Editor's Note: This is the beginning of a chain story, each part of which is written by a Literotica author. The authors were challenged to create a story that revolves around the image of the lady on our front page. Chapters will be added each week. For a full schedule and more information,
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Prologue
I have toyed with the notion of keeping a diary, or a journal, of what I have done, seen, or accomplished from time to time. I have put pen to paper on occasion, and certainly I have exchanged letters with lovers. Points of my life have been vastly interesting and worthy of notation, others dull as a stump. Now that I am of a certain age and find myself at loose ends during the quiet calm of these spring days, I have grown introspective. I sit in the garden oasis I have created on my veranda and stare over the vast, sometimes seething, sometimes playful ocean. Such an activity induces one to thought, and my thoughts invariably return to my past.
So I have chosen to write. Having a memoir has a certain appeal, perhaps it is merely my vanity. Perhaps it is to have some evidence of my existence to leave behind as I have no children. Perhaps it is that I have reached the time in my life where I am looking at my future through my past, and a memoir is my method of re-finding myself. Affirming my identity, if only for myself.
I am not sure how one goes about writing a memoir; I am not given to reading such things. Is it appropriate to consider the present and reflect upon the future before moving to the past? Or should I begin, "Once upon a time...?" I have no true idea, so I will simply work my way about it. Supposedly a memoir ought to be entirely written by the autobiographer, but I will include the correspondence I've had with my lovers. The letters that were written to me, and by me. There is prose that has been dedicated to me, poetry as well. Shall I include these things? Perhaps I might, perhaps not. My memoir does not have to be written by me entirely, it is my memoir. I am writing for my own gratification and I have been known to be capricious.
The question is now, where should I begin? So many things crowd to the front, things that were life altering, or stand out in my memory as special. The dominance games where I played at the darker life at the Cirque du Sensual changed me in ways I have yet to describe. My days with Mirabella in Paris where loving was covered with soft rose scented perfume and even softer skin are indelible in my mind. Of all my lovers, I miss her terribly. What of that American cowboy who taught me different sorts of rope tricks? The engaging Brazilian who delighted in exhibiting our sex in public, however could I forget him? My gorgeous, brooding Italian with the artist's fingers? Or my days frolicking in Amsterdam? Perhaps I should begin at the beginning, where I lost my virginity and discovered that sex was not a shameful act, but instead a wonderful exploration of the senses. Such innocence in my almost juvenile pantings. I still find myself smiling fondly at the thoughts of my naive and delighted virginal loving.
No, now that I think on it, the loss of my virginity was not the beginning of my sexuality. It was later, when I was at the university. There I learned the beginning of sensuality and learned to crave it, to crave all things sensual rather than simply the base act of sex. My introduction to the full eroticness of my body would be the perfect place to begin my memoir, which is really nothing more than a sordid tale of my sexual deviations, should you ask my sister. It is quite sad that people will cut themselves off from their bodies, deny themselves the most basic part of their being in an effort to be better than those around them. Perhaps a debauchery of the flesh is too overwhelming for some, but for me it is the celebration of my life.
Chapter 1: The Beginning of Sensuality
I had chosen to major in art history because my aptitude for art did not satisfy me. My artistic abilities, while enough to while away the time, were never better than mediocre. I could not abide mediocrity in any arena, least of all my chosen field. Instead, I took my passion for art and channeled it into the academic side of it. It was here that I chanced to meet the professor. He could have passed for any of the young, gorgeous heroes of the silver screen, instead he taught the intricacies of the Masters with a fire that instantly enamored me. I developed a crush, as did nearly every female that took his classes.
As it turned out, we both shared a passion for Martin Russell and his sleek carvings of the human form. Abstract or so full of realism the pieces seemed to almost breathe, Russell drew my attention like no other artist has ever done. Even now, I collect what I can. The professor had a small piece, an early one of Russell's that still had the traces of his unpolished talent, in his office. It was the first thing I'd noticed when I'd the chance to go there. Like all of the other silly, giggling girls, I too had manufactured an excuse, a late paper I believe, to go to his office and speak with him.
After gaining entry into his sanctum and behaving as hundreds of silly girls must have behaved prior to and after me, I locked eyes on "Georgian." It was of a female, naked and sinuous. She was reaching languidly for something above her, stretching up from her knees, and her leg kicked back straight behind her. She arched on her pedestal of marble. My fingers itched to touch her, to trace the graceful lines of her form and drown in the sensuality of her existence. To this day I do not recall what prompted me to do so, the look in his eyes perhaps, but I gave into my impulse. Without begging permission, I advanced on the sculpture and laid fingers to its cool surface.
I lost myself in it, the sensation of touching the sculpture was like none other. I shut my eyes and delicately traced the elegant form. Inhaling sharply, I became very aware of my sudden arousal and the itinerant sexuality I felt. My body reacted, nipples hardening and my loins quickened. I don't know quite how long I stood silently caressing the statue, but through it all the professor sat quietly in his chair, watching me do so with his intense, brooding eyes.
Eventually, I pulled away from the piece, embarrassed and chagrined at my display. My parents were good people and had taught me such things were best left behind the bedroom door with one's husband. I was ashamed of myself. I glanced furtively at the professor and formed an apology. Before the words could leave my lips, he gently asked, "What did you feel?"
His question surprised me. I had expected recriminations, to be reminded that it was a valuable piece of property and an even more priceless piece of art. It should never be handled if possible. The oils from one's fingertips can be destructive as time passes.
"I felt the glass."
"No, inside of you, when you closed your eyes and let your head fall back. What did you feel?" My embarrassed blush stained my cheeks, and I blurted, "Awe."
He stood, never taking his eyes from mine, and came around his desk. I backed a step, my hand going to my heart and my eyes widening. I was such an innocent. The professor was the epitome of the male predator, not the kind that hurts women, the kind that seduces them. Had I been a little more worldly, a little more knowledgeable, I would have recognized his movements as such.
Gently, so as not to frighten me no doubt, he picked up my hand. "What did you feel when you caressed her? What did you feel here?" He pressed my fingers to the tip of my breast, brushing across the nipple that was still a hardened point.
Helplessly, I stared into his eyes, shocked and languorous all at the same time. "I touched the statue, and..."
"... and your nipples grew hard. Tell me what you felt inside, tell me what it was that made your nipples hard."
I closed my eyes, thinking back to my fingers running over the statue so lightly that every crease was a new experience for the sensitive pads. "It was the touch," I murmured. He said nothing while I remembered. "The coolness of the composite glass and the heat of my fingers combined with the erotic pose of the statue. She has such a leonine grace, such a feline sexuality that touched me. I want to be with her, I wanted to be her."
I opened my eyes again, snapping back from the reverie that had threatened to overtake me again. The professor was contemplating me again. He watched me as if I were some new piece of fascinating sculpture, a piece of art that he itched to touch. I felt helpless against the sheer magnetism of his gaze. I was too young or too naive to understand it, much less defend against it. Reflecting back on the few moments when our eyes locked, I recognize that this was the pivotal moment of my life.
He lifted a hand and extended his long, artist's finger, pressing the digit to my lips lightly. His voice was husky and soothing, not quite as mellow as the tones he lectured with. "What is your name?"
"Erica." The feel of my lips moving along his finger was decadent, wrong, and thrilling. My lips tingled and the sensation flowed through my nerves.
"Erica. Come to my apartment this evening. I have more works by Martin Russell you may like."
"You will just show me more sculpture?"
"Perhaps. It depends on what we discover. Here is the address, do be discrete."
I stared at the little scrap of paper he had pressed to my hand, feeling vastly uncertain and not a little excited. The professor retreated from me, sitting down behind his desk and absorbing himself fully in the papers strewn upon it. I looked up at him, wondering if I should say something, but I had been clearly dismissed. Snapping my mouth shut, I gathered my knapsack and left.
That night, after the sun had descended and dusk had fallen, I got out of my car. It was a little, old Volkswagon that had seen better days and several impoverished college students through their tenure here. I had been sitting, fretting and worrying, wondering when I should knock or if I should leave. In the end there really wasn't a choice. I was going into the professor's lair and if were to become his prey, then I would do so willingly. I knocked on the door, knowing full well what I thought I was doing.
My sheer innocence still astounds me. I had believed myself in control and that I knew exactly what I was getting into. In my ignorance, I had thought that there would be nothing more than sex and that would that. Our bodies joined elementally and then on to our separate ways. I fully believed that I could beard the lion in his den and walk away unscathed and unchanged. If I had known what the professor would teach me about myself, would I have still gone to him? I like to think that I had the courage for it. But I will never know.
The professor wore the same slacks and white button down shirt he had taught in. The only difference was his bare feet, lack of a tie, and addition of a pair of reading glasses. I stood in the warm foyer of his home, unable to look above my own feet. My heart was in my throat and I wished nothing more than to be elsewhere. He hooked a finger under my chin and gently pried my eyes to his face. He was smiling gently. "Come with me. It will be all right."
I followed him deeper into his home, to the den full of wood, books, and priceless art. He had several Russells and what appeared to be an original O'Keefe hanging on a wall. A fire flickered, basking the cream colored rug and furnishings in a glowing warmth.
