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Stimulating
Stories About Sex
A Compilation of Literate
Erotica
We
Proudly Present:
Art and
Life
- a
gallery of
vignettes -
by Harry Merkin
This short
story is a work of
fiction. Names,
characters, places and
incidents either are the
product of the author’s
vivid imagination or are
used fictitiously. Any
resemblance to actual
human beings, living or
dead, business
enterprises, events or
locales is entirely
coincidental.
Part 4
We were invited to model together for the last
session of the advanced figure drawing class.
DD accepted for both of us and told me later.
She explained the professor said he had
attended such a session at a prestigious art
academy in Europe. He had shown DD some of his
30-year-old drawings from that class. He had
used a sepia pencil. He explained the couple
held their poses for only two minutes or so.
He had created hurried renderings of
disjointed lines and curves that hinted of
shapes and volumes and raw sexuality. He had
been filling in details and adding minimal
shading over the years. They were, every one
of them, masterpieces. DD had held them and
held them up to the light, and arranged them
on top of that large format horizontal file
cabinet and adjacent cabinets. DD told me they
reminded her of the drawings of da Vinci and
Rembrandt. Her professor acknowledged the
huge, unpayable debt he owed that couple, both
of them ballet dancers, who had done
everything you would expect a young French
couple to do. Her professor asked her if we
could give her fellow students such an
extraordinary gift.
“Dierdra, could you do it? I’ve known since
our first fuck how bold you are. Think about
this. The class will see our foreplay, our
excitation, our engorged genitals, our intense
love-making, sweat drops forming and then
being flung off our bodies, and they will hear
your squeals of delight, and our mounting
vocalizations as we approach climax, and then
your screams when you come.”
“Ruairi, stop that. You’re making me wet.”
“You haven’t answered my question.”
“I could do it with some tequila shots.”
“I wouldn’t want to take advantage of you
under those conditions.”
“I won’t be drunk. I need several cubic
centimeters of José Cuervo. He gives me mucho
courage. And, Ruairi, please, don’t tickle me
while we are posing.”
…
We select Vivaldi’s, The Four Seasons, to be the
soundtrack for the session. It lasts about 42
minutes. The class was told the previous week
that attendance would be mandatory for the
final session, it would be their final exam,
and their work today would count for fifty
percent of their second semester grade.
The class trickles in. They see the old sepia
drawings. Two dozen of them had been matted
and framed. They are in awe. After 10 minutes
or so, the professor asks them to take their
places. He tells them to work fast and to
capture the quintessence of each pose. He
tells them they can fill in details at their
leisure.
The music begins. I walk in from behind the
curtain. I’m wearing just a thin, white
cotton/lycra bikini brief that barely holds my
erection. I reach the chair on the platform,
stand for a few seconds, smile at DD, and
gesture for her to come up. She is blushing.
Oh god, she is so red. She is glued to her
chair. She acts paralyzed. I step down to her;
take her hand. We go up to the platform. We
kiss. We keep kissing and I begin to unbutton
her saffron-colored blouse with orange-red
piping. I slowly remove her blouse, hand it to
her. She waves it overhead and lets if fall.
Her nipples are already hard. I kiss her
breasts, first one, then the other, for at
least two minutes. DD is moaning. She is
melting. She is burning with intense desire.
I unbutton her madras skirt at the waist and
pull down the zipper. It flutters down her
legs. She kicks it off our platform. She is
now naked, completely naked. Where is her
matching bikini brief? She gives me her hand.
I take it. We hold hands, swing them back and
forth like children do and give each other our
best smiles. We embrace, passionately. We hold
that pose. Our hearts are racing, our
breathing erratic, and we forget where we are
and that we have a rapt audience.
She starts to pull down my bikini. She pulls
it down just enough to free my swollen penis.
She kneels, taking me in her mouth.
I had planned to be a stoic for this segment;
a marble statue of a man. I can’t, I can’t
stand still. I can’t be quiet. My
vocalizations are frantic, unintelligible. I’m
getting louder, much louder.
DD stops abruptly. She gives my glans a final
lick. She pulls down my bikini to the floor. I
step out of it. I help her up. She gives me
her, fuck-me-real-good look. My penis
twitches.
DD goes to the chair, leans over the chair
back cushioned with folded towels and grips
the seat. Her genitalia face the class. I
gently caress her backside for about two
minutes, then, I reach in and slowly massage
her clit. DD is normally very vocal when I do
that. She’s holding back. I increase my tempo.
The dam breaks. Her sounds of ecstasy grow
louder and louder. I slip my hard hard-on into
her vagina. She loves the greater depth of
penetration when we fuck this way. I lose
myself. I am physically united with the love
of my life. Back and forth, back and forth, I
give her what she craves. I give her a
potential new life. DD went off the pill two
months ago. We want a child, our child, God
willing, the first of several. We have already
selected Celtic names for them.
After what seems like an eternity, I shudder
and ejaculate. The spurts keep coming and
coming. I fill DD. We keep that pose, then I
pull out. My semen and her secretions are
dripping out of her vagina. My dick is slowly
going limp. It glistens and drips. I face the
class with closed eyes and a huge grin. We
hold that pose.
.
I help DD get up. I pick up two green,
construction paper fig leaves from the chair.
DD has drooled on them! She picks up the apple
and holds it up to her lips. I hand her one of
the fig leaves. She holds it in front of my
dick. I hold the other one in front of her mons.
The music ends less than two minutes later.
Their applause becomes a standing ovation.
They cheer. They shout our names.
...
We dress on the platform after DD has gone
behind the curtain and come out with my duffel
bag. She finds the package of bikini briefs.
We each don a new one. I help DD put on the
camisole that we had left on the chair
beforehand.
“What happened to your first bikini?”
She whispers in my ear:
“I was changing in the restroom and suddenly
threw up. I was about to put it on but had to
use it to wipe my mouth.”
I hold her and look into her eyes. She
continues:
“It is said that King Charles threw up just
minutes before he was beheaded. He wore two
shirts so he wouldn't shiver from the January
cold and have his shivering be mistaken for
fear. He was afraid. I know exactly how he
felt. Ruairi, I was terrified. I had never
been more terrified in my life.”
“You were awesome, DD. You sent your terror
far, far away. I didn’t think I could love you
even more, but I do.”
We mingle with the class while the professor
grades their drawings.
They compliment us excessively, profusely and
effusively. DD and I soak it all in.
We’re there almost another hour until the
drawings have been graded and the grades
recorded. The students gather their things.
Before they leave, the professor asks the two
of us to come forward. He tells us to each
pick one of his framed masterpiece drawings.
There is more applause. We thank the professor
and he again thanks us. We arrange to pick up
the drawings he gave us in a day or two from
the Art Department office.
Hannah, the best artist in the class, has
stayed behind. She approaches us so timidly,
her voice shaky and barely audible:
“DD, I want to borrow Ruairi for tonight. I
know he’s yours and you are his. If my request
is outrageous, blame my autism and poor social
skills.”
...
Part 1
Part
2
Part
3
Part 4
Part
5
.
(additional images coming soon)
----------
Not The End
Harry Merkin (a nom de guerre) is a
dick-brain who is more articulate than an
arthropod and has many ways with words. He
tries desperately not to write like Edward
Bulwer-Lytton, but often fails.
NOTES
A. This short story is a fabrication.
B. Harry is familiar with ...
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