Tuesday, December 14, 2021

An Artist's Work by Anonymous

 As I pulled into the driveway of a remote farm cabin on a dark, cold night in rural Vermont, I reflected on how I ended up here.  Two months earlier, I had met with old friends to celebrate 25 years since business school graduation.  Since then we had gone our own ways, some into finance, some into business and some into oblivion. I generally hate these sorts of things, but after my wife and I had split after 25 years together, and our kids had become adults.  I consider these events are “forced fun,” with people who knew a younger me, a different man.

After I checked in, I was given a card and told to learn innocuous bits of information from 3 classmates also in attendance.  I looked at my names — two people I knew well, but the third was Anna.  Anna was the “artsy chick” 25 years ago, and no one knew what she was doing in business school in the first place; she was into art, horses and poetry,  We nicknamed her "The Artist."  We had shared a couple classes and drinks back in school, but I don't think I had thought about her since the day we graduated.   I found my way to her and noticed she had matured into an attractive older woman, with the same mature artsy vibe.  She looked as if she had just stopped by on the way home from a horse stable rather than attending a business school reunion.  We caught up on old times, although we didn’t have much to share, and had a pleasant chat.  I learned she was single, and lived about 2 hours outside of Boston, on a Vermont horse farm.  She painted, horsed and did who knows what in Nowhere, Vermont.  She and I casually agreed that if I was ever in the area I should come by and share a glass of homemade wine; we traded numbers and created a pleasant connection, even though we really had no friendship to rekindle. 

A month later I found myself in Boston on business, and had my meeting cancel.  My friends suggested a ski trip to Vermont, which happened to be close to Anna’s farm.  Recalling our pleasant chat, I thought, why not call her and take her up on a glass of bad homemade wine, some likely sub par goat cheese and see her Vermont country life.  After a couple texts, here I was. 

As I rang the door with a bottle of champagne in hand, I looked forward to a glass of wine, some artsy discussion of art, the old times and a flirty dance of two mature people.   She did look amazing, radiant, even as she wore no makeup and had plainly been working on the farm all day.   She smiled, and invited me in. She then rather bluntly said, "You can put the champagne there" and nodded towards a cluttered oaken table.  I had, of course, expected a more enthusiastic reaction, but The Artist did smile when she saw me, and that put me somewhat at ease.

As she turned away from the door, she rather matter of factly said, “Ok, Don, please take off all your clothes, fold them and leave them on the mat by the door.”  Her tone was casual, but commanding, as if she was telling me not to pet the dog.  It was not a question, but rather a command.  My brain kind of froze, but I knew I had a choice, right then. Say “no" and walk out. Or, stay and obey. I thought, Ok, she can't intimidate me, I will show her.  I am not ashamed of my body, I am in good shape, and besides, when is nakedness with a woman nicknamed The Artist a bad thing, ever

As I gathered my thoughts and stripped, she had moved to her living room and sat in a chair, next to a raging fire.  I had expected her to be naked too, but, to my surprise, she was quite fully clothed and content.  She said she had put a towel down on the couch, motioned for me to sit across from her and to “make myself at home.”  

What then proceeded was one of the most normal, yet stilted, awkward conversations of my life.  We chatted as if I was not, in fact, naked or sitting on a towel on her couch.  I learned she was single, owned 500 acres of Vermont countryside and was quite content.   She knew of my wife’s passing, that I had just sold my company, and was learning to re-engage with life outside of the pastoral world I had created and lived

After 30 minutes or so without acknowledgment of my naked body or the situation, she said “hold out your arm.”  It was said in the same tone she had used before and not a question or request, it was a statement.  I did as I was told.

She took my hand, and turned my palm face up, and tucked it under her armpit to hold it still, which exposed my forearm and bicep. leaving both her hands free.  She then pinched about a half inch of my skin, my flesh and pulled it up.  To my shock,she then  pushed a thin hypodermic needle through the pinch, piercing it through and coming out the other side. A very sharp needle, with a biting quick pain, like a shot at the doctor office. A prick, painful, but not excruciating.  

Half of me wanted to scream out in horror.  But, I didn’t.  I watched, grimaced and let her push a needle through my skin.  When she was done, she calmly said “you were talking about your ski trip, please continue…”.  My mind was blank.  Skiing?  I just had a needle through me!  I am naked in front of you.  And then I  realized —  I was rock hard.  Erect as a circus pole.  Now THAT was embarrassing.

As I stumbled on, she took my other arm, rotated it palm up, inched my bicep and slid another needle through my flesh.  It hurt of course, but perhaps the shock had worn off and it wasn't as hurtful as the first one.  I endured.

I noticed that a drop of blood was leaking out of my arm from the needle.  Anna noticed too, and casually lifted and rotated my arm, as I spoke of skis and rental cars, and licked my bicep, taking the blood and leaving behind a slick trail of saliva.  The disconnect between the words out of my mouth and the physical dynamic playing out

But I was also excited, mentally and physically.  I ached, yearned, and the casual sexuality, the raw physicality of the needle, of Anna, her presence transported me to another place.  My skin tingled, my senses were chaotic, and the darkness and fire sharpened the sensation. Anna's smell, her words, her tone, her and licked the blood trail.  And me.. My cock was hard, sticking straight up and positively yearning for something.  And very obvious and very undeniable.

After more meaningless chit chat, she motioned for me to stand.  I didn't think twice, and stood motionless in front of the fire.  At this point I was not so surprised when I saw another needle in her hand, and knew what was coming next, as she pinched a skin fold on my chest, just above my right nipple.  I felt the sharp pain, the piercing sensation, the needle threading my skin.  And then a second needle, on the left side, a matching pair of needles matching the two in my arm.  Anna then again licked up the slight drip of blood leaking down my skin, tasting me but leaving a cool sensation from her tongue behind.

I do not remember the exact words or what happened, but I do recall my very prominent erection, my hardness and aching for her, for physicality, for connection.  She led me to her bedroom, which was a small back room in her barn-like house.  It was rustic, functional, and plush even.  A room inhabited by a woman who made her world and lived in it.

She pushed me down on the bed, and said, "I suggest you not move.  The needles will tear if you thrash and they catch on the covers."  Such an obvious statement and yet i heard the tone in her voice, her command.  I then watched as she casually took off her jeans, and her panties, and mounted me.  One knee on either side of my chest.  I noticed her full, curly mound of pubic hair. her cunt, her lovely sex.   Before I knew it and without words or a kiss or even a touch, she rocked her hips back and impaled herself on my rock hard cock.   I had been mounted pure and simple.  Anna used her hands to keep herself steady as she rocked and used my cock.   I desperately managed in my head to keep myself from orgasming because I simply did not want this to end.  But I also knew She didn't want this to end and my orgasm would seem impolite and unwanted.  I knew she didn't want me to cum.  She had a plan, and I couldn't alter it by trying to force my passion

Anna fucked me as she rode and mounted me.  She was in her own passion, her own world using my erection.  She fucked my cock, moving up and down and pushing her hips forward and back for her to stimulate her clit on my groin.  I felt her rock steadily faster and in her own rhythm as I tried to match it,  Her breath got shorter, and shallower and I noticed her nipples becoming firmer, pointed even.  Her eyes were glassy, her hands pushed more firmly on my even as she rocked in and out on my cock.   I knew her orgasm was coming as she rocked herself faster and more intently, with passion and fire.   She then bucked, and pushed intently, hard on me as her torso and butt quivered, feeling her orgasm on me.   

After she orgasmed, her hair falling, her hips gyrating and bucking she collapsed forward on my chest.   Her heavy body tweaked the needles threading my chest, which I had seemingly forgotten about.   That quickly returned my body to someplace real, and she whispered in a throaty voice, "you may cum now..."  I then exploded into her, feeling my cock thrust and balls constrict and my orgasm pulled from me by Anna and her body.   But I knew this wasn't my orgasm, it was what She had crafted.  The Artist, indeed.

What followed that evening was a meal about which I recall nothing.  And, it was if our passion had not happened, my bleeding spots were the only reminder of what had transpired, even as I could scarcely stand to look at her, in awe of what she had just done.

In the days and weeks that followed, she did not return my increasingly aching calls or texts.  I never saw her again.    


Post a Comment