I've heard stories about news photographers who get shot because when they put the camera viewfinder to their eye, they forget that they're actually in a dangerous situation and think they're just watching something happening to someone else. It's like extreme voyeurism. I know it sounds strange, but I believe it. I believe it because it happened to me.
I'm not a photographer. I'm an artist. Well, I want to be an artist. I take my sketchbook everywhere I go and when I get "in the moment," I'm really transported away from where I'm really at to a place somewhere in my head.
So I'm sitting in the park -- you know, the one downtown where all the fountains are -- and I'm sketching the statue there in the center of the square, when I notice this -- I don't know, girl, woman, female, whatever. You couldn't NOT notice her. She was exceptionally well-built, if you gather what I mean. Very chesty. And her body was voluptuous in a very old school Italian Masters kind of way. She wasn't fat, she just had curves. Like a woman should look instead of these starving, rail-thin women who try to pass themselves off as sexy.
Her hair was a bright red, almost brassy color. Very shiny and shot through with streaks of black. She had real dark eyes, almost black, and she was wearing a variety of clothes that looked like they had come from an expensive vintage clothing store or a cheap thrift shop. You know the look I'm talking about.
Anyway, she sat down on the ground and leaned up against the statue I was sketching. She opened a book and started reading and I let my eyes kind of linger on her. Her breasts in particular.
The button-down shirt she was wearing wasn't buttoned up that much. I could see her black lacy bra very clearly. And on each breast top, she had tattoos. It wasn't a picture of anything, it was just a design mirror-imaged on each breast. I got to imagining how the tats must look on the parts of the breasts I couldn't see. So I started sketching her. Nude.
I imagined her full breasts with dark, silver-dollar aureole and a tattooed design reaching around as if to caress them. I imagined her mound shaved except for a thin landing strip of tightly trimmed pubic hair, another tattoo just below her pierced belly button. I imagined her so well, I got a hard-on under my sketch pad.
I got so involved in my drawing, I don't really know when she noticed me looking at her. I did notice when she closed the book, stood and started walking toward me. That was when I panicked.
You see, it's not unusual for people to want to see my sketches of them. Usually I comply, but this time I was rapidly trying to come up with some kind of excuse so I wouldn't have to show her. Unfortunately, my mind doesn't work that fast.
She sat next to me on the bench. Her perfume was understated but magical. My throat went dry. Her short denim skirt rode up on her thigh and I could see the garter clips holding her stocking tops. This woman knew how to dress.
"Can I see?" she asked. I had flipped the cover closed.
"Sure," I said. I opened the sketch book to a picture of the statue I had been working on before she had arrived.
"Nice," she said. "Very good. Now show me the one you drew of me."
"I...the statue... not..." My words weren't coming out too good.
She leaned over and put her lips next to my ear as one hand slid beneath the sketch book and cradled my bulge. "Pretty please?" she purred.
I flipped the pages. There she was, in all her imagined glory.
"Wow," she said. "Not bad. I thought you might be undressing me with your eyes. Guess I was right."
I'm sure my face was seven shades of red. "I'm sorry," I told her. I don't normally do that. It's just that you were...And I noticed the...And I started...imagining."
"Actually, you've got a very good imagination," she said. "But the tats don't come down quite that low around my nipples. Low pain threshold," she laughed. "See?"
She pulled her left breast from the black bra and ran her finger over the tattoo that ended right about where the bra had covered. I'd gotten the aureole right. It was large and the nipple resting in its center looked like a dark red gumdrop.
She giggled and tucked her breast back in the cup. "Guess I shouldn't do that out here. Just wanted you to see. I love the way you draw. Feel free to draw me anytime."
She gave my bulge another squeeze. "Thank you for this, by the way. That's some compliment."
"M-m-my pleasure," I managed to stammer.
She giggled again. She had a very musical laugh that came from somewhere in the back of her throat. We were sitting close on the bench and the sun was beginning to set, but I didn't want her to leave.
She surprised me again. Leaning closer, she pressed her lips to mine. She gently massaged my cock and I lowered the sketch book to try to cover what she was doing. Her tongue pressed between my lips and I let mine dance against it. She tasted like strawberries. I didn't know if it was her lip gloss or just her natural flavor.
She broke the kiss, looked into my eyes and giggled. She looked around as if checking the proximity of people in our immediate area. Then I felt her hand unzipping my jeans. She watched my face intently as she pulled my hard cock out into the evening air and began pumping me with long, leisurely strokes. "God, you are so fucking turned on," she said. She seemed to like watching my face as she gave me a handjob right there in the park.
"Mmmmm, do you like that?" She was smiling and I was sure anyone who got within a few feet of us would know what she was doing. I also didn't care at that point. Throw my ass in jail. It would be worth it.
She expertly manipulated my cock until she got my precum flowing and then massaged it back into my prick like the natural lubricant that it is.
She started looking at the sketchbook and pointing with her free hand like we were discussing the intricacies of my artistic talent. She lifted the sketch book away from my lap, peeked under it and made a sound like, "Whoo." Her cheeks flushed. "That's as impressive as your talent," she said.
She kissed me again and I put my hand on her cheek and slid it down her neck. I wanted so badly to feel those full, natural melons in my hand, to run my tongue over the sexy tattoo on her breast tops. But there was no way to do it out here.
She was breathing heavy when our lips parted. "Listen," she confessed, "I thought you were cute when I saw you here drawing and getting aroused looking at me. I thought I'd come over, give you a quickie handjob, and that would be the end of it."
