| This is a sexual copyrighted by me, Shon Richards, so
please don't make any money from it. I welcome, read and respond to all
e-mail at firstname.lastname@example.org
This is the first part in a non-continuous series. That
means each part can be read for it's own enjoyment. You can read part 7
first and then part 2 and not miss anything. It also means that this
part is self contained and it won't leave you hanging. So read it
"Vanessa and Me"
Early Sunday morning was the best time for me to visit the local
art gallery. There were no crowds and I was free to stare at a
painting for as long as I wanted without having to move out of the way
for courtesy's sake. The few people who were there as early as me
usually avoided the other patrons. Maybe they shared my views. As a
writer, I appreciate the importance of an audience but as an audience,
I prefer to enjoy other's creativity alone.
I was examining a colorful painting when I noticed a woman
standing beside me. It annoyed me greatly. She was breaking the
unspoken rule about patrons avoiding each other. I decided to ignore
her until she went away.
A wet sound made me turn slightly to look at the woman. My
curiosity is like that. She was than me by about ten years but
she was loudly on a lollipop. Not in that sexy, teasing, mock-
innocent licking that women use to seduce either. This was a sugar
addict for pure pleasure. I had to smile. It might have been
inappropriate for a woman of her age to suck a lollipop in an art
gallery but this woman didn't give a fuck.
She returned my stare with a raised eyebrow. Her face was framed
in long black hair that sparkled with strands of gray. She had
on a plain black t-shirt decorated with a few gold necklaces and a
single snake bracelet on her wrist. Plain blue jeans clad her legs and
they looked worn and comfortable. The thin stick of her candy poked
from between her dark lips, though I'm not sure if it was lipstick
or candy that coated them. I couldn't quite see her eyes through her
sunglasses and I wondered about what kind of a person attends an art
gallery with sunglasses on.
"Sorry," I said when I realized I was staring. "The sunglasses
She smiled and popped the lollipop from her mouth. It was dark
red like her lips. "I like to view the paintings in monochrome
sometimes. It's my own contribution to what they paint."
I thought about it. "But don't you worry about missing what they
are trying to say? Like this painting; if you don't see the
splashes over the woman's legs, then you're missing the anger the
She shrugged and waved the lollipop in her hand. "Any work of
art is a meeting between artist and viewer. Today the artist better
damn well do something that I can meet her at in monochrome."
I laughed. "Are you an artist? You certainly have the attitude
"You mean the arrogance and general lack of sympathy for other
artists?" she asked. "Yep, and I bet you're a writer. You've got that
need to get the point across exactly like you want."
I thought about that. "Nailed me," I admitted. "I like what you
said though. You say that art is half artist and half watcher. I
always thought of it as an artist opening their heart to the world. I
never considered much the looking in part."
"You probably think of masturbation as just something you do to
relieve tension," she said before putting the lollipop back in her
"Ummm," I offered lamely. "I don't see how that's connected."
The lollipop moved to the corner of her mouth and I had a dirty
thought about cocks as the bulge appeared in her cheek.
"Sex, writing, painting and other arts are just acts of
creation," she said. "Creating a book is no different from creating a
baby. Both acts are not only great because they make something but
also because they feel good while you are doing it."
I smiled. "I can't say writing is as much fun as sex." I didn't
know if this woman was hitting on me. The idea wasn't unappealing.
She had a raw vibration to her that reminded me of worn typewriters and
dirty easels. The grit of creativity clung to her.
"Writing isn't as much fun as sex for you?" she asked me. "Then
you're doing it wrong."
The idea struck a chord with me. Writing was fun to me but I
couldn't say it matched the heady excitement of sex, but then I thought
about it. When I start a story, I get a feeling of excited terror that
comes from praying that everything works out right. I knew I could
write, and I knew I could be good, but I still had that lack of faith
in myself that was similar to the stage-fright I felt when I was with a
And afterwards? Wow. The feeling of writing a good and
knowing its good has made me happy for a week. It puts a stupid grin
on my face. And like sex, there's nothing I want to do more than to do
"Where did you read this?" I asked her. "I think I have a lot to
She lowered her glasses and looked at me over the frame. Her
eyes were blue, far deeper than mine. I had a sudden wish that I was
taller than just six feet, or that I didn't let my brown hair grow as
long as it had. Thank Buddha I did shave today at least.
"You don't read it story-boy," she said. "Its something you
learn, and only from a willing teacher."
I laughed. "Does it cost money?"
Now she laughed. "No, it's not a scam. It's a choice in
lifestyle. It's about understanding where ideas come from, and whether
you are ready to harness creativity in its purest form. A lot of
people worry about selling art, I worry about where does the Art really
"Sounds a little mystical to me," I said.
She on her lollipop for a quick taste of sugar before
answering. "Anything that is true, appears mystical to those who don't
understand. And you're right. I consider myself a Witch of
Creativity, so if you think that's flaky, you might not want me to
"A witch of Creativity?" I repeated. "I've read dozens of
theories on how to be a better writer, or how to get published, I don't
think I've ever had anyone offer to show me how to be creative. I
think we just take that for granted. I would like you to teach me.
You can call yourself a witch or a Queen for all I care. I just want
She crunched her lollipop and I watched her throat bob as she
swallowed the remains of her candy. She casually put the stick in the
back pocket of her blue jeans and, after she pushed her sunglasses back
up to cover her eyes, she turned her back to me and examined the
painting we were looking at.
I wondered if she heard my answer.
"Stand behind me," she said and I did.
"Closer," she corrected until I was standing right up against her
back with my crotch pressed against her buttocks. She came up to my
neck, so although my face was above her, I could still smell the scent
of her shampoo. It smelled like myrrh. My body reacted as was
expected and my future teacher giggled deep from her throat.
"Good, you should be excited," she said. I heard her unzip her
jeans and I nearly jumped away in shock, but her other arm reached for
my pants and held on tight.
"Don't go anywhere," she whispered. "I've had students before,
and banged my head against the wall to get them to listen to me. I've
had some students who were eager to learn but unable to follow
instructions. And I've had students who would listen and follow
instructions, but didn't create any spark in me. That's a dead
relationship, and what I could impart was limited. Consider this your
test of apprenticeship."
I stood there as she reached for my right hand and guided it
around her waist. Carefully, she slipped my hand into her pants, into
her loose and through her pubic forest. My breathing increased
upon her as my fingers touched the nub of her clitoris.
"What if we get caught?" I asked. The gallery was empty but I
just knew that someone would be by any minute.
"What if you find that my way teaches you the secrets of
creativity but you are embarrassed by what you create?" she answered.
"What good are you as a writer if you fear being creative?"
I had no answers but she didn't wait for one. She released my
hand, reached up with both arms and grabbed me by the back of my head.
I groaned softly as her fingers played with my hair.
"Now gently enter me," she instructed.
My fingers curled and pushed into her sex. It was warm inside
and the clenching invited my fingers in. The degree of moisture
surprised me. My fingers were soaked in an instant.
"Maybe you're just looking to teach me for the sex," I whispered.
"Maybe so are you," she said. "Now move out slowly, and then
back in. Take your time and forget we are in a very public gallery."
I tried. My hand was shaking with excitement but somehow I kept
myself from moving quickly. Her sex molded to my fingers and pulled
and pushed with me.
Slowly in and slowly out. Slowly in and slowly out.
Just as I found my rhythm, she changed it.
"Move your fingers like they were walking," she sighed. It took
me a second but I figured out what she meant. My fingers undulated
inside her and her grip tightened on my hair.
"Very good," she said quietly. I heard footsteps approach and I
almost stepped back but I didn't. I should have moved away or at least
stopped what I was doing but something strange happened. My fingers
kept doing what she asked despite the approaching steps. Who ever they
were, they stopped down the hall and examined each painting slowly. My
heart was pounding against her back. I just knew we were about to be
discovered. My mind raced and wondered if I would be arrested. I
wondered if I would be banned from the gallery. Strangely, I also
wondered if this would make a good story.
I can't explain it but my fingers never stopped masturbating her
despite my escalating terror. Even as the unknown person came closer,
I never considered stopping. At one point they were standing somewhere
behind us, looking at our painting, or a different one, or even us,
I'll never know. Despite our imminent discovery, she didn't stop
"What are you feeling?" she asked.
"Terror," I whispered. "Fear, arousal, and I can't help feeling
this would make a neat story."
"Fear and Love are the greatest Muses," she said. Her hips began
to move in a slow dance responding to my fingers while further arousing
my erection that was so hard within my pants.
"Put your thumb on my clit, and stroke me harder," she
My thumb brushed through hair and found her button. It was
swollen and pulsing with need. Using my thumb as an anchor, I
stiffened my fingers and fucked her sex in earnest. I wished I could
see the intimate part of her that my fingers were so deep into but I
found that my imagination was creating it vividly in my head. I could
see the folds, the pink lips and the dark, of her secret
place in my mind.
She clenched my head almost painfully as she climaxed. My free
arm held her up as her knees shook and I kept her upright. Even though
I knew she whispered her moans, I swore I heard them echo through the
Looking around, I didn't see whoever had walked up on us. I
never heard him walk away. It occurred to me that he might have never
been there or more likely, I was more interested in the strange
inspiration in my arms.
"Did I pass?" I asked her. I tried to pull my fingers out but
she stopped me. She kept my hand there for a few seconds and I felt
her pulse under my touch.
"You're already giving me ideas for my paintings," she said. "So
yes, when can you move in?"
That's how I became Vanessa's apprentice.