Franco Vega saw her enter the LaSalle Art Gallery. She arrived alone, stunning in a red wool suit with a matching red winter jacket, its lining striking black and white faux zebra. A matching red beret sat jauntily on her head. She paused to pull off her black gloves as soon as she entered the gallery and the gallery owner Simon LaSalle nearly tripped over himself hurrying towards her to take her jacket and hat. They embraced, kissing one another's cheeks. Franco wondered who the dark haired beauty was. He never remembered seeing her at New York social events or at previous art shows and the way Simon rushed to greet her meant she was someone important.
Simon accompanied her to the makeshift bar where a bartender was pouring glasses of wine for patrons. She asked for white. Simone handed her a brochure with information about the exhibit. It contained some personal information about the artist and his paintings. She was looking at it as Simon fawned all over her until someone called Simon's name and he asked the mystery woman to forgive him for abandoning her before rushing to attend to a potential buyer.
The woman slipped the brochure into her black patent leather handbag and sauntered over to one large white wall to examine the paintings. Franco couldn't help but admire her. She was a beautiful woman with chin length dark hair and a flawless porcelain complexion, her gait regal as she moved from one painting to the next.
Most people would insist she wasn't his type. Contrary to popular belief, he didn't have a physical type. He found women of various sizes, shapes, coloring, and ages attractive. He considered himself a connoisseur of women, judging the whole woman not just the shape of her body, the tautness of her skin, or the color and length of her hair. He studied the way women moved, how they responded, and what they thought and felt. If he had to define his type, he would have to say she was a woman who was both intelligent and expressive, one who knew her own mind with an independent and adventurous spirit. He lusted after a woman's persona as much as her body.
Of course he didn't know if the woman across the gallery from him was intelligent, independent, or adventurous but he liked the way she viewed his paintings as if she were envisioning what he saw and felt as he was painting them. He smiled as she cocked her head, took a step back, or peered closely at some detail. He'd been watching her for almost twenty minutes and no one joined her. She didn't appear to be waiting for anyone either. He never saw her glance towards the door or look up when other people entered the gallery. He admired the way she comfortably perused the gallery alone, wrapped up in the art, sipping on a glass of wine. It was unusual and refreshing to see a woman comfortable by herself at a public event in 1954.
He sighed as he admired her scrumptious body. She was slightly taller than average and nicely filled out the fitted jacket of her suit. Her body reminded him a little of actress Grace Kelly's grace and poise but with a face and body similar to Italian actress Sophia Loren. Her hair was wavy, almost mussed in a just-had-sex sort of way. She wore it swept it to the side, a lock of bangs falling over her left eye.
Her outfit was high class and tailored to fit her voluptuous body. It was bright red, which she wore well with her dark hair and eyes and light skin. She certainly was the type of woman who wasn't afraid to stand out in a crowd yet she didn't appear to yearn for the spotlight.
She took a sip of wine and tilted her head in front of a painting of the Japanese garden Kenroku-en done in the late spring when the flowering trees in pink, red, yellow, and lavender sagged with the weight of their blossoms over the pond, the colors of the trees blurred by their rippled reflection in the water.
A group of six patrons entered the gallery and made enough noise to mask his footfalls as he moved closer to her. He pretended to look at the paintings as he followed her from one painting to the next. She stopped to look at a painting of Salto de Bordones, Colombia's tallest waterfall at 1,300 feet near San Agustin.
It was viewed from a distance, the waterfall just a narrow slit in the lush green mountains. When he first saw it, it reminded him of the crack of a woman's ass. He attempted to paint it to express its sensuality. Apparently he accomplished his goal because he noticed some women blush bright pink when they looked at it as if it were a female nude. It had been a challenging painting because the silvery falls, lush green mountains, and blue sky were the only colors so he had to add interest by creating depth and texture. With strategic brush strokes and a heavy hand with paint, he made the flora look almost three dimension, wild and spiky, almost intimidating. The waterfall was a blend of white, blue, and silver paint glistening where the light hit it. The mountains that flanked the falls were streaked with the glow of the sun. The mountain behind it in the distance was a silvery gray as if viewed through mist.
He watched as the lovely brunette stood back to view the painting, a knowing smile curling her luscious red lips. Unlike many of the women who viewed it before her, she didn't blush. In fact she seemed to enjoy the painting's erotic nature.
He drew closer to her until he was close enough to smell her perfume. It was something alluring, soft and powdery, faintly Asian. He wanted to bury his face at the small of her neck and inhale her scent.
She moved on to the next painting, which was a close up of Passiflora serratifolia the velvety passion flower, a native of Colombia. The flower was otherworldly, its anthers like tiny penises and its stamen star shaped in a waxy cream, mauve, and green surrounded by fine purple filaments almost like hairs with paler purple petals beneath it.
He stood next to her as she stepped back to view the painting from a greater distance. As she took another sip of wine, he saw her fingernails and her full lips were almost the same shade of red as her suit. The delicate white gold watch on her wrist glittered with diamonds as she lifted the wine glass to her lips.
He said, "It is Passiflora serratifolia a native of my homeland Colombia. It grows wild in the Andes Mountains there. It has a sweet scent that isn't overpowering, a harbinger of the delectably sweet fruit it eventually produces. Some have referred to its fruit as the nectar of the gods."
With a sly smile on her face, she said, "Beautiful."
She moved on to the next painting, a seascape at sunset. Small wooden fishing boats seemed to bob atop the orange purple water while other smaller boats were upturned on the sandy shore. The sun was a dusky orange globe just over the horizon.
She said, "Now this reminds me of Claude Monet's Impression, Sunrise." She had a low, sexy voice that made his dick twitch.
"Unlike's Monet's painting of Le Havre, these are boats in Taganga Bay in Santa Marta in Colombia."
She responded, "Hmmmm...interesting."
A familiar voice called out, "Isabella!" Franco watched as Broadway actor Gaylord Taylor approach the pretty brunette, his arms outstretched and a big smile on his face. He enclosed her in his arms and kissed her cheek then he held her at arm's length. "You look gorgeous as always. I love you in red."
Gaylord fingered the diamond encrusted brooch shaped like a fish with a ruby red eye pinned to her lapel. "Tres magnifique! Where in the devil do you find such unusual beauties?"
"It was a gift. Sorry, dear, I have no idea where it was purchased."
Franco suddenly felt a pang of jealousy. Not over the attention that Gaylord Taylor was paying to his lovely brunette - he was well aware that Gaylord was a closeted homosexual - it was because of the man who gave her such an expensive piece of jewelry. Franco wanted to know who he was and whether he was still an important fixture in her life.
Gaylord asked, "So how does it feel to be single again? Did you thoroughly wash that man out of your hair?" He sang the last sentence to the melody of the song from the musical South Pacific. He gingerly touched her chin length locks and added, "Which look gorgeous by the way."
Isabella said with a smile, "Free. Exhilarating. A relief. That's what it feels like. And that is all I am going to say on the subject."
"We really must get together some night. Dinner or maybe that adorable jazz club you enjoy."
Franco heard himself expel his pent up breath. He hadn't realized he was holding his breath waiting for her answer. It was encouraging to learn she was single and available.
Someone called Gaylord's name and as he turned around he noticed Franco for the first time. He exclaimed, "There you are! You bad boy!" He held a finger up towards the person who called his name gesturing for them to wait and turned to Isabella and said, "Isabella have you met Franco Vega the artiste de la soirée?"
She smiled at Franco and said, "He has been telling me about his art but we haven't been formally introduced." She held out a lovely manicured hand to Franco and he took it in his, her hot flesh nearly searing his skin. She said, "Isabella Duncan."
"It is a pleasure to meet you, Miss Duncan." He bowed over her hand, bringing it to his lips and lightly kissing it. It smelled sweet and powdery, faintly scented by orange blossoms.
Gaylord said with exaggerated flourish, "I have to make the demanding public happy." He turned to Franco and said, "Franco, talk Isabella into buying one of your paintings. Her clients can afford it." He said, "Toodles" before hurrying away towards an expensively clad group.
Franco asked, "How do you know Gaylord?"
They strolled on to the next painting as she answered, "I met him through a mutual friend. We occasionally act as each other's escorts when we need a date. He has a problem with clingy girlfriends so I am perfect choice since I'm not interested in getting involved with anyone at this point in my life."
"And your clients?"
She chuckled. "You make it sound so sinister, like I am a dama de la noche. It isn't anything that titillating. Gaylord was referring to my interior decorating clients. I decorate the homes of New York's rich and famous."
Franco raised an eyebrow at her Spanish. She pronounced it like a Spaniard, the words flowing off her tongue like poetry. The term meant "lady of the night".
She continued, "I love your work. It reminds me of the great Impressionists: Claude Monet, Camille Pissarro, and Edouard Manet. I admire your use of color, light, and texture. Yes, I can imagine your pieces in some of my clients' homes."
They continued through the gallery. She asked him questions about the different paintings - the where, when, and why of them. As they stood in front of a painting of a woman sitting on the porch steps of a weathered cottage, Isabella said, "This one makes me wonder what she is thinking. Is she upset? Morose? Or just in a quiet contemplative mood?"
The woman sitting on the porch steps was Franco's wife Olivia. She was dressed in a pale blue cotton dress with the cigarette barely visible in her right hand with a wisp of silvery smoke rising from its tip. She was looking at something in the distance, her profile stoic as the sun hit her face. There was something about her visage that bespoke wealth and elegance that contrasted with the more rustic surroundings. Maybe it was the way she sat with her spine straight yet slightly leaning towards the sun. Or the way her long legs were gracefully crossed and the line of her full skirt. Or it might have been the fit of her dress, as if it were perfectly tailored to her slim yet shapely body.
Franco said, "If I recall correctly, she was all of the above."
As if she sensed it was a touchy subject for him, she didn't probe any further and moved on to the next painting.
It was another seascape. It was a rock outcropping topped by a single gnarled tree. The painting was at sunset with the unseen sunlight brightening the rock as if imbuing it with a golden glow that emphasized its scars from an abusive sea. The ocean was painted in varying shades of blue from dark turquoise to a deep purplish hue like a fresh bruise. The shore and water close to the rocky shore was dotted with rusty swells of kelp. Hazy blue-green distant hills were in the background as the shoreline curved outward into the sea.
Franco said, "This is one of my favorites. The lone tree, twisted and ravaged by the elements, still stands strong as if to defy the gods."
They were standing close together, her sensual magnetism pulling him unwittingly towards its center, their shoulders almost touching. He could feel the heat of promise radiating off of her as if she were a small sun and he was its nearest orbiting planet.
She surprised him when she said, "I agree. This is my favorite. The tree is a testament to nature's endurance in the face of adversity. It would be inspiring to see every day."
He looked at her, her face only inches from his own, and said, "That surprises me. I would have expected you to prefer one of the prettier paintings of flowers or landscapes."
She laughed her laughter deep and sexy. "You will find that I am full of surprises."
He smiled as he looked back at the painting and said, "That sounds like a challenge."
She changed the subject by asking, "Where is this tree? Colombia?"
"No, it is on the coast near Carmel by the Sea in California."
She said, "Aaah, I spent some time there at the La Playa a couple of years ago. It was during a dark period of my life and I had to get away from New York. I remember the area fondly."
A server came around with a tray of wine glasses and they each took a glass. She drank nearly half of hers as if a painful memory required some liquid courage.
They continued talking. He learned she studied fine arts at his alma mater New York University. She asked him about growing up in Colombia. He showed her some other paintings from his homeland: a coffee plantation, a thin horse peering over a fence, and a frightening looking stone statue of what appeared to be a vampire from the San Agustín Archaeological Park.
She asked, "Do you go home to Colombia often?"
"I was there last summer when I did many of these paintings. I visit every couple of years. My parents come here to visit in the interim years."
He told her his mother was of Spanish heritage and from New York City so he was a duel citizen of the U.S. and Colombia. Both his parents were professors at the Universidad Nacional de Colombia in Bogotá. His mother taught archeology and his father engineering. They met when she worked on uncovering the statues and structures at the San Agustín Archaeological Park and his father was helping with some engineering feat to help unearth the ancient structures.
Isabella seemed fascinated by his family and his homeland. Most people listened politely. Colombia wasn't as interesting as Europe or Asia and not as sexy as Brazil or Mexico, even his own wife had no interest in visiting his family there, but it was a fascinating land with a temperate climate, ancient Indian ruins, and a Spanish heritage dating back to 1500.
He was just working up the nerve to ask her to dinner, drinks, or even coffee when Simon caught up with them again and with his arm around Isabella's shoulders he said, "Has Isabella told you that she is quite the artist too. Other than her amazing interiors, she is also a talented photographer. I have been trying to talk her into showing some of her pieces here at the gallery but she thinks I am crazy. Maybe you can have better luck with her, Franco."
Franco raised an eyebrow at Isabella. He would be more than happy to view her photographs and persuade her to have a show of her own.
Simon was called away, excusing himself before scampering towards an inquiring couple.
Franco said to Isabella, "I would love to see some of your work."
She said, "My photographs are interesting but I wouldn't consider them to be profitable art." She waved her hand around to encompass the paintings on the walls and said, "Now this takes genuine talent, my photography not so much. With practice and knowledge anyone can become a good photographer."
"Well, one day you will have to show me some of your work so I can judge for myself whether you are crazy or if Simon is the crazy one."
She chuckled. "One day. Maybe."
She drank the last of her wine and Franco offered to get her another. He took her glass and walked off to the bar at the front of the gallery.
As he walked towards the bar, he felt her watching him and wondered if she found him attractive. He discovered over the years that many American women found him exotically attractive because of his darker skin and Spanish accent. He was of average height at five-ten with a stout, muscular build. Many women described him as the "bad boy" type or even dangerous, a trait they seemed to find sexually appealing.
When he returned with their wine, she asked, "Does your wife share your interest in art?"
He saw her look down at his left hand where he wore a simple wedding band with a single flawless diamond like a tiny shackle.
He said, "No. She doesn't share much of anything with me."
Simon stopped to talk to them again, asking Isabella if she saw anything that interested her. She led him to a painting and said, "I have a client who would love this. I'd like for her to see it first before making a decision." She looked at Simon and said, "Can you hold it for a day until she can see it? I am about ninety-nine percent sure she will love it."
"Of course, dear. I can put a hold on it until the end of the day tomorrow. After that it is up for grabs."
She leaned over and kissed Simon's cheek. "Thank you, love."
Franco breathed a sigh of relief when Simon was called away.
She stood back and looked at the painting once again. It was another painting of the Japanese Kenroku-en garden depicting a woman in a traditional Japanese dress, a salmon pink floral print, carrying a matching parasol as she walked across a bridge over a stream. She was viewed through the arched branches of a tree heavy with lacy white blossoms.
Franco noticed Isabella's fingers stopped just short of touching the painting as she said, "I want to know this woman and what she is thinking. I want to find out why she is walking through the garden alone. Is she meeting a lover? Is she trying to distract herself from a broken heart? Is she saddened by a society that sees her as a beautiful ornament to be viewed rather than known?"
Franco hesitated before answering. He didn't want to tell her the woman in the painting was a past lover. He simply said, "Ah, it is that kind of curiosity and intrigue that I try to inspire in my viewers."
He changed the subject by asking, "So when can I take a look at your photographs?"
She hesitated, taking a sip of her wine as if to buy time. She finally confessed, "They are hanging in my apartment."
He laughed. "I'm not asking you to have a mad passionate affair with me. Well that is unless you want to." He gave her a lascivious grin. "I am just asking to see your photographs."
He saw her face turn a darker pink as she said, "We will have to see."
Franco smiled. She was a flirt. Not surprising because of her beauty. He was going to nail her down to a date and time when Simon hurried over and said, "I hate to interrupt but a client is asking to meet you, Franco. Would you mind? It shouldn't take long."
Isabella said, "I should be going anyway." She put down her empty wineglass. She offered Franco her hand as she said, "It was a true pleasure meeting you, Franco. I hope we can continue our conversation one day soon." Then she hugged Simon, thanking him again for holding the painting for her, before walking away to fetch her coat and hat.
As Simon led Franco away, he looked back at her over his shoulder. She gave him a little wave before exiting the gallery. He had no idea if he would ever see her again or where he could find her. His heart ached at the thought that he lost his one and only chance with her.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
When Franco got home that night his wife Olivia asked him how the exhibit went. He poured himself a glass of scotch and sat down in a chair in the living room. Their home was lavishing furnished with gilded wood; plush shiny fabrics in ivory, icy blue, and gold; and expensive Oriental rugs. Olivia was sitting on the sofa. She had planned to accompany him to the gallery but was unable to attend because she had a meeting with the board of her pet charity. He was relieved when he learned she had other plans. Sometimes he felt suffocated around her.
"It went quite well. I saw Gaylord Taylor and had a pleasant conversation with one patron. I guess she is a friend of Gaylord's."
He could feel the jealousy roll off Olivia like a cold fog slithering in off a chilly sea at the mention of the word "she". He could see her grit her teeth, as if she were clamping her mouth shut, biting down on some acidic statement she'd regret saying. Olivia assumed he slept with every woman he met. It was one more of her less endearing qualities.
Despite her anger, she wasn't the type of person who grew hot with anger, quite the opposite; her look was cold, calculating, and vindictive. It was as if her heart turned to ice as she calculated how to get even with the person who crossed her. Even her skin seemed to pale, taking on an almost bluish hue. She didn't earn the nickname "Ice Princess" for nothing.
That wasn't to say Olivia wasn't beautiful. Despite her frigid anger, she was very beautiful. She was tall and slender, her skin milky white, her hair a natural pale blonde and her eyes a cold, pale blue. She favored severe hairstyles - pulling her long hair back in sleek buns, chignons, or a neat French twist - but when she unpinned her hair it cascaded over her shoulders and curled around her breasts. Even her clothes tended to be cold and severe. She preferred grays, blues, beige, white, black, and off-white. She had the classic beauty of such actresses as Grace Kelly and Ingrid Bergman but without their warmth.
That day she was elegantly dressed in a gray skirt that showed off her long shapely legs and a pale gray silk blouse worn with a long string of pearls and matching pearl stud earrings. The blouse was deceiving, from the front it looked modest and even prudish but when viewed from the back, it was incredibly sexy revealing her bare back down to her waist. He knew she'd worn a matching jacket over it to go with the skirt. That night her long blonde hair was pulled back in a sleek French twist. Her long legs were crossed and she nervously bounced her right leg towards him as if she wanted to kick him with her gray suede pump.
"Does this ‘she' have a name?"
He paused as if he had to think about it and said, "Isabella Duncan."
The ice in his glass clinked loudly as he brought it up to his lips and he winced wondering if she saw his hand jerk in surprise at the look of recognition on her face. He tried recovering from his faux pas when Olivia said, "Isabella Duncan?"
He raised an eyebrow at her and said, "Do you know her?"
She pursed her lips the way she always did when she found something disagreeable - a common occurrence. He always thought she would end up with unattractive fine lines around her mouth from puckering it up so much as if she were perpetually sucking on lemons. She stopped bouncing her leg and leaned back on the sofa.
"Talk about a tragic story."
Franco sighed knowing she was going to draw it out and, by the sly smile on her face, it probably wasn't good. His wife relished the retelling of tragic events.
"Why?"
She said, "The Duncans were the talk of the town back in the ‘30s. They were once as wealthy as my family but her father plundered most of their fortune in the stock market crash of 1929. They still had the mansion here in the city but they had to give up their home in the Hamptons. I guess they had to sell most of her mother's jewelry and other family valuables."
Olivia paused for a moment, her fingers drumming the arm of the sofa as if she were in deep thought. She continued, "It must have been 1936 or '37 when her father went berserk and tried to kill her mother. It was an ugly trial with all the family skeletons tumbling out of the closet. People within New York's high society were aware of the Duncans' financial hardship, many of them suffered similar fates, but the rest of the world was unaware. People couldn't get enough of the scandal and the press indulged them. After the trial ended, Isabella's mother whisked the family off to California for almost a year, waiting for the scandal to die down. When she returned to the East Coast, she lived with her parents for a while near Saratoga Springs before moving to Boston. She remarried less than a year later. For some reason Isabella didn't make the move with her. She stayed behind at her grandparent's home and didn't have much to do with her mother or brother."
Olivia took a sip of her drink before continuing. "Isabella was very close to her maternal grandmother. When she died, I heard Isabella was devastated. Her mother cleared out the home in Saratoga Springs and sold it. Isabella had just started dating Bruce Coburn and ended up marrying him soon after her grandmother's death."
Olivia took a cigarette out of the case on the coffee table, tapping it against the top of the case before lighting it. She took a long drag on it, her icy blue eyes closing as she filled her lungs with nicotine.
She continued, "They were together for about eight years before they divorced. Scandalous rumors were whispered that rivaled those in his novels. He supposedly beat her and forced her to have sex with his friends both male and female. I never put much credence in the more sensationalized rumors. From what I understand, she divorced him for adultery." She took another drag on her cigarette. "They spent most of their marriage traveling abroad. I imagine Isabella got tired of it and of him. He probably lost interest in her and strayed. He is a man's man type. Very good looking with a hint of a Scottish accent. His books were always too manly and crude for me but people rave about them. Very interesting guy but I imagine he is a handful."
She took a sip of her drink and continued, "Anyway, when they divorced she got a small monthly alimony check and she let him have most of their possessions. It is my understanding she gets a monthly trust fund check too from her grandmother but she supplements her income by being an interior decorator." Olivia took another long drag on her cigarette. "I imagine she did it so she could still afford designer clothes. She has a penchant for beautiful things. As for her interior decorating, she does lovely work. I've seen a few homes she decorated. She's not as famous as Dorothy Draper but she has a very good following."
"Sadly once she got divorced, their mutual friends all abandoned her. Understandable since Bruce is the more interesting and famous of the two. It sounds like Gaylord stuck by her. He always had a soft spot for damsels in distress."
Franco had to suppress a laugh. He knew Gaylord was a homosexual and probably viewed Isabella as a close platonic friend. He doubted that Olivia was aware of Gaylord's sexual preference.
She polished off the rest of her drink. "You should remember Bruce. Big man with graying dark hair? He was at Clara's last dinner party. He regaled everyone with stories of his travels."
Franco did remember the man and remembered he didn't like him. He answered, "Ah, yes, I remember him. It is difficult to picture the polished lady I met today married to someone so crude."
Olivia laughed, the ice in her drink tinkling as her body shook. "Don't let appearances fool you, darling. Isabella Duncan Coburn is not the innocent, well mannered woman she pretends to be. I heard Bruce has a big dick and she thoroughly enjoyed it; she just didn't like sharing it with other women."
Olivia got up and poured herself another drink. She saw the look of disdain on Franco's face as she walked past him and said, "Don't look at me like that. I know someone who slept with him. She said he had the cock of a horse." She returned to her seat on the sofa smug in her self-righteousness.
Franco went over to the bar and refilled his glass. When he had his back turned towards her, Olivia asked, "So are you going to fuck her?"
Franco turned to look at her, an eyebrow raised. "Would you care if I did?"
Olivia waved her hand at him and said, "Do what you want. My feelings obviously don't concern you." She emptied her glass and set it down on the coffee table with a clunk, got up and left the room without a word.
Franco watched her go. He raised his glass to salute her retreating back.
The next day Franco called Simon LaSalle to ask if the painting The Solitary Soldier had sold. When Simon said he had someone interested but they hadn't made a definite decision, Franco told him to send the painting to Isabella Duncan. He confirmed that Simon had her home address.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
About a month after the opening of his show, Franco spent the afternoon with a lover, a professor at NYU who lived in Greenwich Village. In no hurry to get home, he decided to walk the neighborhood to look for a place to eat and remembered a small quaint French restaurant a few blocks away from Washington Square Park. He found it on Christopher Street in an Art Deco pre-World War I building with four floors of apartments above it and a jazz club in the basement.
As he walked past the front windows towards the door he saw her sitting in the window reading a magazine, a glass of wine at her side, and so engrossed in her reading that she didn't notice him as he entered the restaurant.
The restaurant's proprietor, an older French man with a shock of full white hair, greeted him warmly and led him towards a table in the corner. As Franco passed her table he said, "Isabella?"
She looked up from her magazine, smiled, and said, "Franco!"
"It is good to see you again."
And it was. She was dressed in a black turtleneck with a matching black fitted skirt. Her nails were painted a glossy rusty red that matched her lipstick. Her only jewelry was a large cuff-style bracelet with inlaid brown tiger's eye and diamond shaped onyx. She had her dark chin-length hair swept back behind her perfectly shaped left ear. He could paint just her ear alone. It was delicate, pink, shell-like.
She said, "Are you here alone?"
When he said yes, she insisted that he join her. He happily took the chair across from her. Louis, the owner, gave him a menu and left him to decide.
Isabella looked at Franco and said, "Thank you for the painting. I almost sent it back but Simon talked me out of it."
Franco looked up from his menu and said, "Oh?"
She chuckled as she lit a cigarette, took a drag and said, "It is such an extravagant gift. It probably costs as much as an expensive piece of jewelry. It just seemed wrong to accept it when you barely know me."
He waved his hand in dismissal and said, "I like for my paintings to go to good homes. I want them to be appreciated and treasured. As long as you like it, I am happy to give it to you. Besides I want it to inspire you each time you look at it."
She flicked the ashes off her cigarette into the ashtray on the table and said, "I'm sorry I didn't thank you earlier but I didn't know your home address and wasn't sure how fitting it would be for me to send a note of gratitude to you there."
"Don't worry about it. I am happy you are able to thank me now."
With a sly smile on her face she asked, "Do you often gift strange women with one of your paintings?"
He was looking at the menu when he said, "No. Actually you are the first."
Before Isabella could respond Louis returned to the table and asked Franco if he could get him something to drink.
Franco gestured towards Isabella's glass of wine and said, "Bring me a glass of the red."
Louis asked if Isabella wanted a refill, when she said yes, he left to get their drinks.
Franco asked, "What do you recommend?"
"Their Steak Diane is divine. It is today's special. That's what I ordered."
Franco closed his menu and said, "Sounds wonderful. I think I'll have the same."
When Louis saw Franco close his menu, he hurried over with their wine and took his order.
While the old man fawned over Isabella, Franco gave Louis a good once over. The older man wore black slacks, a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to just below his elbows and a long black apron. It was obvious he had a crush on Isabella. The old man tried to hide it but Franco could tell he was a bit piqued by Franco's presence.
When Louis left their table, Isabella nervously twirled her wine glass, watching the ruby red liquid circle the sides of the glass. She said, "I didn't realize it when we first met that you were married to Olivia Chadwick. I knew her sister Opal back in grade school. Olivia is quite stunning."
Franco sniffed the Malbec wine. It smelled richly of plums with a hint of chocolate and tobacco. He took a sip and said, "She mentioned knowing you too. She may be lovely to look at but not so much to hold."
Isabella said, "Hmmmm... I imagine she rehashed the story of my divorce, didn't she?" She fished through her purse for a cigarette and Franco leaned over the table with his lighter to light it for her.
He replied, "A little bit."
She took a big gulp of her wine and then dismissively waved her free hand with the cigarette as she said, "My ex-husband is water under the bridge. I'm sorry I brought him up. So tell me, how did your show do? Did Simon make you rich?"
They talked about the success of his show and Isabella said she went back to show her client the painting of the Japanese lady in the garden and she ended up buying it.
That prompted him to ask her about her work. He was genuinely interested in her profession. It took an artistic touch to decorate someone's home particularly the finicky housewives in his wife's social circle. He admired her passion as she talked about different styles of furniture and architectural details.
When she paused, seemingly done with her end of the conversation, he changed subjects asking, "Do you live near here?"
She hesitated for a few seconds, unsure whether to tell him. He couldn't blame her. A woman living alone had to be cautious. She smiled as she nervously swirled the last of her wine in its glass and said, "I live upstairs. Fourth floor."
"Nice. I love the bohemian feel of the neighborhood. A lot less stuffy than the Upper West Side."
She stopped with the nervous swirling and said, "Ah, that's where you live. I am familiar with the area. I have done some brownstones there close to the river."
They were quiet for a while, comfortable with the silence as they sipped their wine.
He was a little taken aback when she asked, "Do you have any children?"
Now it was his turn to nervously swirl the red wine in the bowl of his glass. He replied, "One, a daughter. She is fourteen going on thirty." Franco put down the wine glass and dug in his wallet to find a picture of his Octavia. It was one taken of her last summer sitting astride a horse, her long dark hair blowing in the breeze. He handed the photo to Isabella.
Isabella said, "She is lovely. She enjoys horseback riding?" She handed the picture back to him.
As he slipped the photo back in his wallet he said, "She rides every chance she gets in Central Park. We paid for her to have lessons when she was younger. I accompany her when I can. I spent summers riding when I was a teenager at a stable near my parent's summer home. I've always enjoyed it."
Isabella had been leaning on the table and sat back when saw Louis bringing their dinners. She said, "Maybe we can go riding together some day. If Central Park is too exposed, we could use the Kensington stables in Brooklyn at Prospect Park."
Louis put their plates down before Franco could respond. They stopped talking to enjoy their Steak Diane with fondant potatoes, and freshly buttered peas.
Franco commented that the food was delicious. He'd been there before for a cup of coffee and a croissant but never tried the dinners. It was the ideal place to meet someone of the opposite sex because his wife and her high society friends wouldn't venture there. It allowed him to eat in peace without worrying if his wife would later ask him about the brunette who shared dinner with him.
When they finished their meals they ordered coffee and a tart tatin made with apples and cranberries. Afterwards they lit up cigarettes. They smoked in between sips of coffee, their bellies full and sated.
When he finished his cigarette Franco looked at his watch. It was close to 8:00 and he'd have to leave soon. His plans altered when Isabella asked, "Do you want to see where I hung your painting?"
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
He insisted on paying for their meals and followed her to the door next to the restaurant that led up to the apartments. She unlocked the door and he noticed her hands were slightly shaking.
The vestibule smelled of wet wool, the air hot and moist, the radiator along one wall almost hot enough to fry an egg. A bank of brass mailboxes lined the opposite wall. He waited as Isabella unlocked the inner door.
As they ascended the stairs, he watched her lovely ass sway back and forth in front of him, his hands itching to reach out and grab it.
When they finally reached her apartment on the fourth floor, she unlocked her apartment door and he followed her inside.
He wasn't sure what to expect, nothing would have surprised him, but he expected something more modern and colorful based upon her clothing choices. Instead her apartment was done in subdued neutral tones and an eclectic blend of styles.
The apartment was built prior to World War I with distinctive Art Nouveau architecture: the boxy glazed tiled non-working fireplace in variations of eggshell to pale gold, the semi-circle front windows flanking a door leading to the balcony, and the wrought iron railings on the balcony with their curved flourished decorative center. The floors in the living room were dark brown tiles that she softened with two Oriental rugs in beige, grays, brown, and silvery blue. Her living room furniture was done in shades of gray and tan. The Chesterfield sofa was upholstered in dark gray velvet. Two horseshoe shaped tufted chairs in tan brocade flanked it. The room was punctuated with modern pieces like a marble topped chrome coffee table and mercury glass lamps that looked like abstract sculptures.
A French Regency round pedestal table with claw-like feet was at one end of the living room closest to the kitchen. It was surrounded by four tufted dining chairs upholstered in silvery tan jacquard fabric with an alabaster bowl-shaped chandelier hanging above it. Behind the table was a matching French Regency china cabinet filled with ivory and gold lacy patterned china.
His painting "The Solitary Soldier" hung above the tiled fireplace. It looked at home in her apartment, its earthy tones complimenting the neutral colored décor.
Isabella said, "Where's my manners? Would you like something to drink? I have white wine, bottled beer, or I could make a pot of coffee."
He opted for the beer and told her not to bother with a glass. As she went into the tiny galley kitchen, he admired her collection of black and white photographs hanging in the hallway between the kitchen and living room. The largest was a gray horse, the photo taken at an unusual angle that looked as though the photographer was lying on the ground at the horse's feet. The horse was looking down, its nose within inches of the camera a curious expression on its face. The size and position hinted at the horse's power and strength, giving the viewer a sense of vulnerability. Since the horse was gray, the black and white photograph emphasized its muscles, the varying shades in its coat, and the texture of its thick dark gray mane. Surrounding it were smaller black and white photographs of woodlands, an abandoned barn, a bird just taking flight from a branch, and a spider web glistening with dew.
She handed him a beer as she came out of the kitchen. She had one in her other hand.
He gestured at the photographs and asked, "Yours?"
"Yes. What do you think of them? And be honest."
Franco gestured with his beer bottle at the wall of photos and said, "You have an eye for artistry: your subject, its placement, textures, contrast, and shadow. It is all very well balanced and adds to the impact of your pictures. Each evokes a feeling, a memory, and curiosity. I want to know your relationship with this horse. Why the barn is so derelict and whether the spider web frightened or fascinated you."
She held up her beer bottle to salute him and said, "Thank you. That is quite the compliment coming from an artist of your caliber."
Now he held his bottle up as he said, "As for my assessment, I do believe you are the crazy one for not allowing Simon to sell these."
They returned to the living room and he sat down on the sofa while Isabella walked over to a stereo console in the corner next to the fireplace. She asked him what sort of music he liked.
"Classical, some Spanish guitar music, jazz, ballads from the likes of Frank Sinatra and Nat King Cole, and even some rock ‘n' roll. Why?"
She chose an album and put it on the stereo turntable. Suddenly classic Spanish guitar music came out its obscure speakers. She smiled at him and said, "That's why."
He stood up and wandered around the room. He said, "You have some lovely pieces. The chandelier, the china, these lamps." He pointed at the nearest mercury glass lamp that looked like an abstract sculpture of the human form.
She said, "I have to confess, some of these things were my grandmother's: the china, the dining room table and cabinet, the chandelier. There are more things from my grandmother in the bedroom too."
Franco watched her as she took a sip of her beer. He pictured her full red lips wrapped around his dick instead of the end of the bottle. As if she sensed his lascivious thoughts, she blushed as she depressed a button on a Japanese painted box on the coffee table and the silver crane on top bent over and retrieved a cigarette from within the box with its beak. She asked him if he wanted one and he said yes. Then he lit both of their cigarettes with the silver lighter on the table.
Trying to distract his lustful urges she said, "My grandmother loved Art Nouveau particularly the fanciful natural aspects of it like fairies, butterflies, bugs, and flowers. Of course she was alive during that period and experienced it firsthand. My grandparents' country estate near Saratoga Springs was anything but Art Nouveau in style. It was a brick Edwardian that looked as if it was transplanted from England."
He sat down next to her, crossing his leg and resting the calf of his right leg on his knee to hide his growing erection. He asked, "Do you miss it? Miss the country estate?"
"Do I ever! After my grandmother's death I would have loved to keep it but my mother wouldn't hear of it. It was as if something that brought me pleasure had to be expunged." She waved her cigarette in a dismissive gesture and added, "Sorry. My mother and I don't get along."
He said, "Don't be sorry. I know about family problems. I live with them on a daily basis." He smiled at her, his smile tinged with sadness for them both.
Isabella looked towards the fireplace, exhaling smoke from her cigarette, she said, "I don't know if Olivia told you about my father's attempt on my mother's life when I was twelve. It was a major New York scandal at the time. He ended up going to prison after being humiliated in the press as he so rightly deserved. After my mother recuperated from her injuries...he beat her within an inch of her life...she sold the home in Manhattan for pennies on the dollar since it was during the Depression. We spent almost a year living in Carmel, California. I loved it and my mother enjoyed the bohemian artistic community but she soon tired of it. Then we moved in with my grandparents. I loved it but my mother felt like a prisoner. She moved to Boston with my brother and remarried within a year. I stayed with my grandparents in the country. I saw little of my mother and brother after that except when they came to visit."
She paused to suck on her cigarette, her hand shaking slightly as she brought the cigarette to her lips.
"When my grandmother died about eleven years ago, my mother decided to sell the estate. I went in and took everything I could. I took my grandmother's jewelry, silverware, those dishes and the light fixture." She gestured towards the china cabinet and chandelier above the table. "There were a few more odds and ends: some knickknacks, this cigarette box," She pointed at the Japanese painted box with the crane on top, "photo albums and boxes of photographs."
She flicked the ashes from her cigarette into an etched brass and enameled ashtray, its edges and bowl done in a delicate floral pattern. Franco admired it and she said, "I got that in India. Beautiful, isn't it?"
She continued not waiting for his reply, "I was engaged to get married to Bruce Coburn at the time and lived in a small apartment here in New York. He allowed me to store her things at his estate on Long Island."
Franco was quiet for a few minutes to digest what she told him. He finally said, "I am sorry to hear of your strained relationship with your mother. At least it sounds like you had good memories with your grandparents."
Isabella smiled and this time it was filled with warmth. "That I do. They paid for my riding lessons. Horses saved me. To this day I tend to prefer the company of horses to people." She smiled at him and said, "Present company excluded."
When he smiled back she continued, "My grandmother also nurtured my love of photography and art. While I was in high school she took me on a tour of Europe's most famous art museums. That was right before the War, before things fell apart. It is something I will never forget."
She finished her beer, tipping the bottle up and sucking the last of it out. Franco watched her, his dick getting harder. He rested his right forearm over his crotch to hide his erection.
She looked up at him and said, "Care for another beer?"
He held up his bottle and saw he only had a few swallows left. He said, "Sure."
He watched her swaying backside as she walked towards the tiny kitchen. He swore she put a little extra swivel to her step knowing it would further arouse him.
She returned with two bottles of beer and exchanged his full bottle for the empty atop a brass coaster mosaicked in ivory iridescent tiles and leaf-shaped pieces. They were a set she said she purchased in Italy before the War. She took his empty bottle into the kitchen.
She sat down next to him on the sofa, her last cigarette smoldering in the ashtray so she flicked off the ashes and took one final drag on it before putting it out. She looked up at him and said, "Okay, I told you a couple of deep, dark secrets. Now it is your turn to tell me at least one."
He took a final toke of his cigarette and then stubbed it out in the ashtray. He looked up at her and confessed, "I live in a very unhappy marriage and have occasional affairs to remind myself that I am still alive. I am ashamed to say without them, I'd lose my desire to paint, my inspiration."
Isabella was quiet for a couple of minutes, spending the time sipping on her beer. He was afraid he said the wrong thing and lost her but she asked, "What did you see in your wife when you married her? What changed between then and now?"
"She was charming, intelligent, attentive, and adventurous. Very athletic, we played tennis, golf, sailed, and went horseback riding. She was the type of woman who liked convertibles and didn't mind her hair getting mussed with the top down. She always seemed happy and fun loving. I'm ashamed to say that I wasn't in love with her. I admired her, respected her, and enjoyed being with her but I didn't genuinely love her. I thought one day our affair would eventually come to an end and we'd go our separate ways."
He gulped down some beer and continued, "It ended when she purposely got pregnant with our daughter Octavia." He'd been looking at the fireplace and looked back at her. "Not that I regret our daughter...she is the light of my life...it is the way Olivia forced me to marry her. It was as if our courtship was a farce to trick me into marrying her. Everything she was before we married, the fun loving woman I remembered was gone. In her place was a cold hearted and vindictive bitch."
He drank some more beer and looked up at the painting over the fireplace. The lone tree reminded him of his life. His wife was the unforgiving elements that ravaged and twisted him until he became a ravaged image of his former self. It hurt to think of what might have been if he had found someone like Isabella who was nonjudgmental with painful memories of her own. He imagined they could have had a fun-filled and adventurous life together. Right now he would settle for some momentary happiness with her.
He said, "She has been making my life miserable ever since. When we go out, I am her pet monkey that she shows off to friends. When I broach the subject of divorce, she threatens to ruin my career. She and her family have enough money and power to make it happen so I never wanted to risk calling her bluff. I am slowly accumulating enough...pardon my French...‘fuck you' money so I can divorce her and move on with my life."
When she didn't respond he said, "Sorry about that."
Isabella waved her hand dismissively, the lingering smoke from her cigarette making a blue ghostly trail in its wake. She said, "No, no, don't be sorry. I just didn't realize how miserable you are. I just thought you were slightly unhappy that maybe you didn't get enough sex but otherwise loved her."
"No, it goes far beyond no sex." He tipped his bottle of beer up and took a long pull. "I'll be honest; sometimes we have hate sex. Where we want to hurt one another and release some pet up frustrations. We always regret it afterwards and feel dirtier for it."
Now it was her turn to gulp down some beer. She followed that with a long toke on her cigarette.
He was enjoying their oddly open conversation. It was refreshing and a bit exhilarating, definitely the type of conversation one was supposed to avoid on a first date and he viewed their meeting each other that night as a date of sorts.
Isabella surprised him by saying, "I miss sex. I'll admit it. I haven't had any since my divorce. I know exactly the type of sex you're talking about. My ex and I had that type of sex for the last two years of our marriage. It was great while it was happening but, yes, I felt dirty afterwards and regretted it."
Franco jokingly said, "If you ever feel the urge, just let me know and I would be more than happy to oblige."
Maybe it was the wine and beer that heavily influenced her decision to abandon all common sense because she stood up and said, "Come on. Let me show you my boudoir." She winked at him before walking out of the room.
Franco followed and asked, "Where's your bathroom?" She showed him a closed door next to the bedroom.
As he took a piss he thought about his next move. He felt like a teenage boy on his first date not knowing when to kiss the girl or put his arm around her. He shook his cock. Then he soaped up his dick, wiping it clean with handful of tissue before flushing the toilet and zipping up the fly of his pants. He looked at himself in the mirror as he washed his hands. He felt a tingling in his balls at the prospect of being inside of her. He pulled out his wallet and looked in one of the pockets between some business cards where he had a condom hidden. He stuck the packet in his pants pocket before leaving the bathroom.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Her plush bed matched the rest of the room. An Art Deco dressing table with a big round mirror above it stood between two windows and matching bedside tables flanked the bed. Two delicate armchairs with wooden arms and legs, upholstered in beige brocade provided a small seating area in front of the glazed tile fireplace that matched the one in the living room. Opposite the fireplace was the bed. Her bedding was simple in style in varying shades of ivory, nothing frilly just posh and luxurious.
Almost as striking as the naked beauty on the bed was a large black and white photograph hanging above it of a swan landing on the water. Its wings majestically outstretched as if it were reaching out to embrace an unseen mate, its neck elegantly curved in a C shape.
He started removing his clothes and nodded at the photo, "How long did you wait for that photo opportunity?"
She looked up above her shoulder and said, "Actually it wasn't that long. I sat on a park bench watching the swans swimming on a pond. I don't even remember the park. Within fifteen minutes this one came in for a landing. I actually took a series of shots but this one turned out the best."
When he was fully undressed, he was about to roll the condom on his erect penis as he stood next to the bed when she crawled across the bed and took him in her mouth sucking enthusiastically on his cock. She took his entire length down her throat and gagged until her mouth flooded his cock in her warm saliva. He groaned, grabbing her head and gently fucking her mouth.
She playfully fought his hands and her mouth let go of his cock only to be replaced by her right hand. She started stroking his rod while her mouth brushed his thighs with light kisses. He grunted listening to the sound of her hand pumping his cock, still wet with her saliva, making a distinctive popping noise.
She took one of his nuts in her mouth and sucked hungrily, pulling his sack away from his body with her mouth. He started moaning when she took his other ball in her mouth and repeated the procedure, her hand still stroking his cock.
Her mouth returned to his cock. She was teasingly sucking and licking the head, which was now a glistening bright pink. Her talented tongue circled the crown of his head as her right hand stroked his shaft. He felt his cock quiver as the nerve endings sent sparks throughout his groin. He groaned and his legs threatened to collapse. It seemed like the only thing holding him up was her hand gripped firmly around the base of his dick and her mouth pulling on its tip.
His cock was throbbing almost painfully as her full lips tightly encircled him and her warm mouth soaked his cock. He breathlessly told her he was going to cum, expecting her to pull back and stroke him off with her hand, but her mouth continued assaulting his cock. He humped her mouth, his hips moving as if with a life of their own.
He finally blew his wad in her mouth. She took his full length in her mouth and gagged as she swallowed his cum, her throat contracting around his cock head and sucking the remainder of his cum until his balls were empty.
Her mouth let go of his cock with a pop and she looked teasingly up at him while her wicked pink tongue flicked across the head of his dick making him shudder and groan.
He looked down at her and said, "Mi dios, usted es una calientapollas." In English it meant, "My god, you are a cock tease."
He lay on the bed for a few minutes to recuperate. His breath was short and his heart was pounding. His whole body felt like his bones dissolved and he was melting into the mattress.
Isabella lit a cigarette and took a long puff. She closed her eyes as she sucked in the nicotine and exhaled rings of smoke. She offered him the cigarette and his arm barely made it high enough to grab it from her and take a puff.
She asked, "Are you okay?"
He laughed. "I am more than okay. I am exhausted and happy. I'm almost afraid to ask where you learned to do that."
He handed the cigarette back to her and she held it between her fingers as she kissed his shoulder.
She said, "You don't want to know."
He said sleepily, "Let me rest a few minutes until I am fully recuperated so I can return the favor."
He closed his eyes, his breathing and heartbeat returned to normal but he still felt like a wet noodle. The Spanish guitar album had ended and the apartment was deathly quiet. He just realized that she didn't own a television set. Not that it was a big deal. There were more entertaining things to do in the city than watch I Love Lucy or You Bet Your Life. Like her, he preferred listening to music.
He heard her stub out her cigarette and felt her get off the bed. He opened his eyes a slit to watch her naked figure walk around the foot of the bed, her breasts jiggling enticingly, as she made her way to the bathroom.
He didn't realize he fell asleep until she gently nudged him awake, calling his name in that deep, sexy voice of hers.
"You better not fall asleep. It is close to 10:00. I imagine you have to leave soon."
He grabbed her and with his arm around her, he flipped her over onto her back with his body on top of hers. He kissed her mouth, noticing that she brushed her teeth because her tongue tasted minty and not like his cum. She wrapped her arms around him and started gently scratching his back as her right leg wrapped around his left and moved up and down his thigh. Her groans were like the deep purr of a big cat. Her return kiss matched his own passion.
It didn't take long for his cock to reawaken. He poked at her curly pubic hairs with the head of his dick and it soon started to grow.
He stopped kissing her and concentrated on her full breasts. He grabbed her right with both his hands until the tip was like a muffin bulging over the top. He first flicked his tongue over her nipple until it grew hard and long like the point of a pencil. Then he repeated the procedure on the other.
He looked at her nipples. They were much darker than the rest of her porcelain skin and the areolas around them were the size of half dollars and the color of café au lait. He took turns sucking each erect nipple as she groaned and wriggled beneath him, her hands combing through his hair. She was breathless and when he kissed the side of her neck, just below her ear, he felt her pulse quickened.
She tilted her head back, thrusting her breasts at him as she whispered, "Fuck me, Franco, please?"
He reached across the bed and grabbed the condom packet on the bedside table. He felt like a clumsy teenager trying to get it opened. When he finally pulled it out, he sat back on his haunches between her legs and rolled it onto his cock. He noticed her watching and licking her lips. Just remembering how she sucked his cock with such enthusiasm made it ache to be inside her.
He backed up on the bed and parted her pussy lips. Her hair was dark and curly, forming a perfect triangle over her plump pussy lips. Inside she was a glistening bright pink. He touched her pretty little bud and she gasped in surprise. Then he lowered his face and gently licked her clitoris, rubbing his tongue up and down its length until she started whimpering. She lifted her right leg over his left shoulder and the heel of her foot pushed down on his back.
Her pussy started singing as he enthusiastically licked and sucked it. It was popping and slurping as he sucked her nub and his fingers fucked her until they were soaking wet with her juices. When he was certain she was wet enough, he kneeled in front of her with her right leg still over his shoulder and he hefted her left leg over his right shoulder before sliding his cock inside her.
She was just as warm and wet as he imagined and he had to concentrate so he wouldn't climax too soon. He pushed down on her thighs with his body until her hips were tilted upwards off the bed then he thrust into her.
Her voice was disjointed from the pounding he was giving her and she kept whispering, "Fuck, oh fuck," over and over again. She had her eyes closed and her head tilted back. Her face was flushed rose pink and the tip of her tongue kept wetting her full lips, her tits jiggling with each of his thrusts.
He started with the Spanish obscenities, hoping his lovers didn't know what he meant and be appalled. Most women thought they were Spanish words of endearment...and some of them were...but others referred to the woman as his sweet "puta" (whore) and a calientapollas (cock teaser) or he talked about her wet "chimba" (pussy) and sang the praises of her ass with Me encanta tu culo (I love your ass). So he was surprised when Isabella said, "Yes, make me your puta." She followed that with a yelp as her pussy climaxed, sucking at his cock the same way her soft, wet mouth had.
She started whimpering and moaning as if she was in pain. He would have been worried but she didn't beg him to stop and he felt her climax again and again as her pussy clenched his cock and her body shuddered. While she had multiple orgasms, she grabbed his biceps and dug her nails in, not hard enough to leave a mark but enough for him to understand her anguish.
His balls were like rocks as they banged against her ass. Suddenly his cock felt like lightning sizzled through it and he shot his cum into the tip of the rubber. He would have preferred to smell it mixed with her musky juices and feel it squish into her wet cunt with his final thrusts but not getting her pregnant was more important. He grunted like a beast as he unloaded the rest of his cum inside the condom.
They were both breathing heavily and his heart was pounding as her legs dropped from his shoulders. He slipped his cock out of her and wanted to collapse on top of her but knew he had to get the rubber off before it slipped off.
He looked down at his sweet puta and her upper chest was bright pink as if an orgasm gave her a rash. Her chin length hair was mussed and a clump stuck to her sweaty forehead. She had her eyes closed as her pink tongue ran over her lips and then she bit her lower lip.
He leaned over and kissed her luscious lips. When he was going to pull away, she held his head in place and whispered against his mouth, "Thank you."
"You are more than welcome, mi amor. I better get rid of this condom. I will be right back."
He jumped off the bed and hurried to the bathroom. He slid the condom off and threw it in the toilet. His legs felt rubbery as he took a piss and groaned. He couldn't remember the last time he enjoyed fucking someone so much. Most of his lovers preferred more traditional sex. He was lucky if he found a woman who was willing to fuck in a position other than missionary style but they never objected to him eating their pussies though.
The only other woman who sucked his cock like Isabella did was the older woman who took his virginity when he was a teenager. She was a friend of his mother's married to an uncaring and neglectful husband. She asked him to help her with something in the house. His reward was a bottle of beer and the loss of his virginity. After she sucked his dick she told him she did it so he would have something to remember her by. It worked and he always remembered her fondly.
He shook out his dick and flushed the toilet, putting down the seat and cover afterwards. He washed his hands and wondered if Isabella would mind if he took a shower. He turned off the water and returned to her bed.
She was sitting up on the bed, her back against the padded headboard. She'd run her fingers through her hair. It was still tousled but in a sexy, just-fucked way. She was still naked and uncovered, smoking a cigarette. He sat on the bed next to her and reached for the cigarette, she let him take a long drag. He handed it back to her and kissed her warm shoulder.
"Thank you. That, my dear, was amazing."
Her husky laugh sent lightning-like charges to his dick. He willed it to stay down because he didn't have any more condoms.
"I am glad you enjoyed it." She flicked the ashes off her cigarette into a fancy cut glass ashtray on the nightstand and said, "Do you think we could do it again sometime soon?"
He leaned over and kissed her mouth. Her perfume smelled of orange blossoms and her mouth tasted faintly of mint and her cigarette.
When he pulled away he said, "Wild horses couldn't keep me away."
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