The Art Dealer

A client who I write for fairly regularly emailed me with a story request. I'm going to start sharing some of the stories I write (with the client's permission, of course!). If someone has a boner for a scenario, odds are that someone else out there does as well.
If you don't know, I do erotic writing on commission, making people's fantasies two dimensional. Just got over a busy time of year (what, V-day doesn't stand for 'Vagina Day'?!), so I have a whole treasure trove of hot, wet stories to put up here when I'm too busy fucking to post.

The Art Dealer
There was a man who I knew, he had a business delivering fine art to and from galleries, people's homes, and dealers. Jon was in his thirties and an artist himself, so he appreciated the daily contact with the industry. He was tall with curly brown hair and a strong profile. He'd begun his career as a graffiti artist, and still had the lean physique from those days of running from the cops, and though he was much more mature, there was still that boundary pushing manner about him; bold, playful, determined.
Jon had his favorite clients, and he would often stop and chat with them for a bit, have a cup of coffee or a glass of wine if it was the last stop of his day. One of these was Mrs. Von Klausen, a woman in her fifties. On a Tuesday around noon he delivered two eighteenth century oil paintings. Mrs. Von Klausen was a dealer, and she'd recently acquired them from a seller on the east coast.
"Bring them into the gallery room, Jon" Mrs. Von Klausen said when the maid let Jon in. The gallery was in the front of the house, a large climate controlled room with a large desk facing two oil portraits of her bewigged Dutch ancestors, family heirlooms that were meant to emphasize her connection with the art world. Art was in her blood, the paintings said.
Mrs. Von Klausen sat at her desk, wearing reading glasses. Her hair was thick and black and lustrous, cut in an expensive bob. She was petite and always wore black dresses that showed off her long neck and her milky white shoulders. When she stood, her dress clung for a moment to the chair and Jon saw the top of her stockings.
He set the paintings carefully onto the display table, and gently removed the plain brown paper from them. Both were nudes of tender-bellied nymphs in the woods, unrestrained by clothing or morals. Uncharacteristically, Jon blushed, aroused by his close proximity to a woman who seemed the opposite of those free spirits. Mrs. Von Klausen took off her reading glasses and stared at them thoughtfully, touching her chin. Finally, she nodded.
"I quite like them," she said, and looked up at Jon. "I wonder if you might be able to help me, I've been working on my memoirs and I can't get the margins quite right."
"I can have a look," said Jon, relieved to walk away. The maid came in with a fresh vase of white tulips to place on the desk, and Mrs. Von Klausen followed her out to have a word with the florist. Jon fixed the margin problem in a moment, and when his client didn't come immediately back, he scanned the page. It was quite erotic, an account of Mrs. Von Klausen getting fingered under the tablecloth of a fine restaurant while her husband, now deceased, chatted with Francois Marcel. Jon couldn't stop reading until the page ended, and then he stepped quickly back.
Mrs. Von Klausen walked back in and shut the door. She had brought him a cup of tea, and they chatted for a moment about an upcoming gallery show at Soir. Then she said to him, "Would you like to see where my stockings end?"
It was so nonchalant. She was at least twenty years older than him, but he felt powerfully drawn to her. To him, it felt perfectly natural to get down on his knees behind her and flip up her skirt as she stood at her desk, slightly bent.
Her legs were long and strong and she wasn't wearing any underwear, just the garter belt wrapping tautly around her ass, so wide and soft and slightly dimpled. Jon was reminded of a month he'd spent in Southeast Asia, when the woman at the marketplace guided him away from the firm green papayas and towards the yellowed ones, the rinds speckled with mold. The ones past their prime were the sweetest, the juiciest, the most golden.
Jon buried his nose against her fruity little pucker and tongued her labia, already swollen and wet. He reached in front and tangled his fingers in her silky bush, tugging at the hard little bud that protruded from the tip of the cunt. He ate her buttery pussy, and she stood silently, composed, his cock pushing hard against the front of his jeans, his balls already tightening from the fragrant, alluring smell of her crack and the obscene slurping noise of his eager tongue in the soft fuckhole.
He stood, and unzipped. Still, Mrs. Von Klausen didn't move, just braced herself firmly on the desk. Jon wanted to kiss her, but her matter-of-fact manner and her perfectly applied fuchsia lipstick didn't encourage it. Oh well, he thought, as he shoved his rock hard rod into that small hole. He didn't even have to spit on it, it just glided in.
Her pussy seemed to flutter around his cock, and he realized too late how close he was to blowing his wad in her cunt. Every inch of his penis was being stimulated by the clenching of her amazing softness, it was like being stroked by slippery hands. In vain, Jon looked up at the portraits facing the desk, but in his feverish mind he combined them with the women of Mrs. Von Klausen's new acquisitions. Before him arose the image of the stuffy men gasping in ecstasy as naked servant girls and mistresses slobbered over their knobs.
Jon came. He pulled his sodden cock most of the way out and flooded Mrs. Von Klausen's cunt with semen. The pleasure came in waves as his come gushed. Stricken with guilt, he once again knelt behind Mrs. Von Klausen and slurped his jism from her sodden folds. Eagerly, he rooted deep inside of her cunt with his tongue, cleaning up every drop of his tangy come, sipping it from her hair, licking it from where it dripped from her clitoris.
"Yes," Mrs. Von Klausen said firmly. "Yes, here it comes, oh yes. Oh yes. Ohhhhh yessss."
A shudder went through her body and she ground her pussy furiously against Jon's come-smeared face. A small amount of liquid seeped from her fuck tunnel. Jon was hard again, and before she had time to recover her composure, he was once again balls-deep in her gash, gripping her butt cheeks hard as he slid in and out rapidly, evenly, driving her to a second orgasm that he experienced inside of her, her cunt contracting around his piston as he too exploded, come spurting far up her hole.
They stood there for a moment, Jon gently rubbing her ass as they recovered, He wiped his mouth on his sleeve, and pulled his drooping cock from her pussy, gently placing it back in his underwear and zipping up his fly. He licked his fingers clean and pulled the skirt of her dress down over her pink rump.
Mrs. Von Klausen straightened up and went over to the door.
"Thank you Jon," she said. "I'll see you next time?"
"Absolutely," he said, and whistled on his way to the next client.

Pen-is pals to be

It's been raining lately, which is fine, because it makes me stay inside. I reorganized my office, and have all my favorite books at arm's reach. When I was impressionable, vintage erotica was what I had access to. Sure, porn's good too, but there's something about The Pearl or Fanny Hill or Delta of Venus that gets me going. I think because sexuality was...not more taboo, but less available. What I really want are some of the old 'French prints' they talk about.
My vision is to create a series of erotic novels in the vintage style, like one from every era. I want a Regency romance and a roaring twenties and a pioneer and ancient Roman novels, but dirty. You know, what they were actually up to.
I've only seen Garrett once since the night Cheri left. He's someone I don't want to get involved with because I'm not his type. I know that sounds silly, but if we were actually together, I know he'd be looking at every single 'co-ed' type girl. It's not a confidence thing. Well, actually, it is. I am an attractive woman who has no problem getting a boyfriend, but if I'm not exactly what they find good looking, if I'm not their particular fantasy, there's really not much point. I'm not going to change for any man. I want to be my partner's fantasy, come to life.
Cheri laughed when I told her that. "As long as you still get dick while the dicking's good."
And with Garrett, it's fun. And we're already such good friends, that I a) don't want to get in a relationship with him and b) don't want to ruin our friendship when one of us do get a boyfriend/girlfriend and we stop banging.
"Of course you banged," said Cheri when I told her. She called me as soon as she got to San Francisco. "You guys are both hot, and he has a huge dick and you have big tits."
"Have you banged him?" I said.
"Only once. I don't remember it, really. We were both fucked up."
This didn't bother me. Cheri and I have shared dudes before. I told her about the fucking. It had been exactly what I liked. I had a suspicion that Cheri had told Garrett my fantasies. What could be better than my best friend telling a guy like Garrett exactly what I liked? I knew for sure the next time we banged that she had, but I'm getting ahead of myself. Cheri says she's settling in nicely to her new apartment. It's right downtown, and she can see all the guys walking by.
"We should send letters," she said. "Wouldn't that be sexy?"
I'm totally down. It's so nice getting something in the mail from someone, rather than just an email. Plus then we can send sexy Polaroids to each other. Cheri will be an awesome pen pal.
"More like pen-is pal," she texted me.
So true.