Donna and the Work of Art
Donna’s new job led to a number of good things. The gallery in which she worked was nearer to my home than her own and so she was inclined more often to stay over with me. She’d stay a night or two and leave her laundry for me to do. I didn’t mind. I really enjoyed her company, her mind and her body. Another benefit was that she took me occasionally to exhibitions at the gallery where I met the owner and her other staff. I got to drink good champagne, something that I could not afford, as well as to eat the lovely nibbles they provided.
It was on one such occasion that Donna posed another of her interesting questions. She was beautifully dressed in her dark suit and white silk shirt – ‘It’s for the punters, College, the boss says they like to see us “glammed up” for shows.’ She had arrived at my home thus attired and I, not expecting it to be an occasion for an evening dress, had said that I should change into something more suitable. It took longer than expected since Donna had never seen me put stockings on before and her interest was aroused. Not just her interest as it happens and she spent at least half an hour in her studies! And very nice they were too. I digress.
At the exhibition we were standing by an incomprehensible piece of alleged sculpture. It was dull, with bits of wood, some metal and an egg. Yes, I did say an egg.
‘This, my stockinged friend, is called “Reflective Mood.” Now, to my untutored eye it has rather the appearance of something my sister Cassandra….’
‘The second “a” like the ahhhh I emitted a little earier?’
‘Your memory is a constant delight to me.’ She grinned and her hand twanged a suspender through the blue silk of my frock. ‘It looks like something one might have found after one of her parties. She was known for them. People were sometimes never seen again after one of them. My question is that, whilst I grasp that the creator of this masterpiece had something in her mind when she glued it together, her title seems inappropriate given that it is not at all reflective but dull in the extreme.
‘Who is it?
‘Who is what?’ This time she placed her hand firmly on my arse and squeezed a buttock, ‘You must, incidentally, keep them on when we go to bed tonight. I find myself curiously aroused.’ I suppressed a giggle.
‘Who is the artist responsible for this?’
‘Oh, it’s her over there in the purple hair and green velvet suit.’ I cast my eye over a woman of about 60. ‘Her colour sense explains why she took up sculpture rather than the noble art of painting, no?’
‘I suspect her intention was to convey the meaning of “Reflection” as in thought rather than anything else.’
‘You never fail, College, you are a light in my darkness. What do you think of the piece?’
‘I think it’s bollocks.’
‘Not just a pretty face, are you? Now I shall take you home and give you what is known in our family as a good rogering.’ And she did.
I have mentioned Donna’s mismatched eyes before. It is strange what goes through one’s mind at certain times. It would be inappropriate to explain in detail (although I am sure some of you will guess) why it was that, at this precise moment, all I could see of Donna was her eyes as I looked down upon her. To say I was in a state of some arousal will suffice. Despite an approaching orgasm I found myself dwelling on those sparkling odd-coloured eyes as they smiled up at me.
This was to be one of Donna’s evenings of monumental sexual activity. She sometimes could be extremely cuddly, wanting no more than to be held and to hold, to nuzzle and caress. At others her appetite was for unbridled lust, unfettered access, unlimited exploration. She was never aggressive, never rough but, oh my God, could she be active.
‘When,’ she said, resting her chin on my trimmed hair, ‘puss come to shove, College, you’re not exactly lifeless in the sack yourself.’ I had said, post orgasm, that her actions were exhaustingly delicious and reminded her that I had to work in the morning. Often did she lie like this, resting her chin there as her hands gently revived any flagging responsiveness in me. ‘I mean to say, I have noticed that your body, at the moment of what I understand Jenny Frog refers to as “La Crise,” tends to arch like Robin Hood’s bow and a sort of strange trembling passes through you. Your language, normally so refined, tends to assume more the nature of that spoken by my sister.’
‘Cassaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaandra,’ I said.
‘The same. She lack’s refinement. I have often wondered how it can be that two siblings such as ourselves can be so different. To say she is sexually active would be something like saying that Colonel Gadaffi isn’t a nice chap.’ I giggled and shifted so that her hand could do more easily what she was trying to do with it.
‘Could it be that she was subject to influences outside the home to which you were not?’
‘I think it would be more accurate to say, College, that it was influences in the home to which I was not subject.’ Her language continued to crack me up. ‘To wit, the influence of several of my mother’s dear and close friends who found, Mum being down the pub and unlikely to return until she was outside of fourteen pints of Aunty Mary’s Old Jilling and hence incapable of providing her normal caring services, that Cassandra was more than willing to act in loco parentis.’ This time I could not but roar with laughter.’ I tended to remain as far from home as was possible. So, once again, my little bucket of brain, you have hit the nail, albeit on the wrong head.’ She moved her chin in a southerly direction and I heard a slightly muffled, ‘Now, let’s try that again and see if it works better this way.’ It did.
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<a href="http://www.lushstories.com/stories/lesbian/donna-and-the-work-of-art-and-donnas.aspx">Donna and the Work of Art and Donna's Appetite</a>