Memoirs Of A Lady Ch 01

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.

"What interests you in art history, Erica?" I sat in the chair he indicated, kitty corner to his spot on the end of the couch. He picked up a bottle of deep Merlot wine and poured us each a glass.

"I love art. As a child I thought myself gifted, but later I realized that while I have an aptitude, I was not good enough at it to satisfy myself. I appreciated the art around me, particularly the provenance and history of some of the pieces my father collected. When I reached the university, this was a natural choice for me."

"What interests you about sculpture?"

I covered my nervousness by picking up the Merlot and tracing its stem with my fingers. I stared into the burgundy liquid and feigned absorption. Did I wish to admit to him what I loved about this form of artistry? I hadn't the spine, not just yet. Instead, I prevaricated, "It's tactile."

"Explain that." "Unlike paintings, you can touch sculpture, it exists as a piece of art and as a presence. Canvases are cold, aloof. Sculpture is vibrantly alive, it is a part of my world in a way a mere picture can never be. It is difficult, at times, to keep from touching a piece."

The professor remained silent for a while, considering my words from behind hooded eyes. I twitched nervously in my seat. I hadn't the worldly confidence in myself, nor the knowledge of what he might be thinking that I had gained from experience. When he did reply, his voice was the deep, vibrant rasp of a man in sexual heat. The power of the tone shimmered through me like a thousand butterflies winging across a meadow. "How do you touch the most exquisite sculpture?"

"Michelangelo's David?"

"Ah, no. Yourself," he murmured, regarding me with burning eyes. Even as ignorant as I was, I recognized the sexuality in them. "How do you touch yourself?"

I flushed a deep red and couldn't lift my gaze from my tightly clenched hands in my lap. What should I tell him? Some inanity easily tossed off? That I touched myself as all silly college girls must? Or should I tell him the truth? That I enjoyed touching myself? Tracing my fingers along my collarbone, rubbing my cheek on my shoulder, the gentle caress of my thighs touching, sliding my toes down the length of the opposite calf, or a myriad of other small, daily contact to which I was addicted to?

"I touch myself like everyone else does." I had taken the coward's way and chosen to be non-committal.

The professor smiled gently. "No, you do not. I've watched you. You touch yourself the same way you touched the Russell in my office. With your eyes closed and fascinated with the feel of your fingers on your own skin."

I met his eyes, shocked that he'd noticed me and even more shocked that knew me so well. I had thought the sexy professor was immune to giggling girls, such as myself.

"Stand up, Erica."

Diffidently, smoothing my carefully chosen skirt, I stood up. I felt more in control standing, but more conspicuous. I wrapped my arms around my middle and tried not to run. The professor was disconcerting me and it made me nervous.

"Stand on the rug in front of the fire," he ordered.

After a moment's hesitation, still unsure, I did so. His couch faced the fireplace with the glass coffee table between us. I felt like a statue on display in his living room, a feeling that made me shy at first. The shyness rapidly became a languor. His expression, still intense, darkened even further, perhaps a recognition of my sudden arousal. "Take off your clothes. Slowly, as if you were a statue."

I understood what he had meant. The decision to do as he directed was simple and easily made. It frightened me to feel the clashing of the intense desire to do so and the sudden shame that it was my nature.

Even though I did not know it at the time, with the undoing of the first button on my blouse I was acquiescing to becoming his student. Not an art student, but a student of my own body. I was accepting the new direction in my life. My index finger gently tracing the slope of my skin from the top button to the next confirmed it. The professor knew what I did not, that I was a sensualist.

"The next button, my dear." He sounded impatient to my untutored ears, as if he were as excited about my slowly revealed skin as I was. Entranced by the thought that he might be reveling in my body as well, I slipped the next button from its hole.

With every new button opened, I had new territory to touch. I spread my lapels open and thoroughly explored my chest and my throat, loving the tiny bumps that rose in the wake of my fingers. My eyes shut and my head lolled, perhaps I groaned. More buttons opened until there were no more and my fingers were hampered by the band of my skirt.

Lifting my head, I noticed the professor again. He was staring at, unmoving, his eyes following the paths my fingers took. I paused a moment, fascinated with the silent tableau we represented. Male and female, separated by distance, yet united by arousal. I may have been naive, but my baser instincts were on alert.

I moved my fingers over my belly, watching him intently, then dipped them past the waistband of my skirt. Hesitating a moment, I couldn't find the courage to continue. Cursing myself for a stupid schoolgirl, my eyes dropped to my feet and tears welled. The couch sighed seconds before I felt his presence. The incredible heat of his body came across my back reassuringly.

"You are a beautiful woman, Erica," he murmured, "there is no need for shame."

"I am a slut."

"You are a living work of art. To watch you touch yourself is..." He trailed off, stepping closer. Despite the spare distance between us, he seared me as if he were touching me with a brand. Something brushed the back of my skirt, then pressed more firmly. My eyes widened in surprise as I realized what it was. His erection nudged at my buttocks, then settled comfortably between them.

I shut my eyes when his hands found my bare shoulders. He traced his fingers down my biceps to my elbows, leaving aroused skin in their wake. "You love touching yourself and I love watching you do it. You are a sensual girl, there is nothing to be ashamed of. It's your gift."

Shivering in his embrace, I believed him with all the naive innocence of a girl whose only lovers had been fumbling boys. His fingers found mine, intertwining them gently. Tugging my hands with his, he brushed his knuckles, and consequently my fingers, over my belly. I closed my eyes again, sucking in a sharp breath. The heat of his skin seared me in ways I'd never imagined. I felt a rush of fluid arousal pour through me.

"I want to teach you all about yourself and how to enjoy your body. I want to teach you how to share your body with others," he murmured in my ear. I sighed heavily, loving the feel of his hot breath stirring the sensitive flesh of my neck. My head lolled back against his shoulders and I surrendered myself to him, to his superior knowledge.

"Teach me," I whispered.

"I will change you forever." He was arrogant in his proclamation; he was also correct.

Our fingers moved up my rib cage to brush the undersides of my breasts. I gasped, the nipples tightening almost painfully.

"I will not force you. You must do it of your own free will."

I didn't even have to think about it. I was seduced by my own sexuality and the heat in his. I accepted his challenge, and by doing so, accepted my place as his student in the art of sex.

Taking his hands with mine, I brushed along my skin to my shoulders. I pulled the straps of my brassiere down along my arms, until I had to disengage from him to take it off. His fingers traced designs into my bare back while I tossed the garment onto the blouse already pooled on the floor. My fingers went instantly to my breasts, kneading and caressing them. I loved the feel of them, the firm roundness and the sharpness of the nipples. He kissed the point of my shoulder, watching the progress of my hands. It was thrilling to touch myself in front of him, to be as wanton as I wanted. The shyness I'd felt earlier was rapidly evaporating beneath his approving regard.

I lifted my head in surprise, blinking back to the here and now when he moved away from me to sit on the coffee table. His eyes were even with the swell of my lower belly, reminding me that I still wore my skirt. Suddenly I itched to share myself with him, to show him my body and my arousal. Whether he joined in it or not wasn't a factor, only that he enjoy me. I found the buttons to my skirt and undid them. He smiled.