Seven Lovers

by ezwritr

The Artist was painting a picture of the woman who inhabited his bedroom, the woman who wore his best dress shirts to bed, the woman who had been as elusive to him as any other lover had been. But the canvas he now painted would be different than all the others, he was certain.

The study had started as a sketch of her body. She was tall with long legs and a proportionately small torso. Her thighs were firm, but not muscular. She bicycled everywhere, as she didn't have a car, and it gave her modest muscle tone. He hadn't pried for specifics but knew that her previous lover had acquired her car, amongst other things, and what she had scraped together financially had allowed her a used bike. She bought it because it was blue. He had bought her new tires and an air pump.

She ate, as much if not more than he did and he found that appealing. Her hips had taken on a slight roundness, more from maturity than from weight gain, though there was some of that too.

Her waist remained thin, which accentuated the roundness of her buttocks, and made her breasts seem larger than they actually were. Her nipples seemed more to the bottom halves of her breasts, and when they were hard they pointed downward. He'd always thought that detail on the exotic side of strange; it made her sexy, and added to her erotic essence. Her nipples held that intimate secret, one that had been revealed to him just a few weeks ago. He wondered how many others knew her secret. He did not want to be jealous, but he knew or at least sensed that her experience exceeded his own. The artist was driven by details, thrived on them. And not knowing the details of her, the woman reclining on his bed posing naked for him, frustrated his brush. He could not capture her and the truth of it showed on the canvas. The brush laughed at him, the paints mocked.

Her name was Carole, Carol with the superfluous e.

The face. The Artist drew the oval, segmenting it: her eyes, the classic shape of her nose, and the lips, upturned in a smile. How many times had he kissed that mouth, he wondered; how many times had his cock quickly followed, artfully consumed by her, taken expertly. He'd been grateful for the knowledge of such things that Carole possessed, but he was jealous of how she'd come by that knowledge. He knew that he should simply appreciate it, enjoy her, and allow himself to become lost in the feeling instead of dwelling on who else had experienced her mouth.

The hair. He added short blonde hair to the drawing; it was brushed back, her ears half exposed. Carole had pretty hair. Other men observed her in public; there was always that first quick glance, the one given by men to all women. Piqued by her blondness, they usually took a second look. Attracted by the symmetry of her face and the hourglass shape of her body, there was often a third, longer, more painstaking look. They were looking far too long, as far as he was concerned. Sometimes he wanted to punch some guy who'd looked too long. But no, he'd held back on that. After all, he was the one who was sleeping with her.

He perused the drawing. Yes, it was Carole's face, her body, what she looked like. But the drawing was nowhere near complete. There was more color to be added, and shading, and a certain amount of technical expertise needed to lend it verisimilitude.

Yet something else was missing.

Her essence. Her soul. He had not captured the intimate details that made her who she was. This was just a drawing of a naked woman. He wanted to capture Carole: where she'd gone, what she'd done, what experiences she'd had. He wanted to know about her happiness and pain and translate it onto canvas.

He thought about where he might find these details, how he might put Carole to paint. What colors would capture her sensuality? What textures would capture her experiences? What space and line would tell of her ability to make him feel so compelled to analyze her every curve, every imperfection on her skin, every placement of her freckles.

The Artist thought he knew where her innermost secrets resided. It was with her lovers.

Carole said to the Artist, "You want to know about my lovers."

"Yes," he answered. And he settled back into her comfy couch, and listened intently.

Lover Number One

Carole had once explained that from a very young age, she had allowed boys to touch her. They kissed her, and caressed her, and sometimes she touched back. Yet she didn't allow intercourse, of course, not until she met the right one.

Carole didn't consider any of her lovers or any of her experiences to be atypical because in her mind, there was no typical. The first time wasn't on the couch in the living room of her parents' house; no, not in the back seat of her boyfriend's car, either. It was in the park, after dark, on a walk with Jeremy.

"He was a tall boy standing six foot two," she said, "and a sure thing for varsity basketball." He wasn't just a jock, and that was his appeal to her. Jeremy had knowledge and confidence and ability far beyond his years. He wasn't a groper, or not so much a groper as an explorer. The boy wasn't there to cop a feel so much as to see what happened when he put his hand in her blouse.

"What does that feel like?" he asked.


"And now?" He squeezed her budding breast, and it was as she'd said, nice indeed. It was a tender touch, a gentle pinch from a gentle man.

She felt a tingle between her legs at that one. She knew what it was, because she'd been masturbating for years, learning firsthand what worked, and what really thrilled her. That tingle was opening the door, an early stroke to her essence.

She responded.

With young Carole leaning against a tree, they French-kissed. He massaged her breasts, not too hard, yet not so gently at this point. He smelled her, that combination of perfume and female sexiness on a warm summer's evening. He licked her neck, and felt her legs parting.

Carole was not consciously thinking about what was happening, simply responding to the new feelings rushing through her.

"I parted my legs so he could feel me." It was just nature spreading her wide, nature putting Jeremy's hand on Carole's pussy, feeling it through her skirt. And down, and under, and up, fingers pressed against panties.

She broke away for a moment. "Wait," Carole said. She reached under her skirt and pulled the panties down and off. She wanted to feel all of his touch.

Again they embraced against the tree, and it was his hand, those same fingers against bare flesh, her thigh, and feeling sweet warm juices within.

Tonight was different. She wanted this boy, this Jeremy. She needed his cock, needed his manliness, needed to be fulfilled.

"Did you bring a condom?" she whispered.


"Put it on. Make love to me."

"I - I didn't bring a blanket," he said. "We can't lie down."


No other words were necessary. The boy pulled out his cock, and rolled a condom over it. She watched, and was thrilled to see just how long it was, and couldn't wait for him to put it in. She hiked up her skirt, and tucked it in her waistband so it wouldn't get in the way. She felt tree bark against her buttocks. It was hard and cool, indeed.

He was much taller than her, and so he knelt on the grass. He didn't know how else he could get inside of her. Truthfully, he hadn't expected this, or he would've been better prepared.

She slid slowly down the tree, and eased on to his cock. The girl's eyes widened in surprise, and she continued downward. Three inches, then six, and it was nothing like what she'd felt with fingers. This was a live man, and a big cock, and she felt consumed, filled up as she took more of it, the nerve endings in her pussy dancing for joy.

"Are you okay?" he asked. That the boy was concerned about her was exactly why he was inside of her.

"Nice," she said.

"You, uh, you'll have to go up and down."

So began the slow ride. It was her first time, and Carole wasn't exactly sure what to do. She rested her hands on his shoulders, and pushed with her legs, and rode him. "Ooh!" surprised again and again at how thrilling it was.

He was in fast ecstasy. Only marginally experienced, Jeremy knew that he was going to come, right now, that instant. He gripped her bared thighs, and groaned, and climaxed, shooting hot cum into her, bouncing it off latex protection. They'd be grateful later for that, and for being so smart, and for experiencing great sex without any repercussions.

Well, except for one.

"I think I love you," he said.

It was easier for her. "I love you, too."

"No, I'm pretty sure I mean it."

"Okay. Then what's next?"

"Want to do it again?"

"How about tomorrow?"

Carole told the Artist, "I wasn't really aware of losing my virginity that night so much as fulfilling a destiny. See, it wasn't this taboo to me, like I was saving it for my husband. Maybe I just needed some excitement. Maybe I loved him. Maybe I'm just a bit oversexed, I don't know. But I didn't feel like I was giving anything to Jeremy so much as taking something from him. He had, well, a pretty long penis."

The Artist felt a tinge of jealously, and thereafter dubbed Carole's first ex-lover 'the tall boy'.

The man had continued to sketch Carole as she spoke. He drew how he imagined she must have looked at the time, with her boyfriend Jeremy. The Artist had it burned in his brain, the girl losing her virginity at the base of a tree, sitting on the boy. So the Artist drew her that way.

It was a great drawing. Carole continued with her story and the Artist began a third drawing.

"Jeremy was in my bedroom after school, before anybody else was home."

Most boys seemed to want to strip quickly, get down to the bare essentials, and have her do the same, but Jeremy was different at this, too.

"Your sweater," said Jeremy.

And she did it slowly, coyly. "Your shirt," she responded. Oh, nice pecs, she had thought, as he disrobed. "He had a beautiful body," said Carole.

A few minutes, and they were down to the underwear. She wore her best pink panties that day, knowing that he would see them. Jeremy had worn his newest pair of boxers, blue cotton.

"Your bra," he said, and so she reached behind her, and unfastened it; she allowed it to slowly slide from her, showing cleavage, then the pink of her nipples, erect and pointing down.

"What?" Carole felt self-conscious. When she had removed her bra, Jeremy's eyebrows shot up into his hairline. She couldn't tell if it was an approving look or not.

"Man, you have pretty boobs." And wasn't that the right thing to say.

She smiled. "Your shorts." He already had an erection, and her knees went weak just looking at it.

"Panties," he said.

She slid them down, and off. They were both naked. What now? Carole suggested, "I'd say, let's take a shower, but my family's going to be home in an hour. So, uh, let's get in bed."

They lay together, and kissed, and it was a quick ignition; tongues intertwined, and then he licked her, downward on her neck, down to sassy breasts, nipples hard from anticipating his tongue. He stayed there for a while, and she was in confusion, needing more yet enjoying his tongue on her breasts, teasing her.

"Oh, please," she said, not knowing exactly what she was pleading for. His tongue traced downward, to her belly, stopping briefly at her navel, licking there, driving her that much closer to sexual insanity.

Carole explained to the Artist, "I remember thinking, 'Lower. Please. Give me that, Right There.' But I didn't really know what I was doing." She smiled. "The knowledge came with experience, and practice."

And Right There was where Jeremy had slowed, and lingered, tongue touching clitoris, caressing her unlike any finger, massaging it better than any hand.

Oh, god. "Make love to me," she moaned.

Quickly he was on top of her, and inside, and it was rock and roll, face-to-face. Not a minute later, his eyes suddenly bulged, and rolled upward. "Aaaagh!" Cum was squirting all over the bed, Carole's inner thigh, her stomach; he'd pulled out. They had forgotten the condom. They looked in each other's eyes: the realization shown in both faces.

"Hold me," said Carole. "Kiss me." As Jeremy held her, she fingered her clit until her whole body surged with power, shuddering against him, and she left milky liquid spilling over his thigh. She held him tightly, and then relaxed again.

The Artist had drawn Carole in bed with Jeremy on top, taking his pleasure; the boy seemed to be appreciating her in ways that the Artist could only imagine.

Fucking pen! The man thought.

"I didn't have another lover until college," Carole told the Artist.

"How old were you?"

"Nineteen? Twenty." Her voice had taken on a wistful tone. "Hmm." She giggled. Something about the memory of her second lover made Carole giggle, and it stabbed the Artist. He couldn't stop drawing her, and ripped the top sheet from his sketching pad. The picture of Carole in bed with Jeremy drifted to the floor next to Carole's shoeless feet. She watched it fall and did not pick it up. She didn't need to.

He started over, a fresh page. "So tell me about him." His cheeks were red, and his eyes glossed as he focused again on the textured grain of the paper. His pen slashed downwards across the page in a diagonal, and then squiggled back up again. He had to know what pleasures would make this woman giggle after so many years.

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