My name is Jamie Laker, and you may know of my four crime novels. I am twenty-seven years old now, but this story is mainly about Simon Curton from the time we were nineteen, entering the second year at Argoyne Academy of Creative Arts. You will soon see how crucial that timing was.

Many of the incidents will be hearsay, adapted from what Simon told me later.

Argoyne Academy provided three major areas of study. I took the combined Literature and Creative Writing course. An Art department was quite naturally Simon’s choice. The third course was Drama, the domain of Helen Bastin, who would feature significantly later.

Art was my secondary choice, and because Simon Curton chose subsidiary Literature, that ensured we had encounters every day.

However, those days were uncomfortable, brief greetings, from a shy young man, who was a couple of inches below my five feet nine. His voice was unusually high-pitched, and he had the palest blue eyes I’d ever seen. A mop of brown hair always hung over his broad brow.

His smile was nervous, the skin on his, not unhandsome, face looked incredibly smooth, almost babyish in texture, with not a trace of hair, stubble or faded pimples.

For over a year from our first meeting, our only contact was a shy nod, on his part, and a cursory greeting on mine. Simon Curton was the epitome of a loner.

“Keeps himself to himself,” Jake, a round-faced member of my group, laughed.

“Has he never talked about it?” I asked at the outset.

“Hardly ever talks,” Don Graham, another English colleague said. “I’ve known him since early High School. Hates his own squeaky voice, probably.” And he laughed.

Laughter seemed to be the norm, whenever Simon Curton’s name came up. Although I had felt some sympathy for him I let him go his own way, and avoidance was eased by his studious nature.

Timing was crucial, I’ve said. May of that second year began to show just how crucial. I learned later that Helen Bastin had already been seen with Simon. Grapevine said it was platonic. “The only way Simon could manage,” somebody joked. I could see his point. Helen was a stunner, with some reputation.

Subsidiary groups rarely mixed with their main course equivalents. But for one occasion only, my subsidiary Art group was allowed to watch the main course in action.

Their tutor, Mr Bell, told us, “Their task today, is to represent a flower of their choice in whatever medium they choose.”

Moving around, I was impressed at the range of interpretations of so many blooms. Colour was so exact. One male student was bent diligently over his representation of the brilliant red petals on a gladiola stem. He was using a black lead pencil. Surely not right for such a colourful bloom.

As he sat back, I could not withhold my gasped, “God, that is sheer perfection.” How could a gorgeous red gladiola be given added beauty in black and white?

Familiar pale blue eyes looked up at me gratefully, “Thank you, Jamie. You like it?”

“Like it? Surely others have told you, Simon?” Every curve of petal, vein of leaf was exquisitely marked.

“One other student. And Mr Bell says I have potential,” Simon said meekly.

“Potential? Do you always do floral pictures?”

“Oh, no. Anything that takes my fancy.” Hope shone in those pale eyes as he turned full-face, “Could I show you sometime?”

“Anytime,” I told him, sensing he was not used to praise.

I was staggered by the level of skill in this withdrawn young man. Later I would realise the significance of that moment, but I thought that he’d be too self-conscious to follow through.

Wrong. Over the next two months, Simon approached me often, always diffidently, and I was treated to a wonderful range of blooms, birds, animals, and trees. Some were paintings or acrylic colours, but most were black pencil, all were amazing in catching the realism in every facet of the subject.

“I prefer to paint or draw the real thing, but birds or animals won’t hold still so I have to use pictures or photograph them first,” he told me, his faint smile was almost apologetic.

An Academy open-door policy permitted visitors, male, or female, so long as doors were not completely closed. Room blind spots to overcome any restrictions on seduction were quickly disclosed. I’d tried them with some success, some discomfort, and bruised knees and elbows.

Simon rarely brought his work to my room, but once, after profuse apologies for the intrusion, he opened an envelope file to reveal to my amazement a series of cartoon characters he had sketched.

So skilful, so realistic, the range of men, women, young and old, had been endowed with understanding and personalities of their own. Each one was a living character. I told Simon he should try to have them published, but he simply blushed, said Helen Bastin had advised the same thing. He just didn’t think they were good enough. Such ability, but any praise seemed to embarrass him.

Then I noticed strange changes in him that I wasn’t sure of. For instance, his voice, which had always been high-pitched seemed to deepen, but maybe that was my imagination.

Yet within weeks of my seeing his cartoons there was no question of it being my imagination. I was seated under a sycamore in the quadrangle when Simon approached to display his excellent sketch of a kestrel in flight. He had seemed strangely excited and in high spirits. Looking up at him, I quickly saw the reason, and I asked, “Is that stubble on your upper lip?”

He laughed delightedly as he rubbed his finger under his nose and said, “It started about a week ago. Dr Miriam said I’d need patience, while the medication worked. Last year was awful.”

His eyes took on a near pleading look as he went on. “I have never spoken of my problem to anyone. Now that things are, hopefully, changing, and I do value your opinion. Would you listen?”

The bustling quadrangle was not the best place for revelations. I suggested my room, and I told him that I had noticed his deepening voice.

“That was an early first hint I was frightened to believe.” Simon admitted, “ I wondered if anyone noticed. Helen commented. Thank you for confirming it.”

Within minutes we were sat facing each other, and I was listening avidly.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Simon Curton’s story:

I was always smaller than other kids my age. Eventually, a doctor prescribed shots, containing a growth hormone. I did grow a bit, but I still looked much younger than I was.

As a teenager, I kept hoping I’d grow, but I was bullied and laughed at because of my high voice, my thin legs and especially my smooth skin. While boys my age grew facial hair, had pimples, kissed girls, I still looked childish. I avoided physical education when possible, and I dreaded communal showers. I buried myself in the skills I had. Painting and drawing.

It just went on and on. Any confidence I might have had suffered, robbing me of something I couldn’t articulate. Other students were talking of what they did with girls. That horrified me. Oh, I could like them, but that’s all.

My father took me to a specialist clinic that dealt with failed puberty. I was embarrassed to have the middle-aged lady, Dr Miriam, thoroughly investigate why my testicles had not dropped. Not new, hearing that, but no one had made such a detailed searching and probing. She said my lack of body hair was a sure sign that I had missed puberty completely.

Another obvious deduction it seemed, but this endocrinologist, Dr Miriam, knew something the earlier doctors didn’t. While I sipped a cup of coffee, Dr Miriam told me to sniff it closely then asked, “What do you smell?”

“Nothing.”

She then produced a range of items for me to sniff at, the final one being smelling salts. I could smell none of them.

“No smell sense,” she declared. “A possible symptom of Kallmann syndrome.”

“What’s that?” I asked, fearing some incurable illness.

“A rare genetic condition.”

My body had failed to produce the hormones that trigger sexual development. She added that it was curable. My sigh of relief made her smile.

It‘s over a year since my hormone replacement therapy started. A very dark time. I was being forced through changes that normally take four years.

I longed to enter the Academy normally. No chance. Hormones raged through my body bringing on spells of bad temper. The only difference outsiders might notice was that I grew several inches taller.

Little changed as far as attitudes here were concerned. I’m so grateful to you for showing interest in my sketching. And having Helen Bastin be so sweet to me has helped. The only young woman I’ve had anything to do with. Some unkind students call her Hot Helen. But she says she feels safe with me.

Like you, she’s truly kind about my sketches. Strange though, after months of cool discussions, I’ve had some unexpected feelings about her when we’ve met recently. You must know her, Jamie? She’s in the Art subsid group, like you.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Oh, yes, I had noticed Hot Helen Bastin all right. One of the sexiest looking students in our year group. High on my list of potential conquests. Her tawny lioness hair, green eyes and sensuous lips were such a lure. But why would she want to feel safe with Simon? I would find out soon enough.

I thanked Simon for telling me the background to his problem.

“Are you going to shave off your fuzz?” I half-joked.

Simon gave me his delicate smile and said, “I don’t know. I’ll see if any other signs appear.” Other signs did appear.

Friday, eight days later, I was in my room, finishing off a story assignment, when Simon came, holding his ubiquitous envelope file. I guessed this would be another sketch. As he entered, I noticed the upper lip was clear.

Simon sat at the table while I sat at the small desk, as he nervously opened his file.

His usually pasty face went a furious red, as he brought a sheet of A4 from the envelope. “You are the only one I can show this,” he said. “I wouldn’t dare show Helen.”

I took the paper from him to see a full-page sketch of an erect penis. “Call it a self-portrait of my second hard-on,” he said, and, having got over his initial embarrassment, his tone lightened.

“What happened to the first one?” I asked while admiring the outstanding detail Simon had produced. The shininess of the head, the almost pulsing veins and around the base the early signs of pubic hair, not to mention the enviable size.

“Don’t ask,” he laughed. “I was so surprised, I touched it. Took nearly twenty minutes to clean up the carpet.”

I laughed with him, and delighted for him, I grabbed his shoulders, “Simon, time now to see what you can do with your paintings and sketches.”

Pleased that the timing had ensured I was there to share the change, I was surprised when I didn’t see him all day on what was a brilliant, cloudless Saturday, and well into Sunday. I was keen to know how he was coping with a reborn maturity.

Sunday afternoon, Simon appeared at my door. At last, but such an exuberant, sun reddened Simon, smiling widely. Almost confident, that I may not have recognised him. Apologising for not being in touch, he added, “When you see what I have to show you and hear the background to it, I hope you’ll understand.”

His file was already open, and he handed me a sheet of A4 before sitting back.

The sketch was close-up and detailed, female hips showing a narrow pale bush of pubic hair with the labia lips showing through. All so erotic, so accurate with just a dewy suggestion among the hairs. I could not resist touching, as I murmured, “So real. Fingers could come away damp.”

“It’s pencil, not paint,” Simon said.

I gave him a hard stare, as I said, “That’s not what I meant.”

Momentarily, he looked puzzled, then he glanced at his sketch, nodded his head and a sly grin creased his face. That’s when I guessed that whatever had happened. Since Friday had changed Simon forever.

“You want to hear about that?” he asked, indicating the revealing sketch.

“I want to hear about the whole weekend,” I insisted.

Head nodding, voice croaking with some contentment, Simon said, “All right. My magic weekend.”

Simon’s Magic Weekend

After returning to my room that Friday night, feeling quietly satisfied, I dropped my file on the table and started running a bath. There came a sudden knock at my door. My clock showed five past ten. This was unusual.

Even more unusual was to see Helen standing there. She’d visited me innocently often, mainly to discuss my work. But never this late. I stepped aside to let her in. Her perfume was intoxicating. How had I never noticed it before? Then I realised like so many things my sense of smell was improving.

Somehow she looked lovelier than I’d ever noticed. That observation was also a first.

As she sat down at the table, Helen, looking uneasy, said, “I have something I need to tell you.”

I had to apologise and hurry away to turn off the bath. Just as the flow stopped, I remembered my file left at her fingertips. Knowing that Helen had always unquestioningly had free access to any work I kept there, in desperation, I raced back to the sitting room. Too late.

Helen was sitting, holding up the tell-tale A4 sketch demanding, “Whose is this?”

Pulling a chair closer to her, I reminded her, ”You know all the sketches are mine.”

The words of her response stunned me. Fixing me with a stern glance, she growled “I don’t mean the fucking sketch. Who belongs to this fucking gorgeous cock?”

I must have blushed. I’d never heard her use such language before.

I just told her, as I had told Jaimie and asked, “Would you believe, it’s a self-portrait.”

Fortunately, she knew I didn’t tell lies. Her eyes glanced down towards my groin. No pressure showed, yet.

But then she put her hand on my thigh, up high. I almost jumped out of my chair. Helen giggled and asked how pleased I must be to have facial hair and now a hard-on. She held up my sketch and asked, “Would you let me see the real thing?”.

How to respond to that? To divert her I said, “What did you need to tell me?”

“That can keep for now. The real thing?”

I only managed, “It’s just limp.”

Helen appeared to be in deep thought before she said, “You know I’ve always felt safe with you?”

I told her of course I knew.

She pointed at my groin, “But things have changed, haven’t they?”

I thought I was being noble with my response, “I would never try anything with you.”

Her response to that had me hardening instantly, “What if I wanted you to?”

But along with her words, she unbuttoned and pulled open her blouse. No bra. I sat like a dummy, staggered by her forwardness. Even more tormenting, she took my hand and placed it over her left breast.

I’d seen pictures, but here was Helen encouraging me to fondle her pink-tipped breasts, so firm, so roundly perfect, I was just numbed. Except for the sudden pressure in my pants, and Helen noticed that.

While I was distracted by her rising nipples, she quickly unzipped me, and my restrained hardness burst out like an escaping reptile. Much worse than that, the moment Helen touched the swollen head, and she murmured, ‘Wow, that, is some cock,’ I began spurting. Up her arm, over her skirt and, with a twist of my body, white strings across the floor.

I was mortified, ashamed, and disgusted at my failure. But Helen was sweetly understanding. If she was disappointed, it didn’t show.

“If we’ve come to this stage,” Helen said, “Cart before the horse. We’ve never even kissed. Maybe we should practice and see if you get hard again.”

Even kissing was new to me. My rather pouting attempt found her deliciously soft lips warm and eager. For the next half hour, she led me through that first gentle meeting of mouths, into moist meshing with passion, and on to awareness of deep kissing. My tentative tongue quickly had me admitting how tingly exciting it was, while my hand continued happily enjoying the smooth roundness of her breast.

Twice more I hardened. Twice more, even her gentlest touch down there, had me immediately gushing my - cum, she called it. I remained dismayed by my failure, and Helen had to admit a disgruntled defeat. Door closing time was near.

As she left, to raise my spirits she declared, “One way or another I’m determined to have that superb tool inside me. Saturday, we’ll drive out to Darnley Forest. Nice and lonely. Fresh air will calm you.”

I worried all night. What if I repeated my disastrous expulsions? How long would Helen stand for such failure? Was she so sexually accomplished? I was going to find out.

Saturday dawned with wall-to-wall sunshine. I wore cotton shorts and a blue button-up sports shirt and when Helen arrived in the little Honda Jazz her father had bought for her birthday, she commented, “Good. Nice light clothing.”

That’s how she was dressed. She wore a very thin lemon blouse, and a flaring cotton summer skirt, and carried a small bag with water, cloths, and assorted snack foods. A blanket was folded on the top of the bag.

All I had was my envelope file, and on the drive, I gabbled madly about the trees I might sketch, but I was only covering my nervousness. Everything about Helen was telling that she was expecting much more than sketching from me. Her fingers touched my bared thigh, whenever she changed gear.

Darnley Forest is a vast area, famous for its large variety of trees. Only half an hour and we were out of the car with Helen clutching my hand. She led me boldly deep among the trees, where only bright darts of sunlight broke the shadows. Eventually, she stopped somewhere in the deepest section of trees and shrubs, where a cool stream prattled over a little waterfall. Helen seemed to know this area well.

She spread the blanket on a slope of grass and leaves, and we sat close, as Helen turned her face expectantly to me. All my doubts came to the surface again. Could I rise to this challenge? Last evening, despite her intimate touch proving my weakness, Helen had praised how my kissing improved.

“Like riding a bike,” she’d told me, “you’ll never forget how to kiss properly.”

How did she know so much? Only one way to prove her theory correct. I moved my mouth to cover her slightly parted moist lips and my tongue found hers. Helen accepted my intrusion and responded warmly.

Delighted that my earlier worries now seemed irrelevant, for those sweet moments, I stopped being quiet, shy, Simon. I placed firm hands on Helen’s shoulders and drew her into a passionate kiss. Helen gave a murmur of surprise, and her responses became hotter as she unbuttoned my shirt.

Almost automatically, I began undoing her blouse buttons, reaching for the rounded warm skin beneath. Pure heaven. Then, almost in harmony, we pushed our upper garments aside

Her bare breasts against my skin made me more aware of the pressure growing in my pants, and my fear of another failure came too late, as Helen, also observant, reached down, unzipped me to release my eager member to the warm air. Before I could think, Helen had wrapped her fingers around it. Fatal!

“Oh, no!” I cried, feeling that familiar unwelcome surge, and seeing the first burst of white appear at the little slit.

My shock increased as Helen with a murmur of, “No mess this time,” dropped her head and her parted lips closed tightly around my pulsing hardness.

I should have stopped her, but I knew my hands were half-hearted in her tawny hair as they tried to pull her head back. She pushed her face up to my belly. My stuff poured down the back of her throat as she gulped as though feasting.

I filled her mouth, with her cheeks tight around me. I just couldn’t deny the joint joy and shame of pulsing into her. Oh, so much, as she swallowed repeatedly until there was nothing left in me.

My hardness swiftly softened and slipped from between her lips. She stroked my damp limpness for a moment. Obviously, no reaction. Helen slid up alongside me. My eyes were closed as I mumbled, “I’m so sorry.” Opening my eyes I saw her kindly smiling face, as I added, “But in your mouth—”

“That’s how I like it—sometimes,” she reassured me. She smacked her lips together.

“But the taste?” I asked dubiously.

“Mmm, could do with a touch more garlic, perhaps.” she laughed. I was amazed that she could make a joke about it. Helen’s next request seemed logical yet, no less worrying.

“Now, finish stripping me,” she said. She must have detected my uncertainty, for she added, “Go on. You’ve only got a skirt and panties to go.”

While I made my nervy unskilled first attempts at rendering a woman completely naked, Helen was pushing my shorts and briefs down. Soon enough we were naked in each other’s arms and my manhood was pressed against her thigh. Could it be getting back to hardness already?

Helen’s clear intention was to introduce me to sex. Hadn’t she said on the previous evening, just what she wanted. Moving towards that climax had me trembling. Two days ago, we were just friends. Would having sex change that? It was obvious that Helen was as experienced as rumour had it.

“You can kiss my breasts. Suck the nipples,” she whispered, and like all the instructions from that point, it was met with a strange mix of doubt, shock, and pleasure.

I absorbed the wild sensations in tonguing her breasts and sucking and nibbling at her nipples. It was absolute joy for me, and Helen’s moans of rapture sounded real enough.

I began believing in myself. Then, unexpectedly, Helen grabbed my hand and drew it down between her thighs. Confidence evaporated as I felt the wetness down there.

“You caused that,” she hissed. “Now, quickly find my clit. I want to be ready to explode this first time.”

First time? That suggested there would be more. That was some prospect, but now her hand was guiding my fingers onto a small nub, like a mini erection amid the enthralling wetness. First touch made her gasp and her hips and thighs jerked further apart. This nub, this clit, she had directed me to, seemed about to burst into bloom.

I felt her increased heartbeat and she was breathing faster, more desperately. As her fingers closed around my iron-hard penis, I prayed for the strength to remain rigid until - God, I was going to do it.

Helen had managed to get the bulbous purple head up to her entry, “Thrust, Simon! Thrust.” She demanded and heaved her hips at the same time as I obeyed.

Thrust I certainly did. I could have been disappointed as I plunged up into her very core, unable to prevent ejaculation as I went, but Helen was bucking and convulsing, and I heard our joint chorus of rapture and harmony.

We lay, recovering, wiping ourselves, while I murmured my thanks, and it was wonderful to be told of her enjoyment and how she could be thanking me. “You are no longer a virgin. First time I’ve had sex with someone within days of him reaching puberty.”

For a long while, it was so pleasant to lie, looking up at the sun’s rays piercing the treetops like brilliant lances.

We sat and ate what Helen called ‘Our Naked Lunch’. That made me laugh, “God, if anyone saw us.”

“No one will.” Then we plunged into the stream, sat under the small waterfall, and rubbed each other’s bodies. Inhibition was washing off me like sand from a rock.

Yet, I worried that now her curiosity about having me inside her had been resolved and she seemed satisfied, might she cry off soon? However, when, out of the stream, and with a developing boldness, I took the chance of suggesting a second union, Helen was all for it. Four thrusts before my semen succumbed to her vigorous hip thrusts. Helen told me that there had been no orgasm but having my hardness inside her was good.

A brief doze was cosier with her head on my shoulder. Rested, we strolled, naked among the trees. That seemed thrillingly daring. Sometimes I suggested a stop to sketch Helen, provocatively leaning against a tree. Sometimes a simple wildflower became my subject. For me, this was heaven.

After nearly two hours wandering, occasionally touching each other intimately, teasingly, Helen stopped, gently kissed me, and whispered her pleasure at the way the day was progressing. My heart lifted at her words and thudded madly at our next exchange, when Helen lay back wide-legged along a fallen tree trunk and said, “Take me like this.”

“A sketch?”

“Not yet. After you’ve fucked me,” she giggled.

I was becoming used to her occasional bursts of what I used to call ‘bad language’. Helen’s obvious desire for me filled me with hope as I viewed her spread legs, with the open pinkness that lay there, and I was instantly aware of my rigid hardness.

Helen saw it too, and her fingers wrapped around my solid rod. To reciprocate, my fingers probed at her wet pink promise. She pushed my hand away.

“No need,” she growled. “I’m good and ready.” And to prove it, she pulled me close to her wide-open crease. Her entry was there awaiting me. “In me. Do it.”

I did it! Effortlessly, as a third entry could ever be. I heard Helen’s gasp of relief as my rod coursed up the moisture of her to strike at what I guessed was her cervix. Total entry. And I was aware that this time I was ready to record every emotion, every sensation that this communion would bring.

No counting of thrusts now. It was just an opening of all senses to my effect on Helen. I listened as her breathing increased in gasping pace. I matched her hip lunges with my own. And God, yes, the treat of her vaginal muscles pulsing and pulling even nipping at my plunging purple-headed invader, was a magic that was completely new to me, but which I knew could not be a one-off.

Helen’s gasps grew, and occasionally, sounded my name, “Oh, God yes, Simon. Simon. Simon.”

I was amazed and delighted at the way our bodies fell into an almost natural rhythm. Her push, my prod, while my fingers roamed over her breasts. Her gasping breath was changing as intermittent squeals of joy escaped her, despite our wild kisses.

But I soon became conscious of the threatened explosion deep down inside. Such a strange feeling. A kind of delicious anger, a ferocity that I just knew could only serve Helen’s needs.

That was the precise moment that Helen’s scream of release sent birds fluttering from the tree-tops and her body arched up uncontrollably taking me into the very heart of her.

That action was beyond anything I could resist and within seconds my rod was pounding and pouring my delightful wrath into her. The duet of our joint yells and groans of release ensured the birds did not immediately return.

For what seemed like ages, we lay speechless as softly, I slipped out of her, and our juices soaked into the mossy bark.

At last, I found the nerve to mumble, only half-joking, “Was I better?”

Those green eyes regarded me coolly, and she looked very thoughtful as she regained her original wide-legged pose and asked, “How about that sketch?”

I quickly picked up my pad and pencil and, from a kneeling position, began work on this delectable view.

As I worked, Helen gave her first hint of how she felt about my recent physical activity, “I’m fearing,” she said slowly, her grin betraying her seriousness, “I may have created a sex monster.”

My drawing completed, I handed it to Helen, who regarded it critically before shaking her head and murmuring, “God, such detail, such accuracy.” Those wonderful deep green eyes looked into mine, “You’ve even shown the last little white drop of cum dripping out of me. So fucking sexy. Simon, we must talk about this skill you have.”

“It’s fairly ordinary,” I said modestly.

Helen leapt, laughing off the tree trunk, and put her arms around my neck, “Ordinary? Hey,” she scolded, “that’s my body you’re talking about. Good enough for you a few minutes ago, wasn’t it?”

I ran my hands over her bare buttock and back, before admitting, “I think it will always be good enough for me.”

That was the special moment. Face to face. Skin to skin. No words. But unspoken promise filled the warm air.

After a while, Helen said, “We’d better get back.”

A slow, easy return, hand in hand. By late afternoon we reached the stream and small waterfall. Sweated and grubby, we plunged gladly into the refreshing coolness. Too tired to do any more than splash each other and rub hands over willing skin.

While we dried naturally, we ate, and as we did Helen’s eyes moistened and she said, “I think you need to know something about me.”

I wasn’t so sure I wanted to know the steamy details. I had heard the rumours, and my own experience of the last few erotic hours had indicated her experience.

But Helen went on, “On my seventeenth birthday at the end of a mini-party, Don Woolmer took me out into the garden and screwed my virginity away.” She glanced at me as though worried about my reaction. “Twice. I was so pleased to be rid of that encumbrance. Trouble was, it triggered a deep need in me to repeat, and repeat.”

“So, you did?” I asked lamely.

Helen pulled a face as she nodded her head, “Simon, I became, and recently discovered, still am, an avid cock hunter. At first, I took all male attention as a compliment. I got to taking it in every orifice.”

She hesitated, seeing the expression of shock on my face. I couldn’t help it. The idea of every orifice appalled me. “I’m sorry, Simon, but you need to know where you fit into this.”

Despite what I was hearing, I was intrigued by her last statement but all I could do was nod my head as though urging her on.

That’s how Helen took it, “By the end of High School, I was hearing the nasty titles being bestowed on me. Hot Helen, Helen the Harlot—”

“That’s cruel,” I burst in

Helen nodded, “I was in danger of being a complete slut. I was determined that when I came to the Academy I’d change. But two male students from my school came up too, and the word spread.”

“But where did I come into this?” I asked.

Helen looked at me, long and hard, before she said, “Remember, I feel safe with you? I saw you, seemingly disinterested in female students. Then I saw your work and that gave me a way to attach myself to you. Safety, you see? With someone not mad for sex.”

I wasn’t sure whether the tightness I was feeling in my chest was anger or something else. “So, you used me?”

Helen’s face showed despair, “Only initially. The more we chatted, the more I saw your paintings and drawings I became obsessed with you getting recognition for your skills. Then last night, God was that just last night? My old needs were burning me up. I’d had a few lustful offers.”

My look of surprise drove her on, “I came to your door last night. I couldn’t go on being celibate. Remember I said I needed to tell you something. I needed my freedom to fuck again. Well, you know what happened next.”

“Coincidence, you saw my drawing.”

“Coincidence leading to curiosity for this cock hunter.” Helen half-smiled.

“Curiosity satisfied. What’s your judgement?” In my head, I was screaming not to ask that question. I so feared the comparison she might make.

Her eyes sparked as she said, “If I may paraphrase a comment you made earlier. I think you will always be good enough to satisfy me.”

My heart pounding, I kissed her. A kiss full of warmth which she reciprocated.

Darkness was closing in, so I said, “Shouldn’t we be starting back?”

She nuzzled into my neck whispering, “Feel how balmy that night air is. Couldn’t we stay here? A leafy bed and the blanket to cover us.”

The appeal of that only had me hesitating for a second. Helen genuinely wanted to be with me. What a difference a day made.

Helen spent much of the rest of the evening enthusing about how I might make the most of my artwork. To my surprise, she revealed that her father had purchased her a flat in the town. She admitted that she had hardly used it yet, and no one else had ever seen it. “But you might find more than one thing of interest there.”

Another surprise when she revealed that she had spent much time looking into the prospects, and by the time we slept I had, with some reluctance, agreed to view the avenues she had explored mainly at her new flat.

To end what had been a wonderful day, we made slow indolent love on our leafy bed. For me, the whole evening was near sensational. I had been just a little uneasy about sleeping in the open, but with Helen’s warm breasts snuggled against me, I was quickly asleep.

We were not so quickly awake either. I was just calculating how high the sun had reached, when Helen turned, looked at me, and laughing, we grappled together intimately, each pleasuring the other. Then we bathed under the waterfall with its early morning chill and finished off Helen’s snacks.

I sketched the waterfall, with and without a naked naughtily posed Helen. She surprised me by giggling, “Do a special one for Jamie. That will show him exactly where you’ve been.”

It felt almost sacrilegious to put our clothes on. We drove back to the Academy, well contented and with our plans made for the immediate future.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Whatever they envisaged their plans for the immediate future to be, built on Helen’s belief in Simon’s artistry, they could never have believed the extent to which it would take them. It was clear, Helen had become his ardent lover, and only his. But just as obvious was the fact that she had taken on the role of being his manager.

After their heated weekend, I saw them around less and less. Until a brisk and, I thought, rather brusque visit they made to my room just two weeks before Summer term ended. Helen clutched a laptop under one arm.

Simon, chin now lightly stubbled, was full of guilty apology, “I’ve just had so much work on, Jamie. You understand?”

Helen’s breasts smiled at me over her blouse neckline, as she said, “It’s taken all my feminine charms to convince him that his skills deserve financial recognition and rid him of his lack of ambition and belief in himself.”

“I’ve already had three sketches accepted by ‘Art and Nature’ online magazine,” he said, trying hard to hide his pride.

“Small beer. Minimal payment,” Helen commented lightly, while she opened the laptop on the table. “This is where Simon’s work will score.”

Over her shoulder, I saw an obviously incomplete web page, with a bright green heading, “Insatiable.”

“Just a working title,” Simon said. “Early days.”

“Need something hotter and stronger.” Helen said, “Any ideas?”

Underneath the title in smaller case and a little to the left were the names “Simon and Helen.” Running down the left side under that was a list of lurid sex magazine titles.

“I’ve checked,” Helen pointed out. “They’re all pay-per-view. So, they will pay if we advertise. More importantly, they will pay for new material.”

“Helen had this web page outlined even before we—” Simon paused uncomfortably.

“Fucked,” Helen, matter-of-factly, concluded. “I’ve always had faith in his ability.” And she pressed for the next page which showed a series of sketches depicting a naked woman gradually appearing from behind a tree before running with arms out wide as though towards the viewer. Clearly a memento from that weekend.

Only the face had been changed, as a laughing Helen asked, “Guess the body.”

“Nice tits,” I observed, glancing at Simon in case he took offence.

He merely nodded, half-smiled, and said, “Times, they are a-changing.”

“He always catches my body just right,” she chuckled. “In more ways than one.”

I felt compelled to voice my doubts, “But aren’t these sites only for photoshoots?

Helen, with an enigmatic grin, observed, “He can work wonders with his hard pencil.”

Double entendre? I suppose it was, but she went on about how Simon could change the whole concept of anime erotica. “Porn as you’ve never seen it. Besides, I have a good camera where necessary.”

“I use Helen’s shots for sketching animals on the move, birds in flight. Anything that won’t hold still for me,” Simon explained.

Helen laughed, “I will never hold still for him, but he manages that all right.”

That was it. Having brought me up to date with their plans, they left me worrying about the disappointments that might lie ahead of them despite Simon’s obvious talent. It would be several months before I saw Simon again.

The Summer recess arrived, and I had a comfortable week with my family before going off to a busy, mixed-sex campsite with eight other students. The band of us agreed to go native. That meant no cell phones, no radios, no laptops, which would have been useless anyway in the wild countryside.

We climbed, trekked, canoed, went fishing, swam in the rushing river, and I got laid four times in the six weeks we were there. Once, lying under sheltering trees, being expertly serviced by a girl called Linda, I thought of Simon’s tale of his losing it with Helen. But he got no more thought than that.

All in all, a great six weeks with nature. Another week home and then it was back to college. But no Simon. Helen hadn’t showed either. An early email from him indicated that they were too occupied to come back. The mail advised me to look at the recent online ‘Art and Nature.’

I looked, and on a brilliant centrefold, there were several sketches, and some paintings of varieties of flowers, but, in particular, of birds in flight. In fact, there was one of a peregrine falcon, claws outstretched, about to take a terrified rabbit, that was so realistic I could even sense the movement.

What really caught my eye was the heading to the centrefold, “The Genius of Simon Curton.” Looking back at earlier editions I saw that this had been a gradual progression of drawings that Simon had submitted. And now he had a real foot in the door, I was really delighted for him. I sent him a return message expressing how pleased I was.

Involved in my final Academy year, and making my early, tentative notes towards a crime novel, I found little time to wonder about Simon and Helen’s commercial progress, although I did view individual efforts he had in ‘Art and Nature’ But after two months, another email arrived—from Helen, very terse and to the point:

“All set for success, Jamie. Find ‘Luscious Kicks’ magazine online. Under anime find username, ‘Trupic.’"

I found it with no bother, and after several well-formed nubile females, almost identical, I came upon brilliantly detailed sketches of a female form, initially in a pretty dress, being led down a school corridor by a young man. He had one hand on her covered breast. A picture of them kissing, tongues prominent. So, each picture moved the events. Dress gone; it was Helen’s body that fingers groped with close-up accuracy. But the ecstatic face was not hers. Then close-ups of both genitalia, before the female form was laid back over a pommelled horse and entered with detailed closeup. God, Simon even showed temporary pain on the unknown face.

The presentation was headed, ‘Hot Hannah’s First Time’. At the end was the request, ‘Don’t miss how Hot Hannah goes hunting for more, next time.’

Hot Hannah, very droll. I wondered whose idea that was.

So far, so good, I thought, but this was more than a casual beginning. Within weeks, a different magazine was presenting another Simon character, ‘Rampant Ron,’ who, according to minimal text had ‘The Largest Cock in Christendom.’ This character was shown in the usual Simon detail humping his way through ladies of the Regency period. While Hot Hannah continued to build her sexual prowess, taking on all ‘cummers’.

Really, the rest is history. I left the Academy with a pleasing ‘A’ grade which gave me scope to take up temporary employment with a local newspaper until I could judge whether my book writing would support me. That took almost three years.

Simon and I met up rarely during that time, but we corresponded regularly, and I caught the sense of him growing into his new role. And he was loving being kept so busy. I was even more pleased with the way he was able to joke about it.

“I have this crazed slave driver keeps pushing me,” he wrote once, “and then has a craving for my body.”

Just as I got the happy news of the publication of my second book, Simon, with a bubbly Helen alongside him, told me that Racktonmedia, who owned most of the erotic magazines, had offered him a long-term contract for all his characters.

As I shook his hand, Helen hugged him, and squealed, “We’ve reached the pinnacle.” If that was the pinnacle, the next offer made to Simon was stratospheric.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

With the patio awning shading us from the hot Jamaican sun, Simon and I lay cosily on our loungers, watching our two all-but naked wives cavort in the large pool. Their bikini tops were slung over a chair. Beyond them, the Caribbean glistened blue/green.

Simon took a sip at his iced tea and asked, “Given any more thought to moving out here?”

“You ask that every time,” I told him, withholding my secret.

“How many times have you been here this year?”

“Three.”

“Exactly. So, what attracts you?”

“I’ve told you, I only come to see Helen’s pink-tipped tits.

Simon laughed easily, our banter had become so relaxed over the years, and now he indicated our two wives, sitting, wet and glistening, on the edge of the pool, “What? When your Julie has those two brown-nosed puppies for you to play with.”

The ladies had guessed they were the subject of our conversation as they waved their arms in the air and kicked up water with their feet.

Julie had been secretary to my publisher, and we met when I called to discuss difficulties with my third novel. Attraction was two-way and instant. Within three weeks she encouraged me to share her bed while admitting that her unfaithful ex-husband was the only man she’d ever slept with. Six months later we were married.

“Seriously, Jamie, it would be great to have you out here. You can afford it.”

“Think so?”

“Three popular crime novels and this fourth one, ‘Angel’s Threat’ has been on the bestseller list for weeks.” He chuckled, adding, “It stinks but I suppose somebody likes it.”

It was great to hear his joking criticism. I knew what he really felt about my work. But I told him that my agent was pursuing a film contract.

He nodded his head appreciatively, and said, “Such talent deserves a reward.”

I held up a hand, “Whoa! You are a Hollywood A-lister.”

“That has given Helen so much delight. I’m so pleased for her sake. She has put so much effort in along the way.” Typical Simon. For all his skill, all his success, his modesty can only bestow all the praise on others.

He looked a little dreamy now as he said, “When that call came through from Universal Studios we thought it was a hoax, but, after checking, within a week, we were in L.A. In Hollywood, for God’s sake.” His pale blue eyes were alight, as they always were when he talked of this time.

“Did you ever find out who read those erotic magazines and recommended you?”

“No idea. But when they told me they wanted characters for a full-scale animated movie, I was so nervous.”

“But you did it. The main character Ricci was so lifelike. Critics said it was better than Pixar, and it should have won the Oscar.”

Simon shook his head, “If it hadn’t been for your support and of course, Helen, ‘Ricci’s Island’ might not have happened.”

“And ‘Rats of Rumple Lane’ looks like being a bigger success. I believe it’s time to let you have your surprise.”

Simon gave a puzzled frown and looked around him, leaving his lounger to look underneath. “What is—” he began, when there was a mighty squeal of joy from Helen as she hugged Julie, before jumping up and racing along the side of the pool towards us. Her wet breasts reflecting the sun were an attractive sight.

“Has he told you? Has he?”

Julie was now close behind her as she reached us.

Simon looked at me, a questioning expression on his face. His glance turned to Julie, “You two aren’t pregnant, are you?”

Julie laughed, “I’m not. I don’t know about him.” She stood close her wet breasts pressing into my arm. “I think you should tell him, Jamie.”

“Tell me what?”

I looked at Simon, a low-key look, I hoped, and I gave him the news, “You know Julie and I went into town yesterday?”

“So?” Simon was looking more puzzled, and Helen was jumping up and down with impatience.

It rushed out, “We put a deposit on the Mason property, just half a mile away.”

Simon was off his lounger and hugging me wildly, “Brilliant, just brilliant. You covered that well.”

He switched to Julie and hugged her close, “Hope I don’t crush those puppies.”

“Puppies?” Julie sounded uncertain, while I got the benefit of Helen’s wild grasp against me.

Minutes of excitement and declarations from Simon on how we could now work together. The two wives went to get changed with Helen declaring, “Champagne when we return.”

Simon’s face was a delight as he lay ecstatically back on his lounger, “News like that exhausts me,” he said. “You have made my day.”

I had moved to the edge of the pool, and, mainly to calm down, I walked around the whole circumference, thinking of the journey we had taken in eight years. When I got back to the loungers I was surprised to find that Simon had not been surprised enough to keep him awake, as he lay on his back snoring quietly.

I looked at his tanned, lightly muscled figure and recalled the pasty-faced young man who had travelled from prolonged youth, through creativeness, into erotica and, you could say full circle, back to inventing characters for the world’s youth. He had become a magical figure in my eyes.

One day, I would write a book about him.