Sensuous Stories (7 page)

She bunched his shirt in her hand and pulled
him close. “Pay more attention,” she said and bit him right where
she could see the fast beating pulse in his neck. He yelped then
groaned as she soothed the sting with her tongue. “Don’t be
lazy.”

He glared at her and raised his hands to her
throat. She felt a moment of skittery fear but smiled with triumph
when he grabbed the collar of her shirt and ripped it open and off,
sending buttons flying. She felt his hot, enraged gaze on her
breasts and gasped as he roughly pulled down her lace bra. The cool
air felt glorious on her hot, tight, nipples.

“
Pay more attention?” he
said. He took her breast into his mouth and sucked hard. She
whimpered as he flipped open the button to her jeans and slid down
the zipper. Pushing his hand down into her curls, he found her
clit. She was still dry, but he scrapped his callous roughened
fingers against her. The harsh friction took her to the edge in a
few seconds.

He kept working his fingers against her and
pressed her to the wall. Lifting his head he glared at her. “How
much more attention do I have to pay you?”

“
I’ve told you,” she said,
as she closed her eyes, feeling his fingers thrust hard inside her
now far from dry pussy. “You agreed to not use power tools and
control your dog. You’ve done neither.”

“
Control my dog?” he said
slipping a third finger inside her while running his tongue down
her neck. “What’s wrong with Angus?”

She pulled his shirt from his jeans and
fumbled with the buttons, desperate to get his skin under her
hands. “He keeps digging up my pansies,” she said, scrapping her
nails against his flat brown nipples. She bent her head to twirl
her tongue around one, hearing his indrawn breath, as she unzipped
him and pulled out his hardening cock. Her hand circled and
squeezed him, starting a regular slide up and down.

“
That’s because he jumps the
fence to get at that wretched cat of yours,” he gasped, moving his
fingers back to her clit. “She deliberately bates him.”

She moaned as he gave her clit a final rough
tweak. His arm caught her around the waist as her harsh keening
signaled the beginning of an explosive climax.

She screamed, feeling her wetness gush all
over his hand. His fingers continued to gently slide in and out of
her as he held her against him, nuzzling her neck. She let herself
rest, just for a few seconds, so she could feel the glorious jelly
in her bones and taste the salty skin of his shoulder. But not for
long. She gathered herself together and narrowed her eyes.

Not so fast, buster. It’s not that easy.

Pushing herself away from him, she held onto
his cock, pumping and squeezing.

“
So you admit your dog jumps
the fence,” she said, pushing him against the wall. She squatted in
front of him and held onto his hips, taking him into her
mouth.

“
He’s only a puppy,” Jack
moaned. She looked up at him to see his eyes closed and his face
transfigured with painful ecstasy. Her satisfaction deepened as he
thrust into her mouth. Diverted, she caught sight of herself in the
glass of the oven and felt an immediate, hot pulse in her cunt. Her
full breasts were hanging out of her white lace bra and her mouth
was wide and voracious, sucking and licking Jack’s long, wide cock.
She listened to his moans and knew he was close.

“
No,” she said, pulling
away. “Being a puppy is no excuse. You have to control him.” She
knew how she must look to him, as she watched him gaze down at her,
his cock bobbing up between them. She lightly licked the tip and
cupped her breasts, rolling her nipples between her fingers. A hot
burst of avid want flooded her as she saw his jaw tense and his
eyes flare with lustful fury.

“
Then you have to do
something about the cat,” he said, pulling her up roughly. She
stepped out of her shoes and gasped as he turned and pushed her
against the kitchen table, bending her over. He striped her out of
her jeans and panties leaving her exposed to him, completely naked.
A sharp quiver of anticipation shot through her. She could feel the
coarse cotton of his jeans as he pushed open her legs with his
knees and heard the sudden rip of foil. The cool wood of the table
felt exquisite against her aching breasts. She raised herself on
her elbows and tipped up her bottom to welcome him.

With one ferocious thrust, he was inside her
wet slit, grasping her hips and pumping her hard and fast.

“
Oh god!” she
moaned.

“
Are you going to do
something about that wretched cat?” he panted between
thrusts.

“
Only if you control your
dog!” she whimpered, thrusting back at him, feeling the cold metal
of his zipper against her buttocks. His cock felt hot, so hot,
pushing her harder and higher. She lowered herself so she was flat
to the table and moved her arm underneath her to rub her clit. She
was close again when she felt him lean down the length of her body
and take her ear lobe into his mouth. He kept thrusting as he
sucked.

“
I’ll do better with Angus
if you keep the cat in at night. Agreed?” he whispered pulling
himself almost completely out but keeping the head of his cock just
at her entrance, lightly sliding up and down her slit. She pushed
back trying to get him in. He laughed and evaded her. “What do you
say Grace? Do we have an agreement?”

“
Yes, but you have to find
out where I am before you use any power tools,” she almost
shrieked, feeling the tingling glow of stars build through her
body.

“
Okay,” he gasped, thrusting
into her again. Golden heat and sparks exploded through her cunt,
up and out through her mouth.

She contracted around him, felt his last,
hard thrust and heard his muffled moans as he pressed his mouth to
the back of her neck.

She stretched her arms out in front of her,
feeling the delicious pull of sore muscles throughout her body.
Jack trailed kisses down her back, making her squirm with laughter.
Slippery moisture slid down her legs when he pulled out of her.
Turning over, she sat on the table and watched him zip himself up
and button his shirt, looking flustered and tussled.

Not so smooth now are you
boyo. Not when my cunt’s been around you
.

She dipped her fingers into herself and drew
out her moisture, drawing it over her nipples.

“
The fence is falling down.
It’ll have to be replaced,” she said, sucking her
fingers.

“
What? That’s ridiculous!
There’s nothing wrong with that fence!” he said tucking his shirt
into his jeans.

She shrugged. “Looks bad from my side. I
have a beautiful garden and I want to keep it that way.” She smiled
at him and lifted a leg onto the table, opening herself to his
gaze.

His eyes glazed over and she saw, to her
amusement, his struggle to pull himself together.

“
I can’t deal with this
now,” he said “I’ve got things to do. Can’t we talk about this
another time?”

“
Oh, you can be sure of
that,” she said, sliding off the table to pick up her
clothes.

I’m a long way from
finished with you
.

“
Tomorrow will be
fine.”

Persephone's Door

I know what to do with doors. People come to
me because they want a special door, something that makes an
impression and gives a clue to their character. Sometimes they want
me to paint their favorite animal on the door, or their girlfriend
or a landscape, but I talk to them first before I decide what to
paint. It’s not always pleasant. They have to understand that.

I do both sides so that when visitors come
to the house, they see the beginning of the story as they stand and
ring the bell waiting for the door to open. Then they see the rest
of the story on the other side of the door as they hang up their
coat.

When I first started painting doors, I only
painted happy images that made people feel good. That soon
changed.

And I didn’t always stop at doors. My first
client was a chef, but as I talked to him, I realized he had a love
of entomology, particularly ants. He had an ant farm on his book
shelf and lots of books on insects. I painted a version of the Last
Supper on his front door, with him as Christ and famous television
chefs as the apostles. On the other side, I painted his ideal
kitchen with every implement he had ever wanted. It gleamed and
shone in the hall light, the stainless steel surfaces lacquered to
perfection. Down one leg of the kitchen bench I painted a trail of
ants which led from the door, across the hall way, through the
living room and into his own kitchen, up his kitchen table, across
and down again, eventually going out the window. He was very
happy.

Not long after, he moved to Lightning Ridge
where he did some opal mining, devoted himself to his ant passion
and ran a little cafe. I don’t know what happened to the door, but
I don’t really concern myself with that. It is more important to me
that people listen to what I’m trying to tell them.

Another young man wanted me to paint a beach
with him riding a surf board. But I knew as I talked to him, this
was only a transitory point in his life. He had an air of tragedy
about him, and as we spoke, he told me that he was estranged from
his parents who wanted him to live a life empty of passion.

I painted a huge tsunami on his door,
looming up over his small figure standing on the beach. On the
other side, I painted a path through a rainforest leading up from
the beach. At the top of the path was a naked, pregnant woman
waiting for him. She had skin like ripe peaches. One of her hands
was on her belly and one on her breast, lightly squeezing her
nipple.

He loved his door but didn’t understand why
I painted this image. When I offered to change it, he stopped me. I
could see he didn’t know why.

Later, I heard that he often sat and
contemplated this door. Eventually he found his own path and became
a gardener with six children.

I don’t know if my doors push people into
what they become or if I create something that will happen anyway.
All I know is that if I get a sense of what I should paint, and I
am not true to that sense, something bad will happen. I will be
forced to paint the door as it wants to be painted. This can be
very hard. Not everything that happens in life is joyous or can
make people happy. When I talk with some people, I know that their
life will be hard or that death is hovering. These are the times
when I am tempted to change or hide what I am driven to create. But
I know now this will make everything worse. I can’t even refuse to
paint the door. It’s as if the door knows as soon as someone comes
to me to discuss what they want. It waits for life to be poured
into it. At times I feel very lonely when I have to paint a door
full of sorrow.

The first time I painted a sad door was for
one of my friends. I was happy because I like to create beautiful
things for my friends. But I soon learnt I had to tell them never
to ask me for a door after my experience with Rebecca.

She did not have a vision of what she wanted
on her door. As we sat and talked, I had a growing sense of
disquiet. All I could see were scenes of abandonment and despair.
On the front of her door, I knew I had to paint a picture of an
orchard full of fruit that was overripe and almost rotting on the
trees. It was strangely beautiful. The fruit glistened with color
and moisture, but there was an overriding sense of corruption and
sickness. On the back of the door I had to paint a wasteland, where
the trees were skeletons against a fiery orange horizon and black
earth. I didn’t want to paint this door because Rebecca’s life was
full of happiness. She had a much loved daughter and a husband who
adored her and who she adored.

When she saw the door she was horrified and
demanded I paint it over. I immediately did, but it was too late.
The door had taken on the life I had painted and nothing could stop
what was to happen. Within six months her child was dead and her
husband had left her in his grief. She blamed me and came to my
house and cursed me for ruining her life. I wept as I tried to
explain that I didn’t know if I make things happen or if I just
paint what will happen. She didn’t care and left me with her rage
and sorrow ringing in my ears.

For a long time I refused to speak to anyone
who wanted a door. I got my mail and phone diverted to an answering
service so that any requests didn’t get to me. I became reclusive
and would only talk to my friends who knew what had happened. I
stayed in my house and painted and painted but nowhere near any
doors.

Finally, I realized that I had to continue
with my life and that whoever approached me for a door, had to take
the risk of starting something they had no control over. I put a
sign up in front of my house telling anyone who wanted a door that
they had to be prepared for what would happen. Some people had
second thoughts, but others went ahead with their request. The
people who particularly sought me out were people who were stuck
and unable to see where their life was going. They didn’t seem to
mind if I set into motion something bad in their life, because they
were sick of treading water.

One day a man came to see me to enquire
about a door. He hadn’t decided whether he wanted a door or whether
I was the right person to paint it. I was surprised and a little
affronted, as no one had ever questioned my abilities before. He
came and sat in my sunroom and sipped tea as we talked. For some
reason, he made me nervous.