By the time I awoke in the morning, I was by myself—Sandy off to her office to get ready for her afternoon flight to London, and Rachel off to open the bookstore.
I wasn't scheduled to work at the bookstore that day, so I felt a little at loose ends as I sat in my bathrobe at our kitchen table drinking coffee and letting the prior day's events replay themselves in my mind. Could I really have an open affair with two women? It sounded like any man's dream, but I was worried about how it could go wrong on me. Beyond that there was the issue of Sandy's loyalty to me. In the last twenty four hours I had learned that my wife had had a lesbian relationship with her cousin Rachel when they were roommates in college
and
continued that affair to this day; I had had sex with Rachel not once but twice, once in full view of a homeless guy looking in the window, and the other in full view of my masturbating wife; and I had watched my wife having sex with her cousin. That was a lot to digest for one day.
Then I remembered the camera. Surreptitiously taking pictures of Rachel eating Sandy's pussy had been by far the most erotic moment of a sex-filled day. It was just so nasty to be standing there, snapping pictures of the girls without their knowledge. Just thinking about it was causing my cock to harden as I sat drinking coffee at my kitchen table the next morning.
As I rose from the table to retrieve the camera I felt my now fully erect cock poke out through the robe I was wearing. Ignoring it, I fetched the camera, refilled my coffee, and sat down to peruse my photography. I was idly stroking my now fully erect cock as I clicked through the dozen or more shots I had taken. Looking at the pictures wasn't quite as erotic as taking them had been, but it was close. My cock was hard as iron.
It certainly wasn't Ansel Adams. More like outtakes from Robert Mapplethorpe's work—the stuff he chose not to print. But I hadn't intended to take any great pictures. Photography wasn't my medium anyhow—too hard to do. When you paint or draw you control the light yourself because you are providing it. It comes from your head. Never could understand how great photographers did it.
Still, there was some great eroticism in these photos. There was Rachel's broad ass dominating the forefront of several photos. Oh she had a sexy ass. She had her legs spread just enough so her gleaming wet pussy was readily visible. As I stared at her ass and pussy I stroked my cock. The head was slippery with a rapidly oozing stream of precum that I was using to lube the head and a lot of the shaft.
Then I focused on the background of the pictures—Sandy with her legs spread and her sex exposed. In some shots she had one or both hands on her tits, massaging them or pulling on her nipples, and in other shots her hands were holding Rachel's head firmly against her sex, her fingers entwined in Rachel's curly red hair. There was one shot in which Rachel was sitting back on her haunches, finger-fucking Sandy while she looked up at her.
But the most erotic part of the shots was Sandy's face. I remembered that she had been swinging it back and forth as she cried out in the ecstasy of the moment, her cries laced with obscenities. Sandy loved to talk dirty when she was aroused. In some shots her face was almost totally covered with her wildly swinging hair, and in others it was partially or fully exposed. In the final two shots her hair was clear of her face, which was tipped back and skyward, her neck cords rigid and her features contorted with the joy of her climax. Yes, these pictures certainly were more Mapplethorpe than Adams.
As I stared at the camera screen and continued stroking my cock, I realized that my balls, which still ached from the prior day's workout, were now pulling up towards my scrotum and I was going to cum. I set the camera down where I could still see the screen and grabbed a napkin to catch my impending climax. Continuing to stroke, I focused on Rachel's ass and gleaming pussy and Sandy's face contorted with her climax. I rotated my chair and pulled my robe aside so my cock was pointing up and out. Dropping the napkin, I used both hands to stroke my cock. I felt the cum come boiling up through my shaft, and then I watched it shoot one, two, three, streams of cum, sailing out and away from my legs to land on the kitchen floor beyond my feet.
Fuck I thought! Where did all of that come from? I slumped, gasping, in the chair. Eventually I used my foot to drag the napkin around and clean up my mess. Then I turned back to the table and took a long pull on my now lukewarm coffee. I stood and walked, a little unsteadily, to the coffee pot, noticing that my overworked balls were aching. After warming up my nearly empty cup, I returned to my chair, and sat leaning forward, my head in my hands. "So what am I going to do with those pictures?" I said aloud, "Besides jack off to them," I continued with a chuckle.
Then I had an inspiration. I would draw them. I would use them in lieu of models to do some erotic drawing. I could see a whole series of drawings in my mind's eye, all based on the photos I had just been jacking off too, what I was beginning to think of as my "Mapplethorpe Collection," which I admit was more than a little arrogant given my and Mapplethorpe's relative levels of talent.
Now I was excited. More enthused than I had been about anything in months, I jumped from table and strode off to the bath for a quick shower, tossing my besmirched napkin in the wash as I went. Minutes later, I was dressed and downloading the pictures onto my computer so I could get a better look at them as I began sketching.
And sketch I did: pictures of Rachel's ass and gleaming pussy; of Sandy's tits, fully exposed, sometimes just peeking from behind her long hair, or covered with her mauling hands, with just her nipples protruding between her fingers; Sandy's face, barely visible through her hair, or thrown back in ecstasy at the moment of her climax, eyes closed or wide open and focused on nothing but the sensations tearing through her body; even pictures of both girls, showing their lewd posture.
By day's end, I had completed at least fifteen or twenty pencil sketches. I had been so engrossed in my work that I had totally forgotten about meals and I was tired. I stopped and walked to the kitchen where I reached for the Scotch bottle and poured myself a double shot. I then returned and taped the sketches on the walls of my little studio and paced back and forth, sipping my Scotch and surveying my day's efforts. I noticed several things.
I liked the sketches. They were good. The women were beautiful and the drawings conveyed the eroticism of the moment, and their total involvement in the moment.
I felt good about what I had done. This was far better work than I had done drawing the Huggies packages. Don't get me wrong, I had worked hard as a commercial artist and felt my work was what my client wanted. I was never embarrassed about that work. But these drawings had an element of emotion in them that you just couldn't put in a piece of commercial art. Much more satisfying I told myself as I neared the bottom of my drink.
The final thing I realized was that I hadn't been sexually aroused by the work. Yes, I jacked off to the photos when I first looked at them early this morning, but all of the eroticism, eroticism at a personal level that is, had vanished as I began to draw. I was totally focused on the drawing.
I fixed a simple dinner, watched a little mindless TV and went to bed early, exhausted from what felt like the first honest day's work I had put in since I was laid off a couple of years earlier. Odd choice in terms I thought. Was spending a day drawing pictures of naked women making love really an honest day's work? No one was paying me for it, and I had met more than a few Baptist ministers who would dispute the issue, likely telling me that I was bound for eternal damnation. Ah well, it felt good to me, and I would figure out what to do with the drawings later.
The next morning, I arose early, made coffee, bacon, and eggs. I wasn't thinking about anything in particular as I ate, but I did notice that I was in a very good mood, much like I used to feel when I headed off to a day's work. When I finished breakfast and the kitchen clean-up (I told you, I've become a domestic since being laid off), I refilled my coffee and walked into my studio. I stood looking at the drawings I had done the prior day.
Yes, I still liked them, but something was missing. The obvious answer was color. These were drawings of beautiful women. They deserved to be in color. What would a Renoir nude look like in the form of a pencil sketch? So much less than it could have been in color.
Now I knew what I had to do. These drawings all had to be redone in color. But what medium? Well, what did I have? I asked myself. I didn't have oils available without going out to an art supply shop, and somehow watercolors just weren't my first choice, but I remembered an old box of pastels I hadn't touched in years. Just the thing I thought. Pastels will give me the soft hues artists have used to depict beautiful women for centuries. I dug around in a drawer and found the box of pastels. They were serviceable. I had forgotten how much I enjoyed pastels as a medium. Not much market for them if you are just illustrating Huggies. That's mostly done on a computer today.
I was about to leap into work, when it occurred to me that I was due at Rachel's bookstore in half an hour. Time to call in sick, I decided. After a brief conversation with Rachel, I put a clean sheet of paper on my drawing table, tipping it up to the angle I wanted and sat down to work. I started with a sketch I had made at the bar two days before of one of Rachel's breasts. Better to start simple I thought. I needed to see if I still remembered how to work in pastels.
It was like remembering how to ride a bike after years of not doing so. It came back immediately. As with the day before, I was totally engrossed in my work. By five o'clock, I had completed five drawings in color. I knew I could do better if I spent more time on each drawing, but I just wanted to see how they would look in the soft hues of pastels.
I especially wanted to see if I could capture the emotion in Sandy's face as she climaxed, her head back and the muscles in her neck rigid. I wanted it to reflect her passion and ecstasy and not look like someone in pain. I spent more time on a drawing of just her head and shoulders than I did on most of the others combined.
I was exhausted as I had been the day before. A little dinner with wine, some mindless TV and I fell into bed.
The next day I called in sick again and jumped ito the work where I left off. Again I was totally engrossed in my drawings, I did another pastels that day, including one large one showing both girls engaged in sex.
I was sitting in an armchair sipping a bit of Scotch and looking at two days' work when the phone rang. It was the doorman. Rachel was downstairs bringing me chicken soup, or so she had told the doorman.
As I sat in my armchair waiting for Rachel to come up I decided I would show Rachel the pictures. No particular reason. I had decided I liked them. I just wanted to show them to someone, and she was going to be here.
I wondered why Rachel was coming over. I doubted if she really had any chicken soup.
My speculation about Rachel was right, and it was wrong. She didn't have any chicken soup, but she did have a takeout box of more tasty lasagna from Il Violino and a magnum-sized bottle of Chianti Classico. Apparently she planned on doing some drinking with me.
"Rachel, what brings you here?"
"I told Sandy you called in sick, and she told me I better go check on you because you never do that."
"Ha," I laughed. "Sandy knows me too well. In all the years I worked for the art agency, I never called in sick." Except for a few times when Sandy and I had stayed home in bed screwing our brains out, I reminded myself.
