Naked Inspiration

A collection by P.A. Choi

Copyright 2021 P.A. Choi

Cover design by P.A. Choi.

Table of Contents

The Nudes

Cabana by the Sea

Ass Man

The Three Cutest Nudists

Anything Can Happen

Pixel Perfect

About P.A. Choi

The Nudes

It was hard for Simon to reconcile to people the artistic merit of his works with the obvious eroticism contained in them, no matter how subtle he thought they were. His paintings were usually portraits, or scenes with a subject in action, almost always women, models he knew who posed for the portraits or for photos which he used for reference, like a girl sitting on a railing and looking out at Lake Michigan, a yellow sundress hanging on her shoulders and rippling in the wind. The sundress was his usual pick for the subject's attire, for it accentuated—subtly—the beauty of his subjects. But he also depicted scenes of his friend, Trish, navigating through an abandoned business lot overrun with weeds, wearing denim shorts and a bathing suit top (her choice), her thin body practically swallowed by the former piece of clothing and made seemingly naked by the latter. Or a portrait of another model, sitting with her hands folded, smiling calmly, wearing a classic white tank-top that was maddeningly filled out by her. Yet his pictures brought no extra-special attention to the alluring details of his women subjects. Nevertheless, everybody recognized the artist's gaze at work, for he never attempted to hide or crop out or draw focus away from those details, either. Yet in the settings and framings, he thought he was being apathetic. But he wasn't. It kind of hurt him at first, when someone commented on it, but it stung more when one of his models observed—good-naturedly, matter-of-factly, as if Simon himself knew what he was doing—how he had brought out a natural eroticism in his pictures.

He became known for his attention to detail, like the line on a neck that is turned, the cords of muscle on a bare torso, or the goose down at the fringes of a neckline. These things had such true-to-life detail that the scenery surrounded them sometimes felt abstract by comparison, and it was in discovering this that Simon realized there was nothing subtle, in fact, about his paintings. It was a shock to his ego.

It shouldn't have been, though, as he sold many of his works. He did not create them chiefly to sell, but created them from his own passion. Making money off of them was just a bonus. There were some originals he would never sell. Those were the ones that were born fully out of his passion. As was the one that he would work on next.

He had spent some time pondering his artistic direction. The new revelation of how others viewed his work made him want to dial back, to maybe even not do portraits anymore, and focus on his landscapes. But while he had an appreciation for a scene full of atmosphere (be it coziness, mystery, or foreboding), they did not pull on his mind as much as the erotic pull that his body was programmed to react to. And, apparently, for what he was known for. So he made a decision: he would double down. He would depict his purest fantasy scene, with no screen of subtlety to hide his true self. Unfiltered.

Perhaps he should have started small, but he decided he wanted it to be an epic piece, a grand undertaking, a grand statement that this is what his art would be from now on. Combining his second love of landscapes, he would depict a garden or a grove, some comfy and manicured piece of nature, in which, reclining, would be an entire group of young women, and not one of them would be wearing any clothes.

Simon knew he would be working on this piece for some time, and he was fine with that. He knew that once he got a laser focus, it would not waver, and if this painting took months away from other pieces he could do, then so be it. It would be his greatest piece. The question was how to attain visual inspiration. First, he took walks and drives out of the city to find the perfect spot, and found it at the edge of a park in fact within the city, but if framed right, it would look like somewhere in the middle of Eden. He carefully framed a photograph of it. The next question was getting references for the subjects.

Luckily, Trish was more than happy to pose nude for him, though hesitant that it would be a photograph. "Just so you're not going to post these online anywhere," she said. "I won't," he told her, and meant it, though in his eyes no woman should ever put her trust in those words. "Unless you want it for a portfolio or something."

She didn't know about that, but she did step into the sunlight of his apartment's picture window and pull off her tank-top, and Simon was taken aback for a moment that Trish, his friend of several years and constant model and muse, was now in fact about to be nude in his very own home. The sunlight made the translucent hairs on her arms glow, and as she unfastened her bra, her small, nearly flat chest glowed too, not at first, but when she turned sideways, the highlight from the window brought out their delicateness. Simon turned to give her a modicum of privacy in undressing at least and went to grab his camera, and when he came back, she was standing there, completely naked, her clothes at the bottom of the couch in a small pile (it was only a tank-top and shorts, barely enough to cover her whole body, and it was quite funny to reflect that just a few stitches of that material would make someone decent enough to walk outside), her legs bare, knees knobby, thighs tapering out, leading up to a skinny waist and a thin, dark landing strip up from the crevice of her sex. Its pencil-thin and neat appearance seemed to compliment Trish and her personality: so free-wheeling, but also calm; modest, but also shameless; tastefully dressed, even when wearing little. He wondered, doubted, if he would be able to depict it (the landing strip) in his painting, for he had wanted Trish to be laying down. Perhaps, with the right vantage point, he could depict it, but it would be from a whole new angle, one where it would look different than it did to him now, and he would find out those angles soon enough. He raised his eyes to meet hers when he realized he had been staring at his friend. This was his first time seeing her naked.

"Did you want to lay down a towel or something on the couch, or do you mot really care?" she asked casually, swinging her arms back and forth beside her hips and that scandalous view.

"I don't mind," Simon said. "I know you're a clean person. Just lay there on your side, I guess."

"Like Kate Winslet in Titanic?" she asked. Simon's eyes brightened. "Yeah," he said. "We'll try that first." Perhaps he would get to depict Trish fully, without hiding anything, such as was his new artist's mission.

She gracefully laid down along his couch and the sunlight traced her sinuous side, which she lay a glowing peach-fuzzed arm along. She drew one thigh up, effectively hiding her pubic hair, but Simon did not tell her to move it. That would feel weird. Like a fashion photographer, he snapped her first picture. The lighting and all the other intricacies of professional photography weren't important; he just needed to get an impression. In that first shot, Trish was looking right at the camera, right at him, smiling in amusement for their very first photo. He then instructed her to look off to the end of the room, to imagine that there were many other girls with her, and she was talking or laughing or studying them. He took several photos of her like that, before she changed positions.

He photographed her kneeling, holding up an imaginary apple (the apple of her own being now teased at the termination of her thighs), laying on her stomach, with the gentle slope of her back and butt making its own landscape and her feet pointed in the air. They eventually even took one of her standing, posture as if she were walking, perhaps stepping out of a spring, one hand slightly raised and the other at her side, and the landing strip finally unobstructed, looking right back at Simon and eventually the viewer of the painting. He decided he would play around with several of the poses, for he was not sure he could get other models to agree to be nude for him. Not for photographs. For paintings, maybe, but even that was a maybe.

Trish relaxed and was interested to see the photos, and rather than stepping close to her nude body to show her on the viewing screen, Simon went to go get his laptop, affording Trish the opportunity to get dressed, which she disappointingly did, and as he set his computer on the kitchen counter and she stood close to him in her tank-top and shorts, it felt weird to have her now clothed and to be looking at the nude images he had just taken. She seemed pleased with them, and re-assessed that he would not share them anywhere, and he swore he wouldn't. There wasn't a hint of the next unasked question, whether or not he would pleasure himself to these images, but he did not, though he looked at them in wonder. And imagination, putting her into the scene.

With rudimentary Photoshop skills, he snipped her multiple poses along the landscape of the park to get an idea. A myriad of Trishes should accompany his painting, it seemed, but that was not what he wanted. He wanted varying faces, hair, and body types. He could embellish this rough image. He would need more stimuli, though.

He did not ask anybody else to pose nude. He was too unsure of himself to do it. Instead, he went to the internet. He went to Femjoy.com. Domai.com. Met-Art. Galitsin Archives. Many tasteful nude photo sites, on which he spent much time scrolling, clicking expanding, and saving. Not all the models struck him, but some did. Like a ton of bricks. He got lost in the endless ocean of attractive, bare models. Eventually, he would drop them onto the park scene in Photoshop, with the opacity turned down on each girl to get an idea of her placement. Soon he had the impressions of a tapestry of tasteful nudes in various states of relaxation or activity. Then, he began sketching out his thumbnails. What filled his sketchpad was the storyboard of what his vision would be: just outlined silhouettes and the impressions of trees. He would not copy the images he placed exactly, but fill in with his own imagination. He had enough of a guide now, though. The playing around in Photoshop reduced the need to work on the thumbnail extensively, so that after one sitting, he was ready to begin painting. He was glad for that, for he had considered taking his sketchbook to the local coffee shop or park, but feared a rubbernecker looking over his shoulder. There was no need to worry about that now, as he was about to approach the part of his work that would require total isolation.

His one trip out before that work began was to buy a massive landscape canvas. The store clerk was interested in what he was doing with it, for he knew Simon and his work. Simon explained that it was a special project and that it would redefine his work. He didn't say any more, but the clerk was definitely interested.

That canvas sat blank in the living room of his apartment, propped up on several easels and nearly filling the room from end to end. It sat like that for one full day, and then Simon pulled up a chair and began the first strokes that would begin the creation of his fantasy. He started with the image of Trish, standing as if she had just stepped out of a fresh spring. He outlined her first, capturing the way her arm was subtly raised. A single swiping brush stroke marked her pubic hair, to be detailed later with tiny, curling strokes to accentuate each fiber. Skin color filled in her thighs and stomach, and the same borrowed hue from her landing strip, mixed to make brown, adorned her head. He left her in a rough, half-realized state to begin the landscape which the other girls would fill, and Trish was a bookend to start the line of eroticism that would travel from left to right, over bodies lithe and voluptuous.

His work was short and uncommitted the first two days, turning to long stretches the days after, and snowballed into full dedication on the second week, with the forms of the girls all materialized, and the basics of their colors filled in. A fresh, vibrant green grew all around them, and the picture slowly, very slowly, came to life. Simon burned out his brain living in the world he was creating, so that when he was not painting, he hardly wanted to think of naked girls in Eden, though they followed him into his dreams and provided more inspiration. He dreamed of being in the middle of all these women, of laying on the grass nude, of his lesser self extending up into waiting hands. Of bursting pleasure up past grasping fingers. He had thought that might be a neat addition to the picture: a man awash in Heaven, right in the middle of it. But perhaps that would be his next piece. Too much work had gone into this one to change his layout and his vision, which was of a dozen girls unconcerned with sexual excitement, just naturally enjoying themselves, effortlessly erotic.

Trish came by to visit one day and she was pleased with how the painting was coming along. She recognized herself at the far left, though Simon silently noted that she did not recognize the re-purposing of her poses in the other girls. The kneeling girl just right of center, holding an apple, was her, though her hair fell past her shoulders, some strands making a thin curtain over her much-fuller breasts, and the teasing termination of her thighs presented a neat, obtuse wedge for pubic hair, rather than a thin strip. The Titanic-inspired pose reclined behind a sunbathing girl laying face up, with her arms outstretched, and her face joyously greeting the sun.

While there, Trish took the opportunity to ask about the photos, and if they had been of good use (she observed that she thought they had), and whether they would be of further use. Simon admitted they were no longer needed, and together, they agreed to delete the photos. Simon brought up his laptop and destroyed them in front of her, and then also deleted them off his camera's memory card, though the patched-together Photoshop still remained, the one last trace of her having posed nude in his living room, save for the depiction on the canvas.

He took a break one day to go for a walk and found himself at the park that was depicted in his picture. He could not see it without naked girls laying about in it, and eventually he left, as every woman he passed, he imagined naked. Every man was changed into a woman. Every child aged up enough to be alluring, and every dog stood on two feet, or crawled on hands and naked knees.

He needed no further inspiration. The thumbnail and the Photoshop were no longer looked at, as he now was filling in the details: the line of shade along a thigh, or the careful recreation of the glowing peach fuzz of Trish's arms, though on a different model. The landscape remained somewhat less detailed, but he strived to put a glint of sunlight on a fat leaf, or a bird happily hopping about, oblivious to the significance of the scene. In those details, recreating nature separate from humankind, he felt himself practically entering the scene. He could smell the grass, and hear the birds. He stood, not sat, in front of the canvas, adding dashes of specked sunlight filtering through the branches, when he was not sure if he was in a dream or not. The implied motion of his picture attained actual motion, and as he got drawn in, he heard feminine laughter.

His living room had faded away, and all there was, was the park, and its nude inhabitants. The girl propping up the apple brought it to her mouth to taste, delicately, the surface of the fruit with her paler, pink lips, before taking a tiny bite. Trish's likeness, stepping out of the pool, glittered with water droplets, which fell off her wrist as she raised it. And Simon felt warm hands on his shoulders.

Standing, then falling to his knees, then settling on the earth, Simon was inundated with bare, perfect skin sliding against him like satin. He found his hand tracing a polished shoulder, a pillowy breast, a taut thigh. He found himself laying on the ground, looking up at descending faces. He felt breasts collapsing onto his face. He felt a hand on his member, suddenly exposed, as was the rest of him. He felt the sun and breeze on his skin, and twenty fingertips, and the ends of hanging hair. He smelled the saltyish taste of sweat, and heard the high laughter of a dozen naked girls.

He opened his eyes—he did not even realize they were closed—and the scene was fully there: he could no longer see the skyscrapers in the distance, but instead mountains, and there was no sense that they were anywhere near any type of civilization except for a Victorian village, and he and his company were relaxing in a small grove, without a care in the world. He lay upon the sunbathing girl, felt her torso against his, and felt himself enter her, while others crowded around. He found himself rolled over, watching lips descended on his waving staff, feeling the velvety embrace of several mouths. He felt a surge. He expulsed. Rivers of white gushed on smiling lips, and then all was black. Then there was scenery again: he laying with the varied bodies, and then he was in his apartment once more, staring at the girl looking up at the sun, an errant brushstroke of sunlight bleeding over the fat, green leaf of the tree above her. It could be corrected, he thought. He must have been tired. It was dark outside his picture window. The lights of other apartments glowed orange like a finely organized sentry of fireflies, and the brushstrokes of sunset ebbed into darkness. He hung it up for the night.

*****

He had decided to get some fresh air a couple days later and went to the local grocer down the street to get a few things. He had been lost in his landscape for such intense amounts of time that it was strange seeing the actual sun, not the one in his painting or the one in his imagination. The stark urban environment contrasted with his nature scene as well, which he took note of as he went through the door of the grocer and heard the bell chime and said “hi” to the clerk and wandered through the narrow and short aisles with a basket. When he got to the front with his things, the clerk, a young, heavyset guy with oily black hair and caramel skin, was grinning.

"You're that artist guy, right?" he asked him. Simon tensed a little. He didn't quite like being the center of attention. "Yeah," he said, though the young man had seen him come in and out of the store for over a year.

"Man, I don't know how you do it," he said.

"It's not that hard. You just have to have a little imagination and a lot of dedication."

"No, I mean I don't know how you get girls to come over to your place and just take off their clothes just like that."

Now he really tensed. Crap. So he had seen Trish in the window. He must live at the same height across the street, Simon thought, where he could look right in and see what was going on. How would Trish react to that? Maybe it was best she didn't know.

In Simon’s shocked silence, the clerk continued. "I mean, you had to have had like twelve of them over. How'd you get them all to agree to it?"

Simon shot his eyes to meet the young man's, worked his mouth, and found it dry. Twelve?

"I guess it's all for the art. Man, maybe I should become an artist."

Simon could not say anything and just stood there with his grocery items sitting there waiting to be scanned. Finally the boy decided Simon was not going to elaborate and rang him up. "Tell you what, man, you got the life."

"Yeah..."

He walked out of the store in a daze, thinking about what the boy said and wondering what exactly he saw through the wide picture window from all the way across the street.

When he got home, his painting was waiting for him, all twelve girls caught in mid-motion as they cavorted and relaxed in the grove, all of them still, but implied life flowing from them. The painting was almost done, so he didn't work on it that day. But he stared at it. He pulled up his chair and looked deep into the scene until the leaves in the foreground and the ones in the background—and the girls in between—seemed to have depth to them. He stared for hours. He tore himself away, then came back later, holding a cup of coffee and standing there, looking deep into it. His eyes lifted to look out at the lighted apartments across the way, where he thought he could see a tiny silhouette of a person standing in the window. What was he seeing, Simon wondered? Eventually he went to bed, for he was very tired.

That night, he did not dream of a scenescape of naked girls. He didn't have to. He lay awake in the dim light of his bedroom, the light of the city ebbing in so that it was not pitch black, but a dull, blurry kaleidoscope of colors. There were enough shadows to harbor shapes that usually formed in that transitionary period between wakefulness and sleep, and eventually those shapes took more concrete form, became pale instead of shadowy, and stepped away from the walls of the room to surround his bed. On all three sides, the women from his painting looked down at him, and even more: Some were definitely new, like an older woman with very outwardly-pointing breasts, large despite a thin frame, or a very short, very dainty girl with the longest hair of the group, long and black, descending over her chest and ending at a matching black shade below. They were pulled not from his imagination but from somewhere deep in his subconscious, perhaps girls he had met long ago, now standing nude, exposed, and closing in with a smile. He threw aside his blanket.

Cabana by the Sea

It was strange how even a paradise could feel gloomy. It wouldn't have made a difference if it was actually raining, but there hadn't been rain while David was there. The sun and sky were brilliant and the sand and the water were vibrant. The breeze was always steady and the ocean roaring and seagulls crying were a constant white noise, something somebody would listen to on a recording to get to sleep. But for David, as he sat in the dark of his cabana, these sounds seemed melancholy. Stepping onto the back deck, the wind ruffling through his sandy hair, he could not help but identify the beauty with depression. Beauty always had a dark edge. Tragedy could happen alongside cheerful music. Horror could happen under the sun. While a group of people could be running along the beach, laughing, a mile down the shore, somebody could be floating dead in the water. That was life.

An image entered his mind. The dim light of his home office. The light of dusk comes through the second-story window. His lamp is not on. The room is grey. A door opens and coming from an orange glow outside steps a young woman, her face happily nervous, her hand creeping around the edge of the door and then pushing it aside to reveal her in full like a magician revealing an empty booth, and the revelation of this girl's nude body gives her energy, the act of being seen drawing her into the room, eager to be looked at and felt. She is thin and graceful, her breasts small yet full-looking, their perfect symmetry complimented by her narrow, bared shoulders. Her hair is tied up atop her head, and down below, a shade darker, is a triangle made of scraggly lines, traveling to the central point, hidden underneath. The triangle shifts with each movement of her slim thighs, her feet crossing over each other as she steps closer, making her hips cant and sway in a hypnotizing way. Her color leaves her as she gets farther from the warm light of the hallway, but she is still the most colorful thing in the room. Gliding one's hand up her side, her skin is as taut and smooth as polished wood, her breast, cupping into the palm, surprisingly soft and weightless. The scent of her hair is distinct. Her body is hot as it presses against your shirt, and you trace the domes of her butt, smooth and flawless as a globe but soft as a pillow. Descending into your chair, she looms over you, and sits back on the desk, parting her knees directly before you and opening up a chasm of delight. The hairy cave, and the finally-glimpsed, once-hidden feature, scarlet within the black; it makes you think of food for some reason, and appropriately, your face draws near, as if by an invisible pull, until you are smothered in it, full of her scent, tongue lapping from tip to tip the tawny ridges, folding and collapsing to trace between them, tasting the saltyish essence. Her hand rests atop your head, and after a moment, she makes her first sound.

A memory such as this was not worth it, David decided, but believed with a small part of himself that it was, when in that same room, in different lighting because of his lit lamp, his colleague—father of his mistress—swept up the lamp, yanking its cord from the wall, and hurled it at David. He leaned aside to dodge, even though the thrower was way off his mark. It crashed into the wall and the lighting was now the same monochromatic grey from his other memory. The mood was, obviously, completely different. Light and dark in the same room. Happiness and tragedy.

David sighed, returning to the darkness of his cabana. Here the darkness was all too similar to his study back at his home, except the light coming through the windows was more colorful, the shadows inside a deeper black, and the lull of ocean in the background ever-present. He had come to the cabana to write. Something, anything. He had decided he might write about his observations of Paradise and Perdition. But his previous muse came back to him, hovered before him, dominated his mind with that delicious but painful memory. He did not write on it, though. Instead, he laid down for a nap.

*****

It seemed he wouldn't get any writing done in his two-day stay at the cabana, which he occasionally rented to get away from the dullness of his suburb home. Not that he had any specific goal on getting anything written; he was enjoying royalties from his last book, an erotic, fictionalized memoir inspired by his obsession with his colleague's daughter, who was a sophomore in college and had been introduced to him by her father so that he could help inspire her own writing. He hadn't seen either of them since the day of the thrown lamp, and it felt weird thriving off a book that had their souls wrapped up inside. Staying at the cabana wasn't soothing his soul from that soreness, either.

While his Saturday was spent sitting in the darkness of the cabana, Sunday was spent attempting to take a walk, where he still observed his feelings unchanging, listless even in the activity and the scenery. Gloominess in Paradise. He decided maybe he would start writing on this when he got back inside. Maybe the walk was at least stirring his productive mind, if not uplifting it. He eventually made his way back, looking forward to how he would word things. It did almost lift his mood. or at least leveled it. Contemplating sadness was preferable to sitting through it. When he got back to the cabana, he walked inside and made some coffee, and looked over the things he had strewn about, knowing he would be packing up soon, as he was only supposed to stay until midday. He went to the desk in the kitchen and opened his laptop, brought up his folder, and then went back to the coffee pot. He waited impatiently, looking out the window as the pot finished gurgling and spurting, staring at the surf as he tried to sort out his thoughts, and as he did, a person walking along the beach caught his immediate attention, for she was unexpectedly nude, lithe and pretty as his previous flame, though her hair (also tied back) was dark brown, almost black, and he could see the faintest sliver of black in front of her hips as she walked with her side facing him, the roundness of her compact breasts outlined in front of her. She walked with slow, careful steps, scanning the beach ahead and casting glances at the cabana, seemingly at the window, through the window, right into David's beholding eyes. But she did not hold that gaze, and quickly turned to face the sea, as if to put the threat of the cabana and its possible voyeur out of mind, presenting him the symmetry of her butt, a gently sloping violin outline, and she put her arms out as if to welcome the breeze.

The coffee was done brewing with one last coughing spurt, and David poured himself a fresh mug of it and then headed to the back deck.

He didn't see her at first when he stepped out and wondered if she might have been an illusion, another fancy of his fantasies, but then he saw her head break water. She was swimming gently close to shore, back and forth, and she stood for a moment to let a wave crash into her, not even her butt above the water. She was enveloped in the spray and then turned around, letting herself fall forward and digging her hands into the churning sand, and that's when she looked up at him, as he was leaning against the railing, cradling his coffee mug in his hands. She remained still while the water sprayed all around her head. David was so charmed by the sight that his melancholy disappeared, and he found himself smiling innocently. He took one of his hands away from the mug and gave a casual wave.

At this, the girl pushed off the ground and stood, rising out of the water and revealing her front, as symmetrical as the rear, her breasts spaced a fist apart, each areola slightly pointed out and upwards, and a black strip below, not a triangle, tracing the contour of her mound, all this with a dramatic splash of a wave against her back that highlighted her coming to shore like an enchanting siren. She stepped onto the soggy sand and walked directly towards the deck, stopping when she was close enough to have a conversation at a holler. There was not much on this end of the beach, but buildings far, far down-shore could surely see her, if someone on a top floor noticed a curious perfect shade of tan and took out binoculars to see.

"You got a lot of guts!" Dave called out. "But I suppose this is the perfect beach to skinnydip."

"I love it!" she called back, then nodded her head towards the cabana. "Though I hardly ever see anybody here. I've even come up on the porch a few times."

David thought on that, strangely mystified by the apparent fact that she had at one point occupied the same space that he was standing in, unbeknownst to him.

"I'm just renting it. I come here sometimes to write."

"Oh, you write?"

She came closer by a few more yards. It was amazing how casual she was about being nude in front of him. It probably did not concern her too much if there ever would be anybody in the cabana. He was entranced by the details that came into clearer view: the ruddiness of her skin, not a complete even shade, but like a churning of gold and red clouds; the remarkable light color of her areolas, which were actually a light pink compared to the more tan skin surrounding them; the peek of her mound-crevice below the strip, which was shaggy, a line of wild curls; and the water glistening on her neck and streaming down her abdomen, like liquid fire on her sun-hot skin.

"What do you write?" she pressed.

"Oh, this and that. Musings, you could say. I am published. I was just figuring out what to do next here." Looking at her, he was almost certain what he would do next. Thoughts of pain and Paradise faded away to be replaced by some unique form of the latter.

"That's cool," she said. "I bet you'll write about me, huh?"

David's grin grew wider. "I probably will."

The girl smiled at that, then, she pirouetted on the sand to give him plenty stimuli to store in his brain, an artistry of natural form and grace seen from all angles at once, David noting the full dimension of her butt as seen from the side (jutting out slightly) to rear (the magic violin) and then swelling out again as she finished her twirl with a laugh, then calling up: "So you come here lots?"

"Usually once a month. Sometimes more. Probably more lately."

"Well maybe I'll see you again," she said, with a care-free swing of her arms, and she turned and walked to the right—the opposite direction from which she had initially appeared, David noted—and she looked over her shoulder once at him before wandBeccag up the shore, him watching her butt sway with her playful steps until she splashed into the water again, and there he lost sight of her, as if she were a mystical mermaid, and he finally took the first sip of his coffee, cool now, and then retreated inside to write, and the floodgates finally opened and he wrote a vignette of the experience, not knowing what he'd do with it.

*****

He left before dusk, much later than he intended. He had written for a good stretch and switched from coffee to whiskey in the middle, then sat and contemplated his work for long after, then took a nap, and then finally packed up to leave, stepping out one more time to watch the dimming ocean skyline in hopes of seeing the naked girl again. He left the key on the kitchen counter and locked up, knowing he would receive no extra charge since nobody else was expected to come that week, and the owner wouldn't even show up to clean until Monday or later. David got into his car and made the hour drive back home, eager to get there while trapped in the silent car with his churning thoughts.

He took his work to his study, that damp grey study, and backed up his writing and thought about what to do with it, and thought about what to do with his time, and eventually decided the cabana would be a weekend stop for the time being. He did not go on the following weekend, taking the time instead to clean up around his house and then go to the park to think further, watching young college and high school girls walk past in their short-shorts and skirts and struck by the eroticism hiding in every locale, thinking up words he wanted to get out, and did, upon his return home. He did not go one waking hour without pondBeccag on what he wanted to say, and he looked forward to going back to the cabana to fully commit to his new angle without distractions. Except for his nude visitor, which was a welcome distraction, and who did return.

*****

He saw her mid-Saturday after he had had a decent morning of writing, switching to his usual whiskey for when he got in a groove, which he stepped out onto the deck with to get some sun, and there she was. She was walking from the left, possibly from where she stayed (there were some high-rise apartments further up the beach, David knew), and she was looking up at the cabana and waved before he did. She was a remarkable sight; to be so carefree (or careless), in the bright, open air, as casual as anybody else who might be seen strolling along the beach. She didn't call out, but instead turned towards the water and walked in, just like the previous time, and he watched her slip into the water and then observed her head and shoulders bobbing about, and considered waiting there to watch her the whole time, though considered that it might be rude and even a little creepy, so he stepped away from the rail, had one brief doubtful thought that he should perhaps stay and make sure she didn't get into to trouble, but then remembered that she did this often, often with nobody there to watch her, so he took one last look and then went inside, wanting to capture these fresh images on the page, to practice describing her and the mood around her, though he had a little trouble getting the momentum back, and just as he was about to type his next word, he was surprised by movement outside on the deck. The girl had come to visit him.

She was seated at the straw chairs on the deck, patiently folding her hands on her crossed knees as he stepped out. There she was for him in full detail, and he could now finally make out the subtle emotions of her face, which traveled from amused to contented in their time together.

"Have a nice swim?" he asked as he walked up to her and sat his sweating glass down on the table.

"Oh, wonderful," she said. "I'm spoiled living so close to the beach."

"I can imagine." He took a seat at the table, just one-fourth around the circumference from her. "Part of me wants to move out here myself."

They took in a reflective silence, and the girl looked out at the extending surf from where she had come. David took in the sight of her casual breasts, huddled with each other and delicate in their soft form. "You're also lucky to get away with this," he said. She turned her head to him and smiled.

"Oh yeah. Nobody bothers me out there. This beach might as well be clothing-optional."

"Why do you do it?"

"Why not? It feels great. Who wants to walk around sweating under a swimsuit in a place like this?"

"Fair point," David said with a laugh. Then she asked the ultimate question: "So what are you writing about today?"

He laughed again, wiped whiskey dampness from his lips, and looked at her squarely.

"Well, as a matter of fact... you."

Now she laughed, and uncrossed and re-crossed her legs, leaning forward now.

"Oh really, so I'm your muse, am I?"

"I guess."

"Can I read it?"

He contemplated her request. He usually didn't like people reading his work, especially when it was formless and in progress. But he relented.

"Sure. Come in."

It was a surreal feeling having a nude and beautiful girl enter his cabana and not opening up her legs to him, and David tried to pretend that the situation was normal. It wasn't, but it was a special kind of not-normal. There was something dream-like about entertaining this guest and letting her sit her bare butt in the same chair he worked in and scroll through his writings with a keen eye while he moved about in the kitchen, considBeccag making some more coffee.

"This is nice," she said. "A little 'ode to women' feeling, but nice."

"It's kind of my shtick, I guess," David said, coming up next to her.

"You describe me just as if you had taken a photograph of me," she said, turning to look at him, moving her head up to reach his eyes. "Even better than a photograph. Are you going to publish this? I would definitely buy a copy."

"Maybe you can sign it," he said. They both had a laugh. David didn't know how to proceed from there, for besides her face being right at level with the fly of his pants, she made no moves or indication of sexual interest, and he was not used to this type of casual nude interaction. But maybe she was shy (hah!). She did hold her gaze for just a split second longer than normal at the crotch of his pants, perhaps waiting for him to unleash himself. He almost reached out and touched her bare shoulder, but then she stood and stretched, quite shamelessly, before him. He was looking directly at her fine and feminine figure exercising its mobility as she let her arms down with a sigh and then cocked her eyebrow at him.

"You know, you oughta try it sometime."

"What?"

"Skinnydipping in the ocean. Heck, you could just walk right off your deck naked and go straight into the water."

"The second I did I would probably get caught," he said. "That would be my luck."

They shared another laugh, and it was driving David mad to be standing so close to this girl and to be unable to ravish her. He could only do so with his words.

"Did you want a drink at all?" he asked. "Or coffee?"

"No, that's alright. I'm going to get going in a sec."

"Oh, well okay."

"I'll be back, don't worry," she said, and her grin was devastating. "Whether you're here or not."

"Oh, I'll be here. You got me inspired."

"Get some more work done, good sir."

"Oh, you can call me David."

"Oh, right. Well I'm Elle."

"Well definitely nice to meet you, Elle."

He followed her out to the deck, chasing her with questions as he looked down at that shifting, undulating rear-end, so teasingly close.

"So I guess you live here, or are you just staying?"

"Oh, no, I live in a condo up the way."

"Those are pretty expensive."

"I make enough."

She went down the wooden steps and planted her bare feet on rough sand. She turned and looked up at him, her body at an interesting and new angle, the form of her rounded breasts realized in a new light, her upwards-looking face curiously childlike.

"Well, I'll see you sometime, David."

"Take care," he said with a wave. Elle turned and walked around the deck, disappearing, momentarily, and Dave went inside instead of to the end of the deck towards the beach where he could see her, if he wanted, getting smaller but no less enticing as she walked out, and instead went and collapsed in front of his computer and stared at it for a bit and then decided to take a nap instead even though he did not have any of his coffee yet.

*****

Elle was a regular visitor by this point. David saw her on Sunday, walking along, but they did not meet eyes or holler at each other and she did not stop by on that day. But when he was back next weekend, on an extended stay until Tuesday, she dropped by, and he had made plenty of progress in his writing, which he now decided would be a loosely connected collection of vignettes. Elle read some of them while curled up on the couch he took naps on, with his laptop against her bare thighs. She made comments here and there, some suggestions, some of which he took, though he had often avoided situations in which others would try and write his work for him. They had some of those little brainstorming sessions on that very couch, David seated next to her, her hip and thigh slightly touching him, the low light making interesting shadows along her chest. Those meetings maddened him into late-night writing spurts when she was not there.

He skipped a weekend here and there, as on one rainy evening when he was at home, using his laptop to do something other than writing and paying bills for once, when there was a knock at the door.

It was Becca. His mistress. The daughter of his ex-friend. She was dripping wet and didn't even have a coat on.

"David," she said in the most agonizingly yearning voice, and though David's inclination was to bid her farewell and shut the door to avoid any further trouble, he let her in.

They embraced in a kiss right away, his shirt soaking through from her wetness. When they released, he told her he'd grab a towel, and he returned, she now having moved to the kitchen, and he dabbed her off like a vulnerable child. They kissed again. In seconds, he was pulling her blouse off her shoulders, and she was clawing at his shirt. They were naked in his kitchen seconds later, he incredibly erect against her thigh as they embraced again, her skin so cool and damp and as smooth as he imagined the skin of Elle to be. They traveled to the living room and collapsed on the couch, and turned over and over until Becca was on top of him, where she settled in and rode him with her back arched and her head thrown back. He let his hands caress her soft breasts and let himself float away into the euphoria. He traveled past a wall where he would not cum, which he was thankful for, because for a brief second, he almost lost it with the tension he had stored in the past few weeks. He ended up turning her over from the couch, withdrawing, wielding himself triumphantly over her while feeling her smooth skin with his free hand, and he rocketed out the most painful and forceful burst he had ever had, barely glancing her chin while the rest raced across the fabric of the armrest and the carpet beyond. Becca looked quite surprised. He milked the last out of himself and then rolled off the couch, falling to his knees and letting his head collapse on her stomach. She stroked his hair.

"What was that?" she asked.

"I guess I've been pent up since I last had you."

"I didn't tell my dad I was here, by the way."

"Good. Well, not that it matters, I guess."

They passed a quiet, peaceful moment. Looking down at her fine, thin nest of pubic hairs, he reached forward and tweaked them while she stroked his head. She adjusted her hips a bit.

"You're not gonna ask me if he’s still mad?" she said.

"I think it's over between me and him. I crossed the line."

"I saw your book, by the way."

"Oh?"

"I read a little bit. It was pretty nice."

"Thanks."

"It's why I came over, actually. It made me think of you and me together. I couldn't stop thinking about you."

"Me neither," he lied, and he turned his body forward and worked his way down to her lightly-haired hill, pressing his lips against the crevice of her sex. She continued to stroke his hair, but all talking ceased as she leaned back and cooed gently.

Later, as they walked upstairs still in the nude, she read some of his recent stuff.

"So you have another muse, huh? How is she?"

"I wouldn't know."

"Oh come on. Don't lie. I won't get jealous."

"I really wouldn't know. She's just some girl that comes and swims at the beach by the cabana. She reminded me of you."

Becca smiled, sat on his desk, and laid her legs upon his shoulders. It was time to go to work again.

*****

David went back to the cabana the next weekend, yearning to be there, yearning to see Elle, and typing like mad in spurts, already having filled up many pages before he even left his suburban home. He was awash in his erotic world, and he did not have to wait long to see his muse. She came out of the surf and walked, glittBeccag, tan, up to his deck.

"I missed you," she said as he stepped out with a warm smile and a warm cup of coffee. "Did you run out of things to write?"

"Oh no," David said. "I've been busy."

She joined him inside to look at his latest work, which included a more sexual vignette of a tryst with a nymph. It made Elle raise an eyebrow.

"A little bit of your imagination in there, huh?"

"No, all experience."

She leaned back in his chair, throwing an arm over the backrest and presenting her breasts unceremoniously, though they did not phase David, lost in their beauty though he was.

"So you're a traveling, sexual bard, it looks like," she said.

"I like that."

"I'd call you a man obsessed."

"You think I'm obsessed?"

Elle smiled. She took her arm off the backrest and errantly caressed her chest.

"A little."

David could only grin.

"Well, so long as you don't mind me obsessing."

"I wouldn't say it's healthy. But it's good for art, I suppose."

"Well, all the greatest artists had unhealthy obsessions."

She smiled. "True."

"And who can blame me?" he said, walking around the table and marveling at Elle as she turned in her chair to face him, then turned the other way to meet him on the other side. "But I feel okay with it because part of me figures you like showing off a little."

Elle's smile faltered just a bit. She bit her lip.

"Well, perhaps a little... it's more that I just don't care."

"I mean, surely swimming nude is great, but coming up here and hanging out with me... what drives you to do that?"

She thought on that for a moment.

"I guess I just like challenging the norm. Social nudity is important to me, too. You know I had a partner in crime."

"Oh?"

"Yeah. A friend of mine. A guy my age. He was so innocent. But I don't think he could take it. I had to cut him out."

"You two swam naked together?"

"Yeah. It was fun. Though he kept getting a little too forward. I think he thought it was my way of inviting him into a sexual relationship."

"Well, who could blame him for thinking that?"

Elle was frowning now, but she shrugged. "It's unavoidable sometimes."

"So what's different with me?"

She looked up at him, knowing how his eyes saw her and acknowledging that with grim sobriety, but there was respect there, too. "Well, he didn't have art to channel it into."

David laughed.

"So I am healthy!"

"In a way, maybe. Say, you should really try it sometime. It'll set you free."

"Fat chance. Someone'll see me and call the cops for sure."

It wasn’t long before she announced she had to go, and David followed her out and watched her bound down the steps and cross this time around the back of the cabana towards the direction of her home, navigating the scraggly brush above the sand. David called out.

"Say, how do you get all the way out here like that anyway? Do you undress at some point on the beach?"

Elle spun around, glowing in the afternoon sun, seagulls circling above her.

"No, I just walk out the side entrance of my building!" Then she spun around again and was trotting along the hill. David just shook his head in disbelief. Maybe it wouldn't be unusual for him to be outside nude, like she wanted him to be.

*****

One night, Dave was hunched over the laptop in the dark kitchen, the screen the only light except for the moon coming in, when he heard a rap at the glass door. Elle stood there like a ghostly visitor, a feminine shadow in the dark. The sound of the ocean spilled in when he slid open the door, as if it was her breath.

She apologized for interrupting him and suggested they go for that night swim. David looked back at his computer sitting at the kitchen, then back at her, panting as if she had ran there, her hair down over her bare shoulders, just touching the top slopes of her breasts, and he nodded. "Sure."

They stepped out onto the patio together. David slid the door closed but left it unlocked. Then Elle stood there expectantly, and David knew it was time. No use being shy about it now. In the shine of the moon, he opened his light shirt and quickly took down his shorts. All it took was a matter of seconds, and he was as nude as she, standing taller than she, his pubic hair a dense puff of perfect black, and his lesser self un-erect, his abdomen slightly chiseled with the scant exercise he did do; it was man and woman, two perfect parts of one single specimen, and Elle took his hand and he followed her bareness down the steps.

The wind buffeted his skin and the feeling was terrifying, though David himself was not terrified. It was almost like he was in a dream. The farther they got from the cabana, the more secure and confident he felt, even with the distant twinkling lights of the hotels in the distance to their right. And then they approached the crashing water.

It was warmer than one might have expected, and David marched hand-in-hand with Elle into it, only releasing their grip when it was time to launch forward, and in doing that, David felt as if he were flying. Never before had he felt so incredibly free. Once over the first wave, he floated on the water, turned and saw Elle ebbing towards him, her teeth bright in the moonlight. They grabbed each other's hands again and got closer to shore, and waded around there for some time, letting the waves splash them, making a game out of it, and feeling more and more incredible under the limitless night sky.

The trudge up the beach with the sand in their toes was a nice afterglow. The feeling of vulnerability returned, but there was also comfort and serenity, and hand-in-hand, David let Elle's head fall on his shoulder as they walked up to the cabana like a couple, and he felt the warmest feeling in his chest.

They sat out on his deck to finish drying, sitting in the same chairs they had sat at when they first properly met, and they talked. David admitted the experience was thrilling and soothing. Any trace of melancholy from the beginning of his project had vanished. Now was a surreal dream-like feeling. He half expected the moon to grow a face and smile at them. And Elle, sitting there with her knees drawn up, the tops of them shining silver with the moon, her hair clumped against her neck and shoulders, looked something like a dream herself. The way she was drawn up, effectively affecting modesty, except for the shadow by the curve at the beginning of her thigh, had something like the picture of innocence, like a child, until she eventually stood and revealed all, and in the half-light of the night, looked like some ghost that might visit David in his dreams, and which later did.

*****

That night added extra fuel to his creative fires. Day after day, he would connect seemingly disconnected vignettes of chaste but erotic rendezvous under the moon mixed with sensual close contact in the dim light of an office at one location or another, telling the tale of a man enchanted by a spirit, and Elle would be there to read his work in the nude, and after a while, her suggestions lessened, until she suggested finally that she may like to add to his work.

"Like a forward?"

"Yeah, or like endnotes. You're telling a story of me, more or less. I might like to put in my own word."

He chewed his lip on it. Collaborative work wasn't something he favored, but this work, just like its inspiration, was unusual. So he opened up to the suggestion, and soon it was Elle who was bringing David things to read, e-mailed to him in her physical absences, her soul coming in through his screen when she was not there, and her appearing later, eager to extrapolate on her own contributions.

They were elaborate endnotes, each almost half a page long, and they were to be peppered throughout his work. Each pinpoint would expand into a vignette from Elle's perspective, giving clarity to David's vague references, filling in a larger story. She even told, at length, of her swims with her male friend, who David learned was named Rob, a pudgy kid with glasses who he imagined humorously contrasted next to Elle's figure. There was a moment that Elle described, where, both of them waist-deep in the water, Rob wrapped her in a hug, his chubby abdomen pressing into hers, her breasts collapsing onto him. She had felt the slight brush of his penis unavoidably against her thigh. It was an awkward moment, and the first that made her decide to start distancing herself from Rob. Other notes described her daring exits from her condo building, hurrying down the stairwell nude under the buzzing fluorescent lights and stepping out into the sun and the side of the building ample with shrubbery and cutting through the brush towards the beach before anybody could see her, which on occasion some did, and on other days when they would spot her, they would wave (just like David had done). David was beginning to take onto the idea of adding Elle's side of things. Though it definitely changed the nature of his work, it expanded it into a richer narrative where little narrative had been, and it reminded him of Vladimir Nabokov's “Pale Fire,” the meat of which was contained in the endnotes. He left the cabana after the weekends with a more confident picture of his completed work in his mind, and soon was calling his agent.

*****

During one of his trips back home, which it seemed he spent less time at now than at the cabana (or less memorable time, at least), he bumped into his old colleague. Trevor wore a smart pair of pin-striped slacks and a blazer much too hot for the weather, and his hair was combed and gelled impeccably, almost as solid-looking as the sneer on his face.

"I read some of your book. Becca was reading it. I bet you think you're clever, publishing your tryst with my daughter?"

"I write what I obsess about,” David said, trying to step aside, but Trevor side-stepped into his path.

"Did you really think you were going to publish that smut without it raising an eyebrow on my part?"

"All persons contained in this work are fictional and any similarity to those living or dead is coincidental, or something like that." He tried to step around him again.

"I wrote you a pretty scathing review, exposing what you did. Did you read it?"

"No, I've been very busy with a new book. Sorry, I got to go..."

"Oh great, is it a part two?"

"No, it's a different subject this time."

"Some other friend's girl I bet?"

"Nobody I know. I hope you read it, Trev, she's writing it too."

"Huh?"

"Look, I gotta go. Good luck on your latest airport thriller."

With that, he successfully got around Trevor and went briskly down the sidewalk, almost comically pumping his arms and puffing out his chest. He thought about looking over his shoulder and saying "tell Becca hi for me!" but he thought against it. He went and got himself a rum-and-coffee at a nearby café and while seated, looked up Trevor's review on his phone to pass the time with a laugh.

*****

Having a naked girl as a constant companion—a slightly erotic but otherwise platonic presence—was definitely an odd pairing, but for a while, David did not go back to the cabana, for he was in editor mode now, formatting and piecing together all of Elle's endnotes, which she continued to send him in a dribble, making him work double-time. One of the e-mails included the question: "So are you coming back anytime soon?" He replied that he was working on piecing the book together and that he preferred to do that type of work in his office, saving his sabbaticals for strictly creative work. "Oh," came her reply a half-hour later. "Can I come visit you? I can help look over the final copy."

It wasn't really the final copy. His editor would be tearing it apart next, and though a visitor would slow down his work rather than help it, he liked the prospect, and replied "sure," and gave his address.

When she showed up at his front stoop wearing a flowy, floral dress and with her hair down, she almost looked like a different person. Still captivating, with the sun backlighting her and making the down on her arms glow, matching the equally luminescent smile she had, a smile filled with expectation.

"Come on in," David said, and he had to force back a stutter. This fantastic image of her, in such a modest but at the same time alluring attire, her shoulders bare, the cut high enough to not invite cleavage but the light material of the dress making faint impressions of what he already knew was there, was a new type of enticing that filled his mind with new images that he did not have time to insert into his half-polished work. Perhaps another novel, or a short story. Yes, a short story discretely tied to his larger work. He could release it just ahead of publication.

"Nice house," she said.

"Yeah, thanks. It was once me and my ex-wife's."

"Oh, you were married?" she asked, turning around in the living room, her dress twirling with her.

"Yeah, sorry I didn't say. That was years ago. It just didn't work out."

"I'm surprised you got to keep the house."

"I had a little better standing."

Turning to look at the living room again, and pinching the hem of her dress: "Gee, so should I take this off, or..."

David had a laugh.

"Feels weird to be clothed, huh? Weider still to take your clothes off in someone else's house. Not that it makes a difference between us, I suppose. Do it if you're more comfortable that way."

She turned towards him again, eyes looking up at the ceiling in thought, or just imagining what was on the second story, if there were other people there, perhaps, but she dropped her purse and peeled the dress off, transforming from that new image of her to the old and familiar, though strange in this setting, the lighting different, her skin less glowing as the dress was pulled over and her hair cascaded down. She tossed the dress on the couch and looked at him with a sigh.

"I can sit on a towel if you like. Or take a shower. I didn't sweat much, but it is hot out there."

David waved a hand. "You're fine," he said. He didn't mind girl-sweat.

She sat up in his office with him, propped on the corner of his desk and reading printouts of her endnotes with the accompanied referenced pages. She looked studious, especially, somehow, with her pert breasts squeezed slightly together in her arms as she held the pages in front of her, eyes scanning. She looked like a young, naked librarian. David slouched in his big leather swivel chair, Elle's thighs mere inches from his reach, all he desired propped up there for him to enjoy like a museum exhibit, one he wished to touch, but museums always had the ropes and signs cautioning against that.

"So what do you think of it now that it's all put together?" he asked her (one couldn't usually talk to museum exhibits).

"I like it," she said, though half-heartedly. "It's... strange, seeing part of my life laid out, like others are going to read it."

"That's part of being an author. You bare your soul a little."

"Or your body," she said, looking up from the page and motioning down at herself with her eyes.

"Well, that, too. But there won't be photo illustrations in this."

"Yeah."

"You are going to get credit, you know. You want your name on the front?'

The papers went down into her lap.

"Oh, I don't know..."

"Or in the front matter."

"I don't know if I want my name out there associated with this..."

"Well, you can always use a pseudonym."

"Yeah I guess. Or I could be uncredited. I don't know, it's kind of scary."

David again laughed.

"Welcome to publishing. Have you ever written before?" He thought about tracing her thigh as he said this, but his hand was securely and obediently in his lap, fumbling the swell that summoned at the close proximity of her naked skin.

"No, just some poetry..."

"Oh, really? Because your writing is pretty good. It's nothing fancy, but it's well-written."

"Why thank you..."

They stared at each other for a minute, him looking up past the landscape of her torso and her down at him. A heartbeat of unfulfilled desires passed between the two of them. It was getting dim outside. He wondered if she might stay the night. He fought with whether to ask it. What would her sleeping arrangements be? On the couch, or...

"I might go soon," she said, answBeccag for him.

"Oh. Yeah I guess it has been a while. You can stay if you want. I have plenty of room, as you can see."

"Yeah, I just wanna get back and unwind. This leaves me wanting to think about things."

"That's fine," he said, though inwardly he was kicking himself, swearing, begging for her to stay, to share his bed. She hopped off the desk and stood at full height and full exposure. Her bristling landing strip was at eye-level as she pivoted her hips to face him. He raised his eyes to hers.

"Well you can come back anyti—"

She stepped forward, graced his shoulders with her hands, and pulled him in. He ended up nestled against her stomach, with her fur just inches below, which he slowly descended to, until he was right in there, lapping at the edges of her labia, and she pressed him in. She massaged his scalp as he tried to work on her from the awkward angle, until she eventually pushed him away, into his chair, wherein she sank to her knees, her hand gracing his own knees, slowly creeping up to his fly. With rapid but careful motions, she unbuttoned and unzipped it, fishing out her prize, which was transformed entirely from when she had seen it on their naked night swim, now engorged and eager, easily falling into her hands, which gripped it, pulled it, and guided it into her lowBeccag mouth.

He slipped in past her lips and he raised his head and closed his eyes, awash in the velvety embrace of her mouth and tongue. His hands found her scalp and gently passed through her hair and pushed her head down slowly, and he felt his crown push past the end of her tongue, into her throat, and only the slightest of choking sounds ensued from her occupied mouth as she engorged him, and he let his hand slip from her hair and sat there in a daze, realizing the object of his obsession and inspiration was now at his knees, and that all the obsession was now to vanish in one, two, and three pumps into her mouth, pulsating painfully as he let out a groan and she withdrew her lips to wrap his slimy head in a passionate and excruciating kiss.

Then she stood up, wiped her mouth, and turned and walked towards the door, her hair flowing down her back and leading to that well-formed and symmetrical butt that he had seen on that first day, but now in the dim lighting of his office, it reminded him of Becca. The afterglow and sleepy euphoria and fading arousal reminded him of those evenings, too, and when he managed to get up, pocket his slack cock, and get downstairs, Elle was slipping on her dress and ready to excuse herself.

"Thanks for inviting me over," she said, and she picked up her purse. "I'll see you."

It was such a curt and quick dismissal that it took David aback, and soon she was at the door, both of them clothed, a strange arrangement for the two of them, and then the door was open and the dress was flowing at her calves as she stepped out into the early evening and left his life.

*****

He did not go back to the cabana for some time, and did not hear from Elle even when he e-mailed her on the progress of his editing. He mainly communicated with his editor and spent long afternoons fine-tuning his work, and her work, feeling an absence in his heart and a longing for the cabana and feeling a familiar melancholy return as he finished. His editor was done with his contributions. Now it was time for David to clean it all up. But then the e-mail came. The final message from Elle, rather formal, not with the collaborative, enthusiastic energy with which her previous messages had been penned, and in it, she said that she now wanted to take her writings from his novel and publish them separately, herself, in her own memoir of sorts. The news made David's heart sink into his stomach, and the finality with which she stated that she did not want her writing appearing in his own novel was certain enough that he phoned his editor with the new revelation. He, of course, was livid, and demanded answers, but David could only give him vague ones, and said he would omit the endnotes and hunt for all the references to them. The editor said he would need to read the book again and demanded more money, which they haggled over, and eventually David had to relent and spent the extra cash to make sure his novel, now robbed of its obsession's agency, had no trace of her hand.

It published successfully some time later under the title "Fancy on the Fringe," and it found great early success, drawing evocative reviews, including another biting one from Trevor, who still gave it three stars, but the success did not lift David's spirits equal to the time he had spent writing it. Once again he was at that melancholy state. Tragedy in Paradise. His dealings had come back to haunt him.

Becca had vigorously read the memoir and came to ask him many questions about it, and they made love in his house more than once after the publication of it, but sometime after that, when visiting a bookstore, David happened to see a sign for a signing of a "breakthrough artist's first work," and was interested to see, propped up and multiplied by ten, the many covers of a beach and a woman's bare legs with the title “Memoirs of a Muse." He picked one up and fingered through familiar passages, though now stripped down, more concise, more vague, but evocative instantly of his time together with Elle, with passages such as "I appeared on his porch one night, bare and cold like a poor child, and we stepped out onto the windy beach, both naked, and we swam in the sea..." Each chapter was preceded by a Rupi Kaur-esque poem and accompanying doodle, usually of a crude female figure with a scraggly, squiggly bush and childish circles for breasts. David put the book down and found his way to the center of the bookstore, where he found Elle, dressed in a bright blue blouse with a frilly neckline, eagerly greeting new fans, and her eyes froze at him, but her polite smile continued.

They exchanged a few words. He approached her table, congratulated her on her first book, and she politely said thanks. He asked her how'd she'd been, and she just said "fine,' and she said she read some of his book and liked it. And then he politely picked up a copy of hers and fished out a twenty-dollar bill for it, and she signed it for him, and then he left and didn't look until he was at the front of the store, and the note under the signature read: "To my biggest fan." He slapped the book shut, headed out into the overcast day, and thought about writing his next book, taking the sight of her at his doorstep and the sexual concourse they had and going from there, creating a new story of lost love and long nights, but he was as stymied as he was when he began his memoir of their time together, and eventually he sought the cabana again, where again he felt the same weighing-down feeling from before, and it was standing out on the deck, with a fresh-poured whiskey in his hands rather than coffee, that he espied three girls coming out of the ocean, each of them dressed in black two-piece bathing suits, the glisten of the sea on their tan skin, all of them laughing as they joined hands in a circle, turning to display themselves unknowingly to the voyeur above, black bottoms flossing russet butt cheeks as they turned in a circle, and David's mind ran wild again...

Ass Man

Pablo Estrada was by all matter of the word an eccentric. But people didn't call him Estrada. His name among his peers was "Pablo Asscobar," or sometimes "Pablo Pic-Ass-o," because he had an obsession unique only in its focus. Like a lot of men, he was an ass man. While other ass men would be content to go "daaaamn, dat ass," Pablo would rather create a monument. He also just happened to be a photographer. Of course, his work was in the realm of erotic nude photography, though his photographs solely focused on the posterior. He could have made decent money with a website, but Pablo Estrada preferred to create a museum. As such, his gallery of asses was an attraction for many visiting Miami, where he resided.

With a sunny seaside view through his large glass penthouse, Pablo photographed a young model, standing completely nude in the middle of his studio, head to toe, her arms folded and her would-be enticing front facing the ocean. All Pablo was concerned about was her backside, which he framed so that it interrupted the waves. Nay, even became part of them.

"Excellent, excellent, my dear. This is picture-perfect. You really should see this."

"Uh-huh," the model said, a little bored as she watched the people way out on the beach, wondering if they could look up and make her out, standing there completely exposed to the outside world. It was sort of thrilling. More thrilling than standing in this room bared to the photographer, something she wasn't unaccustomed to doing, but for this man, it was a little strange, and she felt somewhat detached. When they were done and she turned around, presenting her front, he was not bewitched by her bared and buoyant breasts, or her striking, fully filled-in pubic hair, not shocked at all by the immodesty of a naked girl standing in the room with him. Instead, he was gazing at the viewfinder of his camera and motioning her over. "Come, come take a look," he beckoned, and the model walked over to him, leaning down next to him and waiting for a flinch or stiffening of his posture to signify his excitement or discomfort, but he treated her as if she were clothed, and showed her the images of her unclothed body. Or part of it. She had to admit the photos were great. There her ass was framed before the ocean, like a sunset. A graceful side-shot captured her curvature (and a little peek of black tuft towards the front which Pablo seemed okay with including but surprisingly unconcerned with despite how erotic it looked), and a shot when she had lied down on the leather couch, creating new shape and creases with her butt, which Pablo captured with the afternoon sun charging it with its warmth. As a set, it wasn't remarkable, and it felt silly to be just photographed in this manner, but Pablo seemed elated, paid her promptly, and didn't harass or accost her. It was an easy job.

Some models who visited Pablo had much more unusual shoots. Unsatisfied with just taking simple photographs, Pablo, as a true artist, got up-close-and-personal with some of his photos, creating almost abstract images that wouldn't be recognized as a naked butt at first, rather looking like a strange, smooth lunar landscape, or a desert, where all the tiny bumps and goose flesh looked like the surface of stone. He would take some shoots outside, as many nude photographers did to depict their models in the beauty of nature, but Pablo was more interested in the different types of natural light that could bring out new perspectives on his favorite subject. Models stripped down and mooned him at hidden creeks, on the nude beaches of Miami, and sometimes in the street, where Pablo did delight in the exhibitionist appeal of the situation, with the idea that a beautiful ass was something to be admired by the whole world. One memorable photograph depicted the model, from shoulders down, her hands on her hips, which were canted in a way to deliciously present her ass to the camera, while on either side of her in the foreground, shocked or elated faces gazed, open-mouthed, seemingly in awe of the ass he was presenting when in fact they were shocked by the full-frontal nudity they were seeing but which Pablo had neglected to portray. Some would say that that was the ultimate representation of his single-mindedness. Many had always said that his photography was unappealing, bringing too much focus on one isolated part of the body, when the beauty of the body was it in its entirety. It was borderline sleazy and obsessive, if not for the elegance with which he portrayed his subjects, never falling into pornographic trappings of having the model spread their butt cheeks or pose in an unnatural way. He truly was obsessed with the art of the ass. One visitor to his studio got a full sense of that, walking into a main hall lined with his work, and also a bust (if you could call it that) of a butt, sculpted by a local artist who Pablo commissioned after having met the most amazing model he had yet encountered, wanting to immortalize her in a unique way, so her ass was front-and-center when one entered Pablo's gallery. Just the ass, from the small of the back to the beginning of the thighs. There was no front, just flat granite. It was all Pablo cared about, despite his model being one of the most stunning in the industry. Here at least, one stunning feature of her rested, presented so accurately that fans of her could identify it immediately from its perfect heart shape and gentle comma-slope when viewed from the side, though the absence of a front drew away from the aesthetic for all except Pablo.

"Here, we have... the most perfected shape in all of nature. Never have I come across a person with as perfect shape as this, but! It does come with its bad side," Pablo said as he stood by his statue, entertaining the visitor. "Many have said, ‘why has God designed the body so that the sexual organs and the waste-disposing organs are right next to each other?’ And I agree," he said this as he traced the curvature of the immortalized ass like a globe, then brought his hand to his chest. "That such a beautiful thing like this can exist, only to... only to, at certain moments, expel filth, absolute filth... I am talking about shit. That such a thing has to expel disgusting shit from it every day... that is the ultimate, tragic... I'm sorry." He always wipes a tear when he says this. "Ultimate tragic dichotomy." The speech always goes unfinished as Pablo breaks down into muffled sobs, and the visitor at this time gently nodded and looked at the other pictures in the hall, realizing the depth of Pablo's obsession.

Leading from the main hall to a comfy sitting room, the visitor encountered Pablo's "hall of fame," where LCD frames hung around comfy seating areas, depicting famous and not-so-famous models of the past in rotation, models who Pablo admired but had not had the fortune to photograph. Featured heavily was a model that went by the name of Mascha, who had modeled heavily for websites such as DOMAI.com and MET-Art, and who the visitor noted had a wealth of full-body photos displaying all her charming features, but Pablo seemed only interested in the bubble-dome she possessed and which she was celebrated for. The visitor almost thought to say "you know, she has a ton of more beautiful pictures that show off more than that," but he withheld, because he was dealing with a man obsessed.

Pablo did not have much like for the "badunkadunk" or "junk in the trunk" asses that other so-called ass men delighted in. For him, he explained to the visitor, it was all about the shape and the proportions, and the monstrous proportions of "phat" asses were distasteful to him, too much of a good thing, as if all that could be exploded into a collection of flesh did so in a form that could barely contain itself. It was like the creed of small titty lovers versus fans of giant Dolly Parton-sized breasts. The visitor could sympathize and understand a little. Aesthetics were important. Pablo especially delighted in petite asses, compact forms of beauty which were showcased in the small hall leading to the elevator that would take them up to his penthouse, framed depictions of questionably-aged people at nudist resorts and beaches, candid, not clear if they were photographed by Pablo or by some random, but all apparently a tribute to the beauty of asses. Soon they were at the elevator, and the visitor looked forward to meeting a model that would be posing for Pablo that day, and who would be arriving shortly. The visitor's interest was that he was a recruiter for many studios, and would be interested to meet a potential model for his clients' own ventures, which included the usual nude art types of sites but also an interesting genre of nude adventure films that featured pretty young women but also normal, naked people in tales that excluded clothing but did little to eroticize except for the beauty of some of the cast. They were wholesome yet spicy little films and the visitor was eager to find his next star. She indeed was found when she arrived up on the elevator.

She was unbelievably cute, diminutive and frail-looking yet filled with churning energy, almost child-like, which made sense, because she had said she had just turned eighteen, and she was eager to pose for the famous Pablo Asscobar because she had seen so much of his work in and around Miami.

It was a shocking and exciting time for the visitor. Though a recruiter, he had rarely sat in on photoshoots, and was quite taken aback when the model walked to the middle of Pablo's penthouse and began to strip as the photographer readied his equipment. She lost her clothes so casually and naturally that it seemed as if getting naked in front of others was no more unusual to her than taking off a coat or hat, and the visitor pulled at his collar to let out some of the heat that was now building as the model stepped out of her jeans and stood completely bare in the golden light coming in through the windows, and he knew right then that she needed to be in the next big nudist adventure film. For she was so enticing, innocent, but delectable, thin, demure, almost unaware of her allure as she kicked her pants away and the subtle motion of her ankle up to her shin and traveling to her thigh, and the acute triangle of black fur, mesmerized the visitor, almost as much as her flat and cute stomach, with its wink of a belly button, and her smallish, candy-corn shaped breasts which turned upwards and seemed to invite the waft of the air conditioning that came down on them. But then Pablo had her turn around and place a knee on the couch, to present her ass, which was as petite and perfectly shaped as the ones from the gallery down below, but beautiful only in accompaniment of the rest of her, of her thighs, one bisected and one parallel, and her trim torso leading up to her shoulder blades and her face looking back, her short, auburn hair brushing against her shoulder as she smiled in expectation of the first photograph. But all Pablo focused on was the ass. Of course. He was an ass man. But the visitor was stunned by her as a whole, and soon lost interest in the ass man's focus, interested more in this person as a whole.

When the shoot was done, it was the visitor and the model who were shaking hands (after she had gotten dressed) and trading information while Pablo stared into his viewfinder.

*****

Days later, Pablo was sitting at an outdoor café, enjoying a panini and Cuban coffee, sitting next to the railing overlooking the sidewalk and standing out from the other customers because of his grand appearance, when someone much more distinctive—for him, anyway—entered the patio.

Pablo nearly let his mouth fall open and let drop the half-chewed bite of his sandwich, which he held in place before him, as in walked a remarkable young woman with a light brown bowl cut and a bright yellow blouse with open shoulders. She was short, barely five feet, and not so thin that she would be mistaken for somebody younger. She had a gracefulness to her, a self-assuredness with her bared skin. But what Pablo saw was her super-short denim shorts as she entered, and when she made for the door, her backside turned towards him, and hugged in that denim was the most compact yet filled-out ass in all of existence, practically screaming to be let out of its constraints, yet it was not so large; only the tightness of the shorts made it appear so. But the shape! It had such depth, as when she pivoted to let a gentleman exit the café before she herself entered, he could see it in full relief, and a glimpse of cleft at the hems! He dropped his sandwich upon sight of that, and then she was inside. At that point, he noticed people staring at him, and he remembered he still had food in his mouth, and he chewed. He had been thinking about what to do for his next shoot, and now the answer seemed apparent. He sipped his very strong coffee and it energized him for the upcoming task of approaching the girl.

He hoped she would come back out, but if she didn't, he would have to enter the café and present himself. But he waited. He finished his sandwich. His coffee was getting low and he was just crazy enough to get another one (it was remarkably strong and not meant for multiple cups, but Pablo was absolutely electric now). Before a server could come out to ask him for a refill, the majestic girl exited with a mug in hand and looked around to pick a seat. Pablo remained where he was, on standby for the moment. He reassessed her to make sure he was right about his sudden fixation, and he was, as he observed her shapely domes behind the denim shorts turn as she pulled out a chair, and then they settled into their seat, bearing the girl’s weight without changing their shape. A magnificent, firm ass! This was the one. He downed the rest of his coffee and waited for the server, who eventually came, another young woman, pretty in a homely way, but not on Pablo's radar at all, for her black slacks hid any evidence of an ass. But he cheerfully demanded another Cuban coffee from her, and she smirked and said she'd be right back. That gave him opportunity to observe his prospect more, though now that she was seated, there was not much to look at, his prize obsession obscured for now while the girl sipped her coffee and looked out at the people passing by on the sidewalk, oblivious to Pablo. When the server brought out his coffee, he thanked her and enjoyed a quarter of it before standing and walking over to the girl.

Her eyes turned up to him with alarm and interest when he approached.

"Hi, I don't want to come off in the wrong way, but I am a photographer of the erotic, and I must say, I am very interested in hiring you as a model."

His cold open went off remarkably well.

"Oh, why thank you. I actually am a model, as a matter of fact."

"Oh really? That is perfect. Um, may I sit?"

"Sure."

Pablo sat, and put his coffee in front of him, leaning in as if talking over a matter of grave importance.

"Do you, by chance, do nude photography? For that's what I specialize in. Don't take this the wrong way."

"Oh no, I've done plenty of nude modeling. I'm comfortable with it."

"Excellent. Have you heard of me? I am Pablo Estrada."

"No, I don't believe I have. I'm not from here, actually."

"Well let me explain to you, I specialize in a very focused study of the body, namely... the ass, if you pardon my French."

The girl just laughed. She seemed unaffected by his forwardness, totally prepared for a proposition such as his, used to being objectified, if that’s what this was.

"So you're an ass man. That's cool."

"Some would call me that, yes. And if I may say, your ass is more magnificent than the grandest mountains, the widest oceans of the world, or the vastness of the sky."

She laughed. "Okay, dude."

"I say that strictly as an artist."

"That's fine, I getcha."

"I would be interested in your rates, and your availability. You say you are not from around here. Are you passing through? Would you have an afternoon to spare?"

"Oh sure, I'm here for a couple days. I wouldn't mind. I'll give you my website."

And so they traded information, and Pablo gave her directions to his studio. He wasted no time and looked at her website on his phone, regretting it instantly, for it spoiled what her ass looked like in the nude, as it was displayed on her portfolio, but he quickly passed by those teases, wanting to wait to see it in person on the day of the shoot. They quickly agreed on an afternoon after he looked at her rates, and he said he would have paperwork for her when she arrived. Her name was Dora. They shook hands, and Pablo was affected by her confidence, forwardness, and complete acceptance of his odd proposal. Then he got up, left a twenty on his table, and walked away, thinking of the shoot that would be to come.

*****

He maddened himself in preparation, making sure the lighting was right in his studio, making sure his camera was in order, that he had the right lenses. And that his place looked in tip-top shape. He wanted to make a good impression on the model, for he hoped to be able to shoot with her more than once. Though he had seen a glimpse of that ass in thumbnail form on his phone, he was not ready for the majesty that may reveal itself once she dropped drawers, and his heart beat fast as he anticipated every second. And then she arrived.

She came into his penthouse wearing similar attire as when he first saw her, a blue blouse now instead of yellow, and those same denim shorts, stilling his heart the second he saw that she was wearing them, even though he was looking at her head-on at the moment. Still, his eyes drifted downwards and saw the teasing way they accentuated her thighs up to the terminus point of her Venus, and found it all delectable. And her open-shouldered blouse: revealing bronze skin, and a peek of faint cleavage. She was classy yet erotic, and was smiling when his eyes returned to hers, and he stepped aside to let her in, lowering his eyes once more and almost biting a knuckle as the ass moved and undulated with her steps into his abode.

"This is where I do a lot of my shoots," he explained. "It is not a glamorous setting—"

"Fantastic view," she said, looking out at the ocean.

"Thank you. Though I sometimes take my models out to outdoor locations: on the beach, in the forest. Sometimes in public. If you ever would like to go on one of those excursions..."

"Sounds like fun!" she said. "If I'm in the area again. So, shall we get started?"

"We shall. We will be shooting in front of the window. I have my camera already set up."

"Great," Dora said, and dropped her purse on the counter, then before Pablo's unbelieving eyes, she pulled off her blouse right there.

Pablo was not un-used to such casual undressing; it came with the job, of course. But something about how Dora so naturally peeled off her top, under which she was not wearing a bra, and with how she went about the rest completely amazed Pablo, and he had to stop and marvel as she wriggled out of her short shorts, revealing a thin strip of dark floss, and her shaking, full chest that shook as she moved. He almost ceased to become an ass man. As she stood to full height, she squared him up and asked him where he would like her to pose, and he had to shake the clouds out of his head before instructing her to stand and perch her hips in the center of the room. Then she finally turned, and he did behold her naked butt, and it was as glamorous and mesmerizing as he had anticipated, every bit as shapely—even more!—as it had been under her shorts, now free, but beautiful in concert with her moving thighs, her swinging arms. It was a center-point of a beautiful picture, but Pablo realized all of a sudden that it did not work its magic without the cooperation of the rest of her body.

She gently walked to the center of the room, framed her head in her arms, and jutted out her small but full butt, and stood ready for Pablo to work. But he was thinking. How should he frame this? He was at a loss.

He began with a full image, from head to toe, a depiction of a careless young woman waking up and posing before the window, stretching, jutting out her innocent butt, and it was an image of desire and innocent mood, and it set the mood for the rest of the shoot. He found he could not take a single photo without including Dora's full body in it, for it captivated him so. When he experimented and had her pose on the couch, he ended up taking shots from above as she rolled over and looked up at the camera—and the viewer—smiling giddily and reaching out for it, all of her below ready for imagined ravishing, from her bared chest, squished by gravity, her trim stomach, and the tease of her hair below, legs pressed together as she drew her knees up. It was not the type of photo that Pablo usually did, and it troubled him. He took many more, many of them candid as Dora stood and twirled around and improvised in front of his lens, and he captured all of her, not just all over her body, but her personality, too, as she grinned at the experience of being exposed, in body and soul, an inner energy that charged every still photo.

There was a lull while Pablo was reviewing his photos, very troubled, and Dora came and plopped down on the couch next to him, happy to look. He was very affected by her near and naked presence, almost as he was by the new tune of his photos.

"I thought you said you were an ass man," she said with a testing laugh and a grin.

"I was..." Pablo began, gazing at the new types of images he had taken, and glancing up at the model who had spurned the change. "But I am a big believer in innovation." He said this with some renewed energy, deciding he was okay with how things were going, for Dora was worth obsessing about as much as one singular point on her or anybody else's body, and he grinned and raised his camera and let her crawl towards him and captured a closeup image of her smiling face, as she apparently was climbing on top of the viewer. It sent chills down Pablos' spine just to capture it.

She was a very playful model, and they jumped around on the couch to try and take new and interesting photos. He finally did take one isolated shot of her ass, as she rolled onto her stomach and he snapped a shot of it laying there in calmness, like a glacier in the ocean, a beautiful sight that made him catch his breath. But then he took a step back and captured the shot from a wider angle, with her from head to toe splayed out on the couch, her face glancing over towards the viewer, and the implied content of the scene filled the image with magic. Perhaps she was spending a long, lazy morning with you, the viewer, or perhaps she had just gotten out of the shower and had no care to get dressed. Perhaps she had just made love, and was still energized to playfully bounce around on the couch. Perhaps she was just about to make love to a very lucky and unseen second half, teasing him (or her) with her nude landscape. The possibilities for storytelling with one single image were endless, and Pablo found himself a changed man.

When they winded down, Pablo found himself conversing with Dora, though she had not yet gotten dressed. They stood at his kitchen counter, her leaning her breasts against the surface and accepting a glass of water, and they chatted.

"I really liked your gallery downstairs," she said. "Especially that little statue."

"I may dedicate a new statue in your image, if you don't mind the gesture."

"Oh really? Wow."

"Yes, we shall see." Indeed, Pablo's mind was racing with how to re-frame the twin-cheeked face of his career.

He definitely wanted to work with her again, and she said that though she was passing through, she would be settling just north in Tampa for a little while, and they made talks to collaborate again. She told him she had just taken on a role in a nude movie, a slightly erotic but mostly PG-style movie about adventures in a nudist community. Pablo was interested in the concept, though unbeknown to him, a previous guest had been a vital part in that very production. He would come to see it later, many months after he saw Dora out of his penthouse and then spent nights stewing over her photos and of his previous work, haunting the main hall like a ghost, looking at every photo he had ever taken, and all the others he had collected, and his prized bust, and it all troubled him, and he went back upstairs and knew not what to do with the photos of Dora. He considered making a website, and he thought on it for a night and then called Dora to suggest the idea, and she was okay with it, and soon he had created a small website and posted her gallery there, with the message that more was to come. He did not get many hits, however, and he soon fell into despondency.

Until a premier was announced at a local arthouse theater of a new, pioneering film, a semi-erotic nude adventure, and Pablo knew immediately what it was. He visited on opening day, and sat in the middle of the crowd and watched the events on-screen go through; a nice, charming adventure, but filled with charming nude actresses, including Dora, who captivated him as much as she did on their photoshoot for the few moments she was on screen. But she was not the star. Instead, there was another girl, with auburn hair and strange cone-shaped breasts who seemed to be one of the main characters, and Pablo recognized her instantly as one of his previous models. He recognized her in scenes where she turned and headed up a wooded trail, flexing and wiggling that familiar backside which he had so intimately captured in the viewfinder of his camera, now wiggling and moving on the big screen in accompaniment of the rest of her. It moved him to a revelation of sorts.

That night, he returned to his gallery, and once inside, he went and found the nearest blunt object he could—a nightstand from his sitting room where Mascha's butt looked out at invisible guests—and he smashed the butt bust off its pedestal and let it shatter on the floor. Then he knocked his pictures off the wall, and stormed around the downstairs until he found some lighter fluid and a box of matches, and he set his own pictures ablaze. Firemen came thirty minutes later to douse the fires in his smoke-filled hall and found Pablo walking through his gallery, quite calm, and saying that everything was okay. It made the papers, and it was accepted as just another crazy stunt by the crazy ass man, Pablo Asscobar, the eccentric of all eccentrics. But after that, he retired his ass gallery, and was seen on the set of a follow-up to the nude adventure movie he had watched, observing the filming, and inserting himself with the writers and directors, and even cameoing in a role as himself, a jolly and boisterous extra in a film of naked girls. His career as Ass Man had ended, but soon he would be a presence in every nudism adventure movie from then on out, soon graduating to talent scout and cinematographer. It was his new career opening up. But people still called him—and he was still credited as—Pablo Asscobar.

The Three Cutest Nudists

Julia felt a floating, exhilarating feeling in her chest as she and her boyfriend Greg approached the big metal gate at the end of a small gravel drive, a drive that one would have passed by if not for the big painted sign reading "Nude Garden Nudist Resort," with its logo of a shapely, silhouetted woman tiptoeing amongst some flowers. Greg pulled their little Honda Civic up to the call box before the gate, and Julia knew that once he pressed that button, they would be admitted into a new world, a world that she was a complete stranger to, despite deciding to become a nude model.

That was what brought her here; she had done only one photoshoot, with a friend of her and Greg's, privately, in his studio home. It was a surreal experience, but she liked posing, and even Greg himself didn't mind. He wasn't the jealous boyfriend type who would kill anyone who would so much as even dare look at Julia, nor was he the type to gloat about having a model for a girlfriend. The shoot was almost mundane, if not for the strange sense of vulnerability that persisted throughout the whole thing, with Julia standing unclothed in front of the clothed, young male photographer, and Greg relaxing on a couch nearby, hardly even paying attention. At moments of rest, Julia tried to keep herself from slipping her robe back on, choosing instead to stand there naturally and chat with the photographer, as if her unclothed form, delicate, erotic, were not the focus of his attention, and not the reason why she was here. She only put on her robe once they were done and she was sitting on the couch with Greg and the photographer as he showed her the previews of the raw images they had taken, because being naked then suddenly felt weird.

Overall, though, it was a positive experience, and Julia liked the opportunity to make some extra money while she studied to be a web designer. She liked the celebration of the beauty of the human form and didn't find it objectifying, even though the shoot was produced for erotic purposes. Then the photographer recommended to her a man named Steven, who ran a website cheesily called "Angels Among Us." It was yet another cheesecakey nude girls website. Julia wondered how those sites even survived as a business model when so much skin was available for free out there. But she liked the idea of getting some exposure (no pun intended). One thing that Steven stressed about, and what Julia liked, was photographing outside in nature. And that led her and Greg here, to Nude Gardens.

As the very blasé man on the other end of the intercom admitted them through, Julia thought that this was an unusual place to do a shoot. She had never been to a nudist resort, but she was sure that cameras were not allowed, and that even if they were, people would frown at a woman making herself the center of attention for a photo-op. But Steven had told her that he had shot there before, and that he wanted to use scenes of nature because they added something special that a set couldn't mimic: the beauty of the earth, both in setting and subject. She liked the idea and was reminded of other nude models she had seen on other sites. That she might soon be immortalized in similar scenes such as those excited her very much.

"Well, here it is," Greg said as they took their car down a bumpy gravel road, and in view to the left was a clubhouse and pool below, swarming already with bare skin. Julia felt almost relieved; she saw pot-bellied old men walking back and forth, and an older woman with a sash around her waist and nothing else, and the casualness of that brief glimpse comforted her worries that this was a swingers' type of venue with rampant sex and eroticism. As their car went around the bend and entered the dirt-and-grass parking lot, she saw children scampering from a car that was being unloaded, and they were already naked, sprinting towards the gate so they could jump in the pool. This too surprised Julia. Apparently this place was family-friendly. It made her feel very comfortable all of a sudden.

When they entered the patio, they saw Steven, nude, sitting upright on a lounger with two other young women on either side, who Julia was told would also be coming. She waved at Steven and he saw her and raised his hand and stood, full-frontal and unashamed, unflaunting as his rather limp and diminutive penis wobbled as he walked towards her. It seemed they would be on a level playing field, with her no longer the only one who would be nude, and that only added to her comfort, except that for the fact that right in that moment, she and Greg were the only ones dressed in this patio full of nude sunbathers, making them suddenly feel like the center of attention (but in fact, nobody cared). It was an interesting reversal of her first photoshoot.

"Hey, glad you guys made it," Steven said to both of them. "You can sign in over at the clubhouse there."

He pointed to the long building that bordered the patio, where under the awning, lots of old people sat and drank and smoked and watched the pool. Julia smiled and nodded at them and they nodded quite hospitably back, and she had to make sure she didn't stare at the exposed parts that lay before her, though they didn't seem to care. This was a whole new experience for her.

Signing in was a quick and mundane task, the clerk interestingly clothed though all the people inside were not, and soon Julia and Greg were back out on the pool patio, faced now with the expectation of getting nude. Julia got about it right away as they talked to Steven and asked about how the day would progress, Julia losing an article of clothing at a time as he talked, completely unphased by her undressing. Greg, too, took off his shirt and slid down his shorts unabashedly, completely un-shy about putting himself on level with Steven, the girls, and everybody else at the nudist resort. Julia was amazed at how naturally it came and noted how different she felt than when she had undressed in front of the first photographer she had posed for. Here, everything was natural.

Steven outlined the plan: they would take the walking trail down to the river, and there they would shoot Julia and the other models by the water, where they had once shot before. There would not be any photography on the patio, and instantly Julia understood the resort's acceptance of this enterprise. He had once tried to shoot out in the open with everybody there, when he first came to the place, he explained, but he was quickly reprimanded. It was a learning experience for him. The resort seemed to tolerate him so long as he kept his job outside the view of the guests. But still, eyes wandered to this man and his seeming harem of attractive girls, some eyes contemptuous.

Julia and Greg were introduced to the two other models. One was Kellyanne, with dark, shoulder-length hair and a complete tan, and the other was Lea, a quite bubbly girl, with auburn hair and distinct tanlines across her pointed breasts and hips. Both of them had shot with Steven before, and that they had come back was encouraging to Julia.

They spent some time at the pool before grabbing their things to head out. Steven told them he was renting a cabin for the weekend, and that they could all retire there later to rest and perhaps even do additional shoots on the porch, and inside as well. While separated from nature, the interior still had a rustic charm that would make for a good set. Julia thought it was all great and enjoyed herself until the time to pose came, taking some time in the pool, where she found the feeling of swimming completely unhindered to be overwhelming, the water completely enveloping her body and giving her the sensation that she was floating in the air, no longer with the presence of a swimsuit perpetually attached to her body. She spent so much time in the water that she had almost forgotten that she was here for a photoshoot, as she floated on her back, her front shamelessly displayed to all eyes and to the sun as some kids passed by pushing a raft and splashing each other. She opened her eyes and saw the fluffy clouds floating above and felt her skin glow with heat from the sun. It felt like bliss.

Soon it was time to head out, though, as Greg called to her, "alright, Miss Julia Fish." She grinned at him as she climbed up the ladder out of the pool, feeling glorious as the water cascaded down her body. She felt like she was part of some erotic fantasy, a goddess bare and wet, and she walked casually to her towel, glittering under the sun, before she dabbed off and they picked up their things to go.

The trail was at the other end of the parking lot, and they all walked across it in the nude, which was a strange feeling after having gotten used to being nude by the pool. Now was a different setting that Julia was not used to being in unclothed, walking out in the open in plain sight of others, heading for a line of trees and soon entering a hushed forest, the sun filtered through branches above, and she couldn't have been happier. She could go anywhere here, and she never had to put anything on.

As they walked, Julia chummed it up with Kellyanne and Lea, and found out how they had come to be nude models. She was surprised to find out that Kellyanne was a regular visitor of the resort, and had only met Steven and Lea by chance, and decided to join them in their photographic enterprise. Lea had been modeling since she was sixteen, even doing nude photography before she had come of age, when she lived in the Ukraine, and being naked, to her, was as normal as breathing, which was strange, considering her tanlines, which, Julia found out, were gained once Lea moved to America and found the country much less open to casual nudity. They were quickly fading, however. And so they walked, all nude, and equal, though with the thought that the women were marching forward to go and be objectified forefront in Julia's mind. Put up on a pedestal, worshipped for the body they were given upon birth. But that, like everything else, Julia decided, was natural. Soon they were at the river, for Julia could hear it. They broke off the path and headed down a narrow trail, Julia feeling the sharp pinecones and thorns under her bare feet, noting that Steven and his entourage wore sandals, and soon the rushing, coursing waterway was before them. Julia had to take a breath; it was a fantastic sight. She could only imagine how she would look photographed before it.

They made their way down onto a large boulder where they dropped their things and began to set up, Julia standing around and not knowing what to do, feeling a little weird all of a sudden, waiting by in the nude while Steven decided what to do with her. Soon he directed her and the other two models to go down into the creek, and Julia, with Kellyanne and Lea by her side, wetted their feet, and Julia was delighted at being in the rushing waters, feeling like some fairy in a fairy tale, and the first shutter click went off. Then, Julia looked upstream and saw that they were not alone.

Sitting on another boulder at the water's edge just upstream was an older couple, a sturdy-looking man and a homely woman with a perm, both well-tanned and watching them. Lea was the next to notice, and then Kellyanne, and finally Steven looked over to where their eyes were trained. Julia could see the concern on his face, but when she looked back at the couple, who were about fifty yards away, they both waved. Lea, in front of Julia, waved back happily, her hand throwing off errant water droplets, and soon all models were standing there, looking magnificent knee-deep in the water, waving like well-wishers on a pier. If only the couple had had a camera to capture the moment from their angle, Julia thought. It would have been a wonderful picture.

"Don't mind us!" the man called to them. Steven and Greg both looked at each other, shrugged, and Steven turned his attention once more to the water, raising up his camera. Julia resumed her wading, feeling once again that vulnerable feeling, now that they had spectators. She found herself constantly glancing over at the couple, who sometimes were watching, but sometimes not, and slowly she became comfortable again as Steven gave the girls guidance about what to do. They were told to just splash in the water, play with each other as if they were children, and Julia found this a bit awkward, but she splashed water at Lea, who seemed fully into this, laughing and splashing back, while Kellyanne lazily mimicked her.

She looked back at Steven, who was focusing his lens, with Greg standing behind him, arms folded. The lens turned more, obviously zeroing in on her, and she stepped forward, lowering her arms and working her way through the water in a sensuous pose, canting her hips.

"That's great, hold it a sec."

She froze in the water like that, straining to hold her position.

"Get up behind her, Lea, and put your hands on her shoulders."

Julia stood there and could hear the water gurgle behind her and then two cold hands placed themselves on her. Lea peeked her head from behind Julia's. Without command, Kellyanne placed herself behind Lea, poking her head from behind the middle of the girl's back. The shutter clicked several times, capturing the playful, enticing image of three naked women stacked one in front of the other.

"That's great."

They broke formation then and stood in a circle, looking at each other, while the shutter clicked some more. Julia took in the sight of her two partners in crime. Lea looked absolutely ravishing, as hundreds of water droplets beaded her two-toned, cone-shaped breasts. Her smile was toothy, beside herself, and her hair was plastered against her shoulders. She looked so inviting to touch, so Julia did. She reached out her fingers and gently brushed them between Lea's breasts, and her smile changed but maintained, and the shutter clicked some more. Julia looked past Lea at the couple, who were now watching intently again as she traced the girl's flat stomach, and Lea reached out and graced Julia's arm. Then she felt hands on her side, and it was Kellyanne, lowering herself to one knee in the water so that her waist was completely submerged, and she rested her head in the small of Julia's back, above her butt, which she cradled in her hands as she looked towards Steven, who clicked furiously and muttered exclamations. She could feel Kellyanne's wet hair, while she looked directly at Lea, her hand now on her hip, the other one joined with her's, and then they drifted apart. Julia turned to see Steven, looking up from his camera and chewing his lip as he decided what they would do next, and she could see that his diminutive penis was diminutive no more, currently pointed down at a rigid forty-five-degree angle. Greg stood by completely unphased.

She looked to her right, and Kellyanne was still lowered in the water, sitting on her butt now, and on impulse, Julia playfully splashed her face. Kellyanne shrieked and laughed and splashed up some from where she sat. Soon Lea was on her, arms over her shoulders, and they sort of wrestled there, Lea's breasts pressed into her back, while Steven captured everything. They played like that for a while, and Julia soon forgot there was a camera there, or spectators. When she found herself on her knees in the water, she lowered her head under and came up, slicking her hair back, and she couldn't see the couple anymore. Eventually, she stood and came to shore. Lea and Kellyanne followed, and Steve backed up as they climbed up onto the rock.

"Go ahead and lay out," Steven instructed. "This will be great."

Both men stepped aside and Lea sat down, leaned back, and reclined on her arms. First it was just her as the shutter clicked, the supreme focus: a lone girl in the woods, relaxing in the sun. The rock was hot under her butt and the air quickly drank the water from her body, and she felt glorious. She could feel her body almost literally breathe; she could feel the wind pass through her pubic hair. Greg stood by Steven and watched admirably, while Lea and Kellyanne hovered by his side for a moment. Then a twig snapped.

They all looked up to see the old couple, now just a stone's throw away as they stepped up to the head of the trail which the group had descended down. Julia merely glanced over her shoulder and smiled dreamily at them, too comfortable to move.

"Afternoon," the husband said. "Y'all have a nice shoot."

Steven said nothing and when Julia looked back, he was just standing there with his camera, unsure what to say. That's when Lea and Kellyanne stepped forward and joined Julia on the rock, causing Steven to re-adjust his attention and causing the couple to remain where they were for a second. It was Greg who spoke.

"Sorry if this a little inappropriate," he said. The husband waved a hand.

"Nah, no problem at all. You're doing it way out here out of sight of anybody, and it's just pictures. I don't think anybody would see the harm in it."

The wife, silent, looked on at the younger women assembling on the rock and didn't seem to have a differing opinion; her expression was one of slight interest rather than disapproval. Soon Lea and Kellyanne were on either side of Julia, Lea splayed out similarly and Kellyanne just sitting Indian-style, casually, as Steven resumed shooting, careful not to put the couple in his frame.

"Glad it's okay," Greg said, and the couple looked down at the group of models one more time and then waved their good-byes. "Well, see you back at the clubhouse."

It was Lea who leaned back her head, looking at them upside-down, her breasts pointed towards the sky. "Have a good afternoon!" she said, charmingly. Steven paused at the sight, perhaps wishing he could capture her image from the couple's perspective. They seemed charmed, and soon were making their way back up the hill, and then the group was alone again. Steven continued shooting, and Lea pulled her head back up, and they collected a nice series of photos of them reclining there on the rock looking fantastic. Julia couldn't help but look (she was right at the perfect elevation, anyway) and notice that Steven's erection had faded, his penis shrinking back up to its default size. Then she shook her hair and readjusted her gaze past Greg, still watching intently, and then up at the tops of the trees, where birds darted back and forth. She took in a breath of fresh air and let out a pleased sigh.

Anything Can Happen

John was the shy type. As were most of the geeks that found themselves in Tokyo on tour, expecting that they would have renewed confidence in a sea of people of a different culture, that they would be the macho men in that quiet and polite society, but instead finding themselves wandering through the endless crowds completely lost and hopelessly lonely, for nobody talked to them, let alone to anybody else. Japan was a very closed-in society.

Which was good that John was meeting up with his friends that lived in Tokyo: Dennis and Charlie, two guys who had decided to pick up and move and who just made it work. Each had went for their own reasons: Dennis, who was not a geek, fell in love with a girl named Junko when she was visiting on a student exchange program, and they hit it off so well that he followed her back home to marry her. Charlie, like John, was a certified otaku. He was the biggest geek about anime and superhero shows and giant monster movies. But unlike John, he had an exuberant amount of energy and a seeming lack of fear in social situations. If he wasn't an otaku, he would have been a jock, though he was not large or buff, but small and wiry, and still fit, having gone to conventions like Comic-Con dressed as the most scantily clad warriors to show off his defined abs. John didn't have that type of confidence. He was about the same height and seemingly the same build as Charlie, but he was pudgier, with puffy little man boobs and a soft belly, and black-rimmed glasses and a patchy beard which he shaved for his trip to Japan.

Dennis was, by comparison, more physically befitting of a jock, for he left America quite tall and chubby and evolved in Japan to being tall and lean, with a buffness in his chest and arms. But he was a graphic designer, and had no interest in sports. He was also very calm and soft-spoken, in contrast with Charlie, but still not shy or withdrawn like John. It was an unlikely grouping, that one Friday Tokyo evening, one that could only be planned by none other than Charlie, who had indeed decided to take them all, along with a Japanese friend of his, to a nearby bar and lounge, a Japanese nude go-go dancer lounge. The prospect made John incredibly nervous, but Charlie was so insistent, wanting to show him a good time.

So the three of them walked through the doors, were let through by the bouncer, and entered a realm of purple neon and throbbing house music. A small, friendly-looking Japanese man came out of the crowd to greet them, and it was Charlie's friend, Kenji. He looked well-kept, but kind of betrayed a geekiness, for his hair was a little moppy, his smile a little shy, but he was not shy about shaking hands with John and Dennis.

What were they even doing here? John thought, his heart fluttering as he heard the music and imagined the dancers in the greater room, where he could hear people reacting. What was Dennis doing here? He was married. Wasn't this exactly the type of place he would not want to be in? John guessed Dennis didn't share everything with Junko, or else she didn't care. Maybe he came here all the time, for Dennis seemed as calm as ever, not as nervous as he himself was feeling and no doubt projecting, and not as energetic and alive as Charlie, who probably also came here on the regular, for he said "hi" to many people. In here, different from on the streets, people were social and chatted with each other. John followed his friends out onto the main floor, where immediately he was shocked to see, raised up before a field of tables and chairs where the backs of many male heads watched, a foursome of nude Japanese women, twisting and dancing on the stage, the flashing lights making their skin purple, then their normal pale shade, then orange, and it all blended together in John's mind as he beheld bare nipples, shockingly bare, hairy vulvas, each dancer hairy downstairs, wide, obtuse angles of dense, perfectly black hair that actually glittered, and he did not know if they had glitter in their privates or if they were sprayed down with water, and he didn't have much time to wonder as Charlie clapped him on the shoulder and ushered him ahead to their table, and as they walked through the sea of people, John slowly realized it was located right in front, right below the dancing nude beauties. His heart was trying to break out of his chest. He had never been at a place like this, in America or otherwise.

Soon they were seated, all semicircled before the stage, and everybody was talking, but John was too mystified by the dancing going on above him, and at one point, Charlie laughed, leaned over to nudge his arm, and said: "some place, huh?"

"Yeah..." John said. "Is this normal?"

"There are a few places like this," Charlie said. Kenji said something in Japanese, and Charlie leaned in, then straightened up and translated: "If you know the right people. Which, thankfully, you do!" Then he laughed and leaned in to nudge John again, but John's eyes drifted up to the dancers. They were right above him, close enough to throw something at, but not to touch. Almost. The closest dancer could be grasped by the ankle if John were sitting where Charlie was sitting. Her feet danced and skipped along the stage as she maneuvered her body, working it in snaky, sinuous motions, and traveling up her body, to the impressive swells of her breasts, John was equally shocked and transfixed by her girly, almost innocent face, grinning behind a pair of glasses not unlike his own, looking like a nerdy library girl, if not for the fact she was completely unclothed and writhing, and smiling at the pleasure her dancing gave to all those watching. She too was watching, looking out and over John's head at the crowd beyond. She did not see him. The music playing was some Eurobeat, with English lyrics. They throbbed through John's head: "This is your night, there is no end/Do what you wish, there is no end/To the possibilities, the sky's the limit/So Go! Go! Go!/The ceiling is endless, there is no end." They were corny, but those words filled John with a sense of wonder, and a consideration that perhaps they were true: there were no limits; anything could happen. For starters, he never would have thought that he would be sitting in a room where spotlighted would be four, beautiful nude dancing Japanese women. Besides the glasses girl, there was a very elegant woman, who seemed slightly older, who had the sense of being a mom, the sexy type of mom in a porno. She danced right up there next to the nerdy girl. Despite being older, her chest was smaller, but still full and titillating as it swayed from side to side with her movements. And behind them, the other two girls were more neutral-looking, younger, almost bored expressions on their faces as they swayed back and forth and occasionally looked at somebody in the crowd. And then the glasses girl looked down slightly, and her eyes met John's—his heart nearly stopped—and she grinned the brightest and most schoolgirlish grin ever, as if she were directly amused and charmed by him, and then—

Charlie nudged him again. "Hey dude, what do you want to drink? On me!"

"Oh, uh.... what do people usually have here?"

Despite the softness of his voice in the loud lounge, Charlie heard him and laughed. "What do you like? Actually, tell you what, I'll get you a Blue Midnight. You'll like it."

John just nodded and looked up at the dancing girls again. The one with the glasses wasn't looking at him anymore, and was happily swinging her arms and wiggling her chest as she grinned at people out at the crowd. It was so surreal. Strangely enough, the other guys hardly seemed to notice she was there, as they leaned in the table to be heard over the music and began chatting. Occasionally John was brought into the conversation, as he was the visitor, and he had to shake the clouds out of his head each time to look away from the gallant nudity and answer a question with an "oh, yeah," or, more uncomfortably, with a full sentence here and there. Soon their drinks arrived, John's a strange deep blue-colored cocktail in an intimidatingly large bowl-shaped glass, complete with a straw and an umbrella mired in the ice. He sipped it, and it was strong, and Charlie grinned and asked him how he liked it. John just nodded and said it was good.

The conversation passed, John learning what Charlie and Dennis were doing in the city for the past few months, and learning a bit about Kenji, who was a manga artist, and that interested John, for he liked to draw in his spare time and wished it could be his full-time job instead of being a call center operator. But getting insight from Kenji was difficult, as he spoke very little English, and John had to listen closely to the few broken phrases he did say, and translate through Charlie for the rest, which was difficult over the music, but eventually the music stopped, replaced with cheers and applause.

John looked up again. The girls had finished dancing and let their arms drop. he could see small streaks of sweat on their torsos. The girls in back turned and walked offstage, their slightly jiggling butts departing behind them, but the glasses girl and the hot mom remained, smiling and waving at the crowd, standing brave and bare, and that's when the glasses girl looked down again and smiled at the table.

Had she looked at him again? John was not sure. But the conversation had stopped for the moment and the girl hopped off the stage, landing four feet below before the table, and terrifyingly, she approached.

"Thank you for coming!" she beamed, and placed her hand on Charlie's shoulder. It took a minute for John to be surprised that she spoke English (albeit, with a bit of an accent) because he was too hung up on the choice of words. Charlie didn't seem phased; he just looked up at her—past her full breasts just half a foot above his face—and grinned.

"You were great," Charlie told her. Dennis just smiled calmly as if nothing was out of the ordinary, even when the girl left Charlie and came over to him to hug him around his neck. Kenji seemed equally collected, though he did appear to shrink inwards a little. The girl moved around the table, trading glances with everybody, her body moving by so close, so elegantly, as if gliding on the floor. Those breasts and the rest moved alarmingly fast towards John, where she stood between him and Kenji, immediately to his left. Between two self-conscious, shy young men.

"Have a good night!" she said. "You have everything you need?"

"All good, except for more dancing!" Charlie said.

"The next set comes on soon. I'm taking break now. Can I sit?"

John's mind was going crazy right now. Besides not wanting to stare as the girl's smooth torso and hovering breasts hovered right next to him, he was beginning to feel terror, as he was going to have to engage with social interaction not only with his friends, but with her. He watched as Charlie and Dennis raised their glasses and urged her on, and the girl backed up, walked behind John, gracing his shoulder with her fingertips, and then pulled out a chair and sat, right next to him, with Dennis on her other side. She leaned forward and rested her arms on the table, her breasts cradled in them, as if she were one of the guys.

"So you and you and of course you I've seen," she said, traveling her finger from Kenji, to Charlie, then to Dennis, and rounding out at John, looking straight into his eyes. "But you are new. Visiting?"

"Y-yes, I'm on vacation."

"How do you like Tokyo?" she said with a grin, which was just as captivating and arresting as the perfect hemispheres hovering below, but which struck John with much more terror.

"Oh, it's good. I haven't done much..." He could see Charlie grinning and observing as he attempted conversation with the naked girl, who was completely turned to face him now, her leg having gone up and crossing over the other one, hiding her nest of furs (not intentionally), and her elbow still rested on the table, her hands clasped together in mid-air above her knees. "It was his idea to come here," John concluded, nodding towards Charlie. The girl turned her head momentarily to smile at him but then returned to John. She would not let him go. He had fallen in love with her for the few minutes she had danced on stage, but now he was completely afraid of her.

"Well you came to the best spot in the city!" she said, and the others raised their glasses. Soon the server, an attractive woman in her own right, but clothed in black slacks and a shirt and a black apron, came by to take more orders, smiling and only glancing at the naked guest at the table. Charlie asked John if he wanted another drink, but he was only halfway through his blue monstrosity, and it was beginning to warm his insides, and warm him up to chatting with this naked girl.

"So is this what you do... exotic dancing?" he asked her. It was such a stupid question that he kicked himself for it.

"Yes, for now. It pays good. I enjoy it."

"Isn't it weird?" he asked her. He thought he saw Charlie cringe in the background, but he was more and more overtaken with the sight of the glasses girl from chest-up taking up his vision.

"No, I have fun! Nothing to be shamed of."

John nodded. He often wondered how porn actresses and erotic models and even normal actresses doing nude scenes handled their exposure, and the reactions of a more uptight society, and this went doubly-well for a country like Japan, where he imagined something such as this would not be a thing one could brag about publicly. But this girl did not appear to be ashamed.

"What do you do?" she asked him. His heart seized. He was not prepared to bare himself so much to a girl that had bared everything (or really, had she bared anything at all? He knew nothing about her except what she looked like naked).

"I work at a call center..." he said, knowing that did not sound impressive at all. "But I also draw."

"Oh, wonderful! Kenji-san over there is an artist. What type of art do you do?"

"Uh... just portraits, and stuff...." Why was she fixating on him so much? It was making him incredibly nervous. But he had almost gotten over his nervousness of having an unclothed girl before him. "It's a hobby."

"Maybe you make it big like Kenji-san. Never give up!"

"T-thank you."

"You know what? I like you. You're sweet."

And then the girl did something most terrifying: she uncrossed her legs, leaned in, and wrapped her arms around John in a hug. The way she leaned, her breasts did not touch him, but just the contact alone, her hair drifting by his nose, his chin settling on her bare shoulder, was enough to make it feel like lightning was striking in his heart. He found his hands slowly rising to grace her back, which was smooth and flawless, and he could feel her shoulder blades underneath the skin, and his fingers snaked through her hair as it fell down her back, and he looked up and saw Charlie nodding his head and grinning, and then the incredible moment was over. He would not experience anything like it ever again, or so he thought.

"Well, I have to go," the girl announced. "Nice talking to you."

"What is your name?" John found himself blurting out, and couldn't believe he'd said it. Charlie even seemed impressed.

The girl laughed a little. "I'm Junko."

His heart stopped. That Junko? Dennis' wife? He obviously wore his shock on his face, and he looked to Dennis, who only smiled.

"And you are?"

"Oh, I'm John."

"Well, nice to meet you, John. Until later!"

Later. Implying he would talk to her again. Before she had said her name, John had been working up the bravery to ask her what she was doing after her shift, but now doubt was seeded in him. Junko skipped off, her happy butt attracting his eyes, her black hair swishing back and forth across her back as she walked around the stage to join the other girls, who stood nude and casual in the corner, drinking from water bottles, all incredible-looking despite not doing anything to draw attention, the thrust of their chests and bareness of their hips amazing to look at. Then John looked to Dennis again.

"Junko... is that your Junko?"

Dennis smiled more and nodded. "Yeah, I didn't want to say anything. But that's her. She's a graphic designer too, she didn't mention that. But she does this on the side to make money. I’m actually kind of relying on, too."

"And you don't mind?"

"Nah, it's no big deal. It's all in good fun."

"I think John had his eyes set on asking your girl out there," Charlie said. He leaned over to Kenji and said something in stilted Japanese, and Kenji laughed.

"Well it's a good thing I didn't ask her out," John said.

"Were you gonna?" Charlie asked.

"I was thinking about it."

This got a good laugh from Charlie, accompanied by softer, polite laughter from Dennis.

"Sorry, man," John said to Dennis. "I didn't know."

"It's all good, man. Like I said, it's all in good fun. She was having a little fun with you, I think."

"To think," Charlie added, "asking a naked girl out! That sort of thing happens only once in a lifetime."

And it ended up that she belonged to another man, John thought, and drifted his eyes over to the corner of the dance platform, where Junko was chatting with the other girls and then looking over his way, as if they were talking about him. He felt incredibly self-conscious again, and desired to leave. But the next round of drinks came out, and as they sat, the next set began. Junko and her compatriots returned to the stage, to much applause, and then the next deafening track began to play. John watched the girls assemble and begin to dance as he considered the rest of his drink, and Dennis and Charlie talked about something that was going on on the other side of the room, but John was too transfixed by the gyrating, bare bodies above him, especially Junko, who bounced and jiggled and grinned and looked down at him, but he was now ashamed to look at her, knowing that she was his friend's wife. That's when the next most terrifying thing happened: she pointed at him.

His look of surprise seemed to alert Charlie, who turned to look and then grinned back at John. "She's calling you up, dude!"

What... did this sort of thing usually happen here? he wondered, and as he wondered, his eyes locked on Junko, and she was nodding in affirmation and beckoning with her hand. John heard people behind him cheer.

"Get on up there, dude," Charlie said.

"What... I don't know what to do."

"Just get on up there!"

The hot mom was beckoning, too, a knowing grin on her face, and John found himself standing, and trembling as the two naked women, with the other two dancing behind them, beckoned and smiled towards him. Like in a dream, he found himself moving past the table and to the side of the platform where the steps were, thinking the whole time: I wanna get out of here, I wanna get out of here, but then, next thing he knew, he was on stage, looking down at the sea of faces below him, and glancing over to the four nude women beside him. Junko came up to him and grasped his hands, pulled him into the center of the dancing group, swaying his arms, and looking into his eyes. He was transfixed, following her, led by her, gazing down at her breasts below him, looking up at her bright eyes and smile, and seeing the other three girls gathering around. Then she faced him towards the crowd and he saw Dennis, Charlie and Kenji gazing up at him and raising their glasses, and the endless faces behind them smiling and shouting as the girls danced around him and he stood there dumbly, in a complete daze, until Junko bumped his hip with hers, spurning him into motion, and he was lost in the twisting arms and torsos surrounding him, glancing down at the naked butt of the hot mom in side profile, gyrating and swaying back and forth, and then looking up to see that she was glancing over towards him, and she repositioned herself, moving right past him, looking to the side and smirking at him, and that's when he felt hands on his shoulders.

It was the other two girls, gracing him with their fingertips as the hot mom paced like a hungry tiger, and the crowd below erupted into cheers. Junko entered his vision then, crossing paths with the hot mom, and she leaned in, close enough to kiss, and whispered: "A little surprise for you." Then she moved on and approached the edge of the stage, raising her hands above her head and wiggling her hips and her butt before him, as the hot mom joined the other two in caressing him, working down his arms until she fell to a kneeling position, flattening her palm over his stomach and then lower, over the bulge in his pants. His heart nearly leapt out of his chest.

"Hell yeah, dude!" he heard Charlie yell. Everything was a blur; one of the other girls fell to her knees, too, while the last hung on his back, massaging his collarbone while the other two investigated his pants, and soon the hot mom was fiddling with the zipper of his fly as if it were something new and strange, all for show, all slow to drag the moment out, and John was hyperventilating, barley able to look down as the zipper too went downward, and he felt hot air grace the opening, and the hot mom's prying fingers dove inside, and their cool touch graced his trunk.

Then she fished him out. His cock left his fly with a satisfying thwap, and was presented to the crowd, who cheered. The two girls before him nudged to the side so that everybody in the lounge could get a look, and the hot mom began working her hand on him, urging him to full rigidity while the other girl leaned in her head and fawned. It was strange feeling a stranger's hand on him, strange enough to be in this unusual and unbelievable setting, with his friends down below gazing upwards, and he looked down in disbelief to watch the hot mom slowly and passionately massage the hardness into his member, looking up at him with the most loving face, and then the other girl's hands joined, both of them staying to the side so that the crowd could see, and John trembled. And then Junko turned around and seemed delighted. She clapped her hands and approached, got right next to him and put her hand on his shoulder and looked about the crowd, and with the other hand, reached down and grabbed his cock, waggling it back and forth for the people, and John could hardly look at Dennis. One of the girls leaned in her face and Junko rubbed his tip against her cheeks, and over her lips. Soon the girl behind him stepped to his other side and reached down as well, and he had Junko and her standing beside him, reaching down and fondling, and the hot mom and the other girl below, also on either side, and they all joined forces to tease him, tug him. The hot mom leaned forward and opened her mouth, her tongue came out, and she licked him from base to tip. John shuddered and looked into the crowd to separate himself from the unbearable pleasure. There he saw Dennis, and he was not frowning. He had the same cool, calm smile he always had. The same with Kenji, though the young man seemed quite surprised at what was going on up on stage. Perhaps this did not happen every day, John thought. And, of course, Charlie was cheering. John felt a little weird to be looking at his friend, so elated, while his dick was out and rigid, and he looked down again, just as the hot mom went in for another lengthy lick, and the girl below with her did, too, and two tongues traveled slowly up to his crown, where a clear dribble of what was to come trickled out. John feared the moment was upon him, trembled all the way to the tip of his dick, felt it surge, threaten to burst as the hot mom noticed and circled his head with her thumb, wiping away his early release and wrapping him in her grip once more. Then the other hand, and then the girl to his right, and Junko found her hand's place in the formation, right at the end, polishing his head with her fingers as she looked over at him and smiled in a sort of embarrassed schoolgirl way, and he could barely look into her eyes as she touched him, instead letting his fall to her breasts, one of which was nestled intimately in the crook of his arm as it hung useless next to him, and at the sight and realization that those beautiful features of her were in contact with him, he seized and almost came. His dick lurched upwards in the four girls' grip, and they laughed and suddenly slowed. The hot mom looked up at him and patted his stomach, and she said something to the others and they all repositioned. The two who were kneeling remained so, but then Junko happily plopped down next to them, and the other girl slowly lowered herself so they were all kneeling before him, and the crowd was getting louder. Being released of their touch made John painfully aware that he was standing up on stage with his erection presented for the crowd, and he felt like running away, like turning tail and making his way to the back of the stage and the sweet escape of the steps, zipping himself up without catching his dick in his fly, but he was petrified, in a  dream. The music was blaring. He saw his friends watching, and was held by their attention for a second, before he realized the girls were not facing him, but to the side, and the hot mom reached out to pat his thigh and get his attention, and he realized she wanted him to re-position as well. It was so the crowd could get a good look. Junko was looking at him imploringly. He obeyed the silent commands, and stood with his side facing the crowd, the length of his erection (which was admirable, he always prided) apparent for the spectators as it pointed towards the four kneeling girls and their hands went out to take it once again. He had gotten a break, had almost calmed down so there was no threat of expulsion, but the hands took him and brought their owner's eager faces close to his tip, and they began their work. He no longer had the crowd to distract him, and just looked down at the four happy and smiling faces as his obscene organ was manipulated before them, Junko's innocent face beaming as he wriggled and slimed up in their grips, each girl trying to get a handhold on his slippery thing. The hot mom's lips came close enough just to glance against his head, and the trembles returned. The intention was clear: he was going to cum on all their faces. My god, he thought. I always wanted to do this. And soon, he did. Those lips glanced him again, and the other girl's faces came near. He looked at Junko, seeing her expectant expression as her fingers twisted around him, and the beginnings of the surge traveled up his trunk at the sight of her contact with him. Then the hot mom nuzzled him as if cuddling a puppy, his shiny head resting on the cleft of her lip, and then he lost it. He bubbled up and burst straight onto her lip, and his breath was robbed from him. She grinned and leaned back to steer his shots, the other hands releasing him and retreating to their knees as the girls leaned forward to accept what he had to give, and the hot mom jerked his cock to the left, then to the right, so that every shot he threw forth landed on somebody. He saw a streak land perfectly vertical across one of the lenses of Junko's glasses, and her happy tongue extended to take the drip that fell off of it. The other two girls put their hands to their cheeks as errant shots graced them, and then the last dribbles fell to the hot mom's knees, and only then did the noise of the crowd return to John's hearing, as the hot mom wrung the last of him out and ushered from him a groan of pleasure. Then he could hear Charlie above the crowd, cheering.

And then that was it; the four women stood, and John stood there in the afterglow, his cock hanging there, slowly lowering, trailing a bit of semen like a spider's thread towards the floor. When the crowd erupted, he turned to face them, suddenly terrified again, and all four women stood around him as if posing for a picture, and indeed, John did see a camera flash or two go off. Shit, he said. I'm about to be on Pornhub. It was only then that he fumbled with himself and threw his penis back in its hole, while the women patted his shoulder and then spread out on stage. The hot mom patted him on the back as if to tell him he could get down now, and before he did, Junko came up to him, leaned into his ear, and whispered "Hope you had fun," then leaned back and grinned at him, and patted his shoulder. It was enough to kill him, but he nodded at her, unable to smile, and stumbled to the front of the stage as if he was already dead. He could hardly contemplate facing his friends after all that. But they were all clapping as he got to the floor and pushed himself over the side to land before the table. He was blushing hotly as he walked around and found his seat again, where the rest of his drink sat. He could use another one, he thought. Or something stronger.

"Way to go, dude!" Charlie yelled. "I've never seen anything like that here!"

"Yeah, well... I'm, uh, sorry about that," John said, looking towards Dennis. Dennis only shrugged. "It's all good, man. Like I said: it's all in good fun. Looks like you had some fun."

"Y-yeah... I guess. Say, can I have another drink?" This question was directed at Charlie, who also shrugged. "Yeah, sure dude! You deserve it."

"A shot of something, though. Something strong."

"I feel ya, my man."

Up on stage, the girls had resumed their dance routine, though with John's own semen still on their faces. A very visible stripe still hung on the glasses of Dennis' wife, though she paid it no mind and continued to sway her hips and raise her hands to the crowd. John could see that some dots of ivory marked her breasts as well, though she did not wipe them off. The other girls worked his orgasm into their faces as they danced sensually, an encore of sorts to the lurid display that had just happened. Already, there were some guys standing, approaching the stage, hoping to get as lucky as John had, but there seemed to be no further favors being offered that day. The girls just continued to dance. When the server came around, she looked at John with a smirk and then took his order from Charlie, and John waited without any social lubrication except for the melted blue ice of his first drink as question after question was fired at him: What was it like? Were you scared? Did you feel on top of the world? I bet nothing like that will ever happen again. All these statements were true. When his shot came, he was glad for it, but by the time the effects of that one were able to work its magic on him, conversation had gone on to other things, as if what had just happened had never occurred. But the wet feeling in John’s pants said otherwise. The dancers finished their set and then left the stage again.

Junko came out some time later, clothed, in an unassuming blouse and a pair of jeans, and she came up to Dennis and clasped his shoulders.  "Well, have enough fun?" she asked.

"I think we did," Charlie said, casting a grin at John, and then John looked at Junko, and she smiled sweetly at him.

"I bet," she said, suddenly widening her view to the rest of the group. "Hey, let's go to this little bar I know!"

And so the tab was paid, and John did not have to spend a cent (or Yen), and the next thing he knew, they were out walking in the fresh night, until they ended up at a small bar under some railroad tracks, a very small bar, a much different atmosphere than what they had just left, and John's mind was swimming from his experiences, and the alcohol, and walking those streets leading up to this bar, he felt a weird, renewed energy in him, that he had just experienced a porno scene first-hand, and he felt emboldened, like he could do anything, and that anything could happen, which was why, though Junko was still an object of his desire with her cute glasses (now cleaned of his semen) and infectious smile, he noticed a very pretty, professional-looking woman sitting off at the end of the bar by herself, and he no longer felt the familiar fear when looking upon her, so he had the bravery to meet her eyes from across the bar, and the next phase of his life began.

Pixel Perfect

George knew what looked good. He had an opinion or two about aesthetics and the implied mystery of a river goddess discarding a flowered robe by the edge of a spring. And according to him, it was best viewed on a CRT monitor.

He was the main developer of a little indie video game called Secrets of Siren Forest, a side-scroller adventure harkening back to the 16-bit era of video games. He was also the lead artist, and spent countless hours creating the various characters, including the hero, a young, adventurous lad clad in dirty slacks and a peasant's shirt, and various enemies, like cartoony-looking poisonous frogs and other woodland creatures. And, of course, the mysterious, erotic forest nymphs that would also meet the hero on his adventure. They were part of the goal of the game: to meet seven legendary forest nymphs and learn a secret ability or spell from them, so that the hero could then enter the faerie realm, where a whole second half of the adventure was to take place, a half inhabited primarily by these arousing characters. So far, George had only designed the one, the first nymph that the hero meets in a deep grove in the hushed part of the pixelated forest. She would be undoing her shawl and stepping nude into the spring, and would greet the hero unburdened or hidden by clothes.

Needless to say, the game was behind schedule. George had some help from a background artist, who created the scenery that would scroll on a parallax behind each level, and George helped create the ground and other interactable objects as well. He had the help of a music composer, who so far had only provided opening menu music and the quiet, mystical forest music for the first stage. Everything else, from characters to coding, was done by George, and he was fixated, at the moment, by his forest nymph.

His teammates, and his followers, for that matter, were a bit irritated with George on his insistence that this game be played on an old-school tube television, as that was how old pixel art games were meant to be displayed, and such would be with his modern retro game. The question was, how to distribute it in a way that would satisfy him? For a demo had already been released on all next-gen systems, and George was adamant to the community that players play it on an oldschool television, but who was about to hook up their X-Box to an outdated TV? Who even owned CRTs anymore? His audience, he said, that's who, which is why he was entertaining the idea of releasing the game on a reproduction Super Nintendo cartridge, where people who would buy such an item would undoubtedly have a CRT television. That, however, would also breach the contract with Nintendo, Sony, and Microsoft, so that left George in a fuming, ranting mood, much to the annoyance of his team. He had considered coding in a CRT filter in the full version of the game. That would at least be an improvement, because his beloved forest nymph, seen at the end of the demo, looked like a garbled mess otherwise. The gentle curve of her butt as it was revealed when she slid down her shawl was instead a squished, blurry thing. It did not look conceivably erotic to anybody. But on the glowing, curved screen of the CRT which he had linked to his work computer, the forest nymph lived, the impressions of her femininity seen through the curtain of colored squares, and a strange warmth and mystery came through with it. George would fully admit that, during his work, he would sit and stare at the visage of the nymph, blown up to the full fifteen inches of the CRT.

The young hero marches through the increasingly thick forest, until the ground clears. The earth is good and solid, and the air smells like fresh dew. It seems that some of the danger has been overcome. Songbirds can be heard when there were none before. It is like he is in a completely different world. And, as if confirming it, and confirming that he has reached the end of the first leg of his journey, the young adventurer sees that he is not alone, for standing on a rocky ledge overlooking a glistening spring fed by a trickling waterfall stands a woman, clad in a thin robe of a dark, floral pattern that is already pulled back from her shoulders, revealing tawny, flawless skin. Then the robe falls, and her back emerges, then her backside, painted in subtle shadows and curves as the robe continues to fall, granting a peek of a tuft of fur between the gap of her thighs, then the crease at the backs of her knees, and her calves. She steps away from the robe and into the spring, lowering to mid-thigh, her bare butt hovering over the water, mysterious, like a faerie light seen over a pond at night. The adventurer is in awe, and then the woman turns around.…

This was the power of a CRT, George thought. He had not yet rendered the woman's appearance from the front. All he had were four frames of animation of her from behind, dropping her shawl, and the last frame, with it wrapped around the bottom of her butt, was what inhabited the TV and stirred his imagination just then. She looked slightly over her shoulder, as if just in the moment of noticing the traveler coming up behind her (or, rather, from the side, as would be presented in the context of the game). She almost seemed to notice George, and for the briefest of moments, he thought that his creation was alive, like the statue of Galatea. Perhaps it was time for him to hang it up for now, he thought. It was only noon, but a nap would do him good. No doubt it would be filled with images of the nymph...

*****

He was sitting at his desk in mid-evening, his room, despite not having a window, darkened from the lack of ambient light coming from the open door. The only illumination was his desk lamp, his computer screen, and the CRT sitting off to the side on its own stand, where, coming to life, was the goddess nymph, seen from the front. Meticulously, George adjusted the shading of each little block that came together to roughly form the plumage of her pubic hair. A pixelated line led up her trim stomach; three dark squares signified her navel, and a wider assemblage of pink brought out her nipples. Her chest was small, shaded on the undersides, representing their B-level protrusions. Her hair fell behind her back, and her face was a surprisingly detailed expression of regalness, of her surety in her domain, something respectable there in the pixel-blur of her narrowed eyes and small mouth. She had surprising life to her, and though George was not fully done completing her colors, she looked every bit as shocking as she would be to the young adventurer in his world, and perhaps too shocking for a wide-release video game. But he trudged forth. Many times he nodded off, and each time he raised his head, the nymph seemed more and more alive. As his sleepiness grew, he swore he could see her moving, and when the boundary between sleep and wakefulness was most tenuous as to render things not as they are, he thought he saw her leg lifting, as if out of a pool, and crossing over the bottom edge of the TV. Then he was fully asleep at his desk, his chin collapsed on the keyboard. He swore when he awoke, wiped the drool from the keys, and looked towards the CRT to make sure he had not messed things up, but when he looked, the nymph was not there.

Shit, he worried. Had he cleared everything out? He turned to his computer monitor to investigate the file, but as he turned, he heard the soft sound of a foot creaking a floorboard.

In a moment of terror, he saw her in his peripherals as he turned around, instantly suspecting that somebody had snuck into his apartment. But when he fully took her in, he leaned back in awe, for standing there in the middle of the room was the nymph, just as he had rendered her on-screen, full-frontal to him, her dark brown hair rich as the forest, her hair below even darker, the small crease of her thigh framing it as her one leg moved forward to bring her closer to him, and that face was alive with confident energy, but also something George didn't put into her: curiosity. She looked at him with strange wonder, wondering who he was and how she had got there with him.

George worked his mouth to say something, but failed as the woman reached him, reached down and touched his knees as if to make sure he was real, and then looked into his eyes. Never before had he gazed into a set of eyes as transfixing as hers, a lively, sparkling green, penetrating and deep, and they would be trance-like if not for the distracting sight of her youthful chest below her face. And that chest came nearer, nearer, until she was practically all over him, and his knees parted to allow her to fall onto him in his chair, and he buried his face against that flattish, soft bed, feeling the hardness of a breastbone between the astonishing softness of her youthful swells, which he nuzzled with one cheek, then the other, then poked at them with his nose, and then tasted the tenderness of those pink-rendered nipples, collapsing against his lips. They felt human enough; he could feel her heat and feel her hands grace the top of his head as he smothered her. Then, to ascertain if she was real, he leaned back and gazed up at her, and a smile was on her small mouth. He finally spoke.

"Are you... real?"

The nymph only smiled as if she were giving comfort to a small child, and she stroked his hair as if doing so. George lightly gripped her limbs, bringing his hands down to clasp within hers, and gently, half by his own demand and half by her pull, he came into a standing position, face-to-face with her, at equal height. She was every bit as tall as his five-foot-ten frame, almost as if she were his twin, but he let his head lean down and collapse into her collarbone, and she caressed him again. She began working at the neck of his shirt, pulling it as if curious about its makeup and how it covered him, and George soon got the message and instinctively pulled his shirt off.

As he met the nymph's eyes again, she was smiling. She took a step back and gazed at George's chest and abdomen. Despite being a code monkey, George had an okay physique. He was not overweight, and he lifted weights a little and took plenty of walks, so he was somewhat toned, and definitely firm to the touch, as when the nymph laid her fingers on his stomach and acted pleased.

Now he took a step back from her, to allow him to unbuckle his belt and to give her the opportunity to gaze on his manhood, which would no doubt please her. He hurried his pants down, felt himself hang free. Loose, not yet hard, but extending. It was refreshing to be naked as he stepped out of his pants and stood before the nymph, gazing at her nakedness and letting the blood pump and fill his slowly rising arousal. She smiled ever more, stepped close to him, and gently wrapped him in her fingers, letting him finish filling out in her grip. Likewise, he placed his hand on her hip, glided it up her taut side, and then to a breast, which he gently cupped. And then his erection was complete. He leaned forward and embraced the nymph, and she embraced him. His penis slid against her thigh, poked its way through her gap, and nestled there against the fur. The delicate lips (on her face) parted and admitted his. He kissed her slowly but passionately, nibbling on her mouth. She tasted faintly sweet, almost like tree sap, and her hand glided over his back and he thought of where to lie down so that he could enter her.

It would kill the moment, but he decided to lead her into his bedroom. He stood away from her and took her by the hands, motioning with his head to come with him. But one of her hands slipped away and lowered to grip his dick once more. He couldn't help but laugh. So, he led her along by his dick, his hand bracing her shoulder, but by the time they were out of the office and into the kitchen, she was becoming more aggressive, pulling on him now, leaning in to get a closer look at how his shiny head slipped through her fingers. Laughing, trying to walk backwards while this was happening, George stumbled and fell backwards. The nymph would have painfully yanked on his member if she hadn't also fallen with him. She landed beside his lap, twisting and working him to urgency, and she leaned in and mimicked the kiss from before on his crown. It was almost too much for George to bear, and he leaned his head back to tap on the linoleum and let out a whispered groan, looking up again to see a flurry of more kisses gracing his tip until the lips wrapped around it and became more slathering. He found himself reaching forward for her head to stroke it, and apparently she took this as a signal to take him entirely in his mouth. Pure velvet enveloped him. The heat surged. She would bring him out of her mouth to kiss and lick the tip again, relishing in him as he pulsed against her grip around his base. He let his hand go slack and let it all occur. It pained his neck to keep his head positioned to see it all, but he didn't want to miss a thing. She was sweetly kissing his crown with pursed lips, her hand pressing it against them, when he came. First a warning dribble, which surprised her, but not as much as the cannon shot that flew up and caught the bangs of her hair, a remnant still dangling there as the first surge fell down and the next two burst out to splash against her lips and streak against her cheek. She widened her smile to an open-mouthed grin that looked like it would bring laughter, but she made no sound, not even when the last struggling shot arced into her mouth and settled on her tongue. She flinched in surprise and snapped her mouth shut, tasted what he had gifted her, and then her throat flexed as it swallowed, and George let his head fall back. The nymph continued pulling and massaging his dick as if to urge out more. And then the doorbell rang.

George leaned up so fast that it alarmed the nymph. She sat up, looking at him with concern. They lay there, ridiculously with his semen spattered on him and her face and his dick half-limp in her hands and his shoulder blades resting on the cold, hard floor, and he knew he didn't have to answer it, but soon the ring came again, and he sat up and pulled himself into a standing position. He dripped as he walked, the last bit of his orgasm dotting the floor all the way to the front door, where he peeked through the peephole and saw his teammate, Will, standing impatiently on the stoop.

Shit, shit, George hissed. He thought about hollering out "just a minute!" but decided that would be weird. He rushed back to his office, the nymph now standing and pivoting to follow him with her eyes. There was still semen on her cheek and in the bangs of her hair. He quickly grabbed his clothes off the floor and got dressed, without time to clean up, and the girl was approaching the door as he pulled down his shirt.

"Stay in here," he said, and looked her in the eyes to see if she understood. It didn't seem that she did; she just looked at him blankly, not even seeming to notice the diagonal streak of cum on her cheek. George put his hand on her shoulders—her smooth, polished shoulders—and guided her to his chair, where he lightly pressed down until she got the idea to sit. He put up his finger.

"Stay here," he said. "I'll be back." He backed up to the door and stood in the opening, and she just watched him.

"Stay," he repeated, and he closed the door. He walked back to the front, wiping sweat from his temples as the doorbell rang again, and Will looked rather incredulous when George answered it.

"Hey Will, what's up?"

"George... are you alright?"

"Yeah, why?"

There was obviously sweat still trickling down his temple; he could feel it, and his face must have been flushed.

"I don't want to interrupt anything, but can we talk?"

"I'm a little busy right now."

"On the character portraits? I know. That's what I want to talk about. Can I come in?"

"Can it wait?"

"I really wanna get this off my chest. Are you gonna make me stand on the doorstep?"

A moment of silence passed between them, and George could tell Will was wanting to talk about something serious. Despite his mind screaming at him not to, he stood aside.

"Thanks," Will said, and entered. Immediately he sniffed the air, wrinkled his nose, and gave George a funny look.

"Look, I came to talk about the project. I hate to say it, but I think I want out."

George's heart sank and he nearly forgot about his hidden visitor in the other room. "Oh Will, no."

"You're taking too long, dude. You're not serious about this. It's embarrassing, and I don't want to be a part of it. You can still use the backgrounds I created, but you're gonna have to find somebody to do the rest, whenever you get finished."

"Nobody's as serious about this as me!" George shot, fresh anger flushing his already-flushed face. "Besides, I'm almost done!"

"Oh really? Can I see?"

"Uh... no, not right now."

"Oh, so you aren't almost done, then."

"Look, it's sensitive work." His dick twitched at saying that, at saying the word "sensitive,” and he felt the soaking-in dampness in his pants. "I don't like people to look while I'm working."

Will looked down and pinched the bridge of his nose. "It doesn't matter, dude, I'm done regardless. I don't mean any ill will towards you, but—"

He stopped talking and observed something on the floor for a second. George looked down and saw that it was a pearl of his own semen. His heart leapt but he coughed and tried to pretend it wasn't there.

"...But I think this is going to hurt your chances at collaboration with anybody else."

"Sue's still on," George pleaded.

"Sue has made two tracks, and that's it. I don't know if you know this, but she's been holding off doing anything else until you show some progress."

Cold sobriety settled in George's chest, replacing the thrill of the rendezvous he had just had. Was he really going to be going it alone? Was he really facing a mutiny? He had little time to contemplate the seriousness of things, for the door to his office opened, and out stepped the nymph from his game.

He didn't get to see Will's initial reaction. He just stared in disbelief as the nymph stepped out of the room and looked on with concern, not having gotten dressed (as if there was anything in there for her to put on) and presenting herself as Will had not yet seen via George's pixel art, in stark, beautiful reality, the cream color of her skin endless, from the center point of her navel to both directions in her delectable features. The semen was gone from her cheek, but some still clung to her hair. George spun around. "I—"

"I"m sorry," Will said, taking a step back and directing his speech at the girl who did not seem to understand. "I didn't mean to interrupt." Then he looked at George. "Why didn't you say you had somebody over? I would have understood."

"I didn’t invite her."

"What—"

But the nymph was already stepping into the kitchen between the two arguing men, bringing her alluringness closer and closer to Will's unbelieving eyes. He actually backed up, as if backing away from a dangerous animal, but she advanced until she was standing right next to him, as delectable as ever.

"H-hey, what's going on he—"

She grasped at Will's belt and tugged it, then looked incredulously at George, as if he had any answers. She cast her eyes up and down his clothed body, the clothes seeming to cause her distaste, and she cast equal annoyance at Will's coverings.

"Hey, stop," Will commanded, and stepped back, and the nymph seemed most annoyed. "What is this? Huh?"

The nymph seemed to lose interest in Will, and instead went over to George and wrapped her arms around his shoulders, plucking at his shirt.

"It's kind of hard to explain," George told Will.

"Why isn't she saying anything? Did you drug her or something?"

George found himself putting up his hands, despite the constant attention from his nymph friend.

"No, no, nothing like that! Look, it's hard to explain, I said. You'll think I'm crazy."

"Try me."

"Well... she came out of the TV."

Will just stared in astonishment at his partner and the naked woman clinging to him.

"Maybe you're the one on drugs. I should go."

"No, wait!"

George was able to free himself from the embrace of the nymph and extend his hand to Will, and he led the two of them to his study, where they entered and George went to his computer screen while the nymph stood around observing the room and Will looked on. He seemed very bothered noticing the white gel at the fringes of the nymph’s bangs.

His file appeared intact; all the layers and adjustments were there, but the canvas was still blank. As was the CRT.

"She was right here, and then... she was here."

Will leaned forward to look.

"Okay, dude. Whatever. You have fun with your... muse, or whatever. I gotta go.”

"No wait! I'm telling the truth!"

The nymph came up to the desk and decided it was a nice place to sit, flattening her butt on the faux-wood surface and leaving her nest of hairs at eye level for George to touch, if he so wanted. She looked down at the screen and then peered at Will. Something about her seemed to move him. Perhaps it was her near-identical visage to the pixelated form Will had seen, perhaps it was something in her spirit or demeanor, or the way she looked at him curiously, and unashamed, for in a second, Will was transfixed looking into her eyes, and, petrified, he was open to accepting her open hand which raised to take his.

"...You're telling the truth, aren't you?" he asked, still gazing into the nymph's eyes.

"Yes, that's what I’ve been telling you."

"How is this possible?"

"I don't know."

The nymph looked lovingly into Will's eyes, and, releasing her hands from his, caressed his arms. She seemed to guide them up, lifting his hands to invite them to touch her soft breast. He relented, and did, collapsing her tender flesh into his palm. George watched and heard his friend take a breath.

"...I should go."

George almost found him saying "no, stay!" but he did not know why. Was it "no, stay with me and sex up this goddess"? He didn’t want his friend to leave for some reason. Perhaps he wanted him to believe.

Will backed away, and the nymph's hands trailed from where they had graced him. He looked one final time at her, perched on George's desk, and then he turned for the door. George stood up to follow him.

"Look, Will, you have to believe me!" George cried as he followed his friend to the front door.

"I don't know what to think, George, but I gotta go. I just wanted to tell you what I came to tell you. I don't know what to make of all this. I think you're a little crazy."

"Don't you see, though?"

Will spun on him. His face was strained.

"I see, alright. You might be crazy, George. Then again, all artists are, a little bit. You'll probably have lots of success. But I gotta go."

The nymph had come out of the office to see Will's departure. His eyes lifted to her, acknowledged her with a softening look, and then he nodded and opened the door.

"Have a nice life, man."

Then Will was gone. George was left in his apartment, alone, with only the nymph as company. She came up behind him and draped her arms around his shoulders. Something in him sank in submission. He almost sank into the floor, but he turned around and the nymph repositioned her arms and graced them around his neck. They touched foreheads, like lovers. And then he walked her to the bedroom. In the dim light, he stepped back to undress and watched the shape of the nymph enter, the kitchen light that came through the door tracing her arms. When he was completely naked again, he turned on the bedside lamp, and when revealed, the nymph grinned. Stepping forward, arms opening, they embraced, and he took her to bed with him.

He did not remember much; it was almost like a dream. He was too spent to make love to her at first, and just laid there and cuddled with her, with just a sheet pulled over them. He felt muggy. She smelled like a mountain stream. With her hair in his face when she went still and affected sleep (for he did not know if she even needed sleep), he swore he could feel himself in the grove that she inhabited in the game. He may have gone there, in a dream. He was not sure. If there had been a dream, it had been instantly forgotten, because the hair in his face moved, the bed creaked, and he opened his eyes to the nymph positioning on top of him, looming down on him, the sheet now slid back. Her thighs pressed down on his, and part of him rose to tickle them. Without his command, with a mind of its own, his independent part prodded for fur, and found it. As the nymph raised her hips, his tip nestled at the threshold of paradise, tracing its entrance, becoming slick. George placed his hands on the nymph's flawless sides and guided her onto him, guided him into her. And then she lay on him and they writhed together. Like two snakes, they squirmed in the bed, and similarly, he moved about in her, not aggressive, but leisurely. Slow. But passionate. She made not a sound, but she breathed into his face and they rolled over on their sides. He may have fallen asleep like that, feeling her shoulder blades under the palms of his hand and her small breasts brushing against his chest, her face not vivid now in his recollection because she was so close, and he must have closed his eyes. There were lapses of time, separating remembered moments of laying there, squirming slower and slower, him bumping inside of her but gradually laying still, even limpening. He did not remember cumming, only waking, on his back, the sheet only covering his legs, the bright morning sunlight in the room. And no nymph.

He had sat up, cleared his head. Despite the grogginess, he felt like he had had an excellent sleep. He did not feel like he had a hangover or any of those other ailments that would befall somebody waking up from a fantasy such as he had had. He was not sore, not even down below, and there was no mess in the bed. The sheets still smelled like a mountain spring.

He looked all over the apartment for her, but she was not there. He even went to the front door, looked out through the peephole, and then even opened up, forgetting for a moment that he was nude until he had stepped out onto his front stoop and felt the morning breeze on his private parts. A brief moment of terror overtook him, but he still craned his neck past the stoop to see if the nymph was walking anywhere. She was not, though an old woman with a little dog had stopped and was staring. George froze, then just waved, and darted back inside.

His heart was thrumming from the thrill, but also from concern over his missing lover. He went to his office, still nude, not stopping to make coffee or use the bathroom, and he went to his computer. He woke it up, and there was his project, as he had left it. As he had left it when Will had looked at it, for the canvas was still blank and the nymph was not there.

*****

He had to resume his character work nearly from scratch. Not only did the full-frontal image he had been working on disappear, but the original image of her losing her gown had, as well. He could not explain it. It all felt like it was a dream, but if it was a dream, it was the longest and most detailed dream he had ever had, and he was still waiting to wake up from it. He had phoned Will to ask him if the previous night's events had transpired as he remembered them.

"So you were on drugs," he said over the line.

"No, I wasn't on drugs and I wasn't drinking. I was working, but I was sleepy. I kind of thought I may have dreamt everything. But all my work is gone."

"That sucks, dude. So you're starting over?"

"I guess. But that girl definitely was there?"

"Yes, of course she was there. I touched her. Who the hell was she?"

"Like I said, she came out of the TV."

There was silence on the other end, then: "Uh-huh. Look, if that was a ploy to try to get me more involved, it's not gonna work. My stance is the same as it was last night."

George sighed.

"Well okay. I understand. I'm almost at square-one anyway."

"You still have all the other art. It's just one character."

"Right."

"You can still use my backgrounds if you want."

"Thanks. Hey, I gotta go."

George had paid attention to the news to see if there were any reports of streaking women in the area, but she never did appear again. He did not return to his work for a few weeks, and in that time, Sue, his music composer, also bowed out of the project. He was on his own. Then, one evening, he sat down at his computer and began designing again. He pulled the nymph's image from memory this time, and not just imagination, re-creating her as she had appeared in his study. He had no game anymore, but he felt that he needed to do this, as some sort of catharsis. Even more details came out in this new image, once again of her standing full-frontal, her thighs together and coursing down in a zig-zag path, her tuft of pubic hair framed there and more delicately realized than with just a few brown pixels. He accentuated it with light tans and greys, so that one could almost see every hair, despite it not being possible with such rudimentary graphics. But on his glowing CRT screen, where he wondered if she would escape from once more, she seemed as real as she had when he had met her.

The other angles were more challenging and required more imagination, for he mostly saw her from the front, but his imagination was fully charged now, and his work was quick and impassioned. Another version of the game was born from this work. He decided to scale down Secrets of Siren Forest and make it not about discovering another realm full of erotic nymphs, or even of meeting seven different women, but instead centered all around the one, the nymph, his lover, his muse. The forest would be the only setting (making use of the backgrounds that Will had made) and the story would center around questing to meet this mysterious nymph of the forest. There would be several possible outcomes, from merely glimpsing her before dying from a misplaced step and tumbling to one's death, to meeting with her, conversing with her, and being granted the ending of a fully-realized and highly detailed scene of copulation, as detailed as he could get, full-screen. It would be the ultimate reward for beating the game. And not something suitable for mainstream game systems. So he stuck to his original plan: a repro cart. He finished the game after many months, wiped his brow, produced a limited number of cartridges, and distributed them online, and to local game shops as a sort of promotion. And then he was done with it.

He did not make much money off of the game, and it amounted to just a passion project, something he hoped people would enjoy, but something that he needed to get out of his system regardless. After that, he did not think much of the nymph, except when looking at screenshots from reviews of his game, and he stopped wondering how exactly she had appeared in his apartment, if she really did come from the television, and if she was still wandering around out there. Then, after the game had been out for some time, he thought of neither, and just looked ahead to his next project, and if he could collaborate with anybody ever again.

It was almost a year later, when he was trying to think of something equally erotic to make in the realm of video games, when George happened upon an internet discussion thread talking about his game again, but in an interesting new light. It seemed a sort of urban legend had evolved about his game, one that he discovered appeared on several discussion forums. Like the famed Polybius or the countless video game creepypasta stories, there were hundreds of people sharing an account of one person's strange encounter with his game, and several more that claimed they had similar experiences. All said that after playing the game for an extended period of time, trying to get to the good ending but not succeeding, the mysterious, nude forest nymph would later appear to them in their bedrooms.

Get naked with these other P.A. Choi collections!

”Naked Encounters” “Naked Adventures” and “Naked Girl Adventures 2”

About P.A. Choi

P.A. Choi has had a long, proud career of writing erotica for seven years, where he has mainly pursued his favorite themes of exhibitionism, public nudity, and the fine line between naturism and eroticism.

Press flesh with P.A. Choi at:

twitter.com/PAChoi4

instagram.com/pachoi4

goodreads.com/pachoierotica

Or shoot an e-mail at pachoierotica@gmail.com