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Seven Lovers (Conclusion)
by ezwritr
Lover Number Two
College for Carole had not been easy. There were lots of loans, a part-time job the whole way, not a lot of extra time for fun. Jeremy was going to the West Coast, and they made The Big Break from each other. They had a picnic under the tree where they had made love the first time, and Jeremy had swiped some red wine from his parent's pantry. The wine wasn't bad; they drank it from the bottle, and it tasted better when washed-down with the cheese and crackers.
"Present for you," Jeremy had said, and handed a small box to her.
"He was by no means romantic, but he tried to be thoughtful," explained Carole. "He gave me a vibrator, if you can believe it. Very much a feminist, Jeremy." The Artist grunted.
Carole had locked the vibrator away in her desk in the dorm, and brought it out only when she was completely alone. She named it Jeremy 2. There it was a year later, in her drawer, third or fourth set of 'D' batteries in it.
Playing with herself was difficult, because there was far less privacy with two roomies than there was in her own bedroom at home. She'd taken to locking the door to the dorm room when she needed self-sex. It was better, she knew, for her roomies to suspect what she'd been doing than for them to walk in and see her actually doing it.
Naked, usually right after a refreshing shower, she laid in bed, Jeremy 2, The Vibrator, at the ready. A racy novel or some soft porn got her going and before long, she lay on her back, gently touching herself, imagining that her hand was that of the real Jeremy, or a guy from the novel, or that cute English professor with the silver-kissed sideburns.
Carole had discovered multiple orgasms not long before; she'd come once with the vibrator, then taken a shower, and had been transported to ecstasy a second time as she'd soaped her pussy. Surprised, she did it again. A week later, she came six times within a couple of hours. After that, she'd stopped counting. But she did try to pay attention to the clock, and be done a long time before anyone was due back.
It was a fine Spring afternoon and her roomies were in class, and she wasn't due anywhere until that evening. She turned substitute Jeremy on, and the light hum was pleasant on her inner thigh as she teased herself. She rubbed it briefly on her pussy, and gathered her juices on it; she brought the tip of the vibrator up to her nipples, and touched each one, thrilling herself, spreading her juice on them. It made her feel so sexy to do that, and she thought that she was bordering on the forbidden, as though the vibrator was a woman, and a man, and she was being transported by both, as can only happen within the fine fantasies of her mind.
She controlled the vibrator with one hand, and pinched a nipple with the other, and she started to come. She shuddered involuntarily; her legs closed automatically, and she let out the slightest hint of ecstasy, a quiet "Oh!"
And she relaxed, and turned the page of her hot novel. There it was, a girl being taken roughly, and Carole was thrilled to read it, and to imagine those tough hands on her body. Simple affirmation from the vibrator, and she again was in ecstasy, this time pinching her nipple harder, and taking greater pleasure from it.
Again. And one more time before she had to go to class.
She sat in the front row of her English class with a healthy flush on her cheeks, and crossed her legs to hug herself. She realized then that her professor noticed her flushed cheeks and chest, her body radiating heat and her nipples, still erect.
The Artist drew Carole using the vibrator; he imagined her naked, not difficult for him to do, because he'd seen her that way many times. She lay on her back, and held a long white vibrator against her clitoris. She had a look of pain and passion on her face. As the Artist worked, he was aware of an erection; Carole had done that.
He added the sketch to the growing pile of Carole drawings strewn across the floor like discarded clothes.
"Did you sleep with him?"
"Who?"
"The English professor."
"No. I slept with Bruce instead. He sat next to me in that class."
The Artist started again, though he refused to count 'Jeremy 2' as a lover. Carole's self-love was something he admired about her, nothing with which he had to compete. He made a mental note to buy her the ultra-deluxe vibrator he saw at the local sex store.
As Carole explained, Bruce was a passionate guy, anti-war at a time when there was no war, but she liked his intensity. He also had a dark hairy chest, and she loved playing with it. She had at the time apparently called it 'her favorite garden'. The Artist had never wanted a patch of fur on his chest. Look like an ape. His pen pressed harder, dark circles forming a dark messy chest. He thought it wholly unattractive, and was pleased with the effect. He made the pubic hair similarly textured, and outlined her nipples in a darker, severe black. Dark, black circles were her nipples.
"Bruce wasn't a considerate lover, not the way Jeremy had been, but the callousness of his approach, the way he touched me so roughly had great appeal," said Carole. "It was so primitive." Her shoulders hugged her neck when she said primitive. Her shoulders looked harder now, no longer soft and nubile as they had in the other pictures.
"Bruce rented a room at the local motel. 'Wow, privacy,' I remember thinking. It was nice, really nice, to be totally alone with a guy." Carole smiled.
Rough hands, callused hands. That's what Bruce had.
"Easy," she said, as he touched her bare breasts.
"Sure, Baby." And he tried to go easy, but still it felt like sandpaper on her skin. And then she realized that she liked it that way.
Bruce pulled off her clothes, and there was no subtlety to the act. Two buttons popped off of her blouse, and another from her shorts. It was frightening to be treated this way. "Slow down," she said. "I'm not going anywhere."
The man tried his best to be gentle, to slow down, to give her what she needed, too. But it was rough fingers, the ones inside of her, and a hard kiss on the mouth. It split her lip a little, the rough kiss, but she didn't pull back.
Callused hands playfully, hungrily slapped her bare ass, pulling her toward him. Do I really want this? Carole thought. "Yes," she said out loud. So he took her; he lay her down on the bed, and thrust his cock into her, deep. Part in pleasure, part in pain, she accepted Bruce in his unsubtle splendor.
The man stroked, and it was rough indeed. She felt his hands on her breasts again, and his thick cock moving steadily in and out. It was like she was watching from ten feet away, not connected to him at all, watching this brutal guy taking her. And just like that, she started to come, hard, a frenzied climax, and she stroked back, rising above, consuming the man. They writhed, together. Breathless.
And that was what they had in common.
Carole could never say that she loved Bruce. She loved what he did to her, but over time it became stale and the sex wasn't enough.
"We lasted about six months," she said to the Artist. "But that's all he ever wanted to do, have rough sex the same old way. Don't know how many blouses of mine he ruined. But I will tell you this," she leaned over, somewhat conspiratorially. "There's a lot of days I could use a good rough fuck."
The Artist hated what Bruce did to her, and all of the vivid images screaming through his mind while Carole reclined, so casually, talking about it. He sketched that, too, just as he had rendered everything else that touched him emotionally, drove him to extremes. Over and over he drew Carole with Bruce, from different angles, in an attempt to cauterize his thoughts. And there it was again, the firmness of his erection pressing against his pants.
Carole rolled over, and the Artist gazed at the loveliness of her long legs, the line of her thigh and buttocks, and what a fine figure she had as she lay there.
"Does my telling you all of this make you feel uncomfortable?" she asked.
Uncomfortable? "No." Insanely jealous, perhaps. But not uncomfortable. Not really. Then, much louder than he had intended, he said, "Your third lover."
"She was a beauty."
"She."
"Yes, Sweetheart." Carole smiled coyly. She waited. "Why can't my third lover be a woman?"
"I, uh, I just never would've thought that about you."
"There's so much you don't know about me."
Lover Number Three
Carole had gotten her first apartment right after college. An ad in the paper called for a third roommate. The couple who placed the ad were also just starting out with their first careers after college and needed help with the rent; Carole took the back bedroom while the couple slept in the master bedroom.
It was perfect. They all shared the rent and groceries, and there was more privacy than Carole had known in a long time.
The man had already secured his position in a downtown firm and it was off to work for him in the morning. The girl, a pretty redhead named Donna, moved from one small company to the next as an independent trouble-shooter for hire. So her hours were erratic. Carole worked as a temp and migrated from one company to the next, so the fluctuation of their work patterns often intersected.
"It was kind of like living with a good friend," Carole explained, "because we could sit on the counter and talk about all sorts of things. He wasn't around much, really. I don't even remember his name."
Carole discovered that Donna was a loud lover. Carole had often heard her through the wall that connected their bedrooms. "YAAAA!" in climax, and the headboard bumped against the wall repeatedly. That had made Carole get out her friend the vibrator, still functioning quite well, though the instrument had about a hundred thousand miles on it by this time.
As Carole played she tried to imagine herself with the man in the next room; funny thing was, his image did nothing for her, and she couldn't seem to get anywhere. Reaching deeper into her psyche, she put herself in bed with both of them, and that was much better. She imagined herself being fucked by the man, and Donna was kissing her. Carole came relentlessly at that thought, the redhead's tongue in her mouth.
The next day, the two women were in the kitchen together, and Carole felt a bit peculiar about being in close proximity to Donna. Carole just kept looking at her roommate, noticing the shape of the woman's breasts, and her hips, and her legs.
"Uh, Carole," the girl said, "Is there something wrong with my clothes? My hair? What?"
"What do you mean?"
"You're staring at me, Sweetie."
Carole couldn't say, "I think I'd like to undress you, lay down with you, lick you all over and hear you scream because I touched you there, right there." Carole reached over to Donna and picked imaginary lint from her shoulder. "There."
And it was like nothing had happened.
The next night it was bumpa-bumpa, the headboard into the wall, the couple as lively as ever. Carole was with her friend the vibrator, and Donna was in her mind: her dimples, her freckles, and her red hair. Soft skin. Breasts. No guy, no cock. Donna, and her exquisite body, naked next to Carole. And the things they did to each other. Carole shuttered and gushed, and maybe this time it was the couple that was listening to her through the wall, and not the other way.
A week passed in this manner. Nervous encounters with Donna in the living room, in the kitchen, as they passed each other in the hall. And fantasies of her at night. Carole wondered what to do. There's no chance of ever living out this fantasy, she thought.
Then the couple had a fight. There was much yelling in the other room. Wisely, Carole stayed out of it. The man stuffed his things into a garbage bag, and he was gone.
There was a knock on Carole's door. "Wanna watch a movie with me, or something?"
"Sure." And they sat in the living room, watching 'When Harry Met Sally,' a herd of unacknowledged elephants sitting all around them.
Bedtime, and Donna followed Carole right into her bedroom. "Mind if I sleep with you?" She asked. Carole felt as though every freckle on Donna's skin was hoping her answer would be yes, so that is what she said.
Carole thought, "Oh, boy. Snuggle right up to me, yeah, press that hot body of yours next to me."
They got in bed, and turned out the light. As Donna slept, Carole laid awake, a raging conflict occupying her mind.
The next morning, during breakfast, Carole asked, "When is he coming back?"
"Never, if I have anything to say about it."
That night, Donna was again in bed with Carole, as though she'd been occupying that space for a long time. "In a real sense, that was the absolute truth of it," said Carole. The Artist nodded, his pen curved upwards.
"Goodnight, Sweetie," Donna said, and kissed her gently on the lips. Then she turned over and went to sleep.
"Uh, goodnight," and it was another sleepless night for Carole.
She watched the clock. Three a.m. Okay, Carole thought, I've got to do something. The worst that can happen is that she'll go screaming out of the room.
Carole eased next to the sleeping woman, and pressed against the warmth of her back. Donna stirred, but didn't wake. It was nice. That night Carole shared sweet nearness, and finally, sleep.
Carole awakened to a tingle between her legs. She was coming, shuddering out a wet dream, or so she had thought. But in the darkness there was someone else pressed against her, a hand at her pussy, fingering it.
"That's it, Sweetie," Donna whispered. "Come on."
"What are you doing?" Carole asked, breathing much heavier now.
"Paying you back."
"What?"
"Just shut up and enjoy." And with that, Carole felt the woman slide down her body; it was the girl's head between Carole's legs, and she was licking her.
It was so wrong, so taboo, so wonderful what Donna did to her. Carole watched in the darkness, saw just the outline of her head down there. It was heat, and wet tongue, and something was suddenly inside of her, several fingers, spreading her open, caressing her pussy, teasing her clit. "Oh god," Carole eased down, her thighs tightening.
"Mmmm," the girl acknowledged, and the hum of her response was what put Carole over the top.
"YAAAAA!" She heard herself, and she was as loud as the woman pressed between her thighs any day. Carole rocked in orgasm, coming all over the woman's face. Donna tongued her, bringing it all out of her, making her come harder than she'd ever come before. "YAAAA!" Again.
When Carole came a third time, she was spent and nearly delirious; she felt so damned good.
"You sleep now, Sweetie," said Donna. In a warm embrace, they fell asleep.
The Artist drew several sketches of Carole with the redhead. The women were gloriously naked, and there was a drawing of them in an embrace, and another with Carole on top of the girl, and another with the redhead's face between Carole's legs. The man's imagination ran away with him, and by the time he was done, there were a dozen sketches, all of Lesbian Carole with the redheaded Donna. And again, he had an erection.
The Artist asked Carole, "So whatever happened to the redhead?"
"Well, we slept together every night for two months. Then the guy came back."
"Wow! And then what?"
"I moved out. They made too much noise."
"But I thought - I mean, I expected-." And the thought hung out there for a moment.
"No, I didn't have a ménage a trois with them. The guy was far too straight for that."
The Artist was simultaneously disappointed and relieved.
She added, "No, the three-ways didn't happen until later."
After a few moments of pensive silence, the Artist forged ahead and asked, "The next one?"
"Then I fell in love," Carole told him. "I met Roger, and it was love."
"At first sight, right?"
"Well, yes. He was tall, and handsome, and he said the cutest things, and I couldn't help but love him."
Lover Number Four
"This was my first really long-term relationship," Carole continued. "I thought I was going to marry the guy. In no time at all, maybe three months after we met, we were living together in this tiny apartment across town. Man, it was great. We made love almost every day, you know how that goes, the first month or two of a relationship? Well, it was a year later, and we were still going at it every day. The sex was great! The only problem, if there was a problem, was that I didn't think we'd have anything left for the honeymoon! We'd done just about everything we knew how to do, positions, tools, experiments, everything!"
The Artist wished that Carole would temper her enthusiasm just that little bit; it seemed to him that Roger might be more important to her, even now, than her current amour was. The Artist tried to sound interested, though perturbed might be closer to how he felt. "Tell me more," he said.
"So I asked Roger, 'What haven't we done? Is there anything you wanted to do that you hadn't told me? Was there anything that I could give to you that I hadn't before?'"
There was.
"Dress up for me," Roger told her, and took her shopping. Corsets, garter belts, high-heeled shoes, satin bras with matching panties, crotchless ditties, pasties, wigs. He bought her leather, lace, cotton, silk, satin; and Carole wore it.
"I'd wear these things to bed for him, and I was amazed at the effect it had. His cock turned into a rocket! I'd dress up for him, he'd jump me: take me about five different ways, and he would stay hard for hours. I don't think I've ever come so often."
The Artist imagined her with nylons and a garter belt, and the image revived his erection.
Carole continued, "Normally, you meet somebody new, you have hot sex for a while, then it naturally tapers off. But with Roger, it hadn't tapered off. After a year it had even gotten better. So here I was, wearing short skirts, nylon tops visible, and high heels, and other nice garments, bras with holes where my nipples showed through, thong panties, edible panties, panties with no fabric where my pussy was."
The Artist could see all of this in his mind's eye, and he wondered why she never wore those things for him.
"I started wearing some of the less exotic outfits on dates with him, and sometimes I just didn't wear any underwear at all. We'd play games, and it was exciting stuff. He'd bring a camera. We'd be at some semi-public place and I'd pull up my sweater and expose my breasts, caressing them as he took pictures. We took it farther, and eventually I was lens fucking him in a parking lot, or writhing on a park bench with a dildo, or fucking him in a back alley. We never did get caught." Carole sighed. "I don't think I could do that for anybody but him, though."
The Artist tried to suppress a sigh.
"And then it changed," Carole said.
Aha, the Artist thought. "Finally slowed down."
"No, not that. It just changed. Like going on to something new and different, he started doing other things to me with his cock."
Other things? "Like what?"
"There's other places to put a cock, you know. Besides my pussy. Besides my mouth."
"Your ass."
"Well, there too." And she danced lightly past that issue, to the dismay of the Artist. "But here's where it got new and different for me. He put baby oil on the back of my knee, and put his cock there; I'd bend my knee, and tighten around his dick, and he'd fuck me there for a while. It gave us both a different perspective, and he'd finger my pussy while he did it, or pinch my nipples, and sometimes I'd play with myself as he was screwing my leg. But all of it was just so hot!"
"But what about your ass?"
"What about it?"
He wondered if she knew that he was going crazy. Then the dark thought: Is she purposely doing this to me? "Uh, nothing." He could come back to that later.
"Then Roger did it in my armpit. I'd wash them for him, and he'd lick there for a while, and that always did a number on me. Then he'd splash a little oil there, and screw my armpit. I even grew hair there for a while."
"Very European," the Artist said.
"So when he was fucking me there, his whole body was pressed against me, and he'd lick my pussy and hold my legs together, and I'd come like I never had before. Man, it was exciting!" Then Carole became strangely quiet.
"What?" the Artist asked. "What's wrong?"
"Well, then he left me."
"Why?" The Artist thought the guy had to be insane to give that up.
"He said it had gotten boring. I had asked him, 'What haven't we done?' And his answer was, 'I don't know, all I know is that this is boring.' And then he left. And I vowed never to involve myself with that kind of sexual play again."
"You mean, if somebody asked you to do that, somebody you really cared about, you wouldn't do it?"
"That was Roger. Any other man will just have to come up with something new."
Damn!
The drawings of Carole with this idiot Roger had been a challenge to the Artist. It took several sketches before he could line Carole up correctly underneath Roger, her armpit being fucked like that. Then there was the challenge of screwing behind her knee. But by the time the Artist was done, there were eight fine drawings: the pair a pinwheel of sex and pleasure.
The Artist couldn't stop. "What about, uh, the three-way? A while back there, you mentioned three-way sex."
Carole smiled. "Oh, yes. I was getting to that."
"Is this Number five?" the Artist asked. "Or is it Numbers Five and Six?"
Lover Number Five
"First off," Carole said, "I should explain that this was one of my all-time favorite fantasies."
"A threesome."
"No, the actual fantasy was a line of men, say the entire varsity basketball team taking turns with me, and I was blind-folded, and I never knew exactly who it was inside of me at any time."
"Oh."
"But this was as close to that as I'd ever get in real life, and god, was it great!"
Carole continued, "It started the morning that I woke up between two men. More properly, it had started the night before, but I'd been drunk and stoned, and didn't remember much at all."
Roger had left her, and Carole needed surcease. A solo evening at a local club, a few drinks, a few puffs, and she didn't care that there were two of them. The first was a handsome guy who bought her a drink. His companion didn't say much, and had simply come along for the ride.
"I didn't remember exactly what had happened during that episode, but there was Bob asleep on my right, and Stanley on my left." Carole smiled, "And the amazing feeling of that lingering tingle in my pussy, my mouth and my ass." Carole's hand glided over her ass and back up her thigh.
Bob was the one with a moustache. Quite a tongue, Bob had. That much Carole remembered. Just thinking about it gave her a thrill. Now it was coming back to her.
Carole told the Artist, "I was so grateful for what he'd done that I sucked him back, and while I was sucking, Stanley took me from behind. I'd never done anything like it before."
"And that was it for the three-way?"
"Oh, no. That was barely the beginning. From then on, we got together a couple of nights a week. It was glorious. These guys were all fun, and they made me forget all about Roger."
"So who was Lover Number Five?"
"Bob was, of course."
"Of course?"
"Yeah. Stanley was gay, and had the hots for Bob, and this was the only way he could have him. When they were both making love to me, I was like the channel, the connection for Stanley."
"That's a little strange."
"Aren't we all?" Carole smirked. "After all, you're the one drawing pictures of my past, standing a few meters from me, with a hard-on."
He wanted to put it in her, and stroke inside of her while she talked, but he didn't think Carole wanted it, and so he listened.
Later he would paint a picture of Carole naked with Bob's cock in her mouth and Stanley stroking her from behind. The rendering was accurate and fraught with emotional undertones.
"Then we were living together," Carole continued. "The three of us, like a stupid sitcom, the subplot being the pursuit of Bob by Stanley, though I wasn't really tuned into that particular piece of entertainment. And some nights, it was just me and Bob, and that wonderful tongue of his, followed by, did I mention this, a cock that seemed to be about ten or eleven inches long? No, I hadn't mentioned that.
"And other nights, it was me and Stanley, at Bob's request. Bob would watch us, and jerk off next to the bed, and Stanley would watch Bob spanking it, and that would make him come while he screwed me. Usually it was the traditional sandwich, with me in the middle.
"It went on that way for almost a year, and then it changed. Stanley's patience had finally paid off. In the middle of a three-way, THEY both got it on, and I was quickly in the background, and watching them. You know how a guy always wants to watch two women fooling around?"
"Yes," the Artist acknowledged, yeah, men really like that.
"Well, it really didn't do that much for me, at all. I need to be touched by a man. Or a woman, or anybody, for that matter. So these two were fucking each other, and I was the third wheel, and so I just got up and took a shower. I came back, and they were still at it. And I knew then it was basically over."
The Artist was pleased. "So they left together, and never came back."
"Nah, life is never that simple." Carole stopped for a second, and smiled to herself. "You wanted to know about my ass."
"Yes." He did, he truly did.
"Stanley just took to fucking me in the ass while Bob watched and jerked off. And we went on that way, oh, another six months or so. I really came to like anal sex." She watched as the Artist rolled his eyes. "But the truth was, I didn't have a dick, and eventually they needed that third dick for their particular ménage a trois. So that's when they left together, and never came back."
By now the Artist had drawn close to fifty drawings and paintings. It was a serious body of work, all from his mind's eye, stimulated by that painfully sweet erection he'd been enduring while enduring Carole's tales; the hardness that kept coming back every time he thought about Carole in bed with her lovers.
"Number six. He was the first man to tie me down," Carole told the Artist.
A thrill shot through the man. Was it pain that he felt? Jealousy? Fear for her, fear for the unknown, fear that here was something he could never compete with?
He thought, Why am I still listening to this? Haven't I heard enough?
Apparently not.
Lover Number Six
She'd met Rocky through a girl friend. "You'd really like him," the girl told Carole. "He's a good dancer."
Carole loved to dance. "So fix me up."
A week later, she sat in a darkened nightclub. Rocky was not what she'd expected, not at all. He seemed greasy. He wore a chain around his neck, a gold trinket that said ROCKY on it, like he was a leftover from Disco days. She wondered how she could get out of there, go home and watch some TV and not be with this nitwit.
"Dance?" he said. And it was a command. Suddenly he was not so creepy.
"Yes."
They danced, and Rocky guided her, threw her all over the floor, thrilled her, scared her with a deep dip. And as he held her, deep in that dip, he kissed her lightly on the lips. "Later," he said.
It was at that moment that Carole gave up free will. "Yes," she said. Later. She would do anything with him. Anything.
As with all of her previous lovers, Carole's sixth was a learning experience. New sexual things, positions, skills, knowledge; there was still much learned in this area. But she learned one more thing, something she simply hadn't known about herself.
She liked bondage, and domination. She liked S and M. And she loved to be told what to do. Having someone command her had released Carole. She had become an instrument of pleasure both to her Master and to herself. By being dominated, it paradoxically had freed her from all inhibition.
Naked, Carole was laying there, strapped to the man's padded board, a six-foot 'X' in his apartment, in a special room. It was a dungeon complete with whips and all manner of bondage equipment.
"You will obey me," he said.
"Yes, Master." She was unprotected; her wrists and ankles were securely tied to each point of the X. She was totally exposed, absolutely vulnerable. She loved it.
He touched her face, and put a finger at her mouth. She took it, and sucked on it, hoping that it wouldn't be too long before he put his dick there. She loved to suck his cock.
The finger traced down her neck, leaving a trail of wet; down further, he touched her breast, caressed it, and then pinched her nipple, an unexpected sharp pain that put her close to ecstasy. "Ow," she moaned.
"Quiet," he told her.
"Yes, Master."
He pinched her nipple again, and Carole moaned; then she worried that she'd said something, and she didn't know what he'd do about that. Then it was delicious fear she felt, at not knowing what he might do.
But her Master let it pass. His hand continued downward, and came to her pussy. "Next time, I want you to shave for me," he said.
"Shave my pussy?"
"Quiet, I told you!" And he slapped high on her thigh, the meaty part, and it was sharp and wonderful. His hand drifted back to her pussy, and this time it was a quick finger inside of her. Roughly he pushed it in and out, and she was quickly on the edge of a climax. "Don't you come," he ordered.
No, not that! She had to come! But she suppressed it, held her climax, trying desperately to please her Master. She shuddered with the effort, and she could see that he was pleased.
"I'm going to fuck you now. But you won't come. Not until I tell you."
How could she do that? She was so close, right now! Just the slightest penetration, and she would climax all over him. No. She mustn't. Who knows what he'd do to her if she came without permission. Just the thought nearly made her come.
The man unzipped, and put his cock on wet labia. He slapped her pussy with it, the splat on her wetness giving her a thrill. And then he entered. "Hold it," he ordered. "You wait till I tell you to come."
The man stroked, and watched her face in the agony of denial. "Good, isn't it? Don't you feel good that you're obeying your Master?"
"Yes," she said. Oh, no!
He slapped her ass. "You're disobeying me!"
"Please," she said. "I have to come!" And she shuddered, and couldn't hold it any more. "Aghhhh!" She writhed, and bucked on the padded board, beyond reason, beyond anything but total lust.
The man pumped furiously, hot indeed from his slave's distress; he pulled out his cock, and shot come all over her. "Goddamn," he panted. "Goddamn!"
It was the best sex she'd ever had.
"That was the best sex I'd ever had," Carole told the Artist.
"Wasn't that kind of…sick?" he asked.
"Oh, please. The man never beat me. Actually, I probably used him more than anybody, Jeremy, Bruce, Donna, Roger, Bob and Stanley, all of them. He really put out for me."
On a particularly sunny day, her Master had taken Carole for a drive. They were on a divided highway, speeding past other cars and trucks. Carole could see truck drivers looking down into the car at her, and she smiled at one driver as they passed him. She thought he was kind of cute.
"Take off your clothes," her Master said.
"But-," she started to protest. To this point she had done everything he'd ordered, but it had just been him, alone and in private.
"Now!" he ordered.
It was so difficult for her, but she obeyed. She unbuttoned her blouse, and took it off. Her shorts were next. And her panties, and she was naked from the waist down. She held an arm over her breasts, still covered somewhat by her bra. "Please," she said.
"Take it off."
It was with a delicious sense of duty that she unfastened her bra. Her nipples were hardened with passion; she was naked in the passenger seat.
Her Master started to pass another truck. The driver saw her, and his eyes bugged in disbelief. The two vehicles drove parallel for a short while.
"Play with yourself," her Master ordered.
"The truck driver is staring at me," she protested.
"You'll do what I say!" he demanded.
Carole obeyed. She spread her legs, and as the truck driver watched, she fingered herself. She looked to her Master, and he was watching the road. She glanced up to the truck driver, and the man seemed almost in panic, his head rotating to her and then back to the road, to her and back, again and again. She felt exquisitely out of control, and fingered herself furiously, wanting now to come for her Master, and for the truck driver. At the last second, she remembered who was in charge. "Can I come?" she panted.
"Yes." Her Master chose well when to control her.
Oh, relief! She threw her head back, and came all over the seat, writhing in ecstasy, her orgasm greatly enhanced by awareness of her audience. She looked up, and there was the truck driver, his head on a swivel, back and forth, and it seemed like yes, he was jerking off as he drove. She wanted him to come, too. She continued to finger her pussy, and she imagined that the truck driver was coming all over her, this stranger in the next lane, and it caused her to come again, the quick burst after the first one, and she again shuddered.
That's when the truck driver almost lost control. The truck careened wildly, and the man stepped on the brakes. He was suddenly gone, behind them, and off to the side. She watched in horror, hoping that the man didn't crash. The truck rode on the shoulder, and it slowed, and it was under control.
"Whew," she said in relief.
"Blow me," her Master ordered.
Without hesitation, she leaned over and unzipped the man. She caressed his cock, and put her head down to it. She licked his dick with her tongue, tasting it, mildly pungent from being restricted in his pants. She didn't mind. She'd come to prefer it that way, not squeaky clean, but manly and ready for action.
She would please her Master the way he wanted. She put her lips around his cock, feeling his warmth; slowly she consumed it, taking it ever deeper, taking all of it, gagging slightly as it went down her throat. She wasn't sure when she'd come to love doing this.
She was conscious of the car slowing, but she couldn't see beyond her Master's crotch. She went up and down on him, feeling his cock, knowing the head of it was deep, close to cutting off her wind, and so she held her breath and went faster. She thought, Give it up. Come in me now, come down my throat.
The man started to come. She felt his cock, and it seemed to expand as he released hot liquid into her. She continued to stroke him, taking his cum, consuming him totally. Spasm after spasm the man came, and then she could feel him diminish in size, spent. And then she came up for air.
Carole leaned back in the passenger seat and realized that she was revealed to a tour bus full of seniors, riding next to them. Several older gentlemen were watching Carole's splendid nakedness. Not knowing what else to do, she smiled, and waved at them.
Her Master accelerated, and they were gone.
"Whatever happened to your Master?" the Artist asked her.
"He moved to Europe. He decided not to take me with. He went with his wife, instead."
"His wife?"
"Yeah, that came as a shock to me, too. But my seventh lover was even worse, in a way."
"Tell me about him," the Artist said.
Lover Number Seven
"He was a brooding, moody sort of a guy," she said. "Don't know why, but I seem to have a weakness there, maybe like I'm some kind of misguided social worker. On a subconscious level, I guess I wanted to fix him or something, bring him out of it. I thought that if I loved him hard enough, efficiently enough, well enough, he'd return it in kind. And oh, yes, there was one other factor that made him so damned attractive."
"What was that?" Here comes the part about his big dick, or that he had an amazing tongue, or something like that - one more thing to drive me crazy.
"He was one of the most creative people I'd ever met."
The Artist understood creative, and how difficult it was, how fleeting the ideas were, and how one had to act on them when the inspiration came. He understood how that could get in the way of a relationship. It often felt as though one chose to be an artist, or one chose to have a relationship. "Take your pick," he said, thinking out loud.
"Yes," she said. "Sometimes I thought he chose me. But most of the time he seemed to choose himself."
"How so?"
"Well, we were having a nice evening together: a little wine, a little talk, and out of nowhere he asks me, 'How many lovers had you ever had?'"
The Artist felt another rush. "What, your Seventh is me?"
"Of course. But here's the punch line for the evening. You've tried so hard to trap me, to make me reveal everything about myself to you. Why? You don't own me, Jonathan. I'm going to leave you for the fool you are, and let you obsess over someone else's life, someone else's body. I'm sick of having you use me to fulfill your creative drive, and getting nothing but leftovers in return."
"You don't mean that," whispered Jonathan.
"Sure I do. I was trying to torment you, telling you about my lovers; I expected you to stop it somewhere, say, 'Stop, I can't hear this.' But that didn't happen, did it."
"No." He threw the paintbrush across the room, and yelled, "So you want me to leave, just because I pursued this?"
"Pursued? You haven't pursued anything tonight but a continuous tease at your cock and your next gallery show. You Fuck. So, yes. I want you to go. Get out of here, find someone else to be your possession, your trinket, your Muse."
"Fine." Jonathan got up from the couch, haphazardly collected his sketches, and strode out the door. He thought, Man, she's just nuts.
But it was pain that he felt. And he just couldn't let her go.
After three months and sixty-four works inspired by Carole, Jonathan finally called her. He had enough for two gallery shows now.
"Can we talk?" he asked.
"I don't know, can we?"
Back at her place, Jonathan sat on the couch. Carole sat next to him this time.
"I'm sorry," said Jonathan. "I've had time to think, and maybe you're right. Maybe I had been using you, feeding off of you, so that I could paint. The damage is already done, though. You told me about your lovers, and I painted them."
"Jonathan, there were no seven lovers. I just made all of that up."
For a moment he felt as though he had been slapped. He'd been obsessing over fabrications! Lies! "Why?" he asked. "Why would you lie to me like that?"
"Lie? The only thing that should matter is that I'm with you, right now, this minute. And if you really want to know about me, the real me, I will let that be revealed to you, but not for the sake of your art. I want it to be because you really want to know about me, for the sake of our relationship."
Jonathan was silent, gazing out the window.
Carole finally said, "Okay, here's the truth, and you will not question it, not if you want to be with me. Got it?"
"Yes," he said, and he braced for the worst. "The truth."
"I was a virgin when I met you."
"What?"
She smiled, and it was the smile he'd seen over and over the night that she'd told him in great detail about her seven lovers. "For you, my dear artist, I was a virgin."
He understood. "Virgin."
They made love that evening, warmly intertwined on the soft sofa. He stroked her slowly and lovingly, imagining her as Queen Elizabeth. In his mind, long red hair like Donna's replaced that of Carole's blonde curls. Then he felt her hand on his ass, and a finger massaging his nether hole. Quickly the thought passed though his mind: Where did you learn that?
Shut up, he told his pens, his paper, his paints and brush. Just shut up.