For Art’s Sake

The story of how I met Christine still amazes me.     Who knew the adventure I’d embark upon when the phone rang that Sunday afternoon?

“Is that Mark?”   The voice was female, mid-twenties I guessed, but all business.

“It is.” I kept up the business-like nature of the call.   “How can I help you?”

“You’re in my league at the tennis club.   Would you like to play this week?   I’m Christine, by the way.”

Under my breath I cursed my buddy Chad for getting me involved in the league.   Not only was it his goofy idea, but at the last minute he pulled out and left me to deal with all the whackos who called trying to arrange pointless, or so I felt, tennis matches.

I tried quickly to think of a reason not to play Christine, but in the end I lamely accepted.   We agreed on a Thursday evening match and I put the phone down cursing.

Of course, the obvious thoughts of Christine being a delicious creature who would be insanely tempted by my limited charms ran through my head, but reality kept me from getting too far into the relationship before we’d met.   It wasn’t often the girl I met matched the promise of the voice on the phone—approximately never.

So… I turned up at the tennis club Thursday, straight from work and still thinking about the crap I’d left on my desk.   I asked the girl on reception if she knew Christine but she didn’t, adding vaguely that she thought she might be a new member.   I went off, got changed and went out to the court she’d booked.

Christine was sitting in a chair next to the net when I got there.   She stood up and offered me her hand as I approached.   “Nice to meet you.” she smiled.

Whilst she wasn’t about to be mistaken for Anna Kournikova, Christine had a pretty face, cute, short blonde hair and a nice figure.   Her breasts were restrained by a sports bra but presented themselves nicely to my eyes as they formed pleasant curves on her white, body-hugging top.   She wore white shorts, low-mileage tennis shoes and stood about 5’ 6”.

After a few pleasantries we warmed up with some gentle shots, she elected to serve and hit the fastest tennis ball I’d ever seen straight at me.   Any thoughts I had about an easy match against a girl disappeared right there.

I’m no slouch with a tennis racquet but Christine was everything I could handle, and a bit more.   I chased hard in the first set and only lost 6-4 but in the second I ran out of stamina quickly and plunged 6-2.   Something about her matter-of-fact demeanor kept me from being ashamed at losing to a female, but I wasn’t proud of the fact, nor was I looking for a rematch anytime soon.

“That was fun.”   She was barely out of breath.

“Yeah.”   I tried to hide some of my panting.   “You’ve played a bit then?”

“I used to play a fair bit.”   She wiped her face with a towel and looked down at me while I tried to stem the flow of sweat from my brow.   “I was state junior champion three times before college.   I’ve just started to play a little again.   It was nice to play against someone who can also play.”

Her last statement stunned me—that I was a worthy opponent!

“Well, anytime you’d like to play…” I offered, more out of courtesy than anything else.

“I’ve gotta run.   I’ll call you.” she assured me, gathered up her things and headed off.

I didn’t think she would call, and I certainly wasn’t going to call her.   She’d shown no interest in me other than a serve and volley game, and I wasn’t interested in another thrashing.   It was no surprise that she didn’t call the following week, or the one after, but it was also strangely unsurprising when she called the week after that.

“Would you like to play again?”   Her approach was again very formal.

Against my better judgment, I agreed.   More than that, I offered to book the court… and started to think there was something wrong with me.

“Well, if you don’t mind coming out here, my parents have a court, and it’s supposed to be nice this weekend.”

We agreed on Sunday, I took down the address and noted that there weren’t many real estate bargains where her parents lived.

I imagined a long driveway, impeccable garden, nice new court, lemonade and maybe her parents looking on as their daughter whipped her male opponent’s ass.   I was close enough to the mark.

The lemonade was Gatorade, the garden was huge and the house spectacular.   Christine welcomed me at the front door and immediately walked me through to the rear garden, and the court.   It was in perfect condition, surrounded by a 12ft fence and had a small refrigerator by the umpire’s chair, where the Gatorade was kept.

Today Christine was wearing black shorts and a pink top.   Her hair was swept back with a band and she seemed more relaxed in her parents’ garden.   She explained they were out of town and assured me there was no hurry to start as I fished in my bag for shoes.

I tried hard, but tanked again as she ran me all over the court, chasing shots that were too well-placed for me to reach.   This time it was 6-3, 6-3 and I was more exhausted than our first match.

As we sat in seats next to the refrigerator Christine told me again that she enjoyed playing with me, and showed no sign that it was really beating me that she enjoyed.   Her demeanor was hardly “warm”, but I had at least started to enjoy being around her.

“I’m not good enough for you.”   I laughed.

“Not true.” she dismissed.   “I have to play really well to keep up with you.   A couple of points going the other way and the result would be different.”

“You don’t need to be kind.   I’m not ashamed of being beaten by a girl.   You’re better than any guy I’ve played against in may years.”

“I like playing with men better.”   She softened to a muse.   “Nothing to do with beating them because they’re men, but I like how men try harder, because I’m a girl, if that makes sense.”

“Kind of.”   I thought I followed the logic.

Initially we talked about her tennis past but her enthusiasm rose when she started to talk about her art studies and work. I saw her demeanor brighten for the first time.   Her face became animated and her hands moved passionately as she talked about her painting and sculpture.   Despite having little interest and no discernable knowledge of art, I enjoyed listening to her.

“I’d like to see some of your work.”   I admitted, stretching my legs that had become tight after their exertions and now sitting.

Christine’s eyes lit up, and her hand gently grabbed my forearm.   “Really?   My studio is just over there.”   She pointed to the detached triple garage that appeared to have a large workshop extension.   “Why don’t you take a shower and I’ll show you around?”

She took me back to the house, showed me to a bathroom and loaded my arms with the biggest towel I’d ever seen.   While I luxuriated in the soothing hot water she had a shower somewhere else in the house and was making sandwiches in the kitchen when I found her.

She’d changed into blue jeans and a lime green T-shirt.   Her hair was still damp and as I looked over her shoulder at the food I caught the sweet aroma of her shampoo—something coconut.   It was the first time I felt a desire for Christine, and I looked at her round butt cheeks with a new interest as she joked with me about not wanting tomato on my sandwich.

The difference was she’d relaxed.   So far she’d been all tennis, but now that we were away from the court she’d come around and I was enjoying her company.   As I checked out the new shine in her eyes, the gorgeous curve of her hips and her newly unrestrained chest, I began to wonder if…

“Are your folks out of town?”   I might as well know what the logistics were… just in case.

“They’re somewhere in the Carolinas .”   She screwed up her nose at the thought.   I thought her nose looked sexy.   “Dad has a boat down there.   I hate sailing, so I’ve never been.”

When we were through with the food Christine stood up.   “Ready to see my work?”

“Sure.”

The daylight was starting to fade as we walked across the lawn to the door of her studio.   The interior space was larger than I imagined, about twenty feet by thirty.   Hanging on the walls were oil paintings in various stages of development.   There were several easels with more paintings on, a few in-progress clay sculptures on the workbenches and art paraphernalia everywhere.   There was a sofa, a sink and a coffee maker.   Her paintings were landscapes, mostly summer scenes with isolated figures somewhere in them—a girl in a wheat field, a man in a park…   The sculptures were more abstract, bold geometric shapes and barely recognizable animals.   One sculpture was a hollowed-out TV with a screaming face in it.   There was a large dust sheet covering one work, along the back wall.

I walked around and looked at her work while she followed me and offered a few nervous comments.   I didn’t say much, not knowing whether it was any good or not, but her paintings appealed to my eye.

“I like them.”   I nodded, continuing to browse.   “What do you like to do most, painting or sculpture?”

“Thanks.” she said demurely and then paused to think about the question.   “I like them both.   Painting pays the bills but sculpture allows me to be more expressive.   It’s harder to sell though.”

I laughed.   “I thought artists didn’t care about commercial gain.”

Christine smiled playfully and knocked my arm with her shoulder.   “Maybe a hundred years ago.   These days we have cell phones, computers, and mortgages to pay.”   She caught my curious look.   “I only work here.   I have an apartment.   My folks let me use this place.   Sometimes I think it’s so they can keep an eye on me.”

My mind immediately wondered why they would want to keep an eye on her, but that same eye was now looking at Christine with every opportunity.   There was no doubting that now I’d been with her a while, I liked this girl.

There was nothing controversial, offensive or edgy about any of the work on display—nothing to give me any clue what was about to happen.

I was drawn to the item under the dust sheet.   Don’t ask me why, I was just interested to see it.   Maybe it was my natural curiosity.   It was the largest thing in the studio and the only thing covered.   I walked up to the bench it was on, looked at it and then looked over to Christine.

She made a screwed-up face at me that looked reluctant, uncomfortable and playful at the same time.   “You might not want to look under there.” she said simply.

I felt myself smile back, mischievously.   “I might.”

She tried an outright distraction, walking away and telling me that a painting at the other side of the studio was the one she was going to work on the following day.   I wasn’t buying that.   I was still curious and now wanted to play.   I stood by the covered object and waited for her attention to come back to me.

“Look.” she said reluctantly and slowly walked back to me.   The tension in the moment was now almost tangible.   “That’s a work-in-progress, and I don’t know that I’m ready to share it…”

“Why not?”   My question was deliberately short.   I was enjoying her mild panic.

“I’d rather not.”

“You make it sound like you’ve got a dismembered body under there.”   I reached for the corner of the sheet.   “Maybe your parents aren’t on a boat after all…”

“No, don’t, please.” she looked at me, to the dust cover and back to me.   “It’s… it’s kind of embarrassing.”

Now I was hooked.   I smiled wryly and nodded.   I wondered what could be so embarrassing to an artist, checked the outline of the sheet again and looked back at the squirming Christine.   Much as my curiosity was jumping now, I didn’t want to force her anywhere too uncomfortable.

“Okay.   No problem.”   I dropped the corner of the sheet.   “You’ll have to ask me back though, when you’re ready to share.”

Christine nodded and continued to look at me, obviously weighing up the situation.   “Look… if I show it to you… you won’t judge me or anything.   It’s art, it’s… well, it’s… just art.   Okay?”

I nodded and stood aside so she could unveil.

She slowly and carefully pulled away the dust sheet and revealed her work-in-progress.   Before it came into sight, I could have stood there all year and not guessed what it was.

The base was a 3’ by 6’ sheet to timber, painted with a grid of dark city streets, a blue river and a park.   Sprouting up from the cityscape were buildings of differing heights and shapes—every one of them represented by a plaster cast of an erect penis.   There were at least 40 penises over the board, all different, grouped as high rises, and there was space for plenty more.

I swallowed, took in the sight and wondered what to say.   “It’s… well, it’s nice.”   I giggled nervously, understanding now why she might be embarrassed.   I’d read of some groupies from the 60’s taking similar casts, but this was the first time I’d seen anything like the artwork before me.

Christine gulped, smiled awkwardly and waved her hand at the place I’d already mentally named “ Cock City ”.   “It represents male domination of the city.   It’s a commission from a Woman’s Rights group downtown.   I submitted the idea to them and they liked it.   This is the first mock-up.   When it’s done it’ll all be cast in bronze.”

I liked the idea, and could see that it would work for the theme she described.   I wondered where it would be displayed, but didn’t dwell on that thought too long.   Another question had started tugging at me.

“Can I ask…” I began with an unsure tone, “how did you get all the casts?”

Christine drew in her breath like she was working up to an awkward answer.   “I used models.   I advertised in the newspaper for male nude models.”

My Sunday evening had taken a very interesting turn.   “You put out an add asking for guys to come and let you make casts of their…”

“Penises.   Yes.”   Christine giggled for the first time in a while, the tension leaving her again now her secret was out.

She explained the process, describing how she made a mold with a silicone-based quick-setting material, made plaster “positive” casts from those molds.   After the casts were dry she could then use them to make a final mold with casting sand for the final bronze versions.   It would take her many more weeks to complete the work.

“And you’ll need a few more models.”   I laughed.   That part of the process intrigued me—technically, at least.

“I’m sure I will.”   She hesitated over continuing, but stumbled over a few more words.   “If I get stuck, maybe I’ll call you…”

I shrugged, trying to portray indifference, but probably failing badly.   The air in the studio was suddenly sparking.   “You should, if you need me.   I’d be interested to see how the process works.”

It was one of those moments when anything could happen and you didn’t know what you actually wanted to happen.   My heart rate was accelerating and adrenaline was beginning to flow into my blood.   I studied Christine’s face for any sign that we’d overstepped a mark I knew nothing about.   I’m not sure she knew if there was a mark either.

Her eyes met mine.   “You want to do it?”

“Sure.”   My bravado answered while I was busy trying to work out if this might lead to anything.

Christine started to work slowly, but gained purpose as reality came back to us.   She pulled a few things out of a drawer and put an electric kettle on to boil, explaining that she had to mix the silicone gel.   I stood around, wondering what I should do and what was going to happen.   The anticipation was now crackling through me and my mind flitted around the questions of how this worked.

She asked if I wanted to back out and when I shook my head she took a deep breath and moved over to the sofa.   She spread a large towel over the seat and indicated that I should sit down.   The kettle was boiling by then and she poured hot water over the pellets she’d measured into a mixing jug.   I sat and kicked off my tennis shoes—figuring for sure I wasn’t going to need those.

“We’ve got a couple of minutes.” she announced, obviously breathing deeply.   “When you’re ready I’ll add some cold water and the gel will set in a few seconds.   You want to lie down?”

I lay back on the sofa, still fully clothed, and waited for my next instruction.   Christine didn’t wait though and quickly began to undo my belt.   “I’ll, uh… get you ready.” she said, without looking up from her work.

When she’d pulled the snap apart and unzipped me I eased my hips off the sofa so she could pull them off.   While not fully erect, the situation had been charged enough that I was most of the way there.   Christine nodded at the sight of my bulging briefs.   “Looks like you’ll be ready alright.”   She eased my briefs down, paused to look at my cock and pulled the briefs down my legs.

Before I had much time to think about what would happen next, or worry whether I could maintain my hard-on under such scrutiny, Christine reached out, pulled back my foreskin and started to massage my cock.   Her petite hands felt warm and firm against my growing member.   “Uncircumcised—that’ll be nice on the piece.”   I exhaled as she made a single stroke form the base to the head and leaned my head against the arm of the sofa.   I smiled, thinking to myself that contributing to the arts never felt so good.

Christine brought her other hand up to cup my balls as she stroked me and squeezed my length with her fingers.   Within a few seconds there was no doubting that I was hard and throbbing.   This didn’t stop Christine putting in some extra strokes, and I wasn’t about to tell her to stop.   I briefly wondered if this was how she paid her models for their… time, but it was difficult to concentrate on anything but the pleasure she was inducing.

“You feel like you’re ready?” she asked, twisting to smile at me, still working my cock.   “To make the mold?” she added, like I might be ready for something else.

I had to clear my throat.   “Yes.   Sure.”

“Keep it up for me.”   She grinned and stood quickly away.

I gave myself a few self-conscious strokes while she stirred the gel in the jug and then poured in some cold water.   When she’d tested the temperature with her finger Christine lifted a polythene bag and started to fill it with the gel.   She poured until it was about three-quarters full and then held it up to her face.   It looked like a condom for a horse.   “You ready?”

Walking back to me she explained that when she slipped the bag over me it would set in about thirty seconds.   As my erection faded she would take it off, and we would have our mold.   When she kneeled in front of me she retook control of my cock, apparently ensuring it was still fully inflated.   “Thank you for this.” she said softly.

She was thanking me?   Art rocks!

“Try and push it vertical.” she instructed as she brought the gel bag closer.

I pushed the base so I was standing as vertically as possible and Christine swiftly pulled the bag over me.

The gel felt warm, a little slimy and not too far from a “loose” pussy as I slipped in and she worked it to form tightly around me.   I felt the pressure of her squeezing and a cooling sensation as the gel started to set.   Christine didn’t look away from her work as she continued to ensure that all of my length had good coverage.   “Nearly there.” she advised after a few seconds.

When she stopped working the gel her hand supported the bag and she turned to face me.   “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”   Her grin was all mischief again.

“No,” I agreed, exhaling, “It was quite pleasurable actually.”

“Time to think about your mother.” Christine quipped, looking away from me and starting to shake the mold from side to side.   “Or whatever else you need to think about to get this off.”

After a few seconds of wondering if she would break my cock off at the root with her movements, the gel started to loosen around me and I slipped out—slapping onto my belly as she pulled the mold away.   I looked down and ascertained that no damage had been done.

“It looks good.”   She nodded and then she stood up and started to strip away the plastic bag.   “I’ll be able to make a plaster cast in a few minutes, if you’d like to see it?”

I said I’d like that, and wondered if I was supposed to pull my pants up again.   I’d done my bit for art and much as I was ready for some relief after the strain of my “modeling”, there had been no definite indication that was on offer.   I sat up, found my underwear and slowly started to pull them on.

By now I’d forgotten that Christine was a demure tennis player who’d been all-business as she thrashed me and became driven by getting her naked and finding out how much further my opinion of her might change.   Once I’d pulled my jeans on I hovered over her as she mixed some plaster.

She washed the mould in soapy water, saying the soap helped the plaster release when it was set, and set it aside while she gave the plaster a final stir.   Christine carefully poured the white liquid into the gel mold, filling it up and propping it up between some empty paint cans.   “There,” she said brightly, “half-an-hour and it’ll be ready.   You want coffee?   Can I get to a drink?”

We settled on beer and Christine produced two from a refrigerator.   Our conversation was somewhat stilted and punctuated by my occasional anxious glances at the mold.   That was where my inspiration came from.

“Have you ever cast yourself?”   I asked in the most matter-of-fact tone I could muster.

Christine didn’t get my question for a few seconds, then her eyes widened.   “You mean…”

I nodded.   “I just wondered.   You know, maybe you were curious, or you did some tests with the gel or something.”

That was the moment I knew.   There was a tiny twitch in her eye and the edges of her mouth formed an excited smile.   “You mean…”

“Yes.”   I gained confidence, and assumed the answer was “no”.   “I know it’s not quite the same, but you should try it.”

She could have muttered something and moved away.   She could have dismissed my suggestion as a joke.   I was prepared for either outcome, but the reaction I got was better than any I could have imagined.   Christine put her beer on the workbench, grabbed a bag of gel pellets and started to prepare a new batch.

“I’d never thought of it.”   She looked me squarely in the eye.   “But now you mention it… I really should try it.   I hope you don’t mind helping.”

The atmosphere had changed again, from the gentle erotic undercurrent of the aftermath of my casting, the pulse of the moment was racing again.   I watched as she vigorously stirred the jar and explained that she would use a larger bag and I could press the opening over her, forming the mold.   The gel would be solid enough that it wouldn’t simply run off her if she got the temperature and consistency right.

“Ready?”   She handed me a bag and the jug of gel, picked up a glass of cold water and started to move to the sofa.

Despite the anticipation, I was thinking about the task at hand and doing a good job but as Christine sat on the sofa and started to pull off her jeans I was looking nowhere else.   Her tanned and muscular legs were familiar from the tennis court, but the small white panties were all new.   I unconsciously nodded approval and looked up to see Christine grinning at me.   She had no hesitation in hooking her fingers into the elastic and pulling them away from her hips.

Christine’s pussy was compact, tightly trimmed and she let her legs open easily to allow my eyes full access.   I swear the room started to smell of her sex the moment she pulled those panties off, and that was a good thing.

She let me look at her for a while and when she mentioned I should mix and cool the gel, I was sure it was for practical reasons, not because she wanted me to stop looking.   I poured cold water into the jug as instructed, stirred and poured into the plastic bag.   She told me to work it with my hands until it started to stiffen, then to work the gel towards the opening of the bag.   When I had the gel in position, she opened her legs some more and invited me to place it over her pussy.

When she moaned I looked up and saw her eyes were closed.   I pressed the gel tightly around her and applied pressure to make sure the gel mapped her contours.

Christine sighed.   “Wow, that felt quite nice.” she giggled.

“That was hot!”   I exclaimed, almost forgetting that this was art.

“You should be good to take it off now.” she advised.

I pulled the mold away, looking at her pussy rather than the gel.   When I did check the mold it was a nicely formed “negative pussy”.   “Looks like we got it.” I told her.

I stood up and placed the mold on the workbench, then looked back, checking that she hadn’t moved.   “Let me get you something to wipe off with.”

I took a hand towel from near the sink and let some warm water flow over one corner.   Then I went back to the sofa, knelt beside her and started to gently rub her with the towel.   As soon as I started to stroke her she sighed and sank into the sofa.

“That looks pretty good.” I observed when I lifted the towel away.   “Let me see.”   I let my bare fingers explore her gently.

My fingertips drew slowly up the line of her smooth slit, coaxing her to open wider and let her pussy lips push out.   Her skin felt delicate and warm, her pussy looked awesome.

“Feels pretty clean.”   I observed.

“Feels pretty good.”   Her voice was breathy, close to panting.   My finger moved to her pussy lips, running up between them and feeling a hint of moisture.   “Oh my.” she gasped.   I didn’t need more encouragement and worked my fingers up and down her opening.   Slowly I worked my middle finger inside her pussy lips and began coating it with her juices.   Christine sighed again as my finger slipped further inside with each gentle stroke.

By the time my finger was fully extended inside her she was raising her hips to meet my hand and urging me on.   I started to brush her clit with my thumb and she moaned loudly.   “You know…” she panted, “It was so hot doing that cast of you… I got all excited, and if you keep doing that I’ll…”

I simply smiled and continued to push my finger inside her and rub my thumb over her clit.   I’d never made a woman come so quickly, and the appeal of such a triumph in the evening’s unexpectedly erotic atmosphere drove me to make her climax.   As her neck arched back with rising pleasure I reached out with my other hand and slipped it under her shirt.   She had no bra on and I found her firm breast and hard nipple easily.   She moaned deeply when I pinched it between my thumb and forefinger.

She felt wonderful as I slipped my finger in and out of her hot pussy.   Christine writhed to my movements and I loved the control she gave to me, letting me pleasure her.

I looked up as she opened her eyes and started at me.   “Fuck, that’s good.”   She almost shouted and looked down to see my hand pushing into her and rubbing her clit.   “I…” her mouth opened.   “Oh.”

I felt her body tense, her hips rise form the sofa and then her muscles let go as her climax started.   I felt my face break into a huge smile as she contracted around my finger… three… four times.   My close-up was incredible, looking down at my finger disappearing into her as she came.   I kept it tight inside her when she finally relaxed and slumped back on the sofa.

Her eyes were glassy as she looked up at me.   “Now that… was pretty damn good.” she giggled.

“I loved every moment.”   I agreed, pulling my finger out and stroking her pussy lips again.

She sat up, still panting, and put her arm around my shoulder.   “But now I feel that you’ve been short-changed.   Maybe I can help even things up a little?”

It was my turn to laugh.   Is that an offer or a question?”

Christine swung up to a sitting position now.   “Both.   And this, in case you are in doubt, is an order… stand up.”

I wasn’t about to argue and stood before her.   Her hands were quickly working on my belt and zipper.   She had my jeans down and pants off in record time and as I stepped out of them and kicked them away she took hold of my solid cock.   I undid my shirt and pulled it off while she made a few exploratory strokes.   Christine smiled up at me and while she kept hold of me with one hand she pulled off her T-shirt with the other, revealing a beautifully pert pair of breasts with quarter-sized nipples that had been straining the material for the last half-hour.

I was just about to reach down and touch her when she pulled down hard on the shaft of my cock and pushed her mouth over me.   The sensation of her lips closing tightly around me, her tongue rubbing me and her sucking was heart-stopping.   As her hands cupped my balls and ran up my shaft I closed my eyes and gasped.   Christine sure knew her way around a cock, and that was nothing to do with her art.

Her movements were debilitating and I was frozen to the spot as she sucked me, licked me all over and ran her hands around my shaft and balls.   She pulled down hard again at the base of my cock, making me stand up and out, then she pulled her lips off me and slid away until only her tongue was in contact with me.   She looked up with eyes full of impish pleasure to see if I was enjoying this.   Then, as soon as she got her confirmation, she took me back into her mouth.

I felt like I wanted to stand there all day and let her suck me to ecstasy, but the reality of the moment was that I had to make a choice… come right there (I was only moments away, such was the intensity of the encounter) or reposition her so I could get inside that gorgeous pussy of hers.   If only such choices presented themselves daily!

In the end the thought of slipping into her won over.   Feeling her come around me and watching her close-up as she did were the deciding factors—I wanted to know what that felt like around my cock.

It took only the lightest touch of my hands on her shoulders to bring Christine’s sweet mouth off my cock.   As she looked up at me I saw that we were in tune with the next move and she wanted the same as me.   “Like this?” she whispered, turning away from me, kneeling on the sofa and thrusting her pussy upwards for my pleasure.

It was the first time I’d seen her shapely bare ass and if there is a more welcoming sight in the world, I’ve yet to see it.   Christine looked over her shoulder and smiled at me as I fingered her and savored the moment.   Then I took hold of my cock and guided it to her pussy lips.

She felt tight, warm and slick as I slowly plunged into her.   I watched as her pussy swallowed me, my pleasure rising as my cock disappeared.   “That is so good.”   Christine sighed as my thighs bumped up to her ass cheeks.   “God, I’ve wanted that so much today.”   She arched her back and encouraged any extra depth we could manage.

Again, it was hard to disagree with her and as I withdrew slowly I couldn’t help but smile as her tight pussy pulled on me.   “Stay slow.” she encouraged. “It’ll be better for you.”

I fought the urge to slam back into her and settled to a slow rhythm.   Each time I slipped out of her I reached down and ran my fingers across her clit.   She was still swollen and I could tell from her reaction that she was close to another climax.   I noticed the increasing aroma of her sex as we moved and began to feel those tell-tale tingles in my legs that meant I was also getting close.

Almost like she sensed it, Christine started to gently break up my rhythm with short movements back to meet me.   Sometimes she did that, other times she reached out and scraped her fingertips along my balls.   The constant variation postponed my climax for a few strokes, and then when it arrived it was huge.

The hot wave of pleasure that rushed through my body exploded in the bottom of my belly and shot outwards.   It was longer than any other climax I’d experienced and for an instant felt like it would never stop.   Then my body took control again and started to pump come into Christine’s pussy.   I kept thrusting and felt the flood of come wash into her.   When I reached down to find her clit it was already dripping from her.   I was panting hard from pleasure, not physical effort.

Christine stayed impaled on me while I rubbed her clit and felt her body start to tense again.   I felt her try to open her legs wider by easing a knee off the sofa.   She moaned for a few seconds and then her body stiffened as she came.

She slipped off me and we fell together on the sofa, coated in sweat and sex.   I was still semi-hard and twitching.   She took hold of me and pulled back my foreskin to reveal the purple head of my happy cock.   We didn’t talk for several moments, just caught our breath and let the reality of this wonderland sink in.

Christine moved first, swiveling to face me and straddling me.   Her face was flushed, but very happy.   “That was incredible.”   She leaned forward and kissed me.   The kiss was strangely familiar, even though it was our first.

I lifted my hands to hold her sides.   I couldn’t help but grin.   Her skin was warm, slick and alive.   The moment was unforgettable.   “I sure wish I’d seen that ad in the paper.   I feel like I’ve been missing out on something very special.”

“You’ve been missing nothing.” she scolded playfully.   “You’re the first that I’ve… touched, even.   I usually make them do everything by themselves, give them some printed instructions and take them behind the screen so I don’t even see.   But with you… well, I just felt that I’d like to do the best possible job on your cast.”

There was no doubt in my mind that Christine had done the best possible job on everything that afternoon.