Get REAL Ch. 03: Revival

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Big Tits

Chapter III: Revival

Cassie signed on to find Marcos’ email. Very amusing. And disturbing. She still had too many unanswered questions to accept what had happened, but it was obvious from his verse, that Marcos was riding the high from last night, right on through to this morning. Another silly love song, she smirked as she re-read it:

Sky Dance

A simple thing

this diamond sheet

with two crossed sticks,

tight belly band,

and tail of linens ripped in strips,

made with knots as one.

With front affixed

to ample string,

I carried her

to windy flats

and ran ahead

until she caught a gust.

Up, up she rose,

tugged on my hand,

to pay out more

and climb aloft

to meet the fleeting clouds.

She dipped left;

I jerked right

and urged her up again,

until the string between us

seemed to

vanish in the air.

Then we were free

to fly alone

except the pull she had on me

and I, the hold, on her.

We played that way,

who knows how long,

until the wind died down;

I reeled her in

and hugged her tight:

a sky dance partner

I had found.

He added, “P.S.:Thank you for helping work out the kinks in the poses that Tara and I used for the drawing group.”

Marcos and Tara had departed after the session, but Cassie had stayed around for wine and reactions. Everyone had loved it, and it was decreed that for every ten-week session, they would have a double model pose for them for one evening, and it would be Tara and Marcos.

She would tell him.

Just not now.

Because now, Cassandra Jean Capra needed time to contemplate exactly what she had done. At the so-called “rehearsal” before their drawing group. And why she had done it. She had to somehow rationalize how a ménage à trois with Tara and Marcos, a married man, didn’t violate her ethics of sisterhood. Or did it?

Saying “Yes” to the world was a new philosophy for her—at least in life, it was. As an artist, she was used to such “openness.”

“That’s what we artists do,” she spoke aloud, as if to emphasize her point to Sienna and Umber, rubbing their long-haired feline bodies against her denim-covered legs.

“We spend our lives in the love and cultivation of sensations, relishing our emotions, searching for their clearest expression, and taking pleasure in exclaiming them to others. That’s what painter Robert Henri says, at least. And I wholly embrace that.”

But did openness in art mean openness in all aspects of life? Certainly not to heroin or crack cocaine! And she wasn’t planning to get a tattoo or become an exotic dancer, either. But to new sensual experiences? Where was she to draw the line?

Whenever her mind was in a tangle, she turned to her art book collection, leafing through the color plates in an entranced sort of way, until a resolution to the jumble suggested itself. For whatever reason, this morning she picked up a weighty volume of Matisse’s later works, and began her meditation with the words she felt captured the spirit of last night:




Silently, she recited her mantra as she turned page after page. Then her gaze fell upon Capucines A ‘La Danse’ II— Nasturtiums with ‘Dance’ II. Simply rendered nude figures in orange flesh tones, joining hands and ringing around a vase of red nasturtiums against a blue background. Floating forms. Dancing in the air. She studied the figures. Two were fully depicted. A third was painted half into the picture plain. The fourth had but a knee and forearm visible. One was clearly feminine; the other two were more sexually ambiguous, revealed only in backs and buttocks.

“Marcos, Tara, and I,” she concluded with satisfaction. “Three mature adults, nurturing our senses, exploring our feelings, playing with each other—being completely present in the moment. Like Tara pulling on my toes and Marcos combing my hair with his fingers.” She drifted back to last night’s more adult indulgences—the taste of the wine, smell of arousal, the sight of Tara’s flushed breasts and Marcos’ ruddy hard-on, the moans and exclamations, and, of course, the many caresses. “Everyone played freely. There was openness of touch. It was innocent fun,” she stated with conviction to her two furry jurors.

She hesitated before closing the book. There was a mystery to this painting by Matisse, however. Who was the fourth person? Barely visible, but dancing with them, nonetheless. Was it of any import?

Cassie shrugged and brought the glossy pages together with a pop. “Time for me to get to work.” She arose and glided to her studio.

Wednesday morning, Cassie awoke with a brainstorm. The opening to her first ceramic art show was in downtown Minneapolis the following Saturday, which was not the typical day of the week on which she and Marcos usually rendezvoused to dine, dance, and dally. He might not be free, being married. Still, she wanted him to escort her.

And she wanted someone almanbahis adres else, too. For afterwards…

She composed the emails and hit send. Later in the day, she checked back and found Marcos’ affirmative reply—as well as a “yes” to her second invitation. Now all she had to do was make it through the rest of the week without daydreaming every available moment about her opening reception—and the events she hoped would follow.

They were dancing close. To a rumba. Moving in quick-quick-slows to Bésame Mucho. She could feel the heat of his body radiating through all their layers of cotton and nylon. Her breasts shimmied against his chest with each quick-quick step, and, unless she was mistaken, the slows were accented by his fullness against her own turgor, evidence that Marcos, too, could comprehend the Spanish lyrics.

“I’m so hot,” he whispered into her hair, his goatee tangling in her red silken strands. “Can we close the damper on your wood stove?”

“Let’s just take off a layer when this song is over,” came out of her, impulsively. Cassie felt a brief tension in his frame, before he resumed leading her, but with a new exuberance, as the singer pleaded, “Como si fuera ésta noche la última vez.”

Marcos unbuttoned his long sleeve shirt and cast it into a nearby chair, his black t-shirt damp with a spot of perspiration wicked from the center of his chest. Shedding her blouse, Cassie stood before him in a sleeveless black camisole, matching him, now negra á negro.

“Let’s tango,” he invited.

She wrapped her left arm around his shoulder and pressed her chest and abdomen into his. He led a cross left into a back ocho series, each one pleasantly nestling her breasts into his ribcage, her abs meeting his, left, right, left, right, in a motion she wished would endure, but another cross, then a molinete interrupted that contact, followed by his parada and her gancho, before she could press closer into him again.

By the end of the number, they were hugging each other, celebrating their success at lead and follow. The next song that came on was a bluesy tune, which inspired a grind. His hands were quickly beneath her cami, and up and down her back, lightly playing over her spinal muscles. Cassie drew herself more tightly into him, conflictingly wanting him and cursing the fact that he was married. He wedged his thigh firmly between hers, and she returned the contact, pressing her hip bone into his groin.

A steady, sultry beat kept them dancing in rhythm, until a break came in the music, which they matched with a pause, and then restarted on time. They were in sync tonight, Cassie felt. They had been that way from the moment Marcos had arrived at her front door earlier in the evening.

He looked good, really good, in black Dockers, mauve dress shirt, and black tie. Coincidentally, she was dressed in black as well, with an olive green blouse, long black pleated skirt, and black vest.

On the drive into the city, her hand in his calmed anxieties over how the critics might view her work, whether she would have any sales, what she would say to explain her tile art. She hated talking. “That’s why I’m an artist, not a writer. My forté is image, not word,” she protested; he affirmed with a squeeze.

He stayed by her side the entire evening, except to fetch her a glass of Chardonnay and a plate of tooth-picked hors d’hoeuvres, which she devoured—once she could relax, catch her breath, and delight in the appearance of red dots beside many of her pieces, each one marking a purchase by an approving collector.

She took his hand when they walked the parking lot to his car, excitedly replaying snippets of conversation, commendations, and promised commissions. Inside his Toyota, they hugged, and she gave him a kiss.

They drove the interstate to her exit, his free hand in hers, interlocking digits, rubbing thumb pad over dorsum, finger tips against finger tips, pinching a nail bed, releasing, then massaging the pressure point. Trying out all the ways a pair of hands could play.

After arriving at her place, they gazed for several minutes into the cloudy sky, backlit by a shrouded moon. They inhaled the frosty air and sighed, watching their breaths billow white before diffusing into the darkness. The chill finally forced them inside, into the warmth of her little house, where the celebration could continue with the uncorking of a Malbec, his favorite wine, and dancing to random songs on the radio.

Now they were warm inside and out, through and through. And very comfortable. In mid-song he leaned back momentarily, lifted her top over her head and flung it onto the couch, did the same with his own, and they resumed dancing, bare breast against bear chest, his thick pelt like a soft teddy she could snuggle up to. Sweat eased the friction and perked her nostrils, portending an intimacy she so wanted yet knew she shouldn’t be craving.

They maneuvered around the jade plant, along the divan, engineered an ocho cortado at a floor lamp, and paused. They were about almanbahis adresi to cross again, when the knock came. Shocked at the lateness of a visitor, Marcos halted, but Cassie, desire brimming over, ebbing her resolve, sighed with relief. She wrapped her free leg around one of his and kissed his neck.

In walked Tara, with a bottle in her hand and a sparkle in her eyes. “It takes two to tango, but with three we can get really entangled,” and she tossed off her parka, placed her massage oil next to the wood stove, and gave the pair a group embrace.

Marcos’ puzzled look prompted Cassie to explain how it only seemed right to invite his friend and modeling partner to the celebration, recalling for him the pleasure that had come so spontaneously from the last time they were together on the night of the rehearsal.

“We can do something fun tonight,” proposed Tara, taking Cassie’s and Marcos’ hands, and when Cassie completed the ring by interlocking fingers with Marcos, they pulled each other jocularly around in a revolving circle.

We’re just lacking a pot of nasturtiums, thought Cassie.

Another bottle of red was consumed as Cassie and Marcos replayed the highlights of the opening reception.

“I think Cassie deserves a victory massage, don’t you Marcos? All that tension accumulating in anticipation of the show couldn’t have just evaporated, right?”

Marcos knew Tara’s day gig was as a masseuse, and that she knew bodies—especially muscles, tendons and ligaments and all the ways they reacted—so he nodded his head, confirming her assertion.

“I’d love that,” beamed Cassie, a little giddy from the wine.

“Agreed,” Marcos said.

Was there a twinge of resignation in his voice, Cassie wondered. She realized that he just might feel like he was losing—to a ménage à trois that she had prearranged—his dance partner, whom he had been hoping to waltz into bed. She would make up for that, she promised herself, but she felt that the only way she could have him, without feeling guilt, was as part of a threesome.

While Tara and Marcos converted the sofa futon into a bed, Cassie scrounged the house for a washable comforter, which she laid on the mattress. Then Tara took charge. “Relax, Cassie. Lie back. Take off one shoe, Marcos, and I’ll remove the other.” Within moments, Cassie was prone on the futon, completely naked; Marcos and Tara were similarly unclad. The wood stove warmed the air and aromatized the lavender massage oil.

Marcos knelt at Cassie’s feet, kneading her calves, while Tara worked on the knot in Cassie’s right trapezius. Making no effort to stifle her pleasure, Cassie moaned with the pressure of Tara’s thumbs pressing into every tight spot.

They worked their way to Cassie’s midway point, the base of her spine: Marcos up the outer thighs over her buttocks, then down the inside, while Tara pressed the heels of her hands into the muscles along the spine, riding them to Cassie’s sacrum, then used light fingers up the backbone to her neck and base of her skull.

Cassie relaxed. She was tapioca—no, she thought—hot fudge, bubbling sinfully. The deep tissue massage was evolving into delicate strokes, sensual caresses, and tantalizing touches, leaving behind the realm of the massage parlor and transporting her to the naughty deWallen district of Amsterdam.

Tara’s turn-around at the base of Cassie’s spine was graced by gentle brushing of fingers into the cleft of Cassie’s buttocks. Marcos reversed his motion at Cassie’s ankles, his hands traveling on the insides of her legs, towards the fork of her pubis, ascending the slippery, swollen ridges and scaling her taut little glutes, before descending her lateral thighs.

Cassie was on an updraft, soaring like a red-tailed hawk. With her eyes closed against the comforter, she imagined herself high above the trees, sun-dipped hands soothing her feathers, fingertips of wind brushing her wings and tail. A gust lifted her onto her side and turned her supine. She was floating. First on the clouds, then on the warm waters of the ocean, bobbing in balmy breezes, washing up on silky sands, languishing in steamy tide pools. The massage oil became hot saltwater ladled onto her skin, and it trickled over her insteps, toes, palms, and fingers. With infinite slowness, and from the end of each extremity, the warmth was spreading up her forearms, up her legs, up to her shoulders, up to her knees. She let Marcos’ firm pressure separate her thighs and felt him move in between them, stroking his thumbs along the inner aspects, palms against her quads, fingers curled around the outsides.

Tara’s hands caressed the side of Cassie’s ribcage, eased down and across her abdomen, and skidded back up and over her breasts, circling them, gently ringing the areolae, compressing them against her chest, then with fingers surrounding her pointy mounds, she lifted them up, stretching them as her fingers slid to her nipples, and for a fraction of a second, holding traction until they slipped out of her grip and fell back against Cassie’s chest.

“Qué almanbahis adresi magnífica,” Cassie exhaled. No one had ever done that before, and it felt akin to the sublime.

“Sí, Señorita!” Cassie sighed and Tara repeated the maneuver gently, effortlessly, and ever so slowly.

Cassie was aware of a new fragrance. A pungency that pleased her. Filling her nostrils, she opened her eyes and stared into Tara’a flower, perfuming her face with a counterpoint to lavender. And as Tara made another pass over her chest, and compressed her breasts, Cassie reached up and rubbed Tara’s hips, down her outer legs, and, though the position was awkward, made her fingers’ way up Tara’s pink thighs, to that pinker prize in between.

As her index touched something she had never touched before, save for her own, Marcos’ lips kissed her own unfolding rose, his facial hairs pricking her vulva while his soft lips nuzzled inside her. And as his tongue tasted, then circled around her swelling bud, Cassie stiffened with delight, spread her toes, and affirmed for all.

She, too, wanted to know those same lingual sensations that Marcos was so enjoying. Divining her urgency, Tara repositioned herself facing Cassie. Poised over her face, and spreading herself over Cassie’s mouth, she rubbed her oily hands into Cassie’s forehead, stroking her blazing hair, and stoking that fire within.

Marcos supped and Cassie supped, nibbled, and sucked until Tara’s moans told Cassie what to dwell on. Holding Tara’s buttocks, Cassie hugged Tara more tightly toward her mouth as she penetrated her with her tongue before sliding it up and repeatedly flicking Tara’s now prominent nub.

Marcos sucked on Cassie’s plumped clitoris, making it hum, then sing out. Like she was simultaneously hearing all her accompanying musicians, Cassie inhaled, tasted, and touched. Driving bass thump-thump-thumped. Cymbals crashed. Ivories rang. In chords of elevenths and fifteenths, Cassie’s exclamations reverberated inside Tara’s vault, and Tara’s shouts harmonized with the aromatic air, their pleasures resounding in another seemingly unending improvisation.

Heavy sighs filled the room like applause. Tara slumped, then lifted herself off Cassie to fan away the heat of Cassie’s scalp, cooling her neck, shoulders, breasts. Marcos lightly moved his hand over Cassie’s belly and thighs, meandering along one leg, then strolling with his fingers back up and down the other. “Gracias, gracias,” Cassie exhaled.

Tara sighed.

Marcos whispered, “Wow.”

Minutes passed. Cassie sat up, and gently pushed Marcos onto his back. From one side, Tara began to work her mouth up from his hairy ankles, as Cassie moved her lips like a honey bee on a blossomed tree, kissing his face all over, tasting herself in his goatee, and no doubt, pollinating him with Tara’s nectar as well. She danced down his shaved neck, gracing his Adam’s apple and his furry chest, nipping at his nipples, which elicited from him such a moan that Cassie was compelled to hover awhile over this sensitivity before flitting onward.

Her eyes met Tara’s as their attentions migrated to Marcos’ fully erect organ with circumcised glans standing like a minaret. Such lovely, long lashes, sap-green irises, and what an intense gaze, thought Cassie, as the women inched in little licks and kisses toward each other.

Marcos was breathing heavily, exclaiming in throaty “Oohs!” Tara began to smooth his scrotum with one of her lubed hands as her lips skipped along his groin. Cassie tugged on his pubic hair tufts, and Marcos began to rock his pelvis, his largeness stabbing at the air—most likely imagining thrusting into her, she bet.

Cassie kissed the base of his rigidity at the same time as Tara, and as they ascended it together, licking along the length, tonguing its turgid vein, moving to the moving tip, their tongues met to dance on the head.

“I’m gonna come!” gasped Marcos, and they intensified their pace, now kissing each other deeply with Marcos’ erection bobbing in between.

“Oh! Oh!” moaned Marcos, and, as if they knew each other like sisters, Tara moved aside, offering him to Cassie. Running her tongue over her lips to savor Tara’s lingering flavor, she then teased his meatus with her teeth until he groaned. Cassie opened widely to accept Marcos’ offering, surrounding him, sucking him like a gigantic straw in a man-sized café au lait, until he filled her mouth to overflowing with savory, hot, and frothy mocha.

She swallowed, feeling completely, utterly fulfilled. Immensely happy. But strange, all the same.

As Cassie nestled her cheek against Marcos’ chest and enjoyed the softness of Tara’s hands moving through her hair, she reflected on the evening in order to try to fathom this new feeling—or old feeling—in a new color and shape. It was love, she knew, but not a love she had previously known. And it was so complex. So intricate. She wasn’t even sure if she comprehended it fully. Nor if she would even be able to, tonight.

What she was sure about was her art and her artists. Metaphorical Matisse. Wise, wise Henri. Tomorrow she would consult them all again to help her understand and cultivate this wonderful emotion growing within—and, no doubt, to aid her in dealing with its uncertainties when the magic of tonight wore off.

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