Art For Art's Sake: Brushes and kisses (Angie's Adventures Book 2) Read online

  ‘Knickers off,’ she commanded.

  Fingers trembling more than ever, Angie took off her knickers.

  ‘I don’t know if I dare paint you,’ Miss Pearce said, awe replacing command in her voice. ‘Not like this. I would have to show you in every gallery in the world. I couldn’t possibly keep you to myself.’

  Authoritative again, she told Angie to get on the bed.

  Angie threw herself onto the crimson covers and wantonly parted her legs.

  ‘I’m yours,’ she said. ‘Take me.’

  Chapter Three

  Miss Pearce must have had black belts in lovemaking. Starting with Angie’s tits she soon brought her to a peak then effortlessly held her there. And it was so, so good. The way she licked, nibbled, kissed and caressed was exquisite. So too was the way she varied her attentions: sometimes above Angie’s breasts, sometimes below; sometimes holding them apart so she could run her tongue up and down the U-shaped valley in-between. And sometimes pressing them tightly together, making more of a V-shaped valley but tonguing it just as avidly.

  Angie came the very second Miss Pearce bit her right nipple.

  Then she came even harder when she bit her left.

  And then Miss Pearce started on Angie’s armpits.

  With the benefit of hindsight Angie reckoned Miss Pearce had a thing about pits. Hers were hairy and not at all attractive but Miss Pearce couldn’t get enough of them. She used that wicked tongue of hers in a million wonderful ways: from her an armpit lick could start at waist level, divert to the sides of only too receptive tits and still end up in an unruly bush of hair.

  So two more cums there, then: right side and left . . . hard on the right side, harder still on the left.

  Amid her ecstasy Angie found time to watch the action in the overhead mirror. Not that she spent very much time on reflections. No, she preferred sensations to reflections. Still, glancing upwards every so often was a good way to spend a moment or two in-between orgasms. It certainly added something to the occasion.

  Flat on her back as she was, her own body didn’t look too bad for once: big tits there to be chewed, her legs widely spread and strong-looking if not shapely. But best of all was the sight of Miss Pearce in see-through black, kissing at her, sucking at her . . . chewing at her.

  Angie only ever looked at her own reflection in order to criticize. She believed she was ordinary if not downright ugly, and totally incapable of smiling. Whenever she tried to smile she seemed to glower or grimace so she’d given up trying.

  But now her face was . . .

  Well, she’d always had decent bone structure. Even she couldn’t deny that. And now, well on her way to her umpteenth cum . . .

  Well, suddenly all the frown lines were gone.

  Maybe I’m the polar opposite to other girls, she marvelled. Maybe I don’t contort my face when I cum.

  Maybe this is the real me.

  *****

  Miss Pearce’s oral skills were unparalleled. They also went on seemingly forever . . . for which Angie was eternally grateful. The older woman’s fingers were bedecked with rings and her wrists carried an unreasonable amount of bangles. Angie struggled to decide which was best: the feel of all those rings inside her or the steady, rhythmical rattle of bracelets chinking. Perhaps it was that wicked tongue of Miss Pearce’s, working all the while on her clit . . .

  Or perhaps it was the older woman’s other hand, incessantly scouring her body, inevitably ending up with a grip on her boobs, squeezing and squeezing and squeezing.

  And all the while Angie was able to watch the straw blonde’s head bobbing away at her. All the while she could see the blonde’s black-lingerie as she wriggled and writhed on her.

  Time had become meaningless when Miss Pearce was finally done. Sliding up Angie’s body she took a brief diversion back at her tits then moved on, grinning down at her, John Lennon’s glasses shining if a little steamed up.

  ‘That’s me,’ she said, ‘it’s your turn to do whatever.’

  Angie pointed to the painting opposite the foot of the bed: the one depicting Miss Pearce in the classic sixty-nine position underneath a curvaceous, auburn-haired lady.

  ‘That’s what I’m here for,’ she said. ‘You know it is, just as well as I know it is.’

  ‘You’d better bottom,’ said Miss Pearce. ‘It’s easier on the neck muscles. But it might be an idea to go down first. And not least because I desperately want you to.’ She laughed a little nervously. ‘Not that I am insisting or anything. The choice is all yours.’

  Angie’s “male experiment” had been with a schoolmate called Bobby. They’d been together for about ten weeks and, although she’d been fucking him most of that time, she’d been reluctant to suck him. It had taken her a month and a lager and lime flavoured condom before she at last took the plunge.

  She felt no reluctance at all with Miss Pearce, however. In fact it took her enormous willpower to keep from diving straight in there.

  Somehow, remembering her lover’s patience and tenderness, Angie restrained herself. Unfastening the lacy black bra she lavished attention on Miss Pearce’s breasts, increasingly excited when already hard nipples grew harder still between her lips.

  Then she shifted lower and kissed the hazel-brown gemstone in Miss Pearce’s navel. Realizing she’d forgotten something, she licked cleanly shaven armpits awhile before moving up to kiss Miss Pearce’s silver nose piercing. The teacher’s eyes matched the stone in her bellybutton; just then they were full of lust.

  ‘Oh yes,’ she sighed. ‘Oh Angie Baby, you’re so beautiful.’

  Resisting the urge to snort again, Angie kissed her way down a deliciously sweaty, trembling body.

  I’m exciting her, she thought. Flipping heck, she’s nearly as excited as I am!

  Miss Pearce raised her bum off the bed unasked, easing the removal of her panties. Angie gasped at the beauty below. She knew she’d find a hair-free pussy but hadn’t expected it to look quite as good as it did. And she certainly hadn’t expected the butterfly tattoo.

  The smell of sex was overwhelming, filling the air with pheromones. Aroused by it, Angie kissed the tattoo then ran her tongue up Miss Pearce’s folds, onto her clitoris.

  ‘Oh yes,’ she moaned. ‘Oh Angie Baby, yes, yes please.’

  Angie didn’t need asking twice. She launched a direct clit assault, using her tongue tip to lash it and to roll it, bringing forth a torrent of tiny yelps and groans. Taking the first, almost instantaneous orgasm as encouragement, she kept going and brought her fingers into play. Using two of them, she probed as deeply as she could, not even thinking about G-spots, concentrating solely on rhythm.

  And Miss Pearce responded. Her lower body was moving in time with her, dancing along with Angie’s tune. She was very hot in there and flowing like a river. Soon she started cumming and didn’t seem to be able to stop. As well as pheromones the air was suddenly filled with moans, gasps and the tiniest of screams.

  Suddenly Angie had to taste that flow. Moving of its own accord her tongue drew a straight line down a quivering slit and replaced her fingers, pushing in until it was straining at its roots.

  Miss Pearce came immediately, contracting hard around her, simultaneously gushing all over her chin and chest.

  She tasted of apples and honey.

  She tasted divine.

  Angie withdrew her tongue and lapped up juice from every wet surface she could find. Inside she was glowing and not so far away from cumming herself. The feeling of bringing a fellow female off was just as good as it had been before. Indeed it only ever got better. She wanted to do it again and again.

  So she did.

  Chapter Four

  Angie never did get that Friday night glass of wine. Instead they stayed in bed, taking turns to top and bottom, mastering at least sixty-nine different sixty-nine positions and a couple of basic ways to trib.

  Yes, not only was it the most important Friday in living memory, it was far and away the best.

>   There were no incriminations afterwards. Miss Pearce reminded Angie she didn’t do relationships and that they had to stay secret. Then, grinning broadly, she assured her tonight wasn’t a one-off and that some of her non-relationships had lasted for years.

  ‘You’ll be off to university in September,’ she said. ‘We can meet on the QT until then, surely. And if we do occasionally hook up again afterwards, by then it won’t matter, will it?’

  ‘Do you mean afterwards we can be out of the closest, going out on dates and that?

  ‘Yes I do. Not all the time but now and again, when you’re visiting home. You can sneak in an extra night and sleep with me.’

  From that signal Friday a pattern emerged. They would spend two nights a week in the teacher’s bed, when Angie was supposed to be at the youth club or some party or other. Not that she ever stayed all night. No, she would arrive at Miss Pearce’s between six and seven and they’d fuck until two the next morning. Then Miss Pearce would drive Angie home so she’d be tucked up in her own bed before her mum got back from work.

  And the things they got up to! That first Tuesday was declared Body Painting Day. Miss Pearce had a large supply of water-based paints and used them to transform Angie’s body, covering every last inch with colourful designs. Then, while Angie was still a painted lady, she’d fucked her with a dildo.

  Make that hard and very, very skilfully.

  How good was that! Bobby must have fucked Angie with his real cock at least twenty times without ever making her cum. It took Miss Pearce perhaps two minutes to set her off with her artificial one.

  And once she’d set her off, Miss Pearce hadn’t stopped for hours and hours.

  Not that Angie always thought of her lover as “Miss Pearce” outside of school. No, she was only Miss Pearce when she was the active partner. In that role she was very much the authoritarian, giving out orders such as “Take off your clothes”, “Open your legs” and (most often of all) “Cum for me”.

  When Angie was the active partner her lover was “Veronica”. The lady in question didn’t like the name but somehow it suited her when she was being fucked. Angie didn’t know why, precisely, but believed it seemed sexy yet compliant.

  The rest of the time, when they were engaged in mutual acts or simply pillow-talking, the teacher was “Ronnie”. She liked that name and insisted Angie used nothing else when they were alone together. Angie played along with that and did her best to limit unintentional lapses (not always easy when she was carried away getting fucked or fucking!).

  And amazingly enough, she was already doing more fucking than being fucked. Miss Pearce was slowly but certainly been usurped by Veronica.

  Not that anyone was complaining.

  Apart from weekends their non-relationship was definitely a good one. But Ronnie had a side-line in painting landscapes and seascapes which she sold through a network of small shops and galleries. To do this she spent her weekends in more scenic places, most of them in the Peak District. And she seemed to have a “friend” in every town.

  ‘Girlfriends mostly,’ she told Angie. ‘But there is the odd man knocking about. And they are all glad to put me up, if you know what I mean.’

  ‘You do men as well?’ Angie raised her eyebrows at the very idea.

  ‘Mother Nature gave me a pussy designed to take a man. I feel obliged to use it that way every now and then. Only with guys I can trust, mind. Mother Nature also gave me a rather large appetite. That’s not true with most men I’ve ever known. And that’s one of the reasons why I prefer girls.’

  ‘Let me get this straight: when you’re away you stay with one friend or other on the Saturday night. And instead of paying board you sleep with them.’

  ‘Yes, but it’s not as tacky as you make it sound. Most of my friends go back to my university days. I’ve slept with them all before and want to keep on sleeping with them, even if it only is for one night every few months.’

  Angie didn’t like the arrangement but Mother Nature had given her a rather large appetite too. Seeing as Ronnie was her only outlet right then she accepted the way things were.

  It’s her hippy past, she told herself. It’s the way she is.

  *****

  Her new love life severely dented Angie’s attendance record at eighteenth birthday parties. She found it surprising she still got invites because, by the end of February, she must have blobbed on ten if not more occasions. Unlike most parties, however, Ade’s was on a Saturday. And, with Ronnie spending the weekend with Sam in Hathersage, there was no reason not to go.

  (Angie never did find out if “Sam” was a Samuel or a Samantha; Ronnie hadn’t volunteered and she hadn’t wanted to ask.)

  Never a girl with a wide circle of friends, Angie was used to turning up at functions on her own so she wasn’t fazed by being unaccompanied at Ade’s. Following the old routine she simply marched up to the bar and, damning the expense, ordered a pint of Guinness. Then she looked around to see what was what and if there was anyone worth talking to.

  The first person she saw was Bobby, sitting at a table beside the dance floor, talking to Abigail. She felt no envy at all at the sight, even though popular opinion had it that Abigail had stolen Bobby from her. No, if anything she felt grateful.

  Omigod, if it wasn’t for Abigail I’d probably still be fucking him to this day.

  Yuk, what a waste!

  Sandra was sitting a couple of tables away from Bobby, deep in conversation with a hunky white guy. Sensing eyes on her she looked up, recognized Angie and smiled. Two seconds later the hunky white guy was deep in conversation with himself and Sandra had joined the new arrival at the bar.

  ‘Angie Baby,’ she crooned, ‘I thought I’d never see you at a party again!’

  ‘I thought I’d show my ugly mug,’ Angie replied.

  ‘Stop putting yourself down, duck. It doesn’t suit you.’ Sandra batted her lovely long lashes before adding in a low, confidential tone: ‘Am I seeing a girl alone or is your significant other here too?’

  ‘Yes and no. I’m alone and she’s away for the weekend.’

  ‘Then you’re not leaving until I’ve had my dances. By my reckoning you owe me a month’s worth.’

  ‘I’m the world’s worst dancer,’ Angie warned. ‘I’ve got two left feet and they keep tripping over each other.’

  ‘Don’t worry, duck, I’ll be holding you tight so you won’t fall. Now then, what are you drinking? It’s that wonderful black stuff isn’t it? I think I’ll join you. It matches my skin and tastes even better.’

  Angie stared at the girl, wondering at her political correctness.

  ‘I can say that,’ Sandra said, ‘I can say anything if it’s true.’

  She ordered two more pints while Angie finished her first.

  ‘Cheers,’ Angie said accepting the refill. ‘Er, aren’t you getting your date one?’

  ‘Richard’s not my date,’ Sandra laughed. ‘He was just angling for a return visit into my knickers. And doing very well, I must admit. But then I saw you and his chances evaporated. Poof, just like that!’

  ‘You can’t just ditch him.’

  ‘It was his round next so I’m doing him a favour, saving him money. He’ll get over it, big bruiser that he is.’

  Richard captained the school rugby team. He was freckled and good-looking in a rugged sort of a way and yes, he was already moving in on a tableful of girls, most of them glad to see him.

  ‘He’s been in your knickers, has he?’ Angie asked.

  ‘More than once but that’s all you’re getting. You won’t tell me about your conquests, so why should I tell you about mine?’

  The next couple of hours flew by. Angie was amazed by the number of guys who approached Sandra, asking for dances and being politely refused. The only one who managed to get a single turn around the floor was Ade, and only then because it was his party.

  And wasn’t she a sight as she danced; short brown leather skirt and bare black legs gleaming under the lig
hts of the disco. It wasn’t only the guys whose eyes were glued on her; Angie was sure of that!

  ‘Just one dance for his birthday,’ she said when Sandra returned for yet more Guinness.

  ‘I’m saving me for you,’ Sandra replied, still brazenly flirting.

  ‘I’m sort of attached,’ Angie objected, trying not to think of Ronnie clinching with Sam . . . and trying not to wonder if Sam had a cock and, if so, whether it was currently thrusting in and out of Ronnie.