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Planting soft, wet kisses on my skin, Hugo blazed a trail from my pussy along my belly and up to my tits. Taking care to be gentle, he lightly sucked one nipple and then the other. Always making sure to stimulate the one not between his beautiful lips lightly with his fingertips. His other hand continued tenderly working my pussy, keeping me relaxed and ready.
The trail continued up between my tits to my neck. Plying tender licks and nibbles making me moan. His fingers working my pussy toward a second orgasm. The walls of my pussy drawing even tighter around his fingers. Agreeing with me in not wanting him to stop.
Moving up to my lips, he came to be right on top of me. The head of his cock pressed up against my pussy, kissing met tenderly. Stroking his head against me to help me relax even further, he eased inside me. The soft throb of his beautiful cock like a second heartbeat as he lovingly took my virginity.
Strength drained from me as my climax faded. Leaving me slack and heaving in the affordable piece of Swedish ergonomics. Some absent part of my brain noticed that the lumbar support was really first-rate. I carefully removed my fingers, sucking them clean. Finding I rather enjoyed the taste of myself. Sweet with just a bit of a tang.
I didn’t know when it would come. Just that it would. The obligatory wave of guilt that came with anything forbidden like this. I mean really, masturbating to fantasies of my new boss taking my v-card? But somehow an hour passed, with no such guilt. No matter how many times I looked over my shoulder, metaphorically, to see if it was approaching. I hadn’t gone blind. No lighting had crackled from the sky. It felt good, and that was all.
Chapter Two - Hugo
The image appeared as though by magic. Rising up out of the rough surface of the canvas. First as an outline, drawn in charcoal, then in full living color. The rosy flesh added to the cheeks, the light of life to the eyes.
It was like surgery. Each precise and practiced movement yielding the expected result. The pen might be mightier than the sword, the brush was sharper than the scalpel. Revealing the bones and skeleton of the world.
I’d gone through the usual motions. Feeling ever more like a fraud. Made a ritual of slipping into my pure silk pajamas and cap, looking much like a character from classic literature. Even if The Night Before Christmas had long ago passed. I did the thing with the warm milk, with if anything only made me more alert. I even, to my eternal shame, tried counting sheep. Getting to one-hundred thousand before I decided to give up.
The sandman was not going to grace me with a visit that night. Much like every other night for the past five years. Were it not for occasional catnaps during the daylight hours, all the doctors would agree, sleep deprivation would have done for me years ago. One particular insomnia specialist of advanced years and considerable experience, claimed to have never seen anything like it.
Beyond help, by either science, milk, or sheep, I did what I always did when in doubt. I created. Writing was out of the question. There was still the book to contend with. I knew, as sure as the sun rose and God made little green apples, I would never be able to work on anything else until it was out of my mind and off my chest. Otherwise, it would haunt me like a ghost the rest of my days. Sadly fitting really.
So, painting it was. I’d never even picked up a brush before I was 30, yet, there I was, an adult prodigy unknown even to myself. The term some liked to use for a situation like mine was ‘savant,’ even if it wasn’t wholly accurate
Their insistence on the term most likely stemmed from an inability to reconcile the idea of discovering talent late-in-life. The general myth was that true talent is cultivated from a young age; Mozart being the go-to example. Honestly, I’d just never thought to try.
That’s not to say it was easy. I still had to learn. No one is born knowing geometric technique. Yet, learn I did, and within a year I could make photo-realistic renderings. All kept safe in my room. The discovery of them would be just another thing to make people interested. Which could only lead to more calls for me to come out of hiding. Not to mention renewed speculation as to why I’d disappeared in the first place. It wasn’t the time. I still had thinking to do before I could face the world again.
The room was beginning to grow light as I put the last stroke on the signature. A habit I’d gotten into without really meaning to. It would have been so nice. A series of paintings with no signature. No way of knowing, let alone proving who had created them. The only thing to go by being the work itself. That hack Warhol never thought of that, did he
