("`-''-/").___..--''"`-._ `6_ 6 ) `-. ( ).`-.__.`) (_Y_.)' ._ ) `._ `. ``-..-' _..`--'_..-_/ /--'_.' ,' (((' (((-((('' (((( K R I S T E N' S C O L L E C T I O N _________________________________________ WARNING! This text file contains sexually explicit material. If you do not wish to read this type of literature, or you are under age, PLEASE CLOSE THIS FILE NOW!!!! _________________________________________ Scroll down to view text -------------------------------------------------------- This work is copyrighted to the author © 2004. Please don't remove the author information or make any changes to this story. You may post freely to non-commercial "free" sites, or in the "free" area of commercial sites. Thank you for your consideration. -------------------------------------------------------- Slice of Cheesecake #4: Danny by Ze Orange Yeah (luvbunneh@aol.com) *** At one time I was the lover of a talented artist... flattering, but true. To be the muse of someone like that is almost like being Venus de Milo... how could a woman NOT love that sort of attention? (MF, rom, fant) *** At one time I lived with an artist. He wasn't just any artist, but a fabulous, semi-famous artist, the kind that every woman wants until she's got him and then she realizes what a womanizing whore he really is, and how much she really doesn't need an artist that bad. He was a painter, a brilliant one too, who worked mostly with oils, acrylics, and the occasional pastel... he worked with vibrant reds, bright blues, and blacks, his paintings looked like something that just slithered out of hell on the shoulders of a pale, luminous, gorgeous, sensual, red-headed sex goddess, filled with strange, abstract monsters and nude, delicious women. Of course I loved his work, when with an artist one must love his work as much or more than you love him, because if you don't, you're screwed. You won't last ten minutes unless you adore his work. Many painters (At least all that I know) are egotistical freaks who demand eternal attention and flattery, and will basically go spastic unless they receive the attention they crave. Well, Danny was fabulous, gorgeous, divine; pale skin that didn't look sallow or pasty, dark brown, almost black, curls graced his head, a roman profile with a big nose, full, sensual, uber-kissable lips, and a pair of the most beautiful eyes I've ever encountered... dark green eyes that could just strip you down and caress you without him ever laying a hand on you. Danny could see everything; what you were, what you wanted to be, the way you see yourself, the way the world perceives you, and then the way he sees you... what he really thought you were. If he loved you, even if he was nothing more than infatuated with you (I came to the conclusion early on that he would never love anybody more than he loved himself, and I was right. He left me for himself without even a phone call.). When Dan would paint you, or do sketches, drawings, even doodlings of you, you felt like a goddess, like the reason the world was created, and while he was loving you, you were the world, the reason for living, for art, music, for the flowing wine (or tequila and Southern Comfort on our part), for the shining sun, the glowing moon... you were his everything, and you felt good. And when he left you, you felt the world crash down around your ears for fifteen minutes, and then you realized, slowly and dazedly, that he was nothing... that you never loved him any more than he loved you. That's the way he worked. We had moved in together when his lease had run out... in other words, a girl kicked his ass to the curb and he wanted me and I was more than willing to share the rent, and at the time that we moved in together we were just friends. Danny, however, always knows how to fix that, if only for his own self-preservation. One night when there had been a little drinking, he had wooed and won me, and I had woken up with a nasty headache and something like three different nude sketches of me, plus an entire roll of film shot for later use on paintings and stuff. I was in awe of him and his artistic talent... but not with his dirty laundry and his complete lack of cleanliness when it came to picking up his mess. But I did it; I ignored his lack of cooperation and just placating him. Hey, it's what I was raised to do. At the time I had been living in Chicago, trying to get my writing career off the ground while living in a not- so-snazzy loft apartment in one of the lesser areas in town, and I was working part time at two different bars. One night I came home absolutely exhausted and just ready to take a shower and wash all the sweat and liquor off my skin and just sleep, but y'know, as usual, some people occasionally have alternative plans. When I came in I thought he might be in bed early, which is a rarity for Danny, but hey, y'never know with some people, so I came in quietly. While my back was still turned towards the door locking the door, he came up behind me, slipping his hands around my waist and pressing himself against my body from behind; his chest against my shoulders, his groin against my bum, his thighs against mine, and those hands, his beautiful, eternally paint-stained hands, untucking my uniform blouse from my skirt. He leaned against me and whispered, "Take it off for me," and then walked away, and even though it was dark everywhere but by the door where we always left on the lava-lamp, I knew he had gone and sat down. I heard the CD player kick on and my oldies mix kick on... Fats Domino, "Blueberry Hill". I smiled, and turned to face him, pretending to ignore him. If he wanted a show, I'd give him a show. I unbuttoned the blouse slowly, agonizingly slowly for him cus I knew that Danny's an impatient person... to take your time with something like undressing would torture him, make him sweat and make him want what's inside... and that's what I wanted. I slipped the black and white striped blouse off my shoulders and let it slide to the floor, stood there in my black brassiere and my black, fitted skirt, tulip shoes still on. I reached back slowly, letting my fingers slide across my waist and then let my hands linger across my hips and bum before I unzipped the skirt, and slid it down my thighs, then let it drop around my ankles before I stepped out of it. There I stood in all my pale, luminescent glory, in my garter belt, thigh highs, black push-up bra, and black boy-thong panties, looking both wholesome and naughty, like a woman who could eat a man up and spit him back out again. Oh, wait... that is what I am *wink*. Then I reached back and unclipped my hair, letting the long, wild, red tendrils drift down around my shoulders, and then I bent over gracefully and undid the buckles around my ankles, loosing myself from my shoes and then slipped them off. Then I walked slowly over to him, picking up a short glass of bourbon that was sitting on a table. I stood in front of him and took a long drink, feeling his eyes all over my body, the excitement that was more than building up inside of him, and the way he wanted me. I came up close to him, standing in front of him, not having looked at him at all yet, and placed my foot on the couch right between his legs... pretending to concentrate on unsnapping the garter, and then sliding the stocking down my leg and slipping it off. When I repeated it with the other leg he groaned agonizingly and I looked him straight in the eye as I slipped my garter belt off. He licked his lips and moaned, low and throaty, and I smiled wickedly at him. He reached out and grabbed my thighs; pulled me to him, my breasts pressed tight against his chest as he kissed me... oh Danny always was the best kisser. His lips played with mine as our tongues tangled, and I sucked on his bottom lip, nibbled it and rubbed my nose against his. He unsnapped my brassiere, freeing my bosom, and he threw it to the side, and pushed down my panties, making me stand up so that he could slip them off. Then I straddled him again, wrapping my arms around his neck kissing him harder and harder, and he kissed my throat and caressed my body, from my throat to my bottom, my thighs and my breasts, his hands lingering in every crevice that he knew I enjoyed and he would laugh, low and sensual, when I would moan and sigh. I slipped the t-shirt he was wearing over his head, kissing his nipples and his collarbones, nibbling gently at the edge of his armpit, and he pulled me closer, ferocious and needy... greedy in his love. My hips moved against him, and he reached to undo his belt, and I moved his hands out of the way, sliding down to the floor on my knees and unbuckling his pants. I slid them down and off, and then kissed his thighs, biting him gently behind his knees and slid my hands up his thighs and teasingly licked the place right where his thigh meets his groin. I slid my tongue over the hard shaft of his cock while cradling his balls in my hand, gently caressing them as I took all of him into my mouth, sucking gently and massaging him with my tongue. He pulled me up to his lips, putting his finger under my chin he lifted my face to his and kissed me, a long, deep, hard, passionate kiss... the kind of kiss that could make a girl melt from ungodly pleasure. He pulled me close to him, with as much of my body touching his as we could and I felt his hard, throbbing shaft against my wet pussy as my hips gyrated and grinded against his. He slipped into me, my lips frozen against his as the exquisite pleasure coursed through my body, his hard cock deep inside of me. I rode him, pulling away from him slowly only to crash back against him, his hands pressed against my back, my head thrown back, the soft groans that escaped his throat as I pushed against him, deeper and deeper. He cradled my face with his hands and kissed me, sucking gently on my lower lip, and I felt him swelling inside of me, hard and hot, pulsing in my wet pussy, making my body quiver with pleasure. We thrust against each other and I felt him getting bigger, hotter, and harder, until he pulled away from me, panting as I kissed him, almost begging for more. Danny looked me straight in the eye and said, "Switch," which was plain English for me to switch positions. I giggled as he got down on his knees on the floor in front of me, pushing me down and kissing me, his hardness right there at the mouth of my hot, hungry pussy, tantalizing me in an ungodly way. Finally he thrust deep inside of me, kneeling over me and holding my hips up with his hands, my legs wrapped around his waist. I put my hands above my head and allowed my body to focus on his thrusting, the deep pulse of him inside of me, and the more I focused, the more I thought and the more my body became just a vessel for pleasure, filled to the brim, almost ready to overflow. I cried out his name as the waves began to flow over me, over and over and over, crashing into me and over me, my body almost convulsing in his grasp as he thrust into me, holding on to me and waiting until I was almost done to cum with me. When the waves began to crash over me until I was thrashing in his grasp, he pumped into me, letting his hot juices squirt deep inside of me while I almost screamed with the pleasure he had given me. When we had both been spent he lay on top of me, my legs wrapped around his waist and his head on my bosom while I caressed his neck and shoulders and played with his hair. "Do you know how much I love you?" he whispered. "No. How much?" I smiled back. "More than the sun and moon and the stars. You're my muse, my goddess, my queen. You'll be my wife, won't you?" he said in all seriousness. "No, I won't," I laughed. "Why not?" he pouted. "Because... I'm not fool, and only a fool would tie herself to you," I said, straight faced but satisfied. He sighed and not long after we went to bed. Two weeks later he moved out and into the apartment of German model that was 6 ft, 2in, blonde, blue eyed and practically perfect in every way. But y'know what? He still paints red-heads constantly. In his newest painting there was a tall, leggy red-head in nothing but a pair of thigh-highs, a garter belt, boy-thongs, and a black bra, not to mention the Mary-Jane high heels. Flattering, but sad. END * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * It's okay to *READ* stories about unprotected sex with others outside a monogamous relationship. But it isn't okay to *HAVE* unprotected sex with people other than a trusted partner. You only have one body per lifetime, so take good care of it! * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * Kristen's collection - Directory 32