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George was twenty-seven, and she thought like an artist. No, she thought like an Artist, and that was because she was one. George was an Artist. Georgette’s world–her daily life, her time travel, her dreams–was filled with colours and shapes and spaces and constructions and questions and with wit and vibrancy and pragmatic intelligence. George was pretty, which was better than beautiful because it required less effort, and she was in love. She was in love with Art, and Art was perfect for her because it returned her passion and always promised more. George tiptoed barefoot over to her Head (She had named it now: it was ‘Head’) and kissed the crown. The Head made a loud buzzing sound in reply, which alarmed her (it was a surprising Head) until she realised that the sound had come from the intercom on her wall, and announced the presence of Down, who was, to her, a work of Art himself–A Francis Bacon, perhaps, or Munch’s The Scream. She left the Head and walked to the wall. ‘It’s. His hands are in my hair, gently urging me on. I can sense he’s getting close so I have to decide whether to slow things down or continue our current path. But, I sense his desire and I cannot deny him. I increase the pace, keeping my mouth on him at all times, using my hands to massage his balls and the base of his cock. He’s breathing hard and trying to vocalize his desire but his words become jumbled with his moans of pleasure. Then one last time I take him deep into my mouth and he erupts, shooting his warm seed into my mouth. I savor the flavor as he releases gush after gush. I crawl up so that I can kiss him, giving him a sample of what I just enjoyed. We kiss gently but the passion increases again. This time he takes charge in no uncertain terms. He flips me on to my back and begins kissing my neck again, working his way down. He pushes the fabric of my chemise aside so that he can feast on my breasts. He’s fascinated by them and can spend hours caressing them and taking them.
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