“I tried to tell him you were out with Artsy, but he kept asking what her name was. I couldn’t tell him.” “She really does have a name Baby; it’s LeeAnne. Her name is LeeAnne, but I think of her as Artsy too.” “Okay, LeeAnne. LeeAnne, if it’s all right with you I will just call her Artsy.” “The reason I got home when you did is our evening extended into other discussions, and we decided that none of us should drive home. We had too many after dinner drinks talking about the older woman’s portrait. She insisted we spend the night with her. “What is so fascinating about her portrait that you drank long into the night? Is she nude?” “Yes, she has it set up in what was her husband’s study, the portraits, working photographs and a sculpture.” “She’s interesting, an old broad with nudes on her walls.” “They are quite good; her late husband commissioned them. I was gauche enough to ask if she had sex with the artist.” “Dan, you didn’t! What did she say?” “Yes, she did. She said it put her. You should finish what you started.” As he spoke he leaned forward and I felt his hardness, still sheathed by his running shorts, press against my ass. I slipped my body around so we were facing each other, our cocks now straining against each other. A look was all it took before he leaned forward that crucial inch or so and crushed my lips with his own. With a heady abandon, I kissed back, thrusting my tongue into his mouth, feeling his stubble scratch against my own day-old growth. My hands slid up his arms, feeling the firmness of them. I moved them down, found the hem of his shirt and yanked upwards. He got the hint and raised his arms. The shirt came off and my nose went straight into the wet dusky hairs of his pits. “Oh, yeah,” he moaned as I licked and pressed and snuffled like an animal. His opposite hand came down and pressed my head further into him. After a few minutes of that he dragged me across to his other one and, with the same relentlessness, I went at it. My world.
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