Note: This story was dynamically reformatted for online reading convenience.
 
 Redbud Pygmalion

   [This story started much differently.  Don't know if it works.  I
started to have some fun with the characters - one is old & decadent, the
other is young & narcissistic.  They are both given to sesquipedality. 
Don't know if it will be as much "fun" to read as it was to write.  Writers
are notoriously poor judges of their own writing.]

   --- [On a ticket stub to Die Freischutz]

   My dear, you are beautiful.  You are the loveliest creature in the opera
house tonight.  I know something about you - that you would like to be a
student at the conservatory this fall and that you possess a voice of
astonishing range and maturity.  I also note that you possess astonishing
maturity in other areas.  I am a connoisseur not just of opera, my dear,
but of these other areas.  You will find me very well connected, generous,
and discreet.  ---

   She heard the door to the apartment open.  Her heart raced.  Her
breathing was too quick and she was beginning to shake.  She tried to calm
herself.  Footsteps.  They were approaching her slowly.  He was wearing
leather soled shoes.  She could tell by the sound of them.  He was a man
with expensive tastes.  She the soft, singing sound of linen against linen.
He was taking off his coat and jacket.  She was shaking.  She could hear it
in her own breath.  She could remove her blindfold but knowing that she
could somehow made her feel safer.

   The strange man approached her.  She was sitting with her back to him.
She could have sat facing the door, but she somehow felt safer this way. 
The soft steps stopped behind her seat.  She was shaking.  She felt his
finger against her neck, gently sweeping her hair over her ear. 
"Beautiful," he heard him whisper.  It was the first time she heard his
voice.  He had a British accent and sounded older.  "The neck of a young
woman is lovely.  Yours especially.  I have dreamed of this moment.  The
braid is inviting.  I have always preferred brunettes to blondes.  Yours is
almost black.  Are you Spanish?"

   "My mother is Peruvian."

   "Open your mouth, please," he said.

   She did.  She felt it.  Soft.  Tender.  A Raspberry.  So red.  So sweet.
The berry spurted between her teeth.

   "Stand up," he said.  "Please."

   --- [On the reverse side.] Sir, I left the envelope beneath the fliers.
I am only seventeen.  ---

   Tamora stood.  She heard him move the chair away.  He returned.  He was
doing something behind her but she wasn't sure what.  She was frightened.
Then she felt his hand on her ass.  He was feeling it, not squeezing, just
molding his hand to the shape of it.  His palm moved to the small of her
back.  "Beautiful," he whispered.  "I look forward to seeing so much."

   She smelled Old Spice.  A man's odor.  Arousal.  She felt his other hand
on his hip.  He smoothly ran them up and then down.  "Lovely.  Slender. 
The hips of youth, of a young woman, of inexperience."

   She started to protest but smiled to herself instead.

   He was still standing behind her.

   "You smile?"

   "I..." she hesitated, "am not inexperienced." Then she thought she could
hear him smile.  "What?" she asked.

   "Yes, I sounded presumptuous," he said.  "Though perhaps I only meant -
inexperienced...  with `me'." His hands had moved forward, just below her
belly.  "So flat," he said.  One hand moved downward toward her pudenda but
he didn't push there, just felt the V of her legs through the sequined
black dress.  She was wearing nothing underneath, as he had asked.  His
hands were moving up again, gently, simply following the curves of her
body. Her breath still shook, but now the fear was changing.  He was
gentle. Slow.  She could say `no' at any moment.

   She didn't.  His hands moved gently upward.  She said nothing as his
palms slipped over her young breasts and stayed, pressing gently.  She
groaned.

   "I can feel your nipples," he whispered.  "They are hard under your
dress.  I have wanted to touch them for so long."

   She moaned lightly as his palms passed over them.

   --- [On a ticket stub to La Boheme]

   My dear, shortly to be eighteen, I have behaved dreadfully.  I wish you
to fully understand the arrangement I propose.  You shall be provided with
a scholarship, discreetly of course; and in addition to what your talent
already assures you.  I do not wish to suggest that your talents are
insufficient.  My dear, rather, it is precisely your talents to which I am
attracted and wish to become acquainted - the full range of them.  I am a
collector of beauty, you see.  I find that the most beautiful is frequently
the most difficult to obtain.  And yet I am compelled to fully possess such
beauty.  For me, fortunately, price is no object.  ---

   She had always heard rumors about older men.  Her only lovemaking had
been with boys her own age - wild, sudden, impetuous, guilty.  Their unions
were rash.  The boys had liked fucking her, themsleves on top, pushing her
knees over their shoulders, or they had fucked her from behind, or she
drove them inside herself relentless, until they spasmed.  She and her ex
boyfriend had moved fast and had not stopped until her entrance was
dripping with them both.  But this was different.  This was a lover. 
Inexperience?  Her breath was growing shallow.

   His fingers were slightly squeezing her nipples through the fabric of
her dress.  Tomora grunted and gently pressed her breasts into his hands.
"Wonderful," he whispered.  He moved his fingers until they just brushed
the tips and she followed them.  Her back arched, her hips swivelled, and
underneath her dress her sex was lifted back and up from between her legs.
"Ah," he breathed.  "As a woman's body is designed to do."

   Tomora's stomach felt light.  His touch had persuaded her.  She had
followed the pleasure without thinking.  If she hadn't had a dress on, he
could have easily slipped his cock inside her.  "It feels good," she said
quietly, her voice shaking.  "Don't stop."

   --- [On the reverse side.] Sir, please stop.  I don't want it.  If
someone finds this envelopes they'll steal it.  ---

   His hands moved from her breasts and back, under her arms, then up her
shoulder blades and over her shoulders.  His fingers moved to her lips,
first to her lower lip, then brushing her upper.  "Perfect," he whispered.
"Perfect lips, like a models.  Soon, I will no longer have to imagine."

   "Imagine what?" she asked.

   As if in answer, one finger pushed between her lips, then into her
mouth. She sucked on it.

   "Almost involuntary, isn't it?" he asked.

   His other hand moved down to her breast again, softly squeezing her
nipple.  She moaned and as he lifted his finger up, she followed it with
her mouth, her head tilting back.  His other hand went lower and she felt
him pull up the hem of her dress as his hand traveled lightly up the inside
of her thigh.

   "Keep sucking little one," he whispered.  "So young, the memory of the
teat isn't so far away." She inhaled sharply through her nose, her eyebrows
rising beneath the blindfold.  The fingers of his other hand entered her
but she didn't know what he was doing.  "At this age, you are ready for
another kind of teat, ready for your other belly to be filled.  Am I
right?"

   "Mmmmm!" she groaned.  A trickle, a slippery drop, ran down her thigh.

   "Beautiful," he whispered.

   She opened her mouth and groaned aloud.  She was shaking.  "Don't stop!"
What was he doing with his fingers inside her?

   --- [On a ticket stub to La Traviata]

   My dear, I am at a disadvantage.  You see, youth abandons me.  But what
age steals, thrift heals.  You shall find me kind, patient and very
generous, my love.  You may also find there are some advantages that age
necessitates.  In my youth, I was rash, was careless with my aim and missed
as often as I hit, in age, my dear, a paltry muzzle loader is all that is
left to my armory.  I aim carefully, dear, and never miss - or rarely.  The
effort to reload such a weapon is excessive.  The battle can be lost in the
re-arming, my dear.  I have included keys and an address.  It is a flat,
and though I can only guess at your tastes, I hope you will find it
suitable.  I will not be there.  Bring a friend if you prefer.  Tell them
whatever you like.  ---

   "Lovely young woman," the old man whispered, his own breath becoming
short, "you want to suckle and be filled?"

   "I'm on the pill..." Tamora gasped.

   "So am I," the man answered.  "Mine is little and blue..."

   "Please..." Tamora reached back for him.

   He withdrew his fingers from between her legs.  She licked his finger,
her head still thrown back.  Then his finger vanished.  She heard him walk
away.

   "What's the matter?" she asked.

   "You excite me," he answered, "too much.  Every night at the opera house
I watched you, imagined you, how you would move, your voice in arousal,
your hips and breasts when aroused..." He was doing something.  Music
started, but softly.  "Verdi?" she asked.

   "Yes, astonishing," he answered.  "Do you know which Opera?"

   "Of course," she answered.  "Falstaff."

   "Not one of his great operas," he said, "but I have some sympathies with
the subject matter."

   "Yes," she answered.  "I practiced an aria from that opera...." She
heard him moving, fabric brushing against fabric.  Was he undressing? 
"What do you want?" she asked.

   "To fuck you..." he answered.

   "Of course," she breathed.

   --- [On the reverse side.]

   The dress is lovely.  However, do not leave any more gifts.  Your kind
of generosity comes with a price.  I am not a whore.  ---

   She heard his steps behind her again.  "You are quite intelligent!" he
said.

   "So are you," she answered, smiling to herself, mischievously.

   "And feisty." She heard him chuckle.  "You pique me."

   She felt his hands on her hips.  What would he do?  Would he bend her
over?  Take her from behind?  His hands moved around her again and softly
up to her breasts.  "Not so quick," he whispered.  He cupped her breasts.
"Do you enjoy politics, also?"

   "Yes," she answered.

   "I've wanted to touch and feel these for so long." She moaned as he
pressed them and gently squeezed her nipples again.  She began to move her
hips.

   "And you have an appreciation for food and the arts..."

   "Architecture," she answered.  "I prefer architecture most of all."

   "He moved his hands between her breasts and with a sudden yank ripped
open her dress.  She gasped at the feel of air on her nipples.  Only the
top of her dress was torn.  The rest was still tight around her belly and
hips.  "You excite me," he breathed.

   "Please..." she answered.

   But he was walking in front of her.  "Beautiful," he said.  "They are
lovely."

   --- [On a ticket stub to Eugene Onegin]

   My dear, observe nature.  What male doesn't court the female by offering
gifts of some kind, be it color, song, or stature.  Do we call female
cardinal a whore because she is swayed the male's plumage?  Do we call any
female a whore because she chooses him who offers her more than the other?
A whore is a trifle, a woman who discards and is discarded once a given
transaction has taken place.  One does not discard a Degas or Picasso once
it has been enjoyed.  You are worth more than the sum of any of these
artists.  I note that you have not used the key.  I assure you, young one,
that you are perfectly safe.  ---

   She wanted to reach out for him, to put his hands on her breasts.  She
felt exposed, vulnerable but the feeling made her sex ache.  "I just want
to look at them," he said.  "I've imagined what they looked like for so
long.  Are you warm?"

   "Yes," she answered.  He was looking at her, lasciviously, every part of
her, in a way he never would if she weren't blindfolded.  She felt very
female.

   "And the architecture you prefer?" He touched her lips, then ran his
fingers down her throat, to her exposed breasts and the nipples hanging
loosely, down.

   "Purcell," she answered.  She gasped.

   He pinched her nipples.  "Henry?"

   "No..." she gasped.  "William Grey...  ahh..."

   "Yes!" He let go of her nipples, gently cupping the weight of her
breasts in his hands.  "Extraordinary!  The Airplane House."

   "I know it..." she trembled.

   His hands vanished before she felt him take her hand.  The music
changed.

   "Do you know this music?" he asked.

   "Bach," she answered.  "Cantanta 105"

   "And you?  Homeless?  How?"

   "The library," she answered.  "I don't like listening to music.  I read
it."

   "Incredible!"

   "I remember it," she said.  "Whatever I read."

   "Astonishing," he murmured.  "Brilliant and yet..."

   "And yet what?" she asked.

   "You know I'm going to fuck you...in a most dirty way, probably bent
over..."

   "Yes," she said.  He pressed her hand lightly against his cock, hidden
in his pants.  Her stomach felt light.

   "You are brilliant," he murmured.  "But you are a young woman..."

   "But?" she asked.  "Brilliant, `but' I am a woman?"

   "Yes..." he said.  "You are a young woman.  Brilliant but a young woman.
You will be bent over and fucked."

   "Fucked?" she asked.

   "Yes," he answered in a whisper, "my beautiful young woman.  Fucked. 
Every part of you cries out - your youth and womanhood..  "He pressed
himself against her hip, brushing her nipple again."

   "Brilliant," she said quietly, "`AND' a young woman."

   He moved aside.  "Follow me." He led her gently out of the room, or so
she thought, one hand leading her, the other around her waist.

   "You are so young..."

   "And you?" she answered.

   "It is best that you are blind-folded."

   "And it is clearly best that you are not."

   "To be so well-versed," he continued.  "You are a remarkable young
woman. And yet, may I ask, there seemed to be some hesitance in your
admissions?"

   "I had to make a deal," she answered.

   "They know nothing about what we're doing!"

   Tamora smiled.  "I have addictions."

   "What?" he asked.

   "Crazy stuff," she said, quietly.  " I do crazy stuff...drugs, I was...
I was homeless..."

   "Your parents?"

   "No," she answered.  "`Cause I wanted to..."

   "And did you like it?"

   "I did," she answered.  "I used to...  They said, if I were admitted, I
would agree to counseling."

   "Good God," he said quietly.  "And so much talent."

   "Why?" she asked.

   "Why what, my dear?"

   "Why like this?" she asked.  "Why didn't you just ask me?  Why, like
this?  As if I were an acquisition?  Maybe if you had just asked..."

   "Why add spice to food?" he asked.  "You tell me, Tamora.  Why did you
agree to this?  Why did you allow yourself to be acquired?"

   "No," she stopped him.  "Don't answer with a question.  I want to know."
Her knees bumped the edge of a bed.  She stopped.  Was this it?  The bed?
Would he do it?  Would he fuck her?

   --- [On the reverse side.]

   I am not a cardinal.  Who are you?  ---

   "Bend, my dear." He guided her hands down until they were on the bed,
her knees still on the edge.  He slid his hands up her arms, over her
shoulders, down her ribs and waist.  "Imagine growing up in a house where
nothing wasn't a collectible.  Imagine growing up in a museum where every
painting and even the furniture and carpet was a `work of art'.  Imagine a
house where love was a commodity.  My mother and my father were works of
art.  Me?  I didn't merit a flawed masterpiece.  But I learned..." Tamora
inhaled sharply as he pulled on her nipples.  "I learned how to `acquire'
their affection.  I learned that love, on the contrary, `could' be bought
and I bought it."

   "I feel sorry for you," Tamora breathed as his hands moved over her
belly, then her hips.

   "Don't," the man answered.  "I have tried love the prescribed way but it
bores me.  In fact, I feel sorry for`normalcy'.  There are so many ways to
seduce.  There are so many different ways to love and be in love." His
hands moved down to the hem of her skirt and to her bare knees, then slowly
pushed the skirt upward as he pushed his hand up her thighs.  He stopped,
the hem at the very tops of her thighs.  She arched her back.

   "What are you doing?" she asked.

   "Unwrapping a present," he answered, "very slowly."

   "Mmmmm..."

   "But, if I may still ask: Why?"

   "Why what?'

   He moved his hands up her ass, leaving the dress where it was, and
massaged the small of her back.  "Why did you agree to this?"

   "Maybe I..." she moaned, "maybe I don't want to say."

   "Maybe because you `like' being singled out?  You `like' being coveted.
Maybe because you `like' being an acquisition?  - like a work of art."

   "Maybe," she answered.  She arched her back.  "You like that, my dear?"

   "Yesss...  it feels good."

   His hands moved up, massaged her upper back, then slowly pressed down
her sides, along her ribs, then smoothly down her waste, then under her
belly until he pressed against the insides of her thighs, pushing them
apart, pushing and forcing her skirt to rise up, to reveal first just a
hint of fur between her slender thighs, then more.  "Wider, my dear." Her
breathing deepened.  Her skirt rode up.  Fur, then the lips, the entry into
her femininity, her clit, hard and straining, betraying her readiness to be
mounted, then the full divide of her lips, her anus.  "Some might consider
your talents to border on genius..."

   "Some might..." she answered huskily.

   "Your pussy is wet," she heard him say.  "Ready for cock my little
genius."

   "Yes," she murmured.  "I'm ready for cock."

   "You are a work of art."

   Tomora lowered her head to the mattress.

   --- [On a ticket stub to Cosi fan Tutte]

   We are in luck, my dear, I am not a Cardinal, nor am I a Bishop.  These,
at least, are not obstacles we need surmount.  And of course you wish to
know who your benefactor is.  You may see me on the second floor gallery
during intermission.  I know that your attendance at the Coat Room desk
will be required.  However, I will allow you some time by standing near the
rail.  ---

   "So many men," the man traced his finger tip between the lips of her
sex, "see so few women, like this, ready, offering their most private
place, inside themselves, to them." You smell wonderful.  Pungent.  The
smell of a woman's arousal.  Some say it is easy to know when a man is
aroused, but that a woman can hide hers.  I disagree.  I can smell a
woman's arousal.  I have smelled it in public places and have known that,
between her legs, her lips were swollen, that the channel to her womb was
slippery and that she was ready, even desired, to be mounted and
penetrated.

   Tomora heard him move.  Was he standing, readying his cock?  "Take me,"
she said, softly.

   "Stand up."

   --- [On the reverse side.]

   I think I might have seen you, but did you keep your back to me?  ----

   She pushed herself of the mattress, slowly, regretfully.  She stood, her
skirt still bunched at the flair of her slender hips.  He ass was bare. 
Her pussy was bare.  Her breasts were bare.  With any of her boyfriends,
she would have fucked by now.  They would have fucked, hard.  Then they
would have gotten drunk, maybe gotten high and fucked again.  But she was
blindfolded.

   "Would you like something to eat?" he asked.

   She breathed, shakily.  "Why wait," she whispered.  "Please."

   "Take my hand," he said.  She reached.  He took it.  He began to lead
her.  She tugged at his hand, fell to her knees, reach for him, touching
his thigh, pulling him toward her, until she lightly kissed the crotch of
his pants.  She reached, unzipped him, gently brought out his cock, and
sucked the tip of him into her mouth.

   He groaned, gently brushing his hands through her hair.  "I have
imagined you like this so many times, my cock in your young mouth, between
your lovely lips.  Do you really appreciate how lovely you are?  How lucky
you are to be a young woman?  How desirable you are?"

   "Yes," she answered, almost whispering.

   He was big.  Engorged.  How strange to be so intimate with this part of
him, to know this best of all, its shape, taste and flavor, without knowing
the man.  She locked her lips around the ball of his cock, tasting,
enjoying the smooth skin against her tongue.  He was reaching for her
blindfold.  "No!" she pulled away, holding her blindfold on her face.

   --- [On the white space of a page from the program notes]

   If you accept my proposition, you will know me intimately.  Presently,
you are at an advantage, dear.  If I were to reveal my identity you could
quite readily ruin me.  An agreement to my proposal requires no signature.
I keep the contract with me and if its terms are agreeable(allow me the
indelicacy) the ratification shall be deposited it in your lovely belly. 
Then, my dear, we shall be on equal footing.  Any indiscretion shall be to
both our ruining.  ---

   "Why?" he asked quizzically.

   "I..." she hesitated.  "I like it."

   "Does it make you feel helpless?" he asked.

   "It makes me," she paused again, "trust."

   "It turns you on?"

   "Yes," she whispered, her words muffled by his cock.  "Yes it does. 
I... like it."

   "Because you need only think of yourself?"

   "Maybe," she asnwered.

   "How does a woman like you cherish art?"

   "I don't," she answered.  She could feel the heat of his cock close to
her lips.  "I use it.  I don't care."

   "You're lying.  I have heard you sing."

   "You see what you want to see," she countered.

   "Perhaps," he chuckled.  "Perhaps you sing because you crave attention.
But a woman who `uses' music does not sing like you."

   "It is because the song craves attention," answered Tamora,

   "And next you will say that art craves attention," he said, "and that
you are a work of art."

   Tamora didn't answer.  --- [On the opposite side]

   Are you married?  ---

   "Take my hand."

   She did.  She let him pull her to her feet.  She let him lead her into
another room.  "Sit here," he said.  The seat was wood and cool - a dining
chair.  He left her.  She heard a muffled pop and smelled red wine, heard
its liquid pouring out.  He guided her hand to the glass.  "Drink," he
said. "Pinot Noir.  My preferred bottles being from the Côte Chalonnaise
and M connais regions of France.  I am a connoisseur of fine wines, as well
as women."

   "The two go together?" she asked.

   "Some women go better with white wine," he answered.  "I profess to
occasional error in the matter."

   "How do you judge me?"

   "Ah, you're smile is every bit as beautiful as..."

   "As what?" she asked.

   "As your breasts, your thighs, the dimple in your cheek..."

   "Cliches," she said.  "One after the other."

   Your smile is as beautiful as a ripe peach in August..."

   "Still cliched...  " She opened her legs.

   "Yes, as beautiful as that," he said quietly.

   She moved to the edge of the seat.

   "Now you are growing bold," he said, but there was a smile in his voice.

   She tasted the wine.  Delicious.  He moved away.  She heard the quick
strike of a stove's igniter, smelled gas, heard flames.  "I have a treat
for you," he said.  He returned.  She felt him push her knees apart and up,
resting her heels on the edge of the seat.  She was opened wide.  Would she
feel his penis entering her?  She didn't.

   He left her.  Tamora heard butter sizzling ,then smelled it.  Her thighs
were wide open.  Carnality and the civilized swirled together.  Her sex was
hot and moist.  She wanted to touch herself as took another sip of the
fragrant wine.  The heat of it moved quickly from her belly into her blood.
She took another sip and smelled garlic, then something else.

   "Escargot," he said.

   "I have never tried it."

   "I would not go so far as to call it a delicacy."

   "You know," she said.  "It is not art that I love.  It is insanity.  It
is the insanity in art.  All great art is insane, don't you think?"

   "No," he answered.

   "Yes you do," she returned.  "And you are afraid of it.  I think you are
afraid of what it makes you.  Your parents taught you to be afraid..."

   "You presume."

   "You must keep everything just so," she continued.  "And sex.  I think
you have made an art out of sex, but it frightens you.  You are ashamed. 
You do not want to be seen.  It makes you lose control."

   "And you?" he asked.  "It is coquettish of you to say you `love'
insanity.  It is order that you crave.  Great art brings order to insanity.
That is genius."

   They both were silent.  She heard the sound of metal scraping metal, and
inhaled the increasingly delicious smell of butter and garlic.  "You are
very different than your letters," she said, wishing for more wine.

   "Ah," he answered.  "How so?"

   She hesitated.  "You sound more pompous in your letters."

   "And I am not pompous in person?"

   "Not so much," she answered.  "You are very nice - and funny."

   "Do you mind , for a moment," he said.

   "Ah!" she gasped softly.  "Mmm..." The smooth skin of him pressed
against her lips, the smooth round skin of his cock as he parted them, and
his heavy length slowly filled her mouth.  "Do you mind," he groaned, "if I
am not so very nice, for a moment, but a little dirty." He moved cock his
cock back and forward, fucking her mouth.  "It is so rewarding to see your
young, impertinent lips close around the head of my cock.  It brings order
to your insanity."

   She moaned.  She cupped the length and delicate underside of his penis
with her tongue.

   "I'm sorry, my dear," he groaned.  "I could not resist." He groaned
again and she felt his cock jump.  A jet of salty, smooth fluid spurted
against the back of her tongue - her throat.  He quickly withdrew - a
string of cum and saliva fell from her bottom lip to her chin.  "You almost
ruined me," he gasped.

   --- [On a ticket stub to La Traviata]

   My dear, you must have thought that I toyed with you.  It has been a
month and summer is almost over.  I desire your beauty more than ever but
perhaps you have forgotten about me.  I see that you have been accepted at
the conservatory with a full scholarship.  You ask if I am married.  I am
not.  I am a collector.  A wife would not tolerate my predilections.  You
must wonder then at my need for discretion.  A man of my age with a young
woman of yours, I'm afraid, is an unforgivable offense in some quarters.  I
see that you used the key.  If the accommodations are to your liking, you
may consider them yours.  ---

   She tried to swallow, couldn't, pushed the cum forward, tasted him, then
swallowed.  The string of cum remained on her chin.  Her stomach felt
light. Sex.  Some part of him was inside her now.  She felt womanly.  She
would take more of her lover's fluids inside her.

   "I hope you still think I'm nice," he said, voice shaking with arousal.

   "I think you are dirty," she whispered, her voice unsteady.

   "I am."

   "I think..." she swallowed, still whispering.  "I think you opened my
legs...  to fuck me..." She stretched her thighs more widely.

   "Aut viam inveniam aut faciam," he answered, breathless.

   "Fortes fortuna iuvat," she answered.

   "Good lord," he answered, "I think I shall spray like a dog, untouched,
you excite me so!"

   "Spray inside me," she answered, shocked by her own lust, somehow freed
by the blindfold - freed to be whatever he wanted her to be.  But she
didn't feel him, at her lips, at the lips of her sex, her breasts.  She
heard and smelled sizzling butter.  Then she heard metal on metal, the
clink of china.  She imagined him arranging the plate, elegantly dressed,
all while his cock stood stiffly from his body, all while she waited, legs
wide - the dichotomy of culture and crudity.  She imagined herself, a young
woman, her dress torn open, breasts bare, sitting on the edge of a dining
chair, her slender sex glistening and open.  She felt, more than heard, his
presence before her.

   "Open wide," he said.

   She spread her legs wider, offering him the entrance to her womb.

   She moaned, loudly.

   The rough warmth of his tongue lapped her clit.  The muscles of her
pelvis spasmed at once, threatening to orgasm.  The smooth, rough caress of
his tongue pressed against her clit again, forcing her to arch her back,
lift her young breasts upward, throw her head back.  "In the posture of
feminine orgasm," he murmured.  "Beautiful...  I have wanted to see you
like this from the first I saw you..."

   "Fellatic praise," she answered, mouth open, straining.  "Do it.  Make
me do it..."

   "Not yet..."

   She groaned.  She heard him stand.  "Open wide," he said.  This time she
opened her mouth.  She could smell the garlic, butter.  The smooth round
bulk of the escargot parted her lips.

   --- [On the reverse side]

   I don't want to do this.  ---

   "Uhnnn!"

   The smooth round thickness of his cock pushed her open between her
thighs, entering her body, slowly, thickly, engorging, making her whimper
as her opening stretched around him, accommodating.  And just as slowly,
the escargot slipped into her opening, taut, straining mouth.  Open wide.
She did, lifting her knees.  "Uh!" she cried as she felt the full length of
his curbed cock inside her, finally.  She closed her lips around the curved
stem of the silverware just as the lips of her sex closed around the wide
base of his cock.  She took the escargot into her mouth just as her sex had
taken the broad bulb of his cock into her belly.  The food was delicious.
She savored the taste and as she did so, her lover's cock moved inside her,
back and forth, seeking, finding, and then deeply seeking again.  She
swallowed, felt him push upward, as if wanting to empty his nourishment
into her other belly.  And she waited for the other juices to follow, to
fill her other place.

   But he withdrew, only to repeat what he had done before.  The food
slipped into her mouth and she cried out with penetration, her young voice
rising higher than each cry before, the motions of her lover, inside her,
harder and more demanding each time she savored the dish.

   "That's all," he finally said, breathlessly, his cock still deeply in
her belly.  "I made six for you."

   "Please," she gasped, whispering.  She let her head fall back, backward
over the chairback and lifted her breasts.  "It feels so good..."

   "Do you always only think of yourself?" he asked.  She felt the crisp
lip of the wineglass against her lips.  She drank as he tipped it, some of
the wine running down her throat, shoulders and between her breasts; mixing
with the cum on her chin.  The wine was delicious, slightly gamey and
tasteful.  She felt her lover's tongue between her breasts, then his mouth
closing over a nipple and breast.  She moaned and pushed herself into his
mouth.  He sucked, then let her slip out of his mouth, scraping her hard
nipple between his teeth.  She shook, still skewered on his cock.

   This was more than she had ever experienced.  This was not sex.  This
was delirium.  She would do anything - any position - anything he asked. 
She contracted around his cock, grunting.  She breathed quickly.

   "So soon?" he asked.

   "I can't help it," she moaned.

   --- [On the white space of program notes to Falstaff]

   I will come to the apartment this evening at 10:00 PM.  If you are
there, where the enclosed dress.  You will find no underwear or bra.  I
find them an impedance and I wish to ratify our contract as effortlessly as
possible.  You will also find a blindfold.  If you are not there, then you
may be pleased to know that I will not trouble you further.  ---

   She felt him slide, slowly, wetly, out of her - skin slipping out of
skin.  She groaned, deeply.  The lips of her sex wetly released the round
head of him, closing as the tip withdrew.  A single thread of her slick
wetness momentarily connected them.  Her belly felt empty.

   "I have more to show you," he said, but his voice was strained, filled
with the desire to take her - with finality.

   She felt his hands at her ankles, lowering her feet to the floor, then
his hand in hers, helping her to stand.  She didn't want her thighs to be
closed.  They cried to be opened.  Wide.  She needed penetration, depth,
his warm, liquid salt pulsing into her, inside her.  He led her out of the
kitchen and into another room.

   He held up her hands.  She felt hardwood, then carpeting under her feet
as she walked.  She smelled sheets, or rather, the smell of freshly
laundered sheets.  She smelled the outdoors.  Her stomach tingled.  Yes. 
She wanted him.  Her hands contacted a smooth, cold surface.

   "Marble?" she asked.

   "Glass."

   As she felt the contours, she recognized the shape: an abdomen; then the
hips, an woman.  He stood behind her.  As she touched the sculpture, her
lover's hands touched her.  As he touched the abdomen, he smoothed his
hands over hers.  As she followed the waist, he followed hers.  She moved
her hands back to the belly, felt the glassy indent of a belly button.  She
followed the crease of the abdomen upward, up to the inverted V of a rib
cage.  Her hands were shaking, her breath shallow.  She felt a soft warm
breeze.  "This is your bedroom?"

   "Yes."

   "The French Doors.  You opened them?"

   "Yes," he answered again.

   "And anybody could see us?  Hear us?" she asked.

   "Possibly..."

   "You're lying...  you wouldn't if you thought it was possible."

   "Continue to explore the statue, my love."

   She did.  --- [On the reverse side.]

   How will I know it is you?" ---

   "What is the statue?"

   "A Jeff Koons," he answered.

   Yes, she knew what she would find if she followed the contours.  "Made
in heaven..." she breathed.

   "Astonishing," he answered.

   "No.  Hedonism," she answered, "not art.  The great artist becomes his
art.  He is subsumed by it.  He does not make himself the subject of his
art."

   "You are too quick to judge Koons."

   "Your aesthetics are too sybaritical...  Huhnnn!" She groaned, feeling
the head of his cock brush her clit.  "To make yourself the subject of your
art is onanistic."

   "Do you not masturbate?"

   "Yes," she said.  "Mmmm....  But I do not call it art."

   "I would," he quickly answered, "if you would permit me to watch." She
smiled.  "You would like that," he said, provoking her.

   "Did you commission the Koons?" she asked.

   "I did."

   "You are a fool...  ah!...  to have paid for it.  Pornography isn't
art." She opened her legs and arched her back.

   "On the contrary, my dear, all art is pornographic, craving attention."

   "You think a mass by Mozart is pornographic?'

   "I think you argue for the sake of arguement." Her hands moved over the
breasts of the figure and his hands moved over hers.  She pushed her
breasts into his hands.  She moaned as he squeezed them and caught her
nipples between his fingertips.  He lightly held them.  She acknowledged
his pinches with moans and the motion of her hips and waist.

   "What do you suppose arouses a man?"

   "What doesn't?" she quipped.  "Uhnmmm!"

   "Indeed, just hearing a woman's voice.  We are unlike animals. 
`Eroticism' compels us to mate, to fuck..." She gasped!  She felt his cock
thrust and just open her lips without penetrating her.  She thrust back,
willing, but he withdrew.  She moaned.  "Eroticism is the imagination- our
minds.  Every time a man lusts after a woman's shape, sound, or smell - the
curve of her body, so different from his own, or the pitch of her voice. 
The man craves her."

   She opened her legs, felt the blunt soft end of his cock at her opening
again, craving her.

   "How does nature compel a thinking animal, able to make choices, able to
deny its instincts, to mate -- to abase its spiritual aspirations?" His
voice filled with the desire to penetrate her.  "How does nature compel
such an animal to fuck again and again."

   She felt him push, opening her, but not penetrating her.

   "She ingrains the ability to perceive beauty, to be attracted by it, to
crave it, and be aroused by it.  In lust is the rudiments of art, the
ability to appreciate and create art.  Even the basest man can appreciate
art - it is expressed in every woman who arouses him."

   "Does my body do that to you?  You want to penetrate me..." she asked.
Somehow, frustratingly, he resisted, withdrawing the head of his cock.  He
groaned.  "You would like masturbating for me, wouldn't you..." He moved
his fingers from her nipples and she felt a sharp tug on the remains of her
clothing.  She inhaled sharply.  The stronger seams of the dress dug into
her skin.  Then rest fell to her ankles.  She was naked, except for the
blindfold.

   "Yes," she answered, her breath growing short.

   "You make love to yourself as your lover craves you."

   "Yes," she breathed.

   "My god," he breathed.  "You exceed my fantasies - and I had many while
I watched you at the opera house.  I imagined your waist, your ass, your
youth..."

   Tomora squeezed the glass nipples, then inhaled again, crying out as her
own nipples were also squeezed.  "Are you going to do to me what is being
done to the statue?" she asked, voice strained.

   "Yes," he answered.

   She moved her hands slowly upward, to the glass shoulder blades.  She
felt hands, the hands of a lover on the woman's glass shoulders.  They were
glass.  The knuckles were sharp, as if tightly gripping the woman's
shoulders, holding her - holding her in place.  She felt her lover's hands
move up to her own shoulders, gripping them.  She heard his breath behind
her, strained, straining.  She felt the chin, then upward.  The parted
lips. Her lover's fingers brushed her lips, then penetrated them with a
finger.  She sucked.  Her fingers moved upward, across the glass eyes, the
sharp eyebrows, the glass hair that fell in waves, some forward, over the
statues brow.  His hands returned to her shoulders.

   "Pygmalion," she whispered.

   "Yes," he speaks in her ear.  "Art becomes life.  And what form does it
take?  That of the woman.  And what does the maker desire?  His desires are
pornographic.  Imagine the detail he has lavished on her breasts, her
nipples, the font of her vulva, her clit and entry to her body.  And what
does she crave?"

   "His desire," she answers quietly.  "To be craved."

   "You crave my attention..." he urged her.

   "Do you do this with other girls?" she asked.  "Do you make them the
works of art you could never desecrate - only to desecrate them - to spill
your craving inside them?"

   "You are the first," he answered.  "You are my Pygmalion, finally.  You
crave to be admired, adored, narcissism without conscience."

   "I am a woman," she answered with a sly smile.  One that he couldn't
see. "It is my right."

   ---- [On the margin of program notes to Rosemunde.]

   I will bring you a Raspberry.  I will be fresh, my dear.  I will pick it
myself.  ----

   She felt his hands tighten on her shoulders.  She followed the cool,
smooth glass downward, fanning her hands and fingers outward.  She had to
reach as her palms moved downward.  The woman of the statue was leaning
forward, her sex thrust back.  Tamora knew why.  She reached the flare of
the hips and felt downward, the smooth round hips and the trace of muscle
sculpted into the glass.  She bent forward, like the statue.  Her hands
continued downward.  The woman's legs were open.  Yes, she knew why.  She
widened her own legs.  She knew that she was going to be this statue.  This
statue was going to come alive in her.

   She traced the line between the statues upper legs and lower abdomen
inward as they lead to the pudenda.  She traced with the fingers of both
hands.  She felt the statues belly, below her belly button, and felt a
slight bulge in the glass where the soft belly should be - something
bulging inside.  "God," she breathed.  Such detail - this bulge from inside
her- the sign of her penetratoin

   She reach downward.  The glass was smooth.  There was no hair.  Yes...

   "Huhhhhh!"

   She felt it!  The glass cock filling the rounding O of an opened glass
pussy!  And her own pussy - filled from behind, stretched and penetrated
deeply.  "Uhnnnn..." She exhaled, as if the wind had been knocked out of
her.  She remained bent over, bent forward, one hand feeling the round
glass cock where it melded into the glass pussy.  With her other hand she
reached between her legs, and felt her own pussy, and the round cock that
penetrated it.  She was the statue.  His hands were tightening on her
shoulders.  "Huh!" He drew back and thrust, felt the slippery skin of his
cock between her fingers, the lips of her pussy pulled out, then back in.

   Her breaths came in short bursts, then held, then short bursts again. 
Finally.  She moved her fingers upward, felt the bulge in the statue's
glass belly, felt the same bulge in her own taut abdomen- the head of a
cock inside her.  "Huh!" He drew back and thrust again.  She placed her
hands on the shoulders of the statue, on the glass hands of the lover
holding her, leaned forward, and kissed the parted glass lips.

   "Uh!"

   Finally, he was fucking her.  The feeling of his cock moving in and out
between her legs was like that of a man with only one end in mind, one end
for her.  She acknowledged each thrust of his desire with a gasp.  She
heard him too.  "Tell me...  tell...  Tell me what you...  huhn!... 
see..."

   Her lover groaned.  "I see a brilliant young woman, bent over in front
of me, barely eighteen.  I see..." he groaned.  "I see the youthful muscles
of her shoulders -so lovely.  I see her lovely back, curved and arched, the
light shadow of her spine, and the taper of her hips, my groin slapping
against her ass." He fucked her, overwhelmed.  Her cheek was against the
glass cheek of the statue, her mouth open.  She had begun to exhale a high
pitched cry with every piercing of her belly.

   "I see her narrow waist grow wider again, blossoming into the ready and
perfect round swell her ass, and at the small of her back, where the
parting of her body begins I see my cock splitting and entering her again
and again, pushing apart that little place between her slender legs."

   She pushed him away.  She turned.  She was flushed.  Her nipples were
hard and breasts full.  She reached, unable to see, until she found him,
his chest, then downward, his abdomen and lower until her fingers rounded
his cock, holding him.

   She pulled and pushed, masturbating him, kissed him.  She felt behind
him.  Yes...  the bed.  She pushed him back.  He let himself fall and she
fallowed him, straddling him.

   --- [On a ticket stub, very small writing, to Genoveva.]

   Understand that I will leave if at anytime you say `no' to me.  If that
occurs, I ask that you leave the key in the apartment.  I will not trouble
you again.  May I expect you?  ---

   Her long black hair now fell loosely, flowing over her lips, between and
around her breasts.  Her nipples, upright and swollen, stood like islands.
He reached and pinched them.  Her slender waist spasmed as he did.  She
aimed his cock between her thighs.  "Uhnnn!" His cock went the only place
it could go, up into her belly.  Her hips and belly arched and undulated
around the nexus of their joining.

   "Tell me...  unh...  tell me...  god...  what you see?" she gasped.  She
leaned back, hands on his knees.

   "I see," he gasped.  "I see a young woman's belly, stretched, tight
beneath the V of her lovely ribs.  He traced his fingers upward until he
took her breasts fully in both hands.  "I see her breats, upright; her
tits, hard and full..."

   "Uhhh!"

   "I see her belly filled by my cock.  In and out.  She's lost.  Falling.
Sensuous.  Rising.  Sublimely beautiful."

   "UHNNnn..." Her mouth fell open.  Her head fell back.

   He pushed her off.

   "No!" she rolled off the bed, one knee on hardwood, the other on a rug.
"Uhhhnn...  I'm going to cum.  Please!" One hand was on the bedside, the
other reached in front of her.  What was he doing?  For the first time she
felt uncertain.  She heard his footsteps behind her.  Was he going to fuck
her on her hands and knees?  She opened her thighs and arched her back. 
"Please..." she begged.  "Finish."

   She felt his finger lightly trace the curve of her spine.

   "You must understand," she heard him say, voice changed, but not
threatening, "my dear, female.  You see a side of me I let no one see - a
little Falstaffian, bloviate, decadent.  But you must understand, I am a
powerful man.  I can destroy careers.  I can make them.  I relish your
impertinence and crave you're youth, you're intelligence, you're
brilliance...

   "UuHHH!" Something pinched her clit!  Something was clamped on it!  He
pussy clamped involuntarily.  She quickly reached between her legs but he
caught her wrist, pulling it to the small of her back, gently but firmly.
She was shaking, but not from fear.  An unbearable needle-like agony was
building between her thighs.  She mewed and writhed, her breath jagged.

   "...I sense it.  You will be great..." he continued.  "But you must
understand, none of that would matter to me -- you're youth, you're
brilliance, you're promise...  none of it..."

   "HuhhhhHH!" He opened her pussy...  filled her belly...  she stiffened,
mouth, agape...  something large...  something impossibly deep. "If not for
this..." he said, moving the thing slowly, deeply - into her pussy.

   She was shaking.

   "Do you understand?"

   "HUHHH!" she cried out.  A loud crack on her ass shot pain and pleasure
through her solar plexis.  She rose up onto her knees, thighs open, knees
wide, back arched, head pulled back by her hair.

   "I said: Do you understand?"

   She cried out again!  - searing pain and pleasure streaking across her
ass.  "Yes!" she cried out.

   "HUHH!" Another crack.  Fluid slipped down her trembling thighs and
dripped off the end of the thing dividing her legs, impaling her.

   "Do you?"

   "Yes, Sir!" Her voice trembled.  She reached with her free hand,
knotting her fingers in his hair.

   He licked the soft, salty skin of her neck, behind her ear.  "You
narcissism," he whispered, "is what attracts me to you.  It is your flaw.
Do not let it get the best of you." She moaned.  As he spoke, he pushed the
thing inside her, forcing her to stretch and open.  She was grunting with
each breath.

   "Yes, sir....Uh..." she answered softly.

   "Now, my lovely girl, my brilliant young pussy," his own voice was
shaking, "what I've waited so long to see...  what I've imagined seeing."
Then he whispered.  "Thank you, for saying yes, my dear."

   He released her clit, the clamp or whatever it was.  Blood returned to
the nerves.  She exhaled, eyes rolling, body arched and stiff, stretched
back on her knees - a long, long moan.  And she came.  Her belly and hips
spasmed upward, contorting her already arched back, forcing a cry with each
contraction.  Her pussy clamped around the thing still impaling her.  She
tried to catch her breath.  She couldn't.  She swallowed, breathed, grunted
as her knees banged against the floor.  "Beautiful," she heard him whisper
through the uncontrolled clenching of her muscles - the uncontrolled
pleasure.

   "When you are singing.  When you stand on the stage, my dear, as I know
you will.  I alone will take pleasure in knowing that I have heard your
voice as no other man, perhaps, ever will."

   He had let go of her.  She fell forward into her hands and knees. 
Whatever had been inside her slipped out, wetly, clattering between her
knees and rolling across the floor.  Her head hung down.  Her hips were
still convulsing, if not so violently.  She tried to crawl, but the motion
only seemed to reignite the pleasure - the orgasm.  She felt his hands on
her waist.

   "HUHHNN!"

   This time it was his cock that filled her.  Hard.  Deep.  "You craze
me!" he growled.  "You make me insane with desire!"

   "Huh!" He thrust again, then again.  She could say nothing.  She braced
her hands, head hung low, shoulder blades highlighted at her shoulders -
her skin and muscles, smooth, soft, youthful as she was fucked.  She tried
to catch her breath.  She couldn't.  She inhaled quickly, swallowed,
inhaled quickly, swallowed, then came again, acknowledging his cock with a
long gutteral moan, interrupted by the hiccups of her contractions.

   She heard him cry out.  She could feel his cock jerking inside her,
spilling his syrup in her belly.  Each spasm jolted her forward as her
muscles continued to contract around him.

   And then it was over.

   He pulled her back, her back against his chest, him on his seals, she,
seated on his thighs.  Her head fell back on his shoulder.  Sperm was
already flowing out of her, dripping on his knees, streaking her thighs and
slickening the floor between their legs.  The smell mixed with the musky
sweat of her lover.  Their contract had been sealed inside her belly.  She
reached down, inserted a finger into her own wet opening, soft and
slippery. She brought her finger to her lips and licked.  "You love my
pussy?" she asked.

   "Yes..." he breathed.

   "Then we are both in love with the same thing," she said.

   He was reaching for her blindfold.

   "No..."

   "But...  my dear..." he answered, tenderly.

   "I know," she said.  She shivered with a brief after-gasm, then reached
with her hand, still odorous with their jucies, gently palming his cheek.
"Not yet..."

   --- [On the reverse program notes to Genoveva.]

   A Raspberry would be delicious.
   ----