Cunty Fingers

Although neither of them was a artist, and although they didn't actually meet there, their relationship began at the opening of a group show. They didn't met, but he certainly noticed her and, when they discussed it afterwards, she claimed she'd also noticed him. The galley was perfect; a small door off a back alley full of graffiti and restaurant exhaust pipes, a tiny stairs and then a huge white room; immense with giant industrial lights hanging from a distant ceiling and beautiful young people scattered in groups across a pristine floor of polished larch. There was champagne and tiny sandwiches and men in amazing suits and delicate women with tiny frocks and jackets that shouldn't of worked but looked great.

He tried, as usual to be modern and polite, to avoid leering, avoid staring at the beautiful women, but he couldn't help drinking in stolen glances of fabric following the curve of a back or belly, of an exposed thigh or an elegant neck. It was that sort of crowd, irresistible to the roving eye. When he saw her, though, it was her face he noticed first. She had an interesting face, noble and cute at the same time, intense and calm, fresh but lived in; Asian, refined, with high check bones and a wide mouth. She was with a small group, all about his age, late thirties; all laughing and relaxed, like old friends. She was wearing a long dress, silk and patterned and a wool cardigan and as she turned to say something to her friend he saw how perfect her body was, almost boyish, but ineluctably feminine. Desire, a deep want, swept though him unexpectedly and left in its wake, in his imagination, a brief but vivid picture of a naked belly, hips prominent like check bones and cunt lips dark with blood.

He walked around, looking at the art, saying hello people he knew and all the time he was aware of her, aware of where she was in the room, aware, he felt, of how her dress felt against her skin. The art was good, it was a group show by younger artists, early twenties and he often found younger artist disappointing, disappointing because they were rarely as sexy as you'd expect; you'd expect their art to be all about sex because you'd expect, or at least hope, their lives would be all about sex: young artist, cool, free, in and out of beds, discovering sex like a new thing, like a personal thing, learning it meant to fuck, to be naked with someone new, to explore a new body, to abandon yourself to sex, to your feelings. Instead, young artist seemed preoccupied with identity, a worthy topic but he'd prefer something beautiful and, even better, something that turned him on.

And here it was, there was one amazing almost impossible piece, a giant collection, maybe a hundred individual works, all showing the same few scenes in different media, framed pages from a magazine, paintings, photographs, tiny dioramas, screen prints, photocopies, close ups. None of it, though, was quite what it seemed, when examined more closely a screen print turned out to be a painting, a photocopy turned out to be a photograph and a photograph turned out to be a drawing. There were other tricks too, scenes that at first glance looked to identical would be different, so different sometimes that it was impossible to understand how they had at first looked the same, but somehow they had.

You wanted to look carefully to see all the tricks, to marvel at the skill of it. The thing with it though was that the pictures were pornographic, like images from a porn shoot. In one a naked man was lying on a bed while woman wanked his cock, in another he was going down on her, in a third she was riding him. To understand the art you had to stare at a cunt leaking juice, or cock with a jewel-like drop of precum. The precum was the clue to another trick, the sex was real, the two of them were really enjoying it, in the riding images the woman's cheeks were red with excitement, her buttock muscles straining to contain an approaching orgasm, the man's teeth were clenched as he tried to not to cum until she was ready. The porn was less really porn because the sex was real.

He stared at it for a while, for as long as seemed to be polite and it left him a turned him on; he could feel his cock half erect and full against his thigh and knew the people around him were turn on too, unconsciously all the people looking at it shifted around, separated, kept slightly apart from the people they were just a minute ago chatting too. He felt like he'd like to be alone and, more delicious still, knew the bright young things around him felt the same.

She got to the art work just after he left; he kept an eye on her as he drank wine and chatted near by to a woman he knew and once dated, he kept glancing over his ex's bare shoulder, risking rudeness because he couldn't stop himself. He saw the small step back she made when she realized what she was looking at and after that he couldn't but stare. He was glad he did because he could see her getting excited: as she stood and studied, he saw her drop one hand to her hip and then he saw an almost invisible movement, an unbearably sexy movement as she shifted her hips and clenched her ass, squeezing against her cunt. It was unbearable, he excused himself from his already pissed off ex, he wanted to think about what he'd seen and more than that he needed to wank. Looking around for the toilet, he caught the eye of some twenty something semi-hunkster and there must of been something in his face because suddenly it was on, the two of them heading to the toilet together.

In the toilet they were all over each other straight way, kissing savagely, he could feel the other man's hard cock in his trousers, pressing against his own. He reached down and pressed his hand against it, feeling it bursting against the stretched fabric. Then came the bit of these encounters he loved most, unbuttoning and unzipping, reaching in and unveiling a beautiful big cock, looking down and seeing it massive in his hand, its red head. His own cock was in the other man's hand, free from his trousers. A pause while they looked at each others hard pricks and then they were all over each other, cocks in each others hands, tongues down each others throats.

He didn't enjoy men's bodies like he enjoyed seeing women; he didn't notice men or how they dressed but he did enjoy wanking a hard cock, soft skin sliding over the hard shaft, the head damp and warm in him palm. He grabs the guy's testicles, his cock warm against the inside of his wrist; huge nuts to go with a massive penis; he slid his hand up along this length, using his other hand to hold the guys ass hard. He pushed against the cock, pushed it down, loving its heft, its strength against his hand. He could feel his own prick being masturbated and then a finger up his ass and he was cumming and the other guy was cumming, his cock jerking and there was cum everywhere and the usual pandemonium of checking jackets and trouser fronts for gobs of goo.

Two days later he saw her again on the train; she was sat in by the window reading from her laptop and taking notes in a hard back notebook. He learned later these were separate activities, she was switching between work and reading on-line erotica; at the time he assumed it was all worked but maybe it showed on her face that she was reading dirty stories, because he couldn't help watching her, secretly gazing at her face as she stared at her laptop screen and stroked her earlobe with an absent minded thumb. They got up to leave at the same stop and he was acutely aware of his cock pushing against his jeans; she didn't pay him any attention as the moved together towards the door, pushing past the people standing in the aisle. Just as the reached the door, the backs of their hands touched briefly and the surprise of it, the quickest, light touch, stayed with him all day. It was like he could still feel the contact.

Then nothing, he didn't know who she was or what she did or even whether was visiting from out of town. He had no reason to expect to ever meet her again. All he had were two encounters, two occasions he'd seen her and been near to her. He had never even spoken to her, but she quickly became the subject of his nicest day dreams. When he did meet her again it was nothing like any of his dreams, he was at a party, an hilarious party full of funny people; he was roaring drunk, full of Prosecco Bellinis and mid-flight telling a story and suddenly she was there, with the people listening and she seemed to be roaring drunk as well and she kept interjecting asides into his anecdote and he can't remember what he was saying or what she was saying, but everyone was laughing harder and harder, the drink and the company adding up to an overwhelming hilarity.

He doesn't know how it happened but next they were sitting together on a sofa chatting, kidding, like they'd were teenagers, like they'd know each other their whole lives and,at the same time, like had only just met. They were pressed together, thigh-to-thigh, shoulder touching arm, pressed together in a little bubble as the party surged around them, getting wilder and then quietening down. Later they tried to remember what they'd talked about and couldn't in any detail; they'd pointed out people they knew and told stories about them, they made lots of jokes, jokes that seemed really funny at the time, but probably weren't and, while they were doing this they drank and drank.

When they got up to leave they were almost the last and they could hardly stand, drunk like teenagers too. She said she lived nearby and, it seemed, almost at once they were stumbling along under street lights, hanging off each other, hold hands, clutching each other and then falling over, roaring like louts, banging into things and finally falling into her flat while the world was starting to spin and somehow he got to the couch and when he lay down it was like a whole 100 kilometers of atmosphere was pressing down on him and making him fall in one place. They both slept in their clothes.

The pain woke him up, or, rather, when the pain woke him he knew he'd been in pain for a while. It wasn't just the hangover, though he was hungover: he'd suffered since childhood from migraines, he could usually control them but not when they came at the same time as a hangover. By the time she'd also woken up and shuffled in he was seeing wavy lines and staircase shapes and bright colored flashes and the pain was blocking out any thoughts but thoughts about pain. The way his headaches work they get sorer and sorer and then, when he can't really couldn't stand it any more, he falls into a weird blank sleep and wakes up feeling like his brain has been washed, he wakes feeling relaxed and purposeless and lazy and half-alive, but in a nice way.

He tried to explain this to her as his head exploded in slow motion and she was lovely, led him to her bed, helped him take of his socks and trousers, brought him water and pain killers. He felt from a million miles away a sort of thrill getting into the bed still warm from her body, a thrill from her lair-like bed, with its piles of books and heavy quilt and discarded clothes but then the pain was there and that's all there was until he was asleep and then he was awake and it was early afternoon and he was fine again.

The day that followed was perfect. When she heard him awake she brought him in coffee and hot buttered toast. He told the story of his favorite personal victory. He had been having dinner in a fancy restaurant with a fancy crowd, powerful and rich bookish people including the pompous literary editor of important newspaper, one he'd wanted to write reviews for. The English experimental writer Henry Green was mentioned and he said he loved his books; the editor turned to him and said, like a man used to being listened to, that he agreed because the test of a writer was the production of a single marvellous sentence and Henry Green has managed that, the editor then peered at him and ask did he knew which sentence he meant. It was one of those numerous, sudden, tests and he knew he had to pass, everyone paused, waited and, as he told her as he told the story of this test, from nowhere, out of the tens of thousands of Henry Green sentences he'd read he knew which one it was. He was about to finish his story by saying the sentence when she blurted out the answer "Eating buttered toast with cunty fingers" and laughed and said that now it was also her favorite victory and he fell in love for the millionth time.

They chatted for hours. He told her about his mixed career as an unsuccessful essayist and a successful computer programmer, she told him about her work on algebraic geometry, a type of mathematics. They told stories of their childhoods, he told the long and slightly shameful story of the year he'd spent in India, lost in himself and slowly going mad and she told him about the terrible sadness that had engulfed her for lost years after her parents had died in an accident when she was twenty and they gave each other half-funny, half almost-too-honest accounts of past girlfriends and boyfriends and failed relationship and happy ones that hadn't quite worked and all the time they knew that they'd end up fucking.

Eventually he got sleepy and fell asleep and she must of taken off her dress and gotten into bed with him when he was sleeping because when he woke up about an hour later she was beside him and they were a bit tangled up, she had one leg over him and he could feel the warmth of her crotch against her thigh. He kissed her forehead gently and her eyes opened and they looked at each other for a minute and then lay back and held hands under the duvet. She sat up and picked up a book and read for a while, he stared at the ceiling and after about half-an-hour, about half eight in the evening, she got up and said she guessed they should get something to eat.

He got up too, suddenly a bit embarrassed he was in his underwear. She began to put some trouser on, bending to put push a foot into a trouser leg, stretching her underwear against her ass. The domestic gesture was too much for him, a private act, but somehow public too since it is so often painted: it turned all the easy going pleasure of the long afternoon into desire. He reached for her and pulled her too him and they kissed, softly at first and then desperately and he felt her go weak against her, her body against his, her groin pressing against groin: her breasts against his chest.

She had never gotten as far as doing up her trousers and so he could push his hand inside them, cupping an ass cheek, feeling it smooth against his fingers and feeling the sweatier warmth of her ass crack along the edge of his hand. She pulled his shirt up and had her hands up inside, pressing against his shoulder blades. He had one hand around her shoulders, he pushed his other hand down further till one finger touch the crack of her cunt from behind, he could feel hair and the smooth skin where the lips would part if he pressed; it felt just moist but when he did push his finger inside it was wet, hugely wet and soft with her excitement. She arched her back pushing her cunt against his fingers so he had them pressed inside her, squeezing against her ass. They stop kissing and breathing fast they stumbled back onto the bed.

He pulled at her trousers and she helped kick them off and he grabbed her underwear and pulled them down, that huge thrill, the massive transgression; her cunt available, him wanting to touch it and her letting him. She had her hand on his underwear too, holding his cock through the fabric, he resisted his desire to finger her and instead reached between her legs and grabbed her ass, so her cunt was pushed against his wrist, she moved against it groaning slightly as they kissed, now he did push his fingers inside her, pressing against the softness, push up against the front of her cunt while his thumb rubber her clit. She pushed down his underwear and touched his cock; he could feel how hard it was, he could feel her fingers against its shaft and he felt like he'd never been bigger. He was pushing his fingers inside her and then rubbing them up and down the outside of her cunt, feeling her cunt lips wet and full against his hand. She was rubbing up and down his cock with one hand and holding his balls with her other. She whispered "inside me", with his cunty hand her grabbed her leg behind the knee and opening her legs wide he mounted her, she held his cock as he pushed it into her and she shuddered.

He started pounding her, thrust into her again and again, forgetting everything but a need to push himself into her as deeply as he could. Somehow she found the same rhythm and they ground themselves together like teenagers fucking, humping and thrashing and groaning, like wild animals, fucking like fighting, fucking like a desperate struggle, pushing and groaning until suddenly she was screaming and cumming and he could feel her suddenly covered in sweat, sweating from every pore and he rode her as hard as he could, thrusting against her orgasm as her fingers pressed into his shoulders and her heels against his ass and her eyes went wild and lost.

They rolled over, slower now, gentler, he held himself almost still as she moved against him; he had his hands on her ass, he could feel the muscles beneath the smooth skin and the damp of her sweat as she rocked back and forth, swaying snakelike as she rode him. Next she sat upright, cowgirl style and, rising up onto his elbows, he watched her, her belly, her bush, her breasts, her face savage and angelic, her whole body taken over with sex, red in her cheeks, her nipples full and dark and her hair damp with sweat. With a deep moan she came again and he thrust up into her, putting his hands on her thighs and pressing her down onto his cock, as she begged him to cum. He could feel his orgasm tightening his asshole but he wasn't ready to cum yet, he was too hard, too turned on to cum. He sat up and they clung to each other, he felt impossibly deep inside her, she was crying now, but smiling and he felt like every part of his body touching every part of his as her orgasm subsided and she rested her head on his shoulder and rocked against him, he could feel her pubic bone pressing against his and as she relaxed, emptied by her orgasms, he realised how much he wanted to cum inside her and when he came it was like a break in time, like afterwards he was new.

They lay together laughing and whispering, damp, his semen dripping from her, mixed with the juice from her cunt. They half slept for a while and then remembered how hungry they were and jumped up, throwing on their clothes, a dress for her this time and then they rushed out to eat before everywhere was closed. They went to a nice cafe about a ten minute walk away. When they sat down she got that mischievous look he'd started to love and distrust and she lent over and whispered to him that she couldn't stop thinking about what they'd done and that she was going to go into the toilet and she was going to feel herself through her underwear until she came and if she made noise she didn't care who heard. She got up and he didn't know whether to believe her until he saw her coming back and saw from the look on her face, from her look of triumph and pleasure and frank carnality that she'd done what she said she would.

When she sat down she was holding something in her fist, she pressed in into his hand. He looked down and saw her underwear. She told him it was his turn. Embarrassed and excited he got up and in the toilet cubicle her smelled her damp flimsies while he wanked on his cock and even though it wasn't only an hour since they'd fucked, when he came the jizz flew far enough to need wiping from behind the toilet.

There was more of this boldness that evening, on the walk home they started out hand-in-hand, a romantic looking couple drifting along but the carnality of the bruised feeling in his dick and his awareness of her beside him got too much and she was obviously feeling the same because as they passed a little side street, like a service lane, they caught each others eye and turned up it; it was a manky passage, smelling of pee and bins but they started kissing in a doorway and he pulled her dress up and pushed two fingers right up inside her and held them there as he kissed her hard. She pressed against him and he could feel her excitement in her cunt. After a long minute she pushed him away and turned around and pressed her palms against the door, leaning over, presenting her rear, he unbuttoned himself, he was already like steel and he pushed his cock into her cunt from behind, pushing in to her as she pushed with her hands against the door back onto him.