Exile
 
(c) 2003  Anais Ninja  anais_ninja@hotmail.com 
http://www.asstr.org/files/Authors/anais_ninja/index.html 

 
Note:  This is my story.  The names and details have been changed to 
protect the privacy of those involved.  Some of this account has been 
reconstructed from memory, but most of it has been based on a journal I 
kept during these years. 
 
This is a sequel to _Wanderings_, which can be found on my asstr.org site:
http://www.asstr.org/files/Authors/anais_ninja/wander/index.html

 



Chapter Two - Artists Only (Mf teen oral anal drugs)



"Hey.  Get up," he said.

I had been dreaming about Julia.  We were making love in her garden, 
sipping white wine as we kissed and caressed, a gentle summer breeze our 
only garment.  Her roses were in bloom, and the fragrance was like a 
drug, the petals so soft, the buds so pliant.

"C'mon.  Get up," he repeated.  He stood over me, sneakers, torn and 
paint-splattered jeans and t-shirt, and a mop of hair, a young man with 
a cigarette in his mouth and a couple of days of stubble on his cheeks.

I sat up and realized that I wasn't in the garden with Julia.  Julia was 
dead and I was sleeping on the floor of a bathroom, hiding from a whore 
with a knife.  I began to cry.

"Hey, what's wrong?  Are you okay?"  The boy squatted next to me, 
offering me a wad of toilet paper.  I dried my tears.

"Thanks."

"Where are you from?" he asked.

"Maine."

"Your parents...?"

"Gone," I said, hesitating.  I had a father somewhere.

"Shouldn't you be in...?"

"Foster home," I said.  "I...I...can't go back there."  My tears began 
to flow again.

"When's the last meal you had?"

"Yesterday."

"Hungry?"  I nodded.  "Come, I'll make you something to eat," he said.  
He stood up and extended his hand, helping me off the floor of the 
bathroom.  I picked up my coat and followed him into his place, a 
cavernous space behind one of the metal doors down the hall.  There were 
huge paintings everywhere, big streaks and splatters of color.  A smell 
of turpentine hung in the air.  He ushered me over to a makeshift table 
in the corner of the studio, built of cinder blocks and wood and 
surrounded by four mismatched chairs.  Against the tall brick 
wall was a wooden table with a hot plate, a toaster oven, and a mini 
refrigerator.

"My name's Michael," he said, filling a pot with water and setting it on 
the hotplate.

"Annie," I said, sitting down at the table.

"Pleased to meet you, Annie," he said as he stooped to get something 
from the refrigerator.

"Did you paint these?" I asked.

"Yes.  Do you like them?"

"Yes.  May I...?"  I got up to take a closer look at a large canvas, 
unfinished.

"By all means.  Just don't get too close.  It's still wet."

"Okay," I said.  I wandered around his studio, looking at his art.  
Apparently he lived here as well, as there was a bed in the far corner, 
a thin futon supported by the same materials that made up his table.  A 
few minutes later Michael called me back to the kitchen.  There was a 
plate of rice and beans and a small cup of hot soup with tiny white 
cubes floating in  broth.

"It's miso soup," Michael said.  "I can make you some tea if you'd 
prefer that."

"No, this is fine.  Thank you," I said, lifting the cup to my lips and 
inhaling the warm vapor before taking a tentative sip.  It was delicious 
and chased the chill from my body.  As I gulped down the rice and beans, 
Michael sat across from me, spreading a gooey brown paste on a thick 
white wafer.

"Rice cake," he said.  "Would you like one?"

"No thanks," I said.  "Do you have any bacon?"

"Sorry, no," Michael laughed.  "I'm a vegetarian."

"Oh, sorry."

"No need to be."

"I can pay you for this," I said.  I began to reach into my coat for 
money.

"No, don't," he insisted.  "Don't worry about it."

"Thanks."

"Where in Maine are you from?" Michael asked, pouring two cups of pale 
green tea.

"Coopersport.  On the coast."

"Nice.  We used to spend summers not far from there when I was a kid."

"Yes, it's nice."  Actually, it was freezing there right now and there 
was a foot of snow on the ground, but I began to miss it.

"Is there someone you can call?  Family or friends?" he asked.  There 
was that same concerned expression I'd seen in the librarian's eyes.

"I don't know...I..."  The tears began again.

As the tea cooled I told Michael everything, starting when my mother was 
killed and ending with the events of the last 24 hours.  He just sat 
there, listening quietly, taking it all in.  Finally, he spoke.

"I guess you can stay here for a few days, at least until you figure out 
what you want to do.  There's a couch that's big enough to sleep on.  
One problem, though."

"What's that?" I asked.

"My girlfriend is coming back in a week."

"She lives here with you?"

"Yeah.  Things haven't been going well between us.  She's been with her 
parents for the last couple of weeks.  Having a guest around would..."

"Complicate things?"

"Yeah," he said with a sigh.  "You understand, right?"

"Yeah."  It was my turn to sigh.  He was cute.

"Anyway, I've got to get to work.  You can sack out in my bed if you 
want.  There's a bathtub behind that screen if you want to use that."

"Thanks."  I finished my tea as Michael got up and disappeared behind 
the maze of wood-framed canvas screens that divided the kitchen and 
living areas of the loft from his studio.  As I got up I heard the sound 
of a cassette being slotted into a portable player, the click of the 
"play" button, and the drone of loud guitars played softly over the 
clink of a paint brush dipping into a glass of turpentine.

The bathtub was an old cast iron claw-footed tub, installed as an 
afterthought on a platform of cinder blocks and plywood.  The water had 
a greenish tint but was agreeably warm.  I shed my clothes and slid 
inside the bath, hesitating only when the soapy water made my skinned 
knee sting.  I closed my eyes and listened to Michael moving around his 
painting, his sneakers squeaking on the worn wooden floor, his brush 
rhythmically slapping against the canvas.

I could have fallen asleep right there, but I knew I'd regret waking up 
in a tub full of tepid, dirty water.  Instead, I stepped out and dried 
myself off, opened the tub drain, and slipped under the covers of 
Michael's bed.  After two nights of sleeping in strange bathrooms, the 
thin, lumpy futon felt like heaven.  I closed my eyes, letting the drone 
of guitars lull me to sleep.


                                  * * *


The sun streaming through the tall windows woke me up.  Michael was 
still painting.  I sat up in his bed and looked around.  Instead of a 
dresser, his clothes were folded and stowed in stacks of milkcrates 
placed on their sides.  There was an antique vanity table, his 
girlfriend's, with makeup, a lighted mirror, and a small wrought-iron 
chair.  I made the bed and got dressed, walking to where Michael was 
painting.  He was standing in front of his canvas, quietly looking at 
it, brush in hand.  I quietly sat down and watched him survey his work.  
He turned his gaze to a small charcoal sketch, a study for the work-in-
progress.  Then he picked up another brush and a small can of paint, 
steadily outlining a streak of red with a thin black line.

"What do you think?" Michael asked.  He kept looking at the canvas, not 
turning around.

"It's nice."  It was abstract, and I didn't pretend to understand what 
it meant, but I liked the colors.  The red streak jumped out from the 
field of brown and black, and the thin line Michael had added gave it 
depth, like it was some sort of vein or artery.

"What does it say to you?" he asked.

"What?"

"Does it speak to you?"

I didn't know much about art, and what I did know was limited to what 
Julia had shown me, taking me to museums in Boston and letting me borrow 
her books.  I really liked the Impressionists.  They painted things I 
recognized, like landscapes and flowers and trees, but added something: 
style, I suppose, making it more than just a photograph.  I tried to 
imagine what Michael had painted and kept going back to arteries and 
veins, thinking again of Julia and her stroke.  I felt a tear begin to 
trail down my cheek.

"Hey, what's wrong?" Michael asked, rushing over to where I was sitting.

"Nothing.  I...nothing...," I blurted, and ran back to Michael's bed, 
burying my face in the pillows, ashamed to be seen sobbing my eyes out.

"Hey," he cooed, sitting on the edge of the bed and gently rubbing my 
shoulders.  "Annie..."

"I'm sorry.  I..."

"Don't worry.  Just let it out.  Let it out," he whispered.

I sobbed into his pillow for nearly a half-hour, while he caressed my 
back, letting out most if not all of the grief that had built up over 
the past couple of months.  When I was done, Michael dried my eyes with 
a towel and made tea.

"Okay, I'll admit it isn't my best work, but it's not that bad," he 
said, handing me hot tea in a cracked porcelain mug.  For the first time 
in what seemed like years, I laughed.

After we finished our tea, Michael walked me to the bus station and I 
retrieved my bundle of clothes from the lockers.  The woman who had 
threatened me the night before was nowhere to be found; the streets were 
filled with people in suits heading for home at the end of the day.  On 
the way back, Michael took me to a cafeteria-style restaurant near the 
loft, wrinkling his nose when I chose a big bowl of beef stew.

"Listen, I have people over every so often, and I think we should just 
say that you're my cousin or something," Michael said, finishing his 
vegetarian chili.

"Okay, whatever you say."

"Just for propriety's sake.  I'm not even supposed to be living in that 
space, so far as the city is concerned.  I just don't want to end up on 
the street for harboring a runaway."

"I understand."

"Good.  Thanks," Michael said, extending his hand.  I took it and he 
gave me a gentle squeeze.

We returned to Michael's loft and sipped green tea while we watched the 
sun set over the city.  That evening, a few of his friends came over to 
hang out, drink wine, and smoke pot.  Michael didn't think twice about 
pouring me a glass or passing the joint, though he gave me a sharp look 
when I started getting a little giggly.

Michael's friends were also artists, and most of their conversation was 
pretty much gossip about who was sleeping with whom.  Roger, a sculptor 
who lived a few doors down, was particularly keen on keeping track of 
this sort of thing, especially when it came to his ex-boyfriend, another 
artist who lived in the neighborhood.

Fay, a red-headed painter who was there with her boyfriend Whitney, came 
over and sat next to me on the couch.  She had the loveliest emerald 
green eyes, carefully limned with kohl.

"All this talk must seem pretty boring to you," she said.

"Not really."  I thought it was cool, like a small town of artists 
inside a big cold city, living in their own little world.

"Have you met Sandi?"

"Who?"

"Michael's girlfriend," she said.

"No, I haven't."

"Lucky you.  She's a bitch," Fay said, chasing the epithet with a sip of 
wine.

Everyone left a few hours later, and I began to clean up, washing the 
wineglasses in the sink and emptying the ashtrays.

"You don't have to do that," Michael said.

"I don't mind," I replied.  He smiled and stretched out on the couch.  
When I had finished cleaning up I joined him.  He lit a joint and passed 
it over to me.

"What's Sandi like?" I asked him.  He took a deep drag on the joint and 
exhaled slowly.

"She's very talented.  More so than her parents give her credit for.  
When we met in school, she was doing the most amazing work.  She's only 
gotten better since then."

"Is she nice?" I asked.

"Nice?"

"You know, sweet?"

"I don't...yeah, she can be sweet at times," he said, frowning.

"She's hurt you?"

"Yeah."

That was something I had a hard time understanding.  I'd been hurt, but 
never intentionally.  Friends move away, lovers die, but having someone 
you loved  inflict pain was something new to me.

"You still love her?"

"Yeah," he said, wistfully.

My heart skipped a beat then, seeing him look so vulnerable.  He'd been 
so caring and gentle and protective of me that day, and now I felt like 
holding him in my arms.  He must have noticed the way I was looking at 
him, and he frowned again.  Then his features softened and he smiled.

"I should let you crash," he said, getting up from the couch.  "I'll go 
rustle up a blanket and some pillows."

The couch was old and lumpy, but it was better than sleeping in a 
bathroom.  I was listening to the radiators click and thump when I heard 
another sound in the dark.  Michael was crying, soft sobbing muffled by 
a pillow.  I felt my heart sink.  I felt like crying, too.

Quietly, slowly, I got up from the couch and tiptoed through the maze of 
canvas screens and over to Michael's bed.  He was laying face down, his 
head buried in the pillow, his back heaving slightly with each sob.  I 
turned the cover down and crawled into bed next to him, softly kissing 
the back of his neck.  He turned his head towards me.

"Annie..."

"Shhh..."

"We can't..."

"I know," I whispered, leaning in to kiss him on the lips.  I put my 
arms around him and held him, feeling his tears rolling down my bare 
breast.  Caressing his smooth back, I felt him relax and fall asleep.  
After staring for a while at the photograph of Sandi next to the bed, 
bathed in cold moonlight, I followed him.


                                  * * *


It was cold in the loft the next morning.  Michael was hogging the 
blankets, so I snuggled closer to his sleeping form.  He stirred 
momentarily but didn't wake up.  I could feel him growing harder through 
his boxers, his morning erection pressing against my thigh.  Out of 
sheer curiosity, I reached down and fished out his hard cock.  He was 
circumcised, with a nice fat head and thick shaft.  For the first time 
in months, I felt horny.  Naughty.  Hungry.

Slowly, I ducked under the covers and slithered down his body until I 
faced his penis.  Inside the warmth and darkness of the blankets, I 
parted my lips and began to slowly suck him.  He grunted once or twice 
when my tongue swirled over his shaft, but he didn't wake up.  I began 
to suck him harder, reaching into his boxers to cup his balls.  His cock 
twitched and throbbed as my tongue danced over it, but he still didn't 
wake up.  When his cock was nice and wet, I began to stroke the shaft 
with my hand, jerking him off as I sucked him.  I heard a low moan 
coming from outside the blanket.

Suddenly, he pulled the blankets to the side.  The chilly air hit me, 
but I didn't stop sucking him.  I could see him watching me, an 
expression of astonishment and surprise on his face, but he didn't stop 
me.  Then he gasped, his cock twitching in my mouth as it began to 
spurt.  His body shuddered the way Del's did sometimes, and he gasped 
again as the flow of semen began to wane.  I kept his cock in my mouth 
as it softened, releasing it with a little "slurp".

"I gotta...," he said, after I had released his cock.

"I know.  Go pee," I said.  He put on a robe and trotted to the 
bathroom, while I gathered the blankets around me and snuggled against 
the part of the futon that was still warm from his body heat.  I hadn't 
packed any pajamas, and all I had to sleep in were cotton panties.  I 
heard the toilet flush and a moment later Michael was back.

"Where did you learn...?" he asked.

"I'm not a virgin," I replied.  "Come back to bed and snuggle with me."

Michael shrugged off his robe and got back into bed, wrapping his arms 
around me.  They were strong and lean from all the work he'd done, 
building out the loft and constructing frameworks for his large 
canvases.  I felt safe with him, safe for the first time in months.  As 
we lay together, I felt his cock begin to stir again.

"Do you want to make love?" I whispered.

"Yes.  I do."  Michael rolled me on my back and began to kiss me, first 
on the lips, then on the neck, then on my collarbone.  He lingered 
around my breasts, teasing my nipples, licking them when they stiffened 
and crinkled.  I'd gotten to that age when my areolae were slightly 
puffy, soft protuberances that Michael began to lick and suck, drawing 
them between his lips before continuing his explorations.

Michael knelt over me and tugged at my panties.  I lifted my bottom off 
the bed to allow him to draw them down my thighs and off my legs.  He 
gazed at my body, as if committing it to memory.  His cock rose as he 
took inventory of curves, lines, and shadows.  As he pulled off his 
boxers, I spread my legs for him, exposing my nearly hairless sex to 
him.

"Do you have a condom?" I asked.  I lost my diaphragm while I was in 
foster care, possibly to my klepto roommate Denise's sticky fingers.  As 
if it would ever fit her basketball-sized cervix.  Michael reached into 
one of the stacked milk crates and produced a packet, ripping it open 
and rolling the latex sheath over his hardness.  He returned to the bed, 
kneeling between my legs, and I reached out for his member, guiding it 
between my labia.  It had been the first time in months that I had felt 
someone inside me, and it felt strange, tight, as if my sex was going to 
close up some day.  I could feel every latex wrinkle as he pushed his 
cock inside me.

"Annie?  Are you...?" he asked, seeing me wince as his hardness filled 
me.

"No, I'm fine.  Keep going.  It's been a few months," I replied.  I 
desperately missed this feeling, and I felt like I'd cry if he stopped 
and pulled out.  As Michael began to thrust I felt my sex loosen up, 
accommodating his lovely cock.  My hips began to grind against his, 
pressing my clit against his pubic bone, making my tummy tingle with 
anticipation.  Nevermind a good fuck, I hadn't even been able to 
masturbate in the foster home, even though Denise wouldn't think twice 
about rubbing her clit in my presence.

Michael was wonderful in bed.  He'd corkscrew his hips like Del used to 
do, stirring my honeypot with his tool.  He liked to kiss, too, despite 
our funky morning breath.  And he couldn't seem to get enough of my 
nipples, sucking them while he rocked his hips, lightly grazing them 
with his teeth.  It was like fucking and foreplay at the same time.  
Between this and my forced abstinence, I was coming early and often.  
Michael began to pound away at my pussy, making me shriek and shudder 
with every stroke.  I tried to bear down on his cock, hoping to make him 
come, but I had no control.  I was just along for the ride.

Finally, I felt him twitch inside me, and his thrusts began to stutter, 
a hitch in the motion of his hips as he came.  But for the condom, he 
would have filled me to the brim with his hot spunk.  Even so, I could 
feel a spreading wet spot under my cheeks.  I would have loved to lie in 
bed for hours with Michael on top of me while I stroked his smooth back 
and listened to his steady breathing, but I really had to go to the 
bathroom.

"Michael?"

"Hmm?"

"I really need to use the bathroom."

"Hrmph."  Reluctantly, he rolled off of me.  I scooped his bathrobe from 
the floor and wrapped it around me, heading for the bathroom, making it 
just in time.  As I emptied my bladder, I heard him call my name.

"Annie?"

"What?"

"I thought you said you weren't a virgin."

"I'm not."

"Well, there's blood on the rubber."

"Oh, shit.  My period must have started."  Spots of blood on the toilet 
paper confirmed this.

"Michael?"

"What?"

"Do you have any tampons?"

"No."

"Doesn't Sandi use...?"

"She uses those sponges from the health food place."

"Eww."

"It's all-natural, but she has to wash them out in the sink afterwards."

"Ewwwww."  That was too weird.  Fortunately, my flow was still light, 
and I could get by for the time being with a makeshift plug of toilet 
paper.  It felt funny, but it worked.  I waddled back to Michael's bed.  
There was a small blood stain on the sheets.  Michael didn't seem to 
care.  He looked up and smiled.

"Is there a place where I can buy some tampons?"

"Yeah, there's a convenience store a couple of blocks away.  Want me to 
get you some?"

"No, I'll go," I said, trying to find my panties in the mound of 
blankets on the bed.

"I'll go with," Michael said, putting on a fresh pair of boxers.  "We 
can get coffee or something, too."

It was warm for a midwinter's day, and everywhere the snow was melting 
into huge grey puddles of soupy slush.  Michael and I walked the few 
blocks down to Tremont Street together.  I wanted to hold his hand, but 
thought better of it.  Someone he knew might see us; more grist for the 
gossip mill.

After I bought the box of tampons at the 24-hour store, we ducked into a 
coffee shop where I could use the ladies room.  It wasn't a minute too 
soon, as the toilet paper tampon was nearly soaked through.  I washed my 
hands and left the bathroom, but the smell of bacon frying stopped me in 
my tracks.

"Michael?  Could we get breakfast here?"

"Yeah, sure.  I think I can get a muffin or something."

I ordered bacon and eggs, and if Michael was disgusted over my non-
vegetarian choice of breakfast, he did a good job of hiding it.  After 
breakfast, we got more coffee to go and headed back to the loft.  As we 
headed upstairs, I noticed that the heavy steel door with the "Wu Fong 
Specialties" sign was partially open.  I peeked inside: dozens of 
Chinese women were seated at sewing machines, hard at work.  A metallic 
voice on a PA system called out "Number 19!  Phone call!  Number 19 you 
have a phone call!".  I looked at Michael.  He just shrugged his 
shoulders.

We sat on the couch and sipped our coffee before Michael disappeared 
into his workspace.  The sound of music and brushstrokes soon filled the 
loft.  I finished my coffee and stripped the sheets off of his futon, 
trying to scrub out the blood stain over the slop sink in the kitchen.  
When it was pretty much invisible, I draped the sheet over one of the 
screens to dry.

Once that was done, I sat down with a small notebook I'd picked up when 
I bought the tampons and began writing about the last few days.  The 
words were slow to come at first, but after a couple of false starts 
they began to flow.  So did my tears.  The pain was still fresh.  I 
blinked away my tears and kept writing; it felt good to get it all down 
on paper.  It felt like I was in control of things, even though these 
events had passed.

When my writer's cramp got to be too much, I put my journal aside and 
looked around for a book.  There wasn't all that much to read in the 
loft, just a couple of milkcrates full of books next to the bed, mostly 
college textbooks.  I pulled out a slim volume of poetry and sat down on 
the bed to read.


        I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, 
        starving hysterical naked...


Wow.

I read it again.

Wow.  Julia and I had often read poetry together, Sappho, Shakespeare, 
Emily Dickinson, Walt Whitman.  This was nothing like that.  Actually, 
it sort of reminded me of Whitman, the tone of voice, mainly, but 
Whitman had never written a line like "alcohol and cock and endless 
balls".  I read it a third time, lingering over every line, trying to 
understand what must have been intensely personal references to people 
and places and events.  I thumbed to the back of the book, looking for 
biographical information about this man named Allen Ginsberg, but there 
was none.

I spent the next couple of hours curled up with the book, reading each 
poem and then digesting the words.  None of them, though, had the flavor 
of "Howl", that first one.  I went back and read it a fourth time and 
then lay back on the bed, savoring this epiphany.

The music in Michael's studio had stopped.  I put the book down and got 
up from the bed.  Michael was in the kitchen, seated at the table, 
spreading thick brown miso paste on a rice cake.

"Want some lunch?" he asked, looking up.

"Sure," I said, sitting down at the table.  He offered me a rice cake.  
It was light, as if it was made of styrofoam or something.  I took a 
tentative bite from the edge; it sort of tasted like Rice Krispies 
cereal, only less so.  Michael laughed when he saw me wrinkle my nose.

"Try some peanut butter on it," he said, "or, if you're feeling 
adventurous, some miso."

I sniffed the jar of miso paste.  It was pretty intense, so I passed on 
it, opting for the peanut butter instead.  The rice cake wasn't so bad 
with a smear.

"There's something I'd like to do this afternoon," Michael said, pouring 
two cups of tea.

"What's that?"

"I'd like to sketch you."

"Really?"

"Is that all right?"

"Yes, I'd love that," I said.

Michael draped a white sheet over the couch and set up a chair about ten 
feet away.  While he went to fetch his sketchbook and pencils, I kicked 
off my sneakers and sat down on the couch.  I remembered a painting I'd 
seen once at one of the museums Julia and I had gone to, of some famous 
woman reclining on a backless couch, dressed in fine clothes and 
jewelry.  I lay down on the couch, trying to mimic her pose, her regal 
bearing.  Just then, Michael returned with his pad.  He stopped, took a 
look at me, and started laughing.

"What?  What's wrong?" I asked, suddenly feeling foolish.

"I wanted to sketch you in the nude," he said, still laughing.

"Oh.  I see," I said.  I felt my cheeks burn with embarrassment.

"If you're not comfortable with that..."

"No, I'm fine.  Just a sec."  I shrugged off my shirt and undid my 
jeans, doffing my bra and panties.  While Michael took a seat in the 
chair, I stood before him, naked.  I really felt naked.  Really naked.  
Really, really naked.  He'd seen me in bed, but that was different.  
This was different.

"Should I sit?" I asked.  I felt awkward.

"The way you were laying was fine.  You looked like you were waiting for 
Courbet to paint you."

"Who?"

"Nevermind.  Just lay like you just did.  It was perfect."

"Okay.  What about...?"  I spread my legs slightly; the tampon's little 
white string dangled from my sex.

"Don't worry about that.  You sure you're okay with this?"

"Yes, I'm fine.  Like this?"  I reclined along the couch as I had done 
before he returned, supporting my head with my arm, with my other arm 
resting on my side.

"Perfect.  Now just hold that pose."  Michael propped the sketchpad up 
on his lap and began drawing, looking at me, then back at the pad.  I 
watched him draw, trying to stay perfectly motionless.  It was hard 
work, especially when my nose itched.  I resisted the urge to scratch it 
as long as I could.

"Michael?"

"Yes?"

"My nose itches."

"So scratch it."

"Oh," I said.  I was relieved not to have to be the perfect mannequin.

"You're doing fine, Annie," Michael said.

"Thank you."

"Are you cold?"

"No, not really," I said.  The loft had warmed up, and the sun was 
starting to stream through the tall windows.

"Michael?"

"Hmm?"

"Can I ask you a question?"

"Sure"

"Did you ever draw Sandi?"

Michael put down his pencil and looked up.

"Yeah, when we were in school.  We'd draw each other all the time," he 
said.  He had a wistful look, as if I'd made him dredge up a long lost 
memory.  I made a mental note to stop bringing her up so often.

"We stopped doing it a long time ago," he said, going back to sketching.  
His expression changed to one of intense concentration.  I didn't want 
to say anything after that, for fear of breaking the spell.  After a 
while, Michael stopped and put down his pencil.

"Break time," he said, getting up from the chair.

"Can I see it so far?"

"Sure.  Here," he said, handing me the pad.

It was amazing.  He'd concentrated on my face, just roughing in the rest 
of my body, though he'd taken particular care with my breasts and the 
curve of my hips and belly.  I felt pretty, something I felt whenever I 
was with Julia, something I hadn't felt in ages.

Michael returned with his robe, which he draped over my shoulders.

"Relax.  I'm going to make some more tea."

"Michael.  It's lovely.  It's beautiful," I gushed.

"You're beautiful," he said, gently kissing me on the forehead.  I sat 
on the couch and laid the sketchbook on the coffee table, staring at it 
until Michael returned with the tea.  Michael sat next to me on the 
couch while we sipped tea and smoked some pot.

"Let's finish up before we lose the light," Michael said.

"Okay."  I took off the robe and resumed my pose as Michael took his 
seat across from the couch.  The way he crossed and re-crossed his legs, 
trying to get comfortable, suggested that he was hard inside his jeans.  
I gave him a sly smile.

"What?" he asked.

"Oh, nothing," I replied, still grinning.

"Tell me," he insisted.

"Um...well...I don't know how to put this..."

"What?"

"Well...don't you think you might be more comfortable like this?"

"Like what?"

"Like me.  Without clothes."

"Oh, I see now," he said.  "You just want something to look at while 
you're posing."

"Well, yes," I said.  It was true: he had a nice body and I liked 
looking at it.

"As you wish," he said, standing up and putting aside the sketchpad.  He 
pulled his t-shirt off slowly, giving me a nice long look at the thin 
line of hair that ran up towards his flat stomach.  Sneakers and jeans 
were next, and the lump in his boxers confirmed my suspicions.  He took 
his shorts off last, playfully flexing his biceps like a bodybuilder, 
which was funny considering his lean, almost skinny physique.

Michael's hard cock bobbed as he sat down and resumed his sketching.  
Even though his erection began to wane as he concentrated on his 
drawing, it never went completely soft.  I kept my eye on it as he drew, 
thinking of all the ways I could show my appreciation for his kindness.

"Finished," Michael said, just as the sun disappeared behind an office 
tower.  He came over with the sketchpad and handed it to me as he sat 
down next to me on the couch.

"It's wonderful," I said, never taking my eyes off of it even as I 
hugged him.

"I'm glad you liked it," he said.  "You were a great model."

"I'd love to pose for you again."  To underscore my words, I placed my 
hand on his thigh and began caressing it.

"Deal.  It was fun."  Michael began to lean closer and our lips met.  As 
I closed my eyes and let his tongue find mine, I let my hand roam up his 
thigh, finding his hardness, gently stroking it.

"Let me give you something," I whispered, breaking off our kiss.  
Michael smiled as I slid off the couch and knelt between his legs.  His 
hard cock bobbed in time with his heartbeat.  I took it in my hand and 
held it, slowly gliding my fingers over the shaft.  Leaning forward, I 
gently, lovingly kissed the tip before opening my mouth and slowly 
devouring it.  Michael sighed as my lips traveled the length of his 
shaft.

I knelt before him as if in prayer, my head slowly moving up and down as 
I devotedly sucked him.  Michael let out a soft moan every time I 
swirled my tongue over his cockhead or gently squeezed his balls.  I 
knew he was close to coming -- the way his cock throbbed and his thighs 
trembled -- but I did my best to drag it out as long as I could, 
squeezing the base of his cock when he came too close.  Looking up and 
seeing the smile on his face told me that he was enjoying this delicious 
torture.

Finally, I decided to let him have his release.  I began to suck him 
faster, harder, stroking his shaft with my fingers as I pleasured him 
with my lips and tongue.  When his cock began to twitch I sucked even 
faster, gobbling his hardness as he began to spurt his seed in my mouth.  
When he finally softened, I released his glistening tool from my mouth 
and scooted up into his lap for a kiss.  Michael held me in his arms 
until the setting of the sun began to cool off the loft.  We got up from 
the couch and Michael got dressed while I grabbed his robe and went to 
take a bath.

I sat in the warm water, looking out the window at the city.  The sun 
was hidden by some buildings but it still cast an orange glow on some of 
the taller structures and in the clouds above.  I could hear Michael 
starting dinner, chopping something on a wooden block.  Somewhere on the 
street down below, a car alarm went off.

"Want me to scrub your back?" Michael asked, appearing from behind the 
screen that separated the bath area from the rest of the loft.

"Could you?"

"Sure," he said.  I leaned forward in the tub and held my hair up as 
Michael wet a washcloth and ran it over my back.  I had a fleeting 
memory of my childhood, something about my father, but it dissipated 
like a wisp of smoke.

"Dinner's going to be ready in a few minutes," Michael said, squeezing 
out the washcloth.

"What are we having?"

"Stir-fry.  I'm just waiting for the oil to heat up."

"Mmmm...give me a kiss first."  Michael leaned over and our lips met.  
He tasted like fresh scallions.

We had a delicious dinner lit by candle light, moonlight, and the lights 
of the city outside.  Afterwards, we sat on the couch and listened to 
music while we snuggled under a woolen blanket.  The wine began to go to 
my head, and I felt like I had not a care in the world.

"Michael?"

"Yes?"

"Will you make love to me?"

In lieu of a reply, he leaned over and kissed me.  We made out on the 
couch for a while and then Michael got up, offering his hand, pulling me 
to my feet.  We walked to his bed, hand in hand.

"What about your...?" he asked.

"My period?  Don't worry about that."

"Okay," he said.  I shrugged off his robe and lay in bed while he 
undressed, and then he joined me.  Michael went straight for my breasts, 
kissing and suckling my nipples as his hard cock pressed against my leg.  
His kisses began to journey lower, down my belly and thighs.  I felt him 
tugging at the tampon's string with his teeth.

"No, no," I whispered.

"I thought..."

"No, take me this way," I said, rolling over.

"In your...?"

"Yes.  Do you have any lubricant?"

"I think so.  Let me look."  He got out of bed and rummaged through one 
of the milk crates, coming up with a jar of petroleum jelly.

"This okay?"

"It will have to do," I said.  I preferred something water-based, like 
KY.  Vaseline was sort of gross, but I desperately wanted to please him.  
Behind me, I could hear the top of the jar come off and the squishy 
sound of Michael's cock being greased up.  Then he gently kissed my 
bottom.

"Ready?" he asked.

"Go slow," I replied.  I felt the tip of his cock, slightly cold from 
the jelly, pressing against my bottom.  Twice he slipped off before 
finally entering me, and I began to realize that he'd never done it this 
way before.  I hadn't taken anyone in my bottom in months, and though I 
had easily accommodated Ramon's fat cock, that seemed like ancient 
history.  Michael felt even bigger inside me.

"Are you okay?" Michael asked.  I nodded, and took a deep breath, trying 
to relax my bottom for him.  His pubes began to tickle my cheeks, and he 
pressed his body against mine and kissed the back of my neck.  Slowly, 
he began to thrust, and I pushed my bottom against his hips in response.  
With each stroke, my bottom began to loosen up for him.

"I'm not going to last very long," he whispered.

"That's okay.  Come for me."

"I'm gonna...ungh..."  I felt his cock twitching inside me, filling my 
bottom with his hot sperm.  He lay on top of me and then started to 
withdraw his softening cock.

"No!  Stay inside me," I begged.  Michael kissed my cheek and pushed his 
half-hard member back inside me, gently nibbling my earlobe as he lay on 
my back.

"You didn't come," he whispered.

"That's okay," I said.  I just wanted to feel his body against mine.

We did it once more before the end of the night, and I did manage to 
come, rubbing jelly on my clit while Michael pumped my bottom.  When he 
went to the bathroom and clean himself off, I grabbed a pair of Sandi's 
panties, so I wouldn't leak and stain the bed.  We fell asleep in each 
other's arms, our hunger sated.


                                  * * *


I woke up to the sound of a fight.

Angry voices were coming from the kitchen.  I sat up.  Michael wasn't in 
bed.  Instead, there were a pair of suitcases on the floor next to it.  
My heart pounded as I threw on the bathrobe and got out of bed, 
tiptoeing towards the kitchen.  Sneaking a peek from behind a screen, I 
saw Michael and Sandi screaming at each other.  Actually, Sandi was 
doing most of the screaming.

"You screwed her in our bed!" she shouted.

"Sandi, we didn't do..."

"And who the fuck is she?  Some fucking whore you picked up?!?"

"Sandi..."

"In our fucking bed!"

"But..."  Before Michael could say another word, Sandi slapped him.  
Hard.

Then she noticed me watching.

"You!  Who the fuck are you?"  I backed away as she stormed over to me, 
tripping over her suitcases and falling on the floor.  In a flash, she 
was on top of me, grabbing two fistfuls of bathrobe and shaking me.  She 
reared back to hit me but Michael grabbed her arm and held it, pulling 
her off of me.  My robe had opened up and Sandi noticed that I was 
wearing a pair of her panties.  That added even more fuel to her ire.  

"Are those my panties?  I'll kill you!"  She tore loose from Michael's 
grip and was on top of me again, choking me with one hand and slapping 
me with the other.  I could taste blood on my lips.  Michael managed to 
get Sandi in an arm lock and pulled her off of me again.

"Better get your stuff and get out," he said, trying to maintain his 
grip on a squirming, red faced Sandi.  I ran over to the couch, where my 
clothes were neatly folded on the floor and began to stuff them into the 
shopping bag, which promptly ripped.  Still wearing her panties, I threw 
on jeans and a sweater, grabbed my clothes, shoes, and coat, and ran out 
of the loft.  The last glimpse I had of Michael was of him on the floor, 
trying to keep Sandi from killing me.

I ran down to the floor below and into the dimly-lit bathroom, where I 
put on my shoes and checked my face in a mirror.  My lower lip was 
bleeding where one of her fingernails had caught it, and there were red 
finger marks all over my neck.  I daubed at my lip with a piece of wet 
toilet paper until it stopped bleeding, and then I began to shake like a 
leaf and start to cry.

I stayed locked in that bathroom for almost an hour before carefully 
venturing out, peeking around corners and down stairs, making sure the 
coast was clear.  On the street again, I ran about a dozen slushy blocks 
before coming to a stop in front of a laundromat.  It was empty and 
seemed as good a place as any to get my bearings and figure out what to 
do.  There was a discarded plastic bag on top of one of the washers, so 
I grabbed that for my clothes.  There was a row of chairs in the back, 
hidden from the street by a tall row of dryers, and I stayed there for a 
couple of hours, shivering and crying, until hunger drove me back 
outside.

I found a coffee shop a couple of blocks away, and ordered just toast 
and tea.  While waiting for breakfast, I went back into the ladies room 
and tried to clean myself up with water and paper towels.  I was a mess 
from the night before, and I wanted a hot bath more than anything, but 
this would have to do.  I lingered over my tea as long as I could, until 
the waitress started glaring at me, sending me back to the street.

I spent the day walking around the city, trying to figure out what to do 
next.  I was out of ideas.  As night fell, I considered taking the bus 
back to Maine, but the thought of Mr. Hubbard forcing his wormy cock 
inside me made me nauseous.  I walked back to Michael's neighborhood, 
hoping to spend another night in one of the loft's bathrooms, but none 
of the outside doors were unlocked.  I waited for a few hours, hoping 
someone would come out and leave a door open, but that didn't happen.  
Discouraged, and on the verge of tears, I began walking back towards the 
bus station.

On a corner near the lofts there was an old gas station that was being 
used as a parking lot for taxi cabs.  As I walked past it, a cab rolled 
up and stopped.  The driver got out, carrying a small gym bag, and 
locked the front door of the cab.  I waited until he was down the block 
and around the corner before doubling back.  The rear door to the cab 
was open and it was still warm inside, though it smelled pretty rank, 
stale cigarette smoke and old food.  Using my bag of clothes as a 
pillow, I curled up on the back seat and cried myself to sleep.


                                  * * * 
 

(c) 2003  Anais Ninja  anais_ninja@hotmail.com 
http://www.asstr.org/files/Authors/anais_ninja/index.html