This is the fourth story in my Secret Life of Artists Series. They are all standalone, the topic and categories are different, but they are all related by art of some type.
Shania, an older woman gets a younger black client, Curtis for her art therapy and finds it hard to overcome their sizzling chemistry. But as her client, she cannot get involved unless…
As always, emails and comments welcome. xo
The Secret Life of Artists Chapter 4
I pulled my old white Range Rover to the curb in front of my new life. At fifty-three, after a life of travel and study, I finally settled down to live in my own home with a perfect-for-me attached studio.
The keys jangled in my hand as the deadbolt clunked a welcome. I stepped in, dropped all the bags, and spun around in circles in the middle of Cassie’s huge glass-walled studio. Even though I just came from picking up the keys and signing the contract out at Cassie and Ted’s ranch, I will have to keep reminding myself that I now own all this.
The flooring near the windows was paint-spattered, obviously where Cassie did most of her painting. I smiled remembering some of the stories she told me about the naughty college boy.
On the opposite side were two stacked mattresses. A filmy black backdrop flowed from the ceiling like a waterfall. Several stands without the light heads were scattered around.
So, this is where the naughty photographer did his deeds, I thought, giggling aloud and imagining the naked romping that went on in this room between Cassie and her young man, and then the photographer and all his models.
Live and let live is my motto. I haven’t led the life of purity myself and am no one to judge other’s actions.
I snapped the lights on in the- I would say bathroom, but was shocked to see it was really more of a dressing room with a divine glass-walled shower that had to be six by eight feet of group gropes and naked frolicking. Triple sinks lined a wall with makeup lighting surrounding the mirrors. A commode and bidet had their own closet in the corner.
I laughed again wondering if the studio vibe would be bored with my presence. No naughty goings ons, just weaving, and some painting. My students weren’t likely to get into a group orgy, but I suppose you never know. Especially in this atmosphere.
The darkroom made me quite happy because it would be perfect for my dye room. That was most important because I dyed all my wool and silks. With a few changes, it would be perfect.
I was a dancer. Not a performer but I had studied a variety of dance and enjoyed them all. The dancing kept me in shape and was a requirement if I wanted to keep my figure. At only five foot four I had to watch my weight. And dancing kept my ass in tight round globes and my waist small. C cup breasts were the things that were out of proportion on my petite frame. A ballerina I would never have made.
~~~
Within a week I was set up for my first weaving class. Eight women and two men carried their looms in bags and set up in front of the chairs I had arranged earlier. They were anxious to choose their yarns and roving and settled in front of their looms. Most had woven before, the rest caught on quickly. I kept it basic for the first class which relaxed the students and gave me an idea of their expertise. They asked about the big floor loom that I had set up a few days ago. It had treadles that would change the shed for various weaving patterns. It could become quite intricate and take some time to complete a project.
The next day I dressed in black yoga pants and a black scoop tank. I tied my long auburn hair up and danced before working on my weaving. I leaped and spun and twirled until I was breathless. I leaned over, hands on my knees for a moment to catch my breath. I heard the doorbell at the same time I looked up to see a man blocking the glass in my studio door. It was a large glass door, and it would take someone quite large to do that.
I ran to the door and opened it, waving him in. I closed the door and turned. My eyes traveled up a massive chest to a face that immediately suggested, Simon, on the Bridgertons. His face was quite the same, but his skin was more chocolate. This man was much larger than I’d think Simon would be. His black curls were tight, and his mustache and beard were closely clipped and similar in style. I wondered if that was by design.
“Sorry, am I interrupting? You look busy.” His voice was deep, smooth as velvet, and his smile revealed perfect pearl teeth.
“No, no, I’m sorry. I’m rude. It’s just that you look so much like-”
“Simon?” he interrupted. I laughed, my face flushing. I must be like any other enamored girl his age. “And you’re not rude. I’m used to it.” His laugh was husky and whiskey strong.
While he was talking, I took in the broad shoulders that strained a white t-shirt, yet fit his rippled abs and narrow waist snugly. It was neatly tucked into low-slung jeans that hugged his hips but struggled to contain muscular thighs.
“Come on in! I’m Shania by the way.” I motioned him to one of the chairs I had placed against the window. He introduced himself as Curtis.
He settled into the chair, elbows resting on the arms, legs spread male style. The seam of his jeans pushed into the mountain of his sex as it spread down across and a bit down his leg. His maleness was not only visible but palpable in the air surrounding us. My pussy tingled and dampened my panties, my nipples were hard and aching and I dare not look down because I know they were pushing through the knit tank I wore. I was thankful he seemed unaware of the effect he was having on me.
“Doctor Davis suggested I see you.”I nodded, knowing immediately what he was here for. The doctor often sent patients to me for art therapy. I had taken the courses in college and have had ten years of experience, so he knew he could rely on me. He often took athletes and I have no doubt this is one.
“I see, okay, he refers a number of his patients to me. I’m very experienced in art therapy.” He nodded. “I am set up to paint or weave, your choice. Or you can choose both and see what works best?”
He looked around and the big loom caught his eye. Understandably since it stood taller than him and equally as wide. “Is that for weaving? Could I use that?”
That one is my personal loom and I never let anyone use it. “Yes, of course,” I answered without hesitation. What are you doing, Shania?!
I gave him the information he needed to know and took him into the dye room where I stored boxes of various colored yarns and roving. In my experience, men sometimes lost their mojo when it came to choosing colors. It wasn’t a thing that a male child or adolescent would have reason to do, so I understood.
I left to let him look through the boxes and prepped the loom. It was already warped, but he needed to make a few practice rows. Throwing the shuttle and using the pedals took practice.
I had some adjustments to make under the loom and was leaning across the bench, only realizing that it was a rather unladylike position, so quickly backed out and cracked my head on the loom.
I stood up rubbing the knot that was quickly forming. “Ouch, dammit. That’s gonna leave a mark,” I mumbled.
“Let me make sure you’re not bleeding. You hit your head pretty hard.”
He dumped his armload onto the bench and started parting my hair to the scalp to check for damage. The only damage was to my pride. The heat of his body so close to mine quickly chopped through my embarrassment and right into arousal. What in the world is wrong with you, Shania?
He was six foot two of pure one hundred percent testosterone packaged in a hard-muscled smooth-talking drop-dead gorgeous, polished male. I was a petite five foot four and he was a wall that I couldn’t see around or over. He blocked all my good sense, he blocked all reasoning, and he had my libido shifting into high gear and heading down the straightaway.
I stumbled back out of his force field remembering that this man was here for me to help him. He was a client. Not a student. I have never had a reaction like this to anyone before.
“I’m sorry, did I offend you?”
“No, no, not at all. Just that my head is starting to throb a bit,” I said, reaching up and carefully feeling the knot.
“Yes, you’re lucky you didn’t break the skin.”
No, I’m lucky you were here so you could distract me with those almond-shaped melted chocolate eyes surrounded by thick black curly lashes that appraised my condition. Not to mention the strong eyebrows knit in concern as he did it.
I forced myself to get and said, “I’ll get all this wound and you’ll be able to begin weaving.”
We discussed the time and day and other details about why he was here. I never asked questions and only listened if they chose to talk about their anxieties. That information was then passed on to the doctor. My real job was to help them center. The repetitiveness of weaving was Zen-like, almost mesmerizing. But at the same time, you had to be conscious of space and colors, so it was not mindless. It usually was very successful for those with anxiety issues.
I saw him out and burnt sage. For myself, not for him. It had to be all the sexual shenanigans that happened in this studio that was making my hormones as rampant as a horny teenagers.
I had a small room full of boxes that I had in storage for years delivered yesterday. Always a free spirit I kept on the move throughout my life. I married young, divorced young, and never tied myself down again. It was fine for others, but not for me. I don’t know if it was my age or just my soul that told me it was time to come in for a landing right here.
I unpacked boxes of memories I had not seen in years. Most things that I had picked up in my travels around the world. I often stayed in hostels, and often lived and worked in any city that I wanted to spend time in and get to know the people. From those travels, I learned to love everyone, no matter nationality or skin color. Everyone has a story to tell and you’re a fool if you go to your grave not listening to others.
I worked at that for the next three days and on the fourth day, Curtis would be here. I looked at my watch and decided to use that beautiful aqua glass pool off my back deck in hopes of relieving some tension. I already had made my libido happy to get me through Curtis. I hoped.
The backyard was private and I was free to swim nude, which I loved. Cassie had clued me in on that and I was thrilled. I floated around and relaxed for a bit, swam a couple of laps to revive myself, then went in to shower and change. I opted for a long black lace and ruffle Stevie skirt and my usual black tank. I wrapped my auburn hair up on top of my head with a colorful scarf, and even added a splash of lipstick.
Curtis stepped into the studio right on time. I was happy to see his calm, but bright smile.
“Hi, Shania! You really look nice,” he said, not without a touch of nervousness. “I’ve been looking forward to this. The weaving I mean.” I nodded loving it when a man wasn’t always one hundred percent sure of himself. A little uncertainty is endearing to many women.
Today a light blue t-shirt stretched across his broad shoulders, which was tucked into thin acid-washed jeans, that fit him like a second skin. He toed off his gym shoes and pushed them under the chair. He remembered that I told him it’s easier to weave in socks.
“I’m glad. I think you’re going to enjoy it. Treadling takes some practice, but the rest comes easy. Since we aren’t using a pattern, you can let your imagination run wild with that.”
He seated himself in front of the big loom. He worked on throwing an empty shuttle and treadling. I can usually stand next to someone seated on the bench without any issues. Because of his size, I couldn’t avoid pushing my arm, body, or mostly breast against him when I leaned across to point something out on the weaving.
His maleness filled my nose again, but this time with a faint spice scent. Like cinnamon and cloves, unlike any men’s fragrance I’ve ever smelled, but they should bottle this.
I dated a spiritual once that was rather abstract in thought so we played with sensory deprivation during sex. Of course, we often did visual, but sensory loss in the form of two added another twist. It was amazing what being deprived of sound does to you. Sound-blocking headphones and a good blackout mask will take you to new places. I’d recognize his essence anytime, anywhere.
The memories on top of his scent along with the heat of his body, not to mention the electric touches had me squeezing my thighs together and wondered if he could smell my sex because my panties were soaked.
I stepped back and watched him weave for a bit. Once I saw that he went from thinking about every move, to just fluidly doing it, I walked away. Truthfully, I was glad to get some distance between us. He had been nothing but a gentleman and I’m sure wouldn’t consider that I would be about anything improper. And normally I wouldn’t…
About an hour later he said, “Shania, can you come look. Something got tangled.”
“Oh yeah, no problem,” I said once I looked at the issue. But it did involve me un-weaving a few rows which put me in the position to lean across in front of him to throw the shuttle back and forth, which made me lean against his arm.
He moved it and I felt his hand lightly on my waist because, in all fairness, the only other place would have been on my ass. The heat of his hand melted right through my clothes down to my skin. I wanted him to slide his hand in the band of my skirt to measure the size of his big hand on my body. I wanted to see his dark hand on my light skin- a visual sensory.
I fumbled with the yarn. As I stretched my arms across the weaving, the side of my breast pressed into his chest. The quicker I tried to work, the worse it got. Suddenly two beefy hands spanned my waist and urged me to move in front of the bench.
“This might be more comfortable… Or I can just move?”
“No no, you’re fine. Just a little glitch… Almost done,” I murmured, trying to ignore that although I could reach it better, more of my body was pressed against him.
His hands were still around my waist, mostly to keep me balanced because I had to lean so far forward. It felt as though his fingers touched, his big hands completely spanning my waist. I couldn’t imagine the power he held, especially over someone as tiny as myself.
I finally got it all straightened around and stepped back. He let me go when he knew I had my footing again, and laughed.
“You know I bet I bench press heavier than you weigh. You are very very small,” he grinned. I never noticed the dimples on my initial inspection. Oh great, that only added another thing to ratchet up my arousal for him.
“I wouldn’t argue that.” I glanced at his shoulders. “You obviously spend a lot of time in the weight room.”
My fingers twitched wanting to trail them across the muscles that bulged through his shirt, then removing it to caress his dark burnished skin. I wanted my lips on him, tasting him. Would he taste salty or spicy? His nipples poked through his t-shirt. Would he like to feel my tongue flick across their hardness or would he prefer them in my teeth, gently tugging?
“Am I ready to weave again, Shania?” His voice snapped me out of my ridiculous fantasy.
“You’re free to weave as long as you like. I have no set time. I’m going to be working in the dye room also known as the darkroom,” I said laughing. “Holler if you need me.”
Dying was one of my favorite things and I could get lost in the process. In my world, there’s nothing better than working with colors, and I lost track of the time.
“Here you are! I wasn’t sure if you were still in here or not,” Curtis said, his big body claiming much of my space.
“Good timing. I was just about done.” I reached up to the pull cord and plunged the room into nearly complete blackness. “Oh shoot!” I usually had enough studio light coming in that I could easily get out the door, but Curtis was blocking it.
I waved my arm around trying to get the pull cord at the same time he tried. My breasts crashed into hard chest with an Ooof and I teetered against him, splaying my hands on his chest.
He grabbed my waist and held me against him. “You okay?” His fingers flexed. “God, Shania you’re so delicaate.”
I felt him grow hard against my stomach. A hard nipple was under my finger. His chest expanded with a deep breath. His thumbs slipped under my shirt and caressed my skin. I sucked in a breath and it sounded loud and lewd in this room. My eyes adjusted to the blackness and I tried to see, but all I could do was feel. His thumbs stroking around and around on my sensitive skin. I rubbed my finger over his hard nipple. I heard his hard swallow.
I knew if I could look in those melted chocolate brown eyes I would be lost. I was clinging to my professionalism with a cobweb thin grip as it was.
He leaned down and kissed my neck. His soft breath washed over me and I begged for just another moment. I slid my hands up the peaks and valleys of his chest to his shoulders, then down over his biceps. My breasts pushed into his chest and I had to rub my aching nipples against him. As if he knew, his hand went to the side of my breast, his thumb pushed between us and circled my nipple through my top. A whimper came out of nowhere and sounded distant in my ears. I knew then it had to stop it. My career was at stake.
“Curtis, no, we can’t.”
“You’re right, Shania. I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking.” He made his way out of the door and I had enough light to follow. “I’ll see you my next scheduled time.”
I looked at what he had woven so far and ran my fingers over the various textures, amazed at the color blends. He had an artist’s eye for color, and utilized texture like a pro. I realized then how much I had let him down by letting my libido flip the bird to my common sense. How did I lose my professionalism so quickly, I admonished myself. I’ve never even been close to that happening before. So he didn’t think I had forgotten what he was even here for, I went to my computer and sent him a link to a male weaver in Serbia that did similarly beautiful work, very similar to what Curtis was producing.
He emailed back the next day to thank me for the link and added how inspiring it was so I knew he hadn’t totally written me off.
My weavers came in that afternoon for their third class and more than a few showed promise of being excellent textile artists. Several asked if I would eventually have dye classes and I promised them I would think about adding them to the schedule as well as advanced classes. I was pleased with how this was all taking off, even more, convinced I had made the right decision in moving here.
Later that afternoon Cassie was a pleasant surprise at the studio door.
“Cassie! I’m glad to see you. I think about you so often of course.”
“I had to come into town to pick some things up for the ranch and thought I’d see if you weren’t busy.”
“I’m not! Come in, come in!”
She walked around the studio and admired the student’s work that left them there. “Some of these are created by real artists,” she said, amazed. “Oh, and this big loom! I assume this one is yours?”
“Well, it is my loom, but it’s not my weaving.”
“It’s gorgeous. Someone with an amazing talent is working on this.”
I nodded. “Yes, he’s good isn’t he?”
“He’s a student and you’re letting him use the big loom?”
“Not a student but a client.” She nodded and didn’t question further knowing that I also had art therapy students. “But I’m thinking I should turn him over to someone else.” I sat down and she grabbed the chair across from me.
“This sounds serious, Shania. If you can talk to me about it, I’m here.”
I nodded. “I can talk about me, which is what it’s all about.” I sighed. “I’ve done this for years, and not once did I ever have an attraction to my client. I was always able to keep a distance and allow them to find their own groove in art.”
“Soooo, you’re attracted to him? I would think that it wouldn’t be unusual given the right person aka the client. Maybe you haven’t had it happen because the right man hasn’t come along?”
“I’m not sure it’s all that deep. It might be that I need quickie to get me over this hump,” I smiled, making light of myself, but we both bust out laughing.
“Okay, whatever you say, but I didn’t take you for someone that would let a handsome guy turn her head like that. It seems there might be more of an interest than a quickie in the afternoons.” I hoped she wasn’t right, but had no defense.
We went on to talk about the house and how she loved living at the ranch with the love of her life, Ted, and how lucky they were to have met later in life. They were a cute couple I thought, smiling and maybe just a touch envious.
I decided to wait to talk to Curtis about transferring to another art therapist. If I sensed any strain between us at all during his next session, I would insist on it. In all fairness to him, it had to be.
It wasn’t unusual that my clients didn’t share their issues with me. Doctor Davis was their therapist and I worked under him, either as an alternative to other therapies or in conjunction with. I was ready to listen should they want to talk. I would have to explain to Doctor Davis why I preferred Curtis go to another art therapist.
I discovered a local yoga group and got back into that routine. Remaining limber and flexible was imperative for dance, and admittedly, aging. Use it or lose it applies here too.
Curtis was waiting at my studio door when I arrived home.
“I hope I didn’t forget our appointment?”
I was sweaty from yoga and still wore my yoga pants and sports bra. The heat was intense and I usually came home and headed right to the shower.
“No, I took a chance you’d be here.” His eyes dropped to my tits tightly contained in the cotton sports bra, and my nipples instinctively hardened at his presence and began pushing through the thin knit.
“I just got back from hot yoga. Sorry, I’m a little sweaty. C’mon in,” I unlocked the door and he followed me in. I blotted my face and chest with the towel around my neck and tossed it over the chair. “Would you like a water?” I asked and he nodded.
I handed him the bottle and sat in the chair across from him. Those chocolate brown eyes studied me for a moment, giving me enough time to be distracted by the curly black lashes and dimples that winked on and off on his cheek. Short shiny knit shorts and a tank indicated he was working out this morning as well.
“That’s okay, I just left the gym from lifting.”
My libido fought with my common sense to not look below his neck. He was slouched in the chair, legs spread wide and my common sense said you don’t need to see the details. My libido said girl you gotta check out that body, and it won.
I cocked my head. “That’s one thing I’ve not done is lift weights.”
“You’re very fit, you should try it. You might like it.”
“I should. They say us older women should do some weight-bearing exercises.”
He snorted. “Older women? That’s not a category I’d put you in!”
I laughed. “I am fifty-three!”
He slowly shook his head. “Nope. Fifty-three ain’t even old.” He chuckled. “If you’re interested you can come to the weight gym with me someday. It’s small and not crowded.”
I nodded, not ready to commit to doing anything personal with him. “What brings you here, Curtis?” I leaned forward to grab my water bottle and his eyes dropped to my breasts who often took on a life of their own when unfettered.
He leaned forward to do the same and when he leaned back, it was too easy to lift my eyes from the table to his legs. Bare, his thighs, lightly dusted with black hair, were even more impressive. Long knots of muscles ran the length, thickening in the middle.
His shorts had pulled up and created a red satin fist-size pocket that held his cock and balls. My cunt showed its approval by soaking the yoga pants. I didn’t need to look at my nipples because they were aching and hard. There was a gap between his shorts and the bottom of his shirt that flaunted a ridge of hard muscle, softened by the arrow of black hair down the middle, into his shorts.
“I was worried that I offended you the last time. In the darkroom,” he said, looking for some recognition. I nodded and let him continue. “I realize there are differences between us and I understand that you might have been offended by my actions.”
“Curtis, if you’re referring to the color of our skin, that has nothing to do with it. At least for me.” I took a moment to think out how I wanted to say this because through it all I had to remember he was a client. “I don’t want to do anything inappropriate in our relationship. You are here on the advice of Doctor Davis, and I do art therapy. I’m not your doctor, but I have to abide by the same rules.”
“Ah, okay, I understand. So if I’d fire you, we would no longer have a professional relationship?”
“Well yeah, but I’d have to explain to Doctor Davis why you fired me and it would go on my record, so I’d prefer if we didn’t do it that way,” I said, nervous that he even thought about doing that.
“So we can’t have any kind of a relationship other than you’re my therapist?”
“Curtis, that is what you came here for so I would like to see this through, and–” I stopped when he made one of those male adjustments, which I’m sure was natural to him, but it was a waving flag of attention to my lecherous mind. I cleared my throat and went on. “It all of course is up to you.” I lowered my eyes because I was like a sex fiend that couldn’t keep control of her mind.
“No, I don’t want you getting in trouble, Shania.” He searched my face. “I like you. I really like you. And I won’t promise you that I won’t continue to try to entice you.” I cringed inwardly thinking it took all my resolve to resist him now. “And the sooner we get this over with, the sooner you can be free to be mine.”
Those were strong words and I had to digest them for a moment. “I’m attracted to you, Curtis. God knows you have been driving me crazy since you first walked in that door.” I was agitated and walked over to the student looms. “I really want to help you first, then see where we go personally.”
I didn’t have to look to know he was behind me. The heat of his body, his rasping breath, his spice told me. His hands were warm and comforting on my shoulders.
“I can’t believe how small you are, Shania.” There was a husky timbre that was in his voice that hadn’t been there before. “I’d like to tell you why I’m here… I don’t know if it’s part of my therapy.”
“Doctor Davis is the one you talk with. You may also talk to me, but it’s not encouraged. I tell everyone to do what feels right to them.”
His fingers wove together under my breasts, across my midriff. Although he eased me back against him, I felt as though I was more of an anchor for him for the story. I placed mine over his and relaxed. I hoped he felt as protected as he was making me feel.
“I was married when I was just out of high school and heading to college. I had a full ride for football and going to the best college team in the country, the one I always dreamed about.” He sighed. “I don’t know what I was thinking, getting married that young. I think I assumed she’d be a partner to me. Be there to support me. It was an important time in my life.”
I felt as though I was melting into his body and wondered why I thought this was an okay idea.
He went on after a moment of reliving the past. “She was the perfect wife for a while, coming to all the games, attending various functions with me, then it all started to come apart. I had little money coming in, and she wasn’t working and wasn’t interested in taking any courses, so things got tough. She was bored, I guess. I was worried but honestly didn’t have time to spend on her. Between games, practice, and classes I barely had time to take care of myself.”
He shifted his stance, but still held me against him, but not in any sexual way. The closeness helped him get his story out.
I refrained from commenting at this point. I wasn’t a therapist in the way that I could discuss his feelings. That wasn’t my job. What I was doing now, listening, was what I was supposed to do.
“I was drafted and that made all the difference in the world to her. The money for one, the notoriety among our friends and family, and a much different social group. We attended many more functions, met people of popularity and fame. She was much more impressed than I was. My life was football and that’s what I concentrated on. I knew I could lose it all in a flash if I lost my focus.”
He took my hand and lowered his big body into a chair pulling me onto his lap. He wrapped his arm around me, his hand loosely on my hip.
“I don’t know, Shania… Am I supposed to be telling you all this? I mean I want to, but don’t want it to interfere with me being here.”
“That’s why have to back-burner any personal involvement, Curtis. You can talk about it and I listen as your art therapist. I can’t advise you as Doctor Davis can, but I certainly can listen. Oftentimes that helps. Getting it out,” I said.
“I like you being close to me. Is that okay?” Because I knew his reasoning I nodded. “Okay, so one of my buddies said he thought he saw my wife with another guy that wasn’t a ballplayer. I wasn’t really surprised I guess. I brought it up to her immediately and she admitted she met someone once, and that it was nothing but a one-time fling. I believed her because I loved her.” I could hear the pain in his voice.
He picked up his bottle of water off the table next to him and took some long swallows. “Nearly a year went by, and I heard the same story from someone else. But they had seen her with someone else several times. Our exchange was angrier and she begged me to stay, that she was over it. I wasn’t convinced this time, but I stayed with her.”
He hesitated, and set the bottle on the table next to him. “One time when we were on a road trip we had a late game and wasn’t due to come back until the next morning. They decided to fly us out that night because a snowstorm was due to hit overnight.”
He stopped and gazed out the window for a bit, as though he had to gather the courage to remember.
“As soon as I opened the door to our condo I smelled the sex. It hung heavy as though it has permeated the walls. I didn’t want to see it, but it was crucial I sear it into my brain so I would never put myself through it again. I needed to smell, see and feel the pain.”
“And I haven’t. This happened three years ago, and every time I’ve met a woman, I just can’t get close. The more I try the more anxiety I have, and for my own mental health, I have to back off. I don’t know how to learn to trust again.” The desperation was apparent in his voice.
“Well, I’m sure Doctor Davis has talked with you about the situation. My job is to show you how you can channel your anxiety. Once you can do it through weaving, you’ll find many other ways.”
He nodded. “I already feel more in control. I admit Shania, I had my doubts. How sitting there with a bunch of yarn would make a difference… But it really has. I wish I could explain it.”
“You don’t need to try to understand, it can be something you just feel. Avoiding anxiety, and handling it when you do feel anxious will become instinctive.”
After we overcame that, reality intruded that I was sitting on his lap, still sweaty, and above all it was inappropriate. While my brain was attempting to process that, he ran his big beefy hand up and down my back. His thumb and forefinger massaged the base of my neck, then back down.
“You’re always relaxed, aren’t you?” His voice was low and seductive, and my common sense said get up, but my libido said, just let me enjoy this for another minute.
“I need a shower,” I murmured, aware enough of that.
“So, do I. Want to share? I’ve seen that big shower in there. I can even fit in it.”
“Mmmm,” I softly moaned as his fingers worked magic on my back and neck.
“I need you, Shania. Like I’ve never needed anyone in my life.” There was an underlying tremor of emotion in his husky voice.
We did have a tenuous web between us that was fragile yet flourishing without consent. It was palpable from the minute he invaded my space. Beyond my libido. He found the weakness in my armor, whether he knew it or not.
I had been sitting on his lap most innocently. I sat up, not leaning against him. We had only touched through my legs and ass on his thighs. Until he started stroking my back. Until he urged me back against his hard chest.
“Curtis… I don’t think this is a good idea… If we go further, I’ll have to turn you over to another therapist.”
His lips were against my temple. “Awh, c’mon Shania. Doc Davis will never know. And you’re already helping me.”
His spicy male musk infiltrated my brain like warriors stomping through my head to make his case. His beefy hand rubbed up and down my side, the tips of his fingers barely grazing the side of my breast, leaving tingles in its wake. It was all so soothing, and my softness began to melt right into his hard body.
“I’m too old for you,” I murmured, groping for any last vestige I had of sense.
He laughed so hard I bounced on his chest, which made me giggle, which made him laugh harder. “You’re also smaller than me, but I haven’t let that bother me.” I heard the humor, ignored the sarcasm.
I pushed up to look him in the face. “I am-” He quickly closed the space between our lips, held the back of my head, and began kissing me with a passion I’d never felt. The intensity pulled me right into it. I moaned, lay my hand on his chest, and kissed him back with as much passion.
Our tongues danced and dueled, I ran my tongue across the ridge of his sharp teeth, he sucked my tongue rhythmically. I was spinning and ready to go down in flames.
He pulled back, gasping, “Let’s shower, honey.”
I knew there was no sense in trying to resist and led him into the dressing room. I flipped the switch for the ceiling lights there were dimmer than the blare of makeup and dressing area lights.
I pulled his shirt over his head and tossed it on a chair. His chest was as spectacular as I imagined. I trailed my fingers over his upper chest, and over his tiny black nipples that hardened to my touch. The tight black curls were soft and sparse, but thicker down the middle. His soft skin was buffed and lustrous mocha color, which seemed to be stretched over the hills and valleys of his muscles that marched down his stomach.
I smoothed my hands back up his chest, his breathing became heavier, as I moved over his biceps and upper arms. A low growl indicated his patience might be wearing out and I looked up. His eyes were dreamy liquid chocolate, hooded by thick black curly eyelashes.
He pulled the sports bra over my head, I trembled as I saw his dark hands on my body, felt his hands on my skin. He palmed my nipples and I moaned softly.
“Beautiful,” he breathed.
I hooked my fingers into the waist of his knit shorts and eased them down. His magnificent cock lurched up and then hung heavy. It was thick with ropy veins. I wrapped my fingers around it and thumbed the head, spreading precum until it was shiny on the smooth skin and I head a guttural response. His balls were full and tight against the base of his cock.
His hair was trimmed short around the base into a velvety black matt and his balls had the same sparse curls as his chest. The darkness of his cock in my hand, the heat, yet soft skin, and the hardness. I squeezed it throbbed, and he moaned in response. I traced the thick veins in his abdomen, and up over the ridges of muscle. Up until now, he had been patient with my explorations.
He pushed my hands away and hooked his fingers in my yoga pants trying to push them down. They are tight and my skin was damp, and I pushed his hands away and began to shimmy them down my legs and kicked them away.
He held my shoulders studying me, his gaze washed over my body like a warm brush. “You’re shaved,” he stated, obviously pleased.
I adjusted the nozzles on the shower and warm water flowed out three heads. The difference in our height was even more apparent in the large shower. He leaned over and kissed me. We bit at each other’s mouths and let our tongues dance in a sloppy hot kiss. He cupped my ass and lifted me off of my feet and I wrapped my arms around his neck. His cock took advantage and probed between my legs. It slid between my pussy lips and I gasped when it rubbed my clit.
As though we were in the middle of a rainstorm, the water flowed our heads, down our faces and bodies. My long wet auburn hair clung to my shoulders. He broke away, looked into my eyes, and lowered me back to the floor.
I dripped body wash into my hand, rubbed them together, and began circling my hands over his hard-muscled chest. I looked into his eyes, wanting to learn his body. His nipples tightened. My fingers bumped over the ridges on down his chest to his stomach. His cock jerked when my hands neared.
I cupped his balls in my lathered hand and used my fingers to toy with them. He sucked a breath through his teeth. The slickness of the soap allowed me to stroke his hard shaft.
“Oh honey,” he moaned. I watched his eyes flutter shut. I palmed the head of his cock and he jerked and moaned. “Your hands…” His voice was a powerful as his hands.
I wanted this experience to be for him and didn’t invite reciprocation right now. I was never one to indulge in mutual oral. I wanted to be free to enjoy a man’s mouth on me, and I wanted him to enjoy the same. Sex hasn’t been hurried to me since I was young.
I tightly held the base of his cock with two fingers and trailed my nails up the underside of his cock. I began stroking, running the palm of my slick hand pinching over the head of his cock on each stroke.
He grunted. Jerked with each stroke. Curtis took my head in his hands and kissed me, his tongue thrusting into my mouth with each stroke. I swallowed his moans and vibrating sounds and kept my hand in pace with our kiss.
He buried his face in my neck at the same time his cock swelled in my hand. He pushed forward and I squeezed his cock as he grunted and pumped out a huge load of seed. It splattered over my belly and the water created creamy rivulets down my body.
“Oh Shania,” he breathed the words that washed across my ear. “I’ve never been controlled like that before.” He straightened up and searched my face. “I am so happy to have found you.”
He picked up the body wash and began to do things to my body that I’ve never had done. He stood behind me and with each breast in his hands began to knead and palm my nipples achingly hard. He pulled me back against his body, so his semi-hard cock pushed into my back. The size and darkness of his arms around my body were inflaming.
The contrast in my artist’s mind wanted to paint that. I’ve traveled the world as an artist and have always been color blind to people and shocked myself at how arousing it was.
I leaned my head back on his chest and closed my eyes. His hands were magic on my skin and he found places that were sexually electrifying that I never knew about.
Fingers caressed my soft shaved pussy lips. His breathing was erratic as he slipped his hand between my legs and ran a finger through the folds. His cock grew harder against my back and he splayed his hand under my tits and pulled me tighter against him, trapping his cock between our bodies.
He touched my clit as though it were a butterfly and a wave of pleasure washed through me. I moaned and felt a finger slip inside me. I was weak and he held me tightly while his hips rocked his hard cock between us. A perfect rhythmic touch and his finger pushing deeper sent shock waves through my body. I mewed long and low as the tension left my body like the snap of a rubber band and I was riding the crests of rolling orgasms.
I was like a ragdoll in his arms, and he tenderly dried me and wrapped me in a big fluffy towel. He did the same and wrapped it around his waist. He picked me up and walked through the studio as though I was no weight in his arms. He lowered me to the mattress platform in the middle of the studio that was hidden from the windows by the flowing backdrops. He followed me down and propped himself on his elbow next to me.
His eyes raked over me as he untwisted the towel, exposing my nakedness to his view. I’m fifty-three, certainly not like the twenty and thirty-somethings he usually has in his bed. For the first time in a long time, I was shy about showing my body.
He sensed that. “You’re beautiful, Shania. I know you were worried about our age difference, but you must know now that it means nothing. You mean a lot to me… And before you resist, I knew it the first day I walked in your door here. It’s not some love my therapist kind of bs.”
He trailed a finger around my breast. The closer he got to my nipple, the more it ached for his touch, his mouth. I tried to think. To reply to that. I knew I should and everything sailed away when his hot breath and tip of his tongue touched my nipple.
I arched, wanting more. My tits were so sensitive and craved attention. “You like this?” he murmured and I felt his smile. “Your breasts have been driving me crazy. I dreamed about seeing them. Touching them. Their softness in my mouth.”
His words ratcheted me quickly towards the peak. “Yessss, oh yes. Please,” I begged. “I need your mouth. Your hands.” My words came out on a breath, and I don’t know if I said them, or breathed them.
“Oh god, Shania.” He took my nipple between his teeth and tugged. I held his head to my breast so he wouldn’t stop. He squeezed and sucked rhythmically, and my body followed, undulating and needy. He kneaded my other breast and pinched my nipple. A low involuntary moan came out. My hips rocked. I was out of control.
I pushed him on his back. “I need you,” I said as though in explanation. I straddled his cock, raised and held it at my entrance.
His cock was black velvet against my cotton white pussy lips. I lowered while watching his cock disappear in me, and feeling it stretching the walls of my cunt. I dropped my head back, closed my eyes, and ground down. The pulse of his cock, the heat, the scent of our sex, our rasping breath all intensified my arousal. His hands were on my hips, sliding up and taking my tits into his hands. He read my body too and knew what to do. Each pinch and pull of my nipple made it longer and was like a bolt of lightning to my pussy.
I looked down and raised to see his cock was shiny and wet with our juices. He pushed up fast and hard and began bucking. Our bodies slammed together. I leaned forward, grabbed his shoulders, and rode his driving cock. His face contorted and drove deep. The hard pulses in the tightness of my cunt took me higher with him and the walls of the studio echoed our lewd sounds. His heat flooded me.
I collapsed on his chest, and he wrapped his arms around me. “Ohhhh, Shania,” he rasped and I mewed in return, still catching my breath.
I knew I could no longer be his art therapist, but in this case, the trade-off was much better. He could be in my bed as well as at my loom. I would make sure he got the therapy he needed… From someone else.
~ the end ~