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From: Prufrock54 <prufrock54@my-dejanews.com>
Subject: (ASSM) The Gallery (M/F con) first story, not too explicit
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"The Gallery" is copyright 1995, 1999 by Prufrock54 (prufrock54@my-
dejanews.com), and all rights are retained by the author and Prufrock
Productions.  It may be copied and distributed freely, provided that the
entire text is transmitted unaltered (including this message). Use of this
document in any commercial endeavor (including, but not limited to:
members-only web sites, web sites using fee-based adult verification systems,
CD- ROMs, etc.)  without expressed written consent of the author is
prohibited.  Posting in alt.sex.stories.moderated and other parts of the
alt.sex.stories hierarchy is granted.

This story is a work of fiction.  It is intended for mature readers.  Despite
what we see in everyday life, maturity is defined as age 18 and older.  If
stories of a sexual nature offend you, or if it's defined as taboo in your
community, do not read any further.  OK, since you're now reading this
sentence, I'm assuming you're complying with your local laws.  Good for you!
If not, you have one more chance to stop.

If this has to be coded in some format, let's try this: M/F, con

Since this is my first story posting, I'm sure I'm missing something in terms
of posting protocol.  I'm hopeful that the elder states-persons of the
newsgroup will forward suggestions and corrections.

And, I'm sure I'll be hearing from someone about how much they liked/disliked
the story.  I look forward to reading the intelligent critiques, for it can
only make me a stronger writer.  The other end of the spectrum will help me
put my delete button to its proper use.

**************************

The Gallery
By Prufrock54


  Just north of the Drake Hotel in Chicago, where Lake Shore Drive splits off
Michigan Ave. and abruptly turns toward the lake, sits the art gallery in
which I'd first met her.  Hidden by two high-rise apartment buildings, nested
into a small cleft between the two behemoths, it looks almost like a glass-
encased connecting corridor.  Only the small brass plate with the engraved
name of the gallery indicates its true nature.

  I had received an invitation to the opening of a one-woman show, displaying
her oils and sculptures.  The name of the artist was familiar, but I knew
nothing about her, nor was I sure of how I made the list of attendees.	I can
only assume that it was from a mailing list compiled by the comment cards
collected at the Arts Centre at the local college.  Bored during a play
rehearsal, I wandered into their gallery, which was displaying the work of
current and past students.  As I was leaving, I was handed a survey card, and
asked to fill in all the blanks, and write additional comments.  I think I
wrote something very introspective: "Nice.  Do more."

  I guess those few words were sufficient enough to guarantee my entry into
the critic's Hall of Fame, for I received the invitation a few weeks later.
Since I had nothing to do that Friday night, I went.  Knowing how difficult
it is to park in that area, I took the train from the suburbs, and then a
cab, arriving 20 minutes after the doors were to open.	Walking in, I was
greeted by an odd mixture of scents;  from perfume, cologne and sweat to Flax
soap on the wood walls.  I was tempted to leave the number of a good HVAC man
that I know.

  People were mingling about a table in the center that was covered with all
sorts of appetizers, fondues, cheeses and wine.  Avoiding that whole scene
among the artsy-fartsy crowd, I wandered over to a painting, hanging on a
wood- covered piece of drywall mounted to the ceiling and floor.  The intent
of the faux wall was to give some character to the gallery's square shape;
to break up the boring geometry.  Staring at the picture, I noticed another
scent;	more powerful, yet with a light bouquet.  Moving closer, I realized
the picture was the source of the smell.  I needed to take one good whiff to
confirm my suspicion or sate my curiosity...so I did.  I'm sure other patrons
were finding it amusing that some 250-pound, 6'0" male was so farsighted that
he had to practically step into the painting.  Pulling back, I looking at the
plaque and noticed the title: Ecstacy.	I thought, "Ewww...that's the name of
a perfume...this is performance/conceptual art."

     I cannot begin to describe the painting.  Well, I could, but not without
fighting back waves of nausea.  It was a flourish of colors and shades, all in
a pattern which made no sense to me.  It was frenetic, without conveying any
type of message.  If THIS was an example of this woman's work, then she'd soon
be a major player in the *starving artists* sales at the local Holiday Inn.
OK, it was better than "Elvis On Black Velvet", or "Dogs Playing Poker", and
marginally better than "Peasant Kids with Huge Eyes", but only if *marginally*
is the operative word.  But the aroma was enticing, and I was hoping to have a
chance to meet the artist, if only to ask why she had sprayed perfume on the
painting.

     Circling around the partition, I was moved to break my sauntering,
nonchalant, why-am-I-here stride.  Before me was a bronze statue, about 5 feet
tall, of a naked woman.  The detail was amazing.  The textures were delicate.
The true form of woman and all its beauty was before me, preserved in bronze.
THIS would sell, and I intended to tell her that her true calling was in
sculpting.

  Using simple contours, she was able to highlight every muscle, and every
soft spot. I knew it was made of cold bronze, but I could feel a warmth
emanating from the artwork.  Changes in polishing technique brought a
fullness to the breasts;  a slight patina in the junction of the statue's
thighs off-set the gleam of her silken skin.  The effect was truly amazing,
and held my gaze. The more I stared, the more I felt that THIS work was more
than an act of talent, skill or artistry.  It was an act of love. The art was
a testament to the artist's feelings for women, or, at the very least, the
woman that posed for this.

  As I glanced down at the title of the work, "Karen," I noticed the perfume
again, this time stronger.  I also became aware that my space was invaded by
another, and turned to look.  I first noticed the hair...because she was
short, about the same height as the sculpture.	It was blond, with streaks of
brown, pulled back severely, which accentuated her pert nose, the full lips.
Something about her was familiar.  And, she was wearing the perfume I had
discovered on the painting opposite the wall.  She turned to me, letting me
look deep into her blue eyes, and whispered, "Do you like it?"

  "The sculpture? I love this sculpture. It's so beautiful. I was just
thinking about how it conveyed the true essence of womanhood: the softness,
the strength, the will, the determination, the beauty."

  "Oh, well yes, I guess so;  but, I was referring to why your nostrils were
flaring?"

     "Oh.  Uh, well, it's that scent. It's delightful."

     "It's Ecstasy."

     "It surely is. And so is this bronze figure."

  She blushed.	It seemed to be an odd reaction.  Perhaps she had discovered
a secret passion for women by looking at the statue.  I know it aroused in me
a deep warmth.	I just smiled at her, not knowing what to say.	Then I looked
back at the sculpture, then at her, then at the sculpture...then at her, the
statue, her, statue, her...as if I was watching a tennis match.  How stupid
could I be?  There it was in front of me, and I was too stupid to notice.  It
took me awhile, but I finally realized the reason for the blush;  for while I
was moving my head back and forth, it became evident to me that the faces
were the same.	This woman next to me was identical to the statue.  Even
though she was fully clothed, it was apparent that she was who the statue
represented, for the same curves and form were outlined by the gown she wore.

     "You modeled for this, didn't you?"

     "Well, yes, I did. You have a good eye."

  "Actually, they both see pretty well.  Seriously, I think the artist did a
wonderful job.	She captured you beautifully.  She must have loved having you
as a subject."

     Lowering her head, she said, "Yes, I think she really did."

     Again, an odd reaction.  Perhaps there was something more to this, but it
seemed that she was reluctant to discuss it further.  So, fishing for another
approach to a conversation, I asked, "Are you a professional model?"

  "No. . no.. nothing like that.  We were taking classes together at the
local college.	She sat next to me in Photography 107, and we became friends.
We were always talking before class, after class, during class.  When the
class started studying the photography of nude models, we were told that it
was to be a collaborative project, so we decided to work as a team.  After
the first few sessions photographing male models, who were really just
students trying to earn an extra buck, she suggested that we also photograph
women.	Of course, this didn't have the same appeal as photographing the
guys, at least for me.	I also noticed during our sessions with the men that
she never appeared enthusiastic.  I, on the other hand, went for some
interesting close-ups..."

  Her voice trailed off, and she blushed again.  "I had to use a wide-angle
lens on this one guy!" she said, with a hearty laugh and another blush;  this
one deeper.  I think the temperature in our immediate vicinity went up a few
degrees.  Her dreamy look left her and she continued, saying, "I didn't turn
in that picture for a grade, but I still have it.  Anyway, I agreed that fair
was fair, and that we should photograph some women.  Our first session went
well, except that she had this habit of hovering over the model, like a hawk.
 She kept wanting to arrange the model for her pose.  She kept touching
her...nothing overtly sexual, but it *was* sexual, know what I mean?"

     I did. I knew that incidental touches between people can send sparks
flying in either or both directions.  Even the most innocent touches, such as
holding hands, or a hand to a shoulder. And, I was sure that  if I could touch
this woman before me, I would feel sparks.

  Nodding that I understood, she went on with her tale.  "The second time we
were to photograph a woman, the model was late.  My partner suggested we
photograph ourselves.  Well, I certainly didn't want nude pictures of me
submitted for a grade, or seen in public for that matter, so I just laughed
and said something like, ‘Yeah, right!	Why don't we just ask for a failing
grade.'  I think she took offense to that, for I quickly added ‘Well, at
least my pictures would do that.'  She smiled at me and asked me if I was
ashamed of my body, and, if so, I shouldn't be."

     The artist was right.  This her body was lovely.  It was a testimony to
health, passion, and desire.  It exuded strength and vulnerability at the same
time.  A wondrous synthesis of softness and tautness to her muscles.  And,
dressed as she was in the black velvet, off-the-shoulder gown, with the thigh-
high slits on the side, it was evident from the shimmer of the material as it
hugged her form, that there was a gracefully curving body underneath.   With
each breath she took, the fullness of her breasts peered over the sweeping
neckline of the gown.

     She went on by saying, "I don't normally react this way, but I took what
she said as a dare, you know?  I mean, I take some pride in this body.  I
exercise daily, and watch what I eat.  She, on the other hand, was a bit
plump.  Actually, small objects tended to orbit around her."  Another laugh.

  "So, I removed my clothes, stood under the lights and filters and said to
her, ‘Shoot away.'  And she did.  She started taking pictures, as I went
through all these stupid model poses.  She turned on a big fan, and the wind
made my hair sweep back.  The lights were hot, and there I was, wind-swept
and sweaty.  But when she kept wanting to come over and move me into some
position, I kept backing away, telling her to keep on shooting.  I even tried
some of those stupid Playboy-type poses -- you know, pouting lips, breast
squeezed between my arms -- anything to make her stay away from me.  I'm not
homophobic, or anything.  I just don't have any interest in women sexually,
you know?

     "She was so persistent.  I felt she was leering at me while I was posing.
If she'd started drooling, I doubt I'd have been surprised.  And, I won't put
up with that from men, much less women.  I mean, where's the respect?  While
she was shooting, she was moving around me, her breathing became more labored.
It was either through the exertion of her mass, or lust.  I really became
uncomfortable.  I was so relieved when I heard the door open, and the model
finally arrived.  I grabbed my clothes, went behind a screen, and dressed."

     I just kept staring at her as she spoke. Her voice was sweet and melodic,
and it was like honey to my ears.  And, I was drowning.  I had leapt into the
deep blue pools of her eyes, and was going down for the third time.  She was
wonderful.  Wanting to hear the story, I prompted her with, "And...?"

  "And that was that.  Before I left, I was able to grab the rolls that had
my pictures.  I wanted to destroy them.  The next week, I told her that I was
going to work on a solo project.  She just stared at me when I told her, and
I saw tears starting to form in her eyes.  She ran down the hall, turned a
corner and was gone.

  "She must have dropped the class because I never heard from her again. That
is, until two months ago.  I thought I was done with her, until an envelope
arrived with two pictures.  One was from that night, and the other was a
picture of this sculpture.  I guess she got off a shot on a new role in the
camera before the model arrived.  She made this sculpture from the pose in
the picture.  Written on the back of the picture were the words, ‘I can't
live without you near me, so I made you for myself and others to enjoy.' 
Then I received this invitation to her gallery opening, and just had to come
here."

     I was even more curious, so I asked, "Aren't you a bit nervous?  What if
you run into her?"

     "I doubt that will happen, don't you?  I mean, I don't expect her to show
up."

     I looked around, asking, "What?  She's not here at her own opening?"

     She stared at me for a moment, then blinked, a tear coming from her left
eye.  She asked, "You don't know?  You don't know what happened?  She died two
weeks ago.  She killed herself."

     I stared in disbelief.

  "She left a suicide note, stating that her love had been rejected, and she
was going to kill herself like Sylvia Plath.  She stuck her head in the
oven."

     I sighed sadly, shaking my head.

     She continued, "Unfortunately, it was an electric oven, and her hair
caught on fire. The police said it looked as if she may have had second
thoughts, because she tried to pour water over her head.  But, instead of
water, she grabbed the half-full glass of brandy from which she'd been
drinking, and WHHHOOOOSH...she burst into flames."

     I resisted the temptation to burst into gales of laughter.  I may have
strained a facial muscle trying to maintain a solemn expression on my face.  I
almost lost it completely when she *WHHHOOOOOSHed*, barely managing to turn a
chortle into an grunt of shock and dismay.

  She continued, "I will always wonder if it was me she meant in the note. I
guess I'll never know. The only other thing she left was a list of names for
the opening tonight, with a request that those people be invited. I guess my
name was on it.  How did you get on the list?"

  I removed a handkerchief from my pocket and wiped the tear off her cheek. I
then wiped my own tears -- my tears from the effort of restraining myself.  I
also took that moment to flex my jaw behind the shroud of linen, for it had
stiffened from all the clenching.  I then answered her question by mentioning
the college gallery, and my suspicion that I was now perceived as a fan, or
potential sponsor/buyer. I also said, "I am sorry to hear about her death,
and I really hope you don't think you're to blame. You're not.	People
willing to kill themselves have just given up on life.	It's too bad she did,
because she was able to bring life to inanimate objects.  Just looking at
this sculpture, I was sure it was breathing.  I'm also disheartened, because
I'll never know why she sprayed perfume on her painting on the opposite
wall."

     She looked at me for a moment, then broke into a grin, then a full laugh.
"Oh shit, that was me.  Did I get it on the painting?  I was standing over
there earlier, and sprayed some perfume on me.  I guess I overshot a bit, eh?"
She smiled an engaging smile, the kind that can melt your heart.

  We laughed, talked some more and got to know each other.  I just kept
looking at her;  her short frame, her blond/brown hair, her deep blue eyes,
the black velvet, her satin skin, her heaving breasts and soft supple
shoulders. She was complete.  Everything I could imagine, or possibly want.

     So, I did what I wanted to do at that very moment. I kissed her.

     OK, I'm not that bold.  I kissed her image -- the statue -- much to the
chagrin of the gallery staff.  My fleshy lips perched upon the dark golden
metallic lips, leaving a little wet spot on the bronze face.  I turned to her
and smiled.  She smiled back, but with a skeptical look.  I told her that it
would be presumptuous of me to just kiss her, no matter how inviting she
looked, and I didn't think the statue would slap me if I tried it.  She
chuckled, and said, "I'll bet it was cold.  Wouldn't you rather kiss the warm
lips of the model?"

     Now, I may be dense at times, but I was pretty sure at that moment that
she was expressing an interest in me that was more than just passing
casualness.  So, I nodded and smiled.  She stood for a moment, gazed into my
eyes as if she were probing my soul, deeply sighed, and, in a husky voice,
whispered, "I'd like that, too."  And, of course, again, I nodded and smiled,
all the time wondering what was happening.  I'm not consciously aware of ever
having been approached by a beautiful woman, who, after a small amount of
superficial conversation, would break through the barrier of social restraint
and dabble into the area of sexual, albeit innocent, contact.

  Not wanting to appear too forward, nor wishing to misread the situation, I
kissed her forehead lightly and asked her to dinner.  She nodded and smiled.

  Nodding and smiling had become *our song*.  I told her I needed to use the
men's room and would return in a few moments.  I left, and turning back
momentarily, I saw her human form and the bronze representation within the
same tableau.  It was truly a delightful sight.  She smiled and waved.	I put
up one finger, indicating that I'd only be a minute, and she nodded and then
smiled. A twist to the routine:  a smile, then a nod!

  I didn't have a need to pee.	I needed to find a phone.  Walking through
the corridor to the restrooms, I spied a bank of phones, and called the
number on the card that I keep in my wallet.  I gave the gallery address, and
a set of instructions for the evening.	I then went to the washroom, and
looked in the mirror.  Here I was, this extremely average looking, overweight
businessman, and there is this gorgeous creature who wants me to kiss her.  I
wanted it to be a special night, for when I'd gazed into her eyes, I saw
something there -- something there that I hoped I'd be able to hold dear for
a long time.  It was a feeling of security and peace -- the kind that let's
you feel safe enough to be yourself.  It's something we all wish for, and I
hoped then that I had found it.  I thought to myself, "Here is someone who
will accept you for who you are, what you are, as you are.  She just met you,
and is willing to dine, and even kiss you.  Good for you!  Now, don't be an
asshole and screw it up!"

  I returned to find her looking at other pieces of work from the half-baked
-- or, well-done? -- artist.  I walked up to her and said, "I hope I didn't
keep you waiting too long.  Shall we go?"

  Gesturing toward the door, I let her lead the way.  As we stepped out into
the coolness of the night, I commented, "You know, you do look lovely walking
in that dress, but wouldn't you like to slip into something more
comfortable?"

  She turned sharply and glared at me, perhaps mistaking my wry smirk as a
pretentious leer. She put a hand up to my chest, stopping me in my tracks and
said, "Look, I asked if you wanted to kiss me and I agreed to go to dinner
with you because you're a good listener.  You're also witty, charming in an
innocent way, intelligent, and a bit of a goof - - like when you kissed the
statue. Don't blow it by now being stupid and piggish!"

  I'm not sure why, but the way she held her own at that moment made me want
to be with her even more.  My grin grew wider and I put my hands on her
shoulders, turning her toward the curb.  Leaning in slightly, I whispered in
her ear, "I meant that.  Would you like to slip into that?"  There at the
curb was a gleaming white stretch limousine, with a tall man donned in proper
chauffeur attire, holding the door open.

  A little gasp came from her as she looked at the limo.  She turned to me,
with the question "For us?" in her eyes.  I nodded and smiled.	She ran
toward the open door in her high-heels, the black velvet shimmering in the
streetlight, and started to get in.  I moved to give her a hand, and we
touched.  As I mentioned earlier, sometimes there is fire in the most
innocent of touches.  In this one, there was a raging blaze.  I could feel
the electricity flow between us as the mere gesture of holding hands made her
stop and turn to look at me with a new expression in her eyes.	It was a look
of desire, or so I assumed, for it was how I felt.  And, her grip tightened
on mine, as if she were reluctant to let me go at that moment.

  She got in while still clutching my hand, and I followed.  We sat on the
back seat, the two of us holding hands, looking at each other, smiling -- but
not nodding.  Then her gaze went to the interior of the limousine.  It was
plush, roomy, and full of panels with all kinds of buttons.  We spent the
first ten minutes hitting each button.	The windows went up and down, lights
from all angles went on and off.  The television and CD-player competed for
our attention.	The hidden bar opened.	The privacy panel slid open,
revealing the back of the driver's head.  He asked where we wanted to go.  I
asked her if she was hungry, and her eyes grew humid with desire.  She
nodded, and in a soft voice, said, "Yes, but I want to enjoy this moment for
a while."

  So, I suggested he take us to the Signature Room at the top of the Hancock
Building, but only after he took the scenic route.  Since we were only
minutes away, the driver opted for a tour along Lake Shore Drive.

  It was a wonderful, cool evening along the lake.  The moon was bright, and
reflected off the water's ripples from the strong breezes blowing toward
shore.	Near the break-wall, the waves crashed, sending up a spray which we
could just taste in the air as we stood through the open sun-roof; the wind
in our eyes and hair.  It was silly and exciting, and the drive put us in the
mood for a delightful dinner among the stars.

  When we arrived at the restaurant, we were seated at a window which looked
south over the city.  Sitting at our table, ninety-five floors up, we watched
as the lights of the skyline winked at us, as if it knew that there was more
to our evening besides pleasant conversation and a wonderful meal.  There was
a tension in the air.  Nothing unpleasant, but it was a
sit-on-the-edge-of-your- seat type of anticipation.  We knew there was more
in store for us -- we just needed to get there.

     Telling the waiter that it was our anniversary, we were given a
complimentary bottle of champagne as we left, and headed for the elevators to
begin our descent to the ground below.  We had dined in the clouds, been
enchanted by the stars, and were pleased by the conversation and the company.
Now it was time to return to Earth.  The decent was as rapid as the beating of
our hearts, and the groin-tugging deceleration as we neared the ground floor
added to my anticipation.

  The limo was waiting for us.	I helped her in as before, but now the
electricity was not jolting;  rather, it was warming and familiar -- a
tingling sensation that flowed through us.  I put the bottle in the ice
bucket, and gave the driver the name of a dance club about 35 miles west. 
Since we had a long ride ahead, we settled back in our seat, hand in hand,
close together.  After a few moments, I decided that champagne was in order,
to celebrate our fortuitous meeting.  Taking two chilled, long-stemmed
glasses from the freezer in the hide- away bar, I proceeded to open the
champagne, shooting the cork through the open sun-roof.  For some reason, it
seemed hysterical at that moment, and we both were overcome with giggles  --
nervous little moments of laughter, knowing that any seriousness would lead
to subjects that neither was sure they wanted broached.

  I poured her a glass, then one for myself; and, turning slightly to her, I
proposed a toast.  "To us and our first meeting, hopefully a prelude to
further encounters."  She sang our song -- she smiled and nodded -- and we
let our glasses touch with a resounding ping.  We then slowly brought the
glasses to our lips, our eyes locked in an embrace over the rims, and sipped
the sweet nectar. The glasses were quickly drained, and then refilled. As she
began to take a sip of the second glass of the ride, the limousine hit a
Chicago landmark  -- a pot-hole -- and the bubbly liquid splashed her face,
causing her to gasp.  I quickly put the bottle back, set my glass in a
holder, and took out the ever-handy handkerchief...and then stopped.

I wondered, "Should *I* wipe it off ?"	The liquid was on her face, her
chest, and the bodice of her dress. Thinking I'd better remain a gentleman, I
handed her the handkerchief; and looked for some facial tissue to help in the
cleaning.  She dabbed at her dress, oblivious to the champagne on her chin,
and on her fair skin above the neckline of the velvet gown.  Once I had found
the Kleenex, I started to wipe away the liquid from her chin and her elegant
neck. She stopped her dabbing as I wiped the tissue along her skin above the
neckline, the back of my hand running along under her chin.  She looked at me
with her sultry eyes, and breathed deeply.  She asked me if I got it all off,
and, when it seemed I had, I threw the tissues to the floor, and turned my
attention back to her.

  And that's when it started.  In the lights of the passing cars, I noticed
that one drop hung on her earlobe -- one that I had not seen hidden by the
diamond-stud earrings she was wearing.	As I looked, I saw it form, and, not
knowing what to do, I impulsively moved forward, hoping to catch it with my
tongue, but was too late.  My tongue flicked her earlobe, and she let out a
sound of surprise and a sigh at the same time.	I let my tongue follow the
trail the droplet left as it snaked its way down and around to the front of
her throat.  Little moans came from her as I tried to catch the elusive drop.
 The taste was a combination of her salty skin, the sharpness of the perfume
and the sweetness of the champagne. Then she let out a giggle, saying, "That
tickles," as my tongue and lips lingered at the indentation between her neck
and sternum.  I had hoped that the drop would have pooled there, but it took
a sharp turn downward, and trailed off between her breasts.

     I started to follow, but figured that discretion was the better part of
valor, so I just kissed laterally along the tops of her breasts and muttered,
"The bastard got away.  I could following him, or try to cut him off at the
pass.  What do you think?"

     She laughed, grabbed me on either side of the head, pulled me forward and
said, "Let him get away, did you?  For shame!  I can feel that pesky little
critter running down my tummy, about to do a swan-dive into my navel."

She was a true delight.  With a wonderful sense of humor.  Continuing to look
into her eyes, I moved my face closer to hers, breathing in Ecstasy in
ecstacy.  I closed my eyes, and let our lips touch.  Her lips were quivering
as rapidly as mine, the anticipation of this kiss pushing every nerve to its
limit.	They were soft and moist; and while the initial touch was tentative,
after a moment there was more force and pressure, and then a slight, gentle
parting.

     Shockwaves of pleasure coursed though me during that first kiss.  She had
been correct:  It was better kissing the warm lips of the model than those of
the bronze figure.  I could feel her hands tighten around my head, then her
arms go around my shoulders, pulling me closer.  Our lips separated slightly,
then met in a more forceful, more passionate kiss as our tongues engaged in a
sensuous tussle.  This was better than smiling and nodding!

  Road construction brought our travels to a stand still, but was a catalyst
for our continuing journey of discovering each other.  We could feel the limo
coming to a halt, then start, then halt, as it made its way through the
gridlock of cars.  The inertial forces kept bringing our bodies closer, with
us rocking in the seat.

  Locked in our embrace, our tongues probing, my hands started to wander the
field of black velvet on her back and sides.  I could feel the swell of her
breasts as my hands worked down her side, then her taut outer thighs and
silken legs encased in nylon.  One hand continued to wander, while the other
went behind her head, bringing our kisses deeper.  The pace of our excitement
was matched by the quickness of our breath as we languished in the touches
each was applying

  Hands roamed, tongues flicked, seams frayed, zippers lowered, clasps
unlatched; all in a frenetic jumble of excitement, desire, want, need and
lust.  The anticipation that had built throughout the evening burst through
the barriers of civil dating rituals and plunged us into a pool of animal
desire. Shed of the last remnants of our shells, both in terms of clothes and
inhibition, we tangled and entwined within the spacious interior of our limo.

  At one moment she was seated, legs splayed over my shoulders as I satiated
her need with lingual dexterity. In another, I was diagonally positioned
between the doors as she engulfed me with luxurious suction. And then there
was the instance when I was positioned on the seat, legs propped on the small
serving table, her astraddle, riding up and down, bringing me deeper and
deeper, her hands finding purchase and leverage on the rim of the car roof
through the opening in which we had earlier stood.

     The space in which we discovered passion became humid and musky.  If the
driver had lowered the privacy panel, the aroma alone would have told of our
activity.  No doubt, a few semi-trailer drivers caught a glimpse of flesh on
flesh through the open roof.  And the mixture of cool night air and humid,
human-created hot air created a cloudy mist that rose to the stars.

     The road trip turned into a voyage, while each of us reached heights of
pleasure and sensation we'd never experienced before.  We had discovered
ourselves through each other, bringing to light needs and desires long hidden.
We had entered the waters of sexuality as rookie sailors, and emerged from the
voyage ancient mariners, with new-found wisdom and expertise.

  The sudden acceleration signaled an end to our trip.	The construction had
given way to clear roads.  The voyage was over.  The excursion that took us
from the gallery to the dance club -- the passage of time and space that had
taken us from strangers to lovers -- our travels into ourselves and each
other -- had come to a close.  It was time for us to decide if we should move
forward, or crawl back into our shells.


Copyright 1995, 1999 - Prufrock Productions


prufrock54
"Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels"

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