The Art of Sex

Chapter 6 -- Rediscovering The Pillow Book

The previous day together in the city was definitely fun, and romantic. You teased me about being the being the more romantic of the two of us. I am fine with that. And the second evening was as passionate as the first. We awoke anxious for more exploratory lovemaking but had overslept and so we decided nourishment was in order before more sex. Breakfast first.

I picked a boutique hotel in mid-town because prefer independent, little hotels with an attitude. I am especially fond of the Kimpton properties. It is a bit hectic in this neighborhood, but the hustle and bustle will be an exciting counter-point when we decide to leave the room for food and cultural respite from non-stop sex. And food is precisely what we have in mind now. We agree that brunch in the hotel's restaurant with extra-spicy Bloody Mary's sounds especially good. Spicy lovemaking will follow.

We shower in turns and get ready shyly and independently. It's almost as if the new day brought with it a new-found modesty that neither of us displayed last night in the heat of passion. Before we leave the room I touch your face and tilt your head upward so I can kiss you. Our tongues fence playfully. You taste like a fresh peach. I am aroused, but practical. We need to eat. So, we depart the room for the outside world.

In the elevator I tell you I have a surprise for you. You look pleased. I tell you I bought tickets for a special

Ukiyoe

exhibition at the Metropolitan Museum. You now seem somewhat disappointed. Perhaps you were thinking that I had a gift. Or, perhaps you were hoping for something more romantic. Clearly you were not expecting to be taken to an art museum.

We had agreed this would be a little cultural vacation, and you would leave all the arrangements to me. Brunch is uneventful. We are as prim and proper as an old married couple. The conversation is peppered with wit, and we laugh at each other repeatedly, but we keep our hands to ourselves.

Back in the room, I remind you about yesterday's conversations on

Ukiyoe

, Japanese woodblock printing, specifically the Shunga erotic prints that I admire. While I know you are interested in the topic, you say somewhat impatiently, "I know. You've mentioned this before." You do not seem anxious to have this chat now.

I am trying to keep our pace slow -- after all, we have all weekend, so I think we need to pace ourselves a bit. Your flirtatious demeanor suggests you are ready for another round of lovemaking. But, I keep talking. You keep flirting. I realize your persona has changed, as you have grown comfortable with me. You went from somewhat reserved and a little insecure, to puppy playful and very energetic. Perhaps downright horny. And not afraid to tease me.

I decide that Sunday at noon is "later enough" so I open a bottle of Champagne. Big surprise at this point. As I do, I doggedly explain now the

Ukiyoe

technique had a tremendous impact on Western art that followed. Van Gogh, the later impressionists, the Arts-and-Crafts furniture movement, the posters of Toulouse Lautrec, the architectural designs of Frank Lloyd and many other significant trends were all inspired by

Ukiyoe

. Your expression says, "Perhaps there is a better time for this conversation." So, I kiss you. You smile. But you are not listening to me. Your expression says, "art is nice, but let's fuck" in a wry sort of way.

Undaunted, I return to my "lecture" on Japanese woodblock printing. I explain that

Ukiyoe

was sort of discovered in the West by accident. The old prints -- which were considered worthless in Japan after the advent of the printing press -- where actually used for packing materials when shipping goods to Europe. Unfolded, these crumpled pieces of paper became collectibles in Europe; and an art trend was born. Van Gogh and many other starving artist collected and were inspired by these "

Japonisme

" craze in late 19th century France. You still remain tolerantly disinterested in what I have to say.

I start putting my hand into your pants, cup your mons and wrap my fingers around your snatch as I tell you this part of the story. Your interest seems to change. You are now far more attentive. Then I reach around with my other hand and squeeze your ass cheek.

"You see," I continue to lecture while I disrobe you, "the tradition of inexpensive pornographic reproductions known as pillow books transformed bedroom activities in Japan." I am now nuzzling and kissing your neck and unbuttoning your shirt as we speak. I have unhooked and removed your bra completely, and alternate between working your nipples with my mouth and continuing my story.

"Anyway," I say, as I pull off your pants, "the pillow books were inspirations for couples." But, I do not stop there as I help you out of your panties. You are now sitting comfortably on the bed fully naked. I stand at the foot of the bed and disrobe before you. As I get naked, I continue my diatribe from yesterday, "You see, baby, couples would look at their pillow books and discuss what aroused them most, sharing their favorite positions with one another.

At this point, I slide up between your legs and part your knees. The conversation abruptly stops as I bury my face in your electric fur.

For me, pussy scent is a pure aphrodisiac. It will make me hard if I am not. And it kicks my pulse up and makes my cock throb when I'm already hard. But most of all, I can identify my partner by her unique scent. And since you are my sexual partner, it provides me with an olfactory memory of you that I want to savor between meetings, and that I need to recharge when we meet. Perhaps I should have been a perfumer. Or,

le nez

as they are called in France.

But, there is another reason that I want to go down on you. I love trying to make you cum once before I actually enter you. The liquid silk you produce just before, and during, your orgasm is the VSOP Champagne of lubricants. It is carnal holy water. Post orgasm, your pussy is not only full of this Grand Cru lubrication, but she is still unstretched by my cock and gloriously tight. The first push into you in this post-orgasmic state is the absolute best feeling my cock ever gets. Parting you in a single hard thrust feels better to me than a perfect blowjob from your luscious lips. In fact, it is even better than how my cock feels at the moment of orgasm.

In one hard push, I can thrust into you balls deep. I can enjoy a tight muscular resistance that is instantly parted thanks to the sublimely slippery ambrosia you made for me during your orgasm. This purely physical sensation is nothing short of spectacular.

When I help you get off before I fuck you, I am hoping for this one ephemeral moment afterward. So, my motive is not entirely unselfish. That first parting of vaginal walls upon entry is a fleeting sensation, because it can be had only one time per fuck. Once your pussy relaxes to accommodate my cock's girth as I stroke in and out, that brief feeling is gone until next we meet for sex. It appears once and is quickly disappears, like the brief beauty of spring cherry blossoms.

So, I love to go down in hopes of an orgasm before the sex begins. Or on other occasions requesting that you get yourself off while I kiss and caress you is another form of extreme foreplay that produces the same results. But now I am eating you because I simply love doing so.

I wrap my arms around your legs. You sigh. I softly run my tongue right up the middle of your slit -- from bottom to clit. Slowly and softly. I part your pussy lips with my tongue. You taste as good as you smell.

I insert my index finger into you. I part your lips, slip it in (you are so wet!) and curl it upward. I am pressing the tip of my finger on the wall of your vagina right behind your clit from the inside as I lick you. I don't actually suck on your little button, but I massage and pull on it with my upper and lower lips.

I start to rub your clit with my tongue up and down. Still no suction. I remove my index finger and use the palm of my hand to rub your labia as I flick your clit with my tongue. I edge your vagina with a fingertip as I do. When I sense you are ready to cum I insert two fingers and finally suck directly on your clit. You grab my head with both hands, thrust your hips forward and attempt to fuck my face. I continue to work your clit and massage you inside with my fingers. You start to cum and provide me with an unintelligible verbal cue you are about to climax. You say something in the language of a lioness. Sort of a growl of a word. My name perhaps?

Normally I would be up, on and in you; and then I would fuck you through the finish of your pussy contractions and try to bring you to another orgasm before I cum. Or, I might just tell you to roll you over on your tummy so I could pound you hard from behind to a quick, dominant cum for myself. This is my favorite position to cum, by the way. Deep and hard in any rear-entry position after you have already cum once.

Instead, I continue to lick your pussy softly until your orgasm is fully complete. Then I slide up next to you and kiss you. I ask you softly, "did you like that, baby?"

"Not really..." you say, teasing me.

"Blow me!" I retort in feigned anger.

"Okay," you reply. You smile mischievously as you slide down prepared to suck my cock. "No," I say, "Not now. I have a better idea. And I want to show you something you will really like. Get dressed. We are going to the museum before it closes. I want to look at fine art while we smell of sex to everyone around us."

"What? Go, now?" you say surprised and somewhat annoyed. You are comfortable and hoping for round two that will lead to my orgasm simultaneously with yours.

I start to pull on my clothes. So you reluctantly do the same, while thinking that I am a very odd man indeed...

I ask, "Do you have a skirt? Please wear that." You comply with my request and begin to look for one.

"Leave your panties behind, but bring your phone..." I say, as I put on a leather jacket and stuff a little point-and-click camera in my pocket. You look reluctant to go out not wearing panties but comply. You pull on your skirt, a button-down top and a light jacket on over and prepare to leave without any panties on. You straighten your hair a bit and we are out the door in minutes.

We are on the street and I hail a cab. "The Metropolitan Museum, please," I say to the driver as I lean forward. My hand is up your skirt and as soon as we move into traffic. You are still wet from earlier. We are headed for a real art show now.

I turn to you and say, "I think you are REALLY going to like THIS." You wonder what "this" is.

To be continued...