonder of the moment. He had never felt closer to her than he did right then. He never wanted to leave. He felt her hands on his back, the nails finally letting his skin go, the fingers smoothing the places she had just scared with the depth of her need. He smiled...no need for explanations now. Vignette #02 At midday...the heat from the noisy radiator permeates the room, and he shoves a finger between his throat and the collar of his button-up shirt. He has already loosened his tie, the playful one she had given him for Christmas, with the Pink Panther lounging by the beach clutching a margarita. He loosens the top button on his shirt, and glances at the clock. Noon. He had said that he would call... The phone rings before he can pick it up. When he answers it, the voice on the other end is not hers. He tunes the man on the other end out, and only vaguely hears, "Hello? Jeff?" "Sorry," he apologizes, injecting a remorse he does not feel into his voice. "What was that?" His caller repeats himself, and he decides whatever he wants, it can wait. He says so, and hangs up. His shift does not end for another three hours, and he has skipped lunch so he can call her on her lunch break. He walks over and closes his office door...the office assistant will know that means he doesn't wish to be disturbed. He thinks of her, and feels his heart rate quicken. Almost of their own volition, his hands do the work and make the call. "Angela Blair. How may I help you?" Her voice, sultry, low, impossibly sexy, shivers through him like ice chips on a hot summer afternoon. "Can you cool my fever?" he asks her, his voice already husky with his need. "It's been raging all morning, and nothing I've done has worked." He hears her sharp intake of breath, the slow release of it, the shaky little laugh, and then she says, "Babe, I forgot you said you'd call!" "I'll forgive you for forgetting me, if you'll make me an offer I can't refuse," he says, deliberately lowering his voice. "Make it a wet one, and I'll probably forget my name!" Her hears her chuckle, and knows her face is coloring with the shyness he finds so utterly captivating. "A wet offer?" she says. "You want a snowball fight?" The teasing note in her voice licks at the flames of his desire. "Only if you dry me off when we're done," he says, the picture in his mind of her hands on him hardening the evidence of his lust, evidence she cannot see. "And warm me up. Can you do that?" He doesn't think her voice can get any more sensual than it already is. It does. "What shall I use?" she wonders, "hmmm?" He hears her take a breath, and suddenly, his lust gets the better of him. "Your breath," he says, and breathes deeply in her ear. "Like this," he adds, and breathes again. He hopes she is as wound up as he is. He looks at the photograph of her that he has on his desk. Short, curly hair, a round face, big, expressive brown eyes, heart-shaped lips... "Baby," he says suddenly, "I wanna kiss you so badly right now..." he inhales, and then goes on, "On those lips, the tip of that pert little nose, the pulse that's beating there, right there in the hollow of your throat. Touch it for me, babe!" "Jeff!" she whispered, and his groin aches all over again. His cock twitches at the way she sighs his name. "So...make me an offer!" "Kisses good enough to satisfy you, big guy?" she asks. "Tea and kisses," he says. "Will I get some tongue?" "As long as we share and share alike," she says, and he can hear the struggle she has to speak the words. Oh yeah...she is ready. He speaks his own words without thinking them through, fueled now entirely by an all-consuming lust: "Yeah, I'll have some tongue with my tea, please! And some good, hard, wet lovemaking for dessert. You game?" When she doesn't answer, he grins, suddenly lighthearted. "I can't see you nod, babe! Say yes!" His demand is urgent. He needs to hear her agree. "Yes," she says, her voice cracked and shaking. He smiles. "Meet me after work at Alice's Teacup." He pauses, thinking of their last tea date there, and he suppresses a groan. "Don't make me wait too long, baby! I'll order till you come." "Okay," she replies. "I can't wait!" "Me either, sweetheart!" He hangs up...three hours to wait. He groans aloud this time... *********************************************** Day's end...and the little buzzer on the desk goes off, reminding me I had promised myself to leave when my day was over, instead of lingering on, finding things to do. I had promised him that I would meet him after work, for tea and conversation...and maybe more. Work day's end...time for me to make my way to the little tea house he'll be waiting in, the delicate little sandwiches and the pot of tea patient upon the frilly cloth-covered table. I am ready for him, as I have been since that sensual call at noon that shattered the serenity of my soul. I am more than ready... Work day's end...and the last student walks in, asking about the task I had given the class that morning. "My day is over!' I say, looking pointedly at my watch. "I'm sorry, miss, but I don't understand the question," the girl replies, adopting an injured air, in anticipation of the righteous indignation she knows she will feel when I turn her away. I am ready for her... "If you had been in class, missy, instead of at the end of the hall sucking faces with Dave, you might have heard the clear directions I gave the whole class." Thrust for thrust, parry for parry... My thoughts go to him, to the call at midday, to the heavy breathing, the softly spoken words of raw lust he breathes into my ear. I blink... "I wasn't..." she begins, and I spear her with a withering look. She stops speaking, and drops her eyes, a preface, no doubt, to the hang-dog look she will adopt as soon as she perceives she will be turned away. My tryst awaits - his arms, his hands, his mouth... "Jessica, the instructions on the sheet that follow the question are very clear. I suggest you read them again, when you get home, before you decide you don't understand. What have I said about reading directions?" Through the thickening mists of my own need, I can almost hear the rusty wheels turning in her head as she tries to recall what I may have said in one of her infrequent visits to my class about reading directions. Finding that all the doors she manages to open hide only empty rooms, she bites her bottom lip. I bite back the retort that springs first to my lips.... "See? That's another thing you've missed." I turn from her to shut down the computer. "E-mail me tonight if, after you have read it carefully, you still don't know what to do." I move from behind the desk, and she leaves, reluctantly, a pout upon her pretty red lips. I shrug into the heavy coat - it is well below freezing out of doors - and hurry out to the car... I see him as I round the corner, standing in the freezing cold, his head uncovered, waiting for me... My heart speeds up, my hands begin to sweat inside the leather gloves. I park and reach him without much conscious thought, and his arms enfold me. "You came!" he says, and kisses me. "I missed you!" I reply, and kiss him back. We both collect ourselves...it is a conscious effort on our parts, marked by the firm hand he places on my shoulder to push me away from his mouth, marked by my licking suddenly parched lips. "Tea!" he announces into the distracted air, and shepherds me inside. The teapot appears, as if by magic, the little plate of sandwiches, and a pot of strawberry preserves for the biscuits (that's what they call them where he's from). He settles me in my chair, taking my coat and hanging it with his along the wall. I pour his tea into a tall glass teacup and offer him the sugar. "Sandwich?" I ask, and he takes two. I watch him bite into the little triangle, his tongue appearing to lick a crumb from his bottom lip. He smiles at me, a knowing smile, and sips his tea. I spread some of the strawberry on a cracker and, on a whim, offer it to him. He holds my hand, and takes the cracker whole into his mouth, licking the jam that's on my fingers along the way. And as he lets me go, he slides the point of a stiff finger along my palm. I swallow a moan... "My turn!" he says, his voice low, his intent plain. He smears some more of the fruity concoction on a second cracker and pulls me in with his eyes. "Open up for me!" he asks, and I feel him place the cracker on my tongue, fruit side down. I close my mouth, as my legs open to the insistent push of his feet between mine, and suck, and then I chew the sweet treat. "Good?" he wants to know. I nod, unable to take my eyes from his. "Have another?" I nod again, and he slides his foot slowly up my leg. I moan, and he sets the cracker against my parted lips, his eyes begging me for admittance. I open my mouth again, and he slides it in, making a smear of fruit on my lip. Before I can lick it off, he swipes it with his finger, and sucks the digit into his mouth, his eyes never leaving mine... "Why were you late?" he asks, feeding me a dainty sandwich next, and sidling around to my side. I cannot think... "A student..." I begin, and then his hand finds its way into my lap. I choke. He smiles and pats my back... Work day's end... ********************************************** After midnight...and can you hear the whisper of the silken sheets across her heated skin? After midnight...and can you feel the shimmer of heat roll off his hardening rod? After midnight... ...she shivers, as much with cold as with desire. He has not come in as yet, but she can hear him in the other room. What is he doing now? The cool blue satin sheets chills her as she stretches against them in the dark, and waits for him to come. It had been a long day...a hard day, and she had been exhausted when she walked in the door. Exhausted and ready for a hot bath and bed. The note on the coffee table had set her pulse to racing... "Dinner will be late. Your bath is set. Have a drink till I get there!" Upstairs, the bath had been full of bubbles, the air in the room flavored with her favorite strawberry-scented candles. She had stripped slowly, enjoying the smells that assaulted her senses, and noticing the wine in a cooler and the glasses on the edge of the bath. She had sipped from the glass he had poured for her, and had hummed along with the music on the radio. The bath had been a glorious feast for her senses ...but yet, she had wanted him there, with her. She had stepped out when the water had begun to cool, and she had begun to nod off in the tub, and had wrapped herself in the deep red silk robe he had thoughtfully provided...no underwear, she had noticed with a shiver of anticipation. He had met her in the bedroom, and had kissed her deeply, making her moan with desire. "Get into bed," he had whispered huskily in her ear, "and wait for me. I'll be right back!" Now here she lay, naked and aroused. She watches the shadows play on the wall opposite the bed, and thinks fancifully that she would give anything to feel his big body crushing her into the mattress, as long as his cock finds a home in her now aching sex. The very thought makes her squirm, and she moves her body against the sheets seductively, sliding her hands over them, pulling them against her nipples. "Move over!" he says, and she blinks. He slides into the bed beside her, and reaches for her. His hands are rough, calloused, and their touch on her bare skin heats her blood to boiling. "Hey! Thanks for the bath!" she whispers. "But I missed you..." She lets her voice trail off. "I was always there, baby!" he says into her hair. "I never left you...and I never will!" He pulls her over to his face, and kisses her again and again on her willing, wanting mouth, plumbing its depths, sliding alongside her tongue and mating with it, and following suit with his hard man's body. She is dizzy when he lets her go. "Ready for more?" he wants to know, raking his scorching gaze over her. She slides a leg over his in answer, and pushes her hips against him. "Whenever you are, big boy!' she says hoarsely. "Can you handle me?" He laughs...and she shivers. After midnight... Vignette 02 Flawless skin. Creamy but not quite pale, smooth except for a few tiny laugh lines, minor crinkles at the edges of her eyes that will one day be full on wrinkles, and no less charming for it. As she examines me I wonder if her skin is similarly unblemished all over her body. Her shape is similarly flawless, long and lean, strong and curvy, delicate where need be. I can smell her dark, shimmery hair at this slight distance, something floral or fruity or a combination of the two. The scent, her presence and this entire line of thinking are beginning to turn me on. "Does it hurt here?" she asks, pressing her thumb into the outer edge of my pained foot. "Yes." "And here?" Her voice is robust but controlled, a musical instrument played by a master musician. Harmonious. Listening to her talk I'm enveloped by the richness and tone, the rise and fall of each syllable as if they were carefully constructed musical phrases. She shifts slightly, crouching literally at my feet. "And here?" I look down to see her slide her manicured hands further up my foot, again pressing with significant force. "No." Still looking down at her hands, those petite, strong fingers gliding over the skin and bones of my foot, prodding and measuring, seeking the source of the pain, I see her shift again, leaning forward, and her blouse balloons open to my view. Her breasts are, naturally, perfect. Full and round, creamy white in a way that provokes the obvious thought of milk, of life, of the pleasure of taste, which leads inexorably back to scent. Her soap or perfume is very mild, present mostly as a wash of cleanliness in the air. As her hands continue to work my foot my eyes take in the sight of those breasts, hanging away from her chest but contained in a lace edged black bra. They shift slightly as her arms move with the travel of her hands. In this way her breasts and my body are somehow connected. The motion of them so delighting my eyes is caused by the exploration of her hands, which is translated to my senses as the repetitive sliding, pressing, grabbing and touching of my foot. I want to return the favor her hands do my feet, exploring and touching her in every way. This roundabout connection between her breasts and my body prompts me to ponder how those perfect breasts would feel in my hands. Her entire bra is now visible, an accident of her modest scoop necked blouse having enough play to part from the contours of her delicious body, coupled with a perfect angle of view afforded by our relative positions. This could be described as some sort of confluence, the melding of a small series of events into a moment of perfection culminating in an extended, uninterrupted view of her breasts. I am certain they would fill my hands, warm, simultaneously soft and firm in the way only a woman's breasts can be. "And there?" The pressure is more intense this time. She is close to ascertaining all of the points of pain that have hobbled me this past week, and wants to be sure. "Definitely." My eyes slide unwillingly from those lovely mounds to watch her hands at work. Her head remains down. Had she glanced up in the last few moments she would have caught me. As my eyes leap back to enjoy the considerable cleavage inside her blouse I cannot avoid thinking about her reaction should she discover me. Would she be angry? Amused? Bemused? Wary? Indifferent? I suspect her excellent health and obvious care for her appearance rules out indifference. I grunt at the sudden flash of pain, almost nauseating in its intensity. "There." This time a statement, not a question. "Damn," I mutter, as she lets up the pressure. She makes a half chuckling sound in the back of her throat, low pitched and spine tingling. "Sorry about that." Her eyes meet mine as she turns my foot in her soft hands, moving to the heel to seek out more pain. Her gaze is as direct as her manner, one of the many things I admire about her. She shifts again, head declining to follow the track of her hands over my sensitive appendage. In this position the scoop has narrowed but deepened, and I can see past her breasts and down along her stomach to a vanishing point somewhere near where the blouse disappears into the waist of her pants. The skin there looks every bit as smooth and unblemished as what she chooses to make visible. I want very much to slide my hands over her warm, firm stomach, to indulge the nerves in my fingers and palms with the heat and silkiness of that expanse. In a way I don't immediately understand seeing her stomach exposed when it is so clearly intended to be hidden is somehow both more intimate and more erotic than drinking in her sublime breasts. That flat expanse of stomach, her exposed rib cage, the belly button I cannot make out for lack of light – those are, in this environment, in this specific moment, much more private, much more off limits, intended to be invisible to an interloper like me. That realization, the recognition of how privileged I am to contemplate that part of her magnificent body, all of the thoughts and suppositions about how she might feel to my hands there, taste to my lips there, move rhythmically beneath me finally trigger the inevitable reaction. I become rapidly erect, and know that some time in the next few moments she will come eye to eye with that fact. I am mildly anxious, potentially embarrassed, and profoundly aroused. Vignette #03 Vignette #03 - Homecoming It's 7:30 in the evening, and she has just come home. It's a long commute each way to work and back. She pushes open the door from the garage to the house, and the warmth envelops her instantly. She turns, closes the garage door, and he is there, helping her off with her coat. She smiles her thanks at him. "Drink?" he asks. "Yes, but I don't know what I want. Don't normally have a drink when I get home." She lets him lead her to the little sitting room with the piano, the grandfather clock, and the plants. "Sit you down, and I'll bring you a glass of Harvey's," he says, and pushes her gently into the loveseat. She closes her eyes, and feels weariness roll over her. She sinks further into the seat, and stirs to find him looking down at her. "Wake up, sleepyhead! Have a drink while I run you a hot bath. Jets or no jets?" "Jets, please, and bubbles!" she says immediately, and sips the sherry. She takes another sip, and then puts the glass down on the floor next to the seat. Putting her head back again, she sighs and dozes. A fingertip on her cheek wakes her. "You're a light sleeper, aren't you?" he asks, urging her to stand. "Um hm," she mumbles, still sleepy. "Time for your bath," he says and leads her upstairs. He helps her undress and slides his hands over her big breasts, along her arms and down to the bush at her mound of pleasure. She sighs, and moans a little, and he lets a finger slide in. She moans louder and sways against him. "Maybe I should let you relax in the tub," he whispers in her ear, dropping a light kiss on the lobe, and sliding his lips along the edge to settle them behind it, where he licks the tender flesh. She moans again, shivering. "You're making it hard for me to stand," she protests, leaning against him bonelessly. "You're making me hard," he responds seductively, "but you don't hear me complaining, now do you?" He pulls her against him, wanting to kiss her slightly parted lips, but knowing she is tired. He fights against the urge to devour her, and instead, helps her into the tub. She looks at him inquiringly. "Not joining me?" She cocks an eyebrow at him. "If you'd like," he says, his pulse quickening madly. She licks her lips. "I'd like!" Her eyes burn into him, increasing his heart rate even further. He is sure she can hear it pounding in his chest. In a minute, he has joined her, sitting across from her, and using his toes to tease her flesh. The pulsing jets of water and his roving toes make her clit swell, and her vagina ache with need. He watches her eyes roll back in her head as he slides his big toe up and down her slit, tickling her clit, making it grow harder with each touch. When he pushes into her vagina, she groans loudly. "Like that?" he asks huskily. "Mmmm, yes!" she answers, and looks directly at him, as though she is asking for something. She has parted her lips again, and he cannot resist. He moves over to her side, and pulls her around to face him, lifting her slightly and settling her atop his aching rod. "Too tired to ride, my sweet?" he asks, pressing his erection against her hot flesh, and sliding his tongue into her mouth, devouring her. For answer, she eases herself up enough to make room for him, and slides a hand down to his engorged sex, guiding it into her warm folds. Now HE groans, as they move against each other, the warm water sloshing around them. Their movements are slow, although each wants to go faster, push harder, burn hotter. The torture is exquisite, mind-blowing. They push each other higher and higher, winding up the passion between them. He reaches between them and rubs a shaking finger against her clit and she bursts the banks of her control, boiling over and convulsing around him. He feels her orgasm as a pulsing grip on him, and he shoots into her, growling with pleasure and pain. They hold each other until the spasms abate, kissing lips and cheeks and eyes, hugging each other close. When the ecstasy subsides, he washes her tenderly. "Hungry?" he asks, when they are both dry and she is dressed in her comfy old red dressing gown. "Peckish," she says. "Maybe some salad?" She is tired, and would go to bed without eating, but she knows he will insist. "I'll get it," she says when he turns to leave the room, but he raises a hand. "No problem at all! I'll be back in a flash!" True to his word, he is back in five minutes, and she is lying on her side, the gown gaping open, and a brown breast showing. The garment is hiked up around her long legs, and he feels himself stir again. She is watching him, her eyes at once drowsy and aroused, her lips parted again, and she is breathing heavily. He puts the plate down, and reaches for her...