~ "The night-time of the body is the daytime of the soul" ~ Tantric saying.
Last night I dreamed of a black horse. Upon waking, I looked in the dictionary of dreams that I keep in my bedside table to see if there is any significance to this particular night time vision. It seems a dream of a black horse is a dream of passion. Considering all that has happened in the past weeks, I am not surprised.
She was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. The petite figure perfect. A coal black mane hung down to the small of her back and shimmered with highlights that matched the blue of her eyes.
"It's entitled Black Horse," she said, slightly aloof, raising her elegantly rounded chin slightly as we stood before Maurice Boucher's latest offering in the Maroczy Gallery on 75th. and Patzer Way.
All I saw were globs of paint that looked like they had been applied straight from the tube with, to me, no rhyme or reason. Horse Shit would have been a more apt title, I was thinking.
There wasn't a price listed. That would have been too declasse.
"It has a hard on," I said, nodding with a knowing air, rubbing my chin.
She stared at me for a moment, taking in the grungy jeans, the faded black T-shirt, then at the painting. I could almost hear the gears grinding, tiny wheels whirring.
She turned back toward me with a slightly suspicious, slightly speculative look that narrowed her long-lashed lids. I didn't look successful, and I didn't look gay. I was six-two, broad and muscular.
"Are you an art critic?" she asked, her tone skeptical. A lovely brow was cocked ever so slightly as she waited for my answer before deciding whether to drop the haughty manner.
"Actually a painter," I lied. I knew nothing about art, but then I doubted Maurice or this lovely thing did either.
"Oh," she replied, slightly distant, taken aback. If I was a painter I wouldn't be buying.
But then not too distant, for one could never tell. I might be one of those rare odd ball painters who were rich and famous, perhaps a friend of the curator. She wouldn't want to risk offending. For all she knew I might have a painting or two hanging in the gallery.
"Jason Sloane," I lied again giving her my best winning smile. It was a name I'd recalled seeing on a series of abstract paintings once at a local exhibit. I extended my hand.
She took it with a far off look clouding her eyes, no doubt she was trying to place the name. I could see she hadn't.
"I occasionally have a showing in the gallery," I said.
"Oh?" This time there was interest in the 'oh'.
I knew she had just started at the gallery because I played chess a lot in the park across the street on my free time when I wasn't tending bar nights in Rick's Tavern down the block; I knew all the employees by sight from watching them come and go day after day.
"Actually I just popped in to say hi to David." David was David Clairemont the curator. At least that's what the brochure in the lobby said. "And that's when I saw you standing here by the Boucher. You're new, aren't you?"
A nervous smile. "Yes, it's my first day." The haughty manner was gone; the human being struggled to emerge like a figure out of a partially finished sculpture. "I'm afraid I still don't know exactly what I'm supposed to be doing. Mr. Bacon, the manager, just told me to circulate and smile a lot. Mrs. Freely, the art director, was supposed to show me the ropes, but she has the flu and won't be back for another two or three days."
"Well, I wouldn't worry," I said. "I'm sure you'll work out fine. I'll put in a good word for you with David." I gave her a wink.
Her smile indicated that she was impressed and grateful. She was hooked; now all I had to do was start reeling her in.
I sweet talked her into lunch at Fianchetto's, a sidewalk cafe, and over Florentine minestrone and a young Beaujolais, slightly chilled, I managed to talk her into posing nude for me -- hinting that fame might come to her as it had to Picasso's mistress, Fernande.
My cock was hard as a rock as we climbed three flights of stairs to my studio apartment. Actually it wasn't my apartment. I was merely house-sitting for a friend who was on vacation overseas. But it was perfect for my purposes. It had a skylight on a sloped ceiling. And since my friend was an amateur artist there was a easel in a corner with tubes of paint and blank canvases. Even a few abstracts finished. I had no idea if they were any good or not, but Wanda -- that was her name, Wanda Smith -- thought they were very good, and she chattered away about how they were nice examples of the 'non-representational', and being 'much in the vein of Kandinsky', and so on.
To me her summation sounded like something parroted from freshman art class.
I offered her some more wine: a Madeira, a heavy malmsey, this time. And after a couple of glasses and some soft vibes from the stereo, I suggested she remove her clothes and let me pose her.
My cock was throbbing so vigorously by this time that I was afraid I would cum before I got started.
For a moment she hesitated, and my heart stalled; the thought that she might back out was more than I could bear. I was more turned on by her than I could ever remember being with another woman. I had to see her naked. Had to have her. To . . . well, you know . . . .
Carefully she sat her wine glass down with a noticeable intake of breath and stood up. A rhythmic Latin number was playing. She began swaying to the beat as she removed her blouse.
My heart moved up to my throat and lodged there.
Slowly she moved her hips from side to side, lowering her skirt, stepping out of it and tossing it on the couch next to the blouse.
She was gorgeous. The skin an unsullied, creamy white. The breasts were full and firm, jiggling provocatively as she tossed her bra aside.
Shyly she avoided my eyes, and I sensed that within her a raw animal hunger was vying with an innocent, modest reserve compelling her to do something she would normally not do. And that made me want her even more.
When she was naked she walked with a slightly tipsy lilt to where a pallet with an arrangement of pillows had been set up.
I pulled my T-shirt out and let it hang down so my hard-on wouldn't show; when I stood up I felt my legs tremble slightly.
She smelled of a heavenly scent. The red silk covering over the pallet formed a backdrop that set off her naked flesh dramatically. Her baby blues stared up at me, and I was thrilled to discover a rising eagerness in them. Whether intentional or not her body shifted into daringly provocative poses at my slightest touch. Her skin was soft and warm.
"Don't you need to tweak my nipples?" she asked disingenuously and sent my blood pressure soaring.
I remembered from reading it somewhere that photographers manipulated nipples to make them show up clearly -- but not painters. Stupidly I was almost on the verge of telling her that when I realized what an asinine mistake that would be.
"Yes, quite right," I said coming to my senses.
I touched them. Held them between my thumbs and forefingers and rolled them slightly. They were already as hard as pebbles. She arched her back as I squeezed them, milking them. A small murmur came out as her red lips fluttered apart in a sigh.
Her small hands covered mine pressing them tightly against her breasts. No music was sweeter to my ears than her passionate moans of ecstasy.
"Kiss me all over," she whispered hotly after pulling my head down until her lips were against my ear.
I stood up and quickly removed my clothes, flinging them away from me as if they were on fire. Released from the confinement of my jeans my cock became fully hard with trembling jerks until it slapped up against my belly.
She reached up and grabbed it around the base and pulled me back down next to her on my knees.
"Kiss me all over," she repeated, writhing sensuously up against me.
Our mouths met in a wet, feverish kiss. Our slick tongues entwining. My hands ranged frantically over her body as hers did over mine. She gripped my tongue between her smooth white teeth and made a grrr sound, then pulled me over on top of her.
"I can't wait," she said, gasping for breath.
She grabbed my cock and held it against her cunt lips.
If there was need for a rubber it was too late, for I was already dipping deep into her well.
She began bucking her hips against me, her breath hot and ragged against my cheek.
I began thrusting into her. Drawing my cock out to the tip, then ramming it back in.
I felt her cuming; her cunt muscles squeezed my cock like a tiny python.
"Don't stop," she begged. Her hands gripped my buttocks holding me in her as she trembled uncontrollably beneath me.
She came again as I pulled out and began licking at her like a raunchy hound. I circled her nipples with the tip of my tongue, flaying them with it as if it were a whip. Her fingers became entwined in my hair pulling and twisting as she cooed unintelligibly, her body as compliant as a young willow bending in the wind.
I explored every inch of her, licking, sucking and kissing as if the world was coming to an end. Like Phil Specter's 'Wall of Sound' her moans formed a continuous backdrop to my slurpee machinations.
When my mouth locked on her cunt lips, she went crazy, humping, twisting and grinding her lithe body against me like someone having a seizure.
I had already cumed once; now I began spewing fuck all over her, and when depleted I fell in a semi-stupor next to her.
I watched, through half-lidded eyes, as she scooped up my cum from her belly and lick it from her fingers. When she was through she snuggled up next to me, and we slept.
When I woke up the next morning rain was tapping at the skylight.
She was gone. Wanda.
I should have been happy. Another conquest. Just another one night stand. But something wasn't right.
I took a shower, then made some coffee.
My chess set was on the table. A black piece had been moved.
The black knight to Nf6.
The previous day I had opened with the white pawn to c4 intending to play myself but hadn't got back to it.
Under the knight, which was in the shape of a horse's head on a pedestal, was a folded scrap of paper.
I opened it.
~ Let's play ~
As I glanced around the room I noticed something else amiss. The easel had been moved. Fresh tubes of paint had been squeezed empty and one of the blank canvases was missing.
That night I had my first dream. I was mounted on a black horse on a giant chess board. I had defeated all the white queen's minions and was pursuing her through a forest of pawns.
She was naked, and as she ran from me she glanced over her shoulder with terror in her eyes. The white king was powerless to help her, for he was blocked by a rook and a bishop.
She was mine!
I gained on her. My cock was huge and hard. The foreskin had slid back over the bulbous head, dripping pre-cum, and was slapping my belly in rhythmic time to the three-beat gait of the black horse.
Leaning down like a Cossack jighit, I grabbed her around the waist and straddled her across the black horse in front of me.
The foaming, white lather of the horse and the sweaty heat of our naked bodies made my slick cock slide up and down in the crack of her wet ass with titillating ease.
