A Creative Challenge Ch. 31

"Case dismissed," I said, as I hung up the phone after a lengthy conversation with Greta who was still down at the court waiting to celebrate with her lawyers. "And she was awarded costs, much to her relief."

"Yesss!" said Amy with some feeling. I knew Amy in particular would be as relieved by the outcome of the trial as I imagined Greta must have been. Amy had been more outraged than I was that our work might be officially labelled 'obscene'. In some way, she felt that the case was more a personal attack on her than on the paintings and drawings, that her freedom to be herself and explore her own sexuality was in some way being prosecuted and she was deeply offended by this.

"Why was it dismissed?" asked Mike in his best TV interviewer manner. His camera was pointing at me because he had been videotaping us working in the studio when the phone rang, and he had then taped whole phone conversation. "The media seemed to think the prosecution was pretty confident of winning this one."

"Apparently the prosecution argued that what was on the walls of Greta's gallery would fail the Supreme Court's 1973 obscenity test, but the judge wasn't convinced they had made a good enough case, so Greta said he dismissed it without even hearing the defence."

"Good for Greta, I say," said Amy. "She never let them intimidate her and she made it quite clear that she would take it all the way back up to the Supreme Court if she had to."

"What is the Supreme Court test?", asked Mike, with his camera still focused on me, tape rolling.

"I think it says that my pictures had to be deemed 'patently offensive', 'predominantly prurient', and 'lacking serious artistic value'."

As I said this, Mike twisted the lens of the camera to zoom out from my face, then he panned, slowly, onto and then past Amy who was sitting naked and cross-legged on the dais, to a series of finished and half-finished artworks stuck up around the walls of the studio. He held the camera stationery for a few moments on a picture of Amy reclining back away from us with her legs splayed and hanging over the edge of a bed, then he shut off the camera, lowered it from his shoulder and turned back to face me.

"That sounds like a pretty good description of your work, Dad."

"Thanks very much, Mike. I do try my best."

"That's not funny, guys," protested Amy, lacking her normal ability to laugh at almost anything on the planet, no matter how tasteless or repugnant. "I think this is very important, and it means a lot to me."

"I know," I said, hoping that Amy wouldn't stay up on her high horse for long. "It means a lot to all of us. Especially Greta. She's had some terrific PR from this."

"Most of it negative, from what I've been reading," said Mike.

"I don't suppose people who buy our sort of pictures care much what the papers say," said Amy to Mike.

"And Greta would have doubled her prices again already, I bet you," I said, rubbing my hands together in an impression of Lawrence Olivier playing Shylock.

"I can't believe you are so mercenary," said Amy, clambering back up on her high horse again. "This is about Art, and freedom of speech, not money."

"Amy, it's OK. We won."

"Yes we did, so how about opening some champagne, paint boy?"

"I don't think we have any," I said, ignoring her friendly jibe. "One of us will have to go down to the liquor store."

"I think it has to be someone with clothes on," said Amy. She looked down at herself and threw her hands up in surprise. "Well, how about that! Guess it can't be me."

"That let's me out, too," I said, turning towards Mike, who bowed to the inevitable and headed for the door, fumbling in his pockets for his car keys.

As soon as she heard Mike's car backing out of the drive, Amy stepped down off the dais and walked over to the sofa where I was sitting and, facing me, straddled my legs and sat on my knees taking my cock in both hands and gently stroking it.

"He'll be gone at least fifteen minutes," she said, quizzically raising her eyebrows and giving me her 'wanna-fool-around?' look.

"Don't you want to wait until the camera's rolling again?"

"Of course not. He's making a documentary about our life and our work, not a porn flic of you and me fucking."

"What were we all doing in City Plaza, then?"

"That was different. That was in public. We had an audience. Now we don't."

Even though I completely understood what she meant, I had to laugh at her unusual logic. if we fucked in public, with an audience of strangers, that was Art, so it was OK to be filmed doing it, but if we made love in the privacy of our own home and let Mike film that, it would be 'porn'.

Amy walked forwards on her knees until she was over my expertly stiffened cock which was hovering at the entrance to her vagina. She used the tip of my prick like a dildo to stimulate her clitoris and get us both nice and slippery, then she firmly sat down on it so that it slid into her in one breathtaking movement, and leaned forward, pressing her hard-tipped breasts into my chest.

We sat with our genitals enmeshed, holding each other close in a silence long enough for me to be quite sure that there was nowhere else on earth that I would rather have been at that moment.

"When Greta was here, did you like the way I tried to get her to play Hide the Sausage with us?"

"No."

"I didn't think so. But I did think for a moment that she might just say yes, didn't you?

"I was afraid she would, and I was wishing that you hadn't made her the offer."

"I couldn't help myself. Sono fatto cosi."

"What does that mean?"

"It means 'that's the way I am'."

"Horny?"

"No, provocative. And horny. And your cock inside me feels incredibly good."

She rocked her hips backwards and forwards – only small movements, but her weight pushing down made sure that both of us felt maximum friction from her oscillations – and both of us were silent again for a few minutes while we tuned in to our respective private sensations.

"Do you know who I was thinking about getting to come and model with me for that brothel-keeper's commission if we hadn't turned it down?" said Amy.

"Buckingham."

She stopped moving on my lap and leaned back, looking at me in some surprise.

"How did you know?

"I didn't at first, but I soon realized it couldn't be anyone else. You knew we could afford to fly him in for a job of that size, and I knew how much you enjoyed modelling with him."

I nearly said 'how much you enjoyed fucking him', but that would have been petty when I was the one with my arms around her body and my cock as far up her pussy as it could go. She either didn't hear, or pretended not to hear, the slight hesitation in my voice when I got to the word 'modelling' and took what I said at face value.

"I did enjoy it. A lot. And I thought he would jump at the chance to do it again."

"I'm sure he would," I said, wondering which 'it' Amy thought he would like to do again. "Are you still planning to invite him over to model with you anyway?"

"No, I've got a better idea."

"What?"

"Not what. Who."

"Who, then?"

"Mike."

Before my son's name was out of her mouth, Amy leaned forward against me again with her arms around my neck and recommenced moving her hips, this time faster, with a lot more urgency. I assumed she did this to distract me and stop me from responding right away to that little bombshell of an idea. I understood what she was doing, and I knew that I needed some thinking time to deal with the idea. I decided that for the next few minutes I wouldn't waste any brainspace on whether I could cope with Mike and Amy modelling together or not, I would much rather be fully engaged in coping with this gorgeous woman who was trying to iron my cock flat with her pubic mound. To my surprise, I found I was unable to empty my mind and just concentrate on enjoying my bodily sensations, intense though they were.

"Have you asked him yet?"

Amy was rocking with her eyes shut and she took a while to respond to my question. I thought at first that she was just being evasive, but then I realised that she was so focussed she simply hadn't been listening . She had the concentration I wanted but had failed to find, so I asked her again.

"Mmm... what? No, I haven't asked him. I asked you."

"It didn't sound like you were asking me. I thought you were telling me."

"Alright, I'm asking you now." She stopped rocking her hips on my lap, and sat back to look at me. "Sam, you DO want to do this, don't you?"

"Fuck, or let you model with Mike?"

"This, of course," she said, giving her pelvis a shimmy.

"Amy, my love, if there is ever a moment in my life where this..." I clenched my buttocks a couple of times in response to her wiggle so that I pushed myself just that little bit further into the beautiful body sitting on top of me, "...is not what I would rather be doing than anything else in the entire world, then you have my permission to shoot me."

She smiled, and said "Right answer. I was beginning to think you might be losing interest."

As she closed her eyes and started her rhythmic movements again, I thought to myself how wrong she was. Far from losing interest in her, she was every day becoming more and more the mental focus of most of my waking life. I was beginning to become a little afraid of how far my obsession for her – for that is what I recognised it to be – would take me, and I now had some idea where our future was about to lead us.

Recently, I had become aware that whenever I was with her I was memorising her, consciously and deliberately. Not just enjoying the unpredictability of her mind, or appreciating the unique form of her beauty, or relishing the soft and silken touch of her body, but storing her up and squirreling her away in my memories, counting the moments and noting the hours and marvelling at the months I had spent with her, not wanting ever to forget even a fragment of these now ephemeral experiences, none of which had ever lasted long enough, even before they began to fade like old photographs. Like an alcoholic for whom no amount of liquor could ever be enough, I wanted to drink her in, get mindlessly drunk on her, drown in her. When you have desire like that, like a raging bush fire, when you Want that much, there is no happy ending.

It was particular incongruous to have had that very thought just as my balls exploded in the happiest possible way, when I had one of two perfect nipples between my lips and nudging the end of my tongue, when I was hefting and squeezing a perfect buttock in each of my hands, when her sweet panting breath was making whooshing noises in my ear that only I could hear, when my eyes were watering from the pleasure of the Richter-scale orgasmic aftershocks clenching my pelvis. As we slowly relaxed and unclung from each other, I saw through swimmy eyes equal wetness running down Amy's flushed and still blissfully smiling cheeks, and I thought, yes, this is how it ends. In tears.

"I never used to do this, you know, but lately, when we're fucking, just before I come, I keep imagining you behind me grabbing my hips and violently fucking me up the ass as hard as you can, and the thought of that seems to make my orgasm huge, which is weird because I don't actually like being fucked up the ass very much as you know, and it's not that I want you up my ass instead of in my pussy, I want you to stay inside there but fuck my ass as well at the same time somehow, if you know what I mean, I wonder if it would help to try that with a toy one day, not a big one, but something that would take care of that wanting it hard up the ass feeling without feeling like it's ripping me apart, or maybe on some subliminal level I want to be punished for being so happy, for being so free. For being me. What do you think, Sam?"

"I think you should ask Mike to model for us if that's what you want. But let him pour the champagne, first, OK?"

Amy nodded thoughtfully, then carefully eased herself off my soaking wet but softening cock, cradling it in her hand as she slid down onto the floor on her knees. She bent her head and took it into her mouth, swirling her tongue all around every part of it, washing it with her saliva, then she moved her head back so her lips could pull and suck it clean. With her lips closed, she climbed back up onto my lap and kissed me, letting the contents of her mouth dribble into mine so that I could taste her juices mixed with mine.

"It would have to be pretty fucking good champagne to taste better than that," she said with her arms around my neck and her cheek against mine. Then she turned her head a little and whispered in my ear. "Thank you, Sam."