The Passion Of Art

by Lubrican

Chapter 3

Two days passed before they painted again. They were long long days for both of them. Neither could get out of their minds the "relief" Valerie had provided that morning. After they broke for lunch that day Valerie ran errands, and she made a special effort to kiss her son goodbye on his cheek when she left. He slept, feeling completely relaxed for the first time in days. In the following days, both acted completely normally outside the studio. Valerie even had to scold him once for leaving his dirty clothes lying around in the bathroom.

Tuesday evening at supper she looked at Robby and asked if he had any homework that night.

"I have to write a poem for English," he said. "It's supposed to be free form, no rhyming or anything. I can't think of anything to write about. But that's all I have to do tonight." He leaned forward and anyone involved in psychology or the study of body language would have pointed at him and said, "He's displaying extreme interest in what he thinks is going to happen next."

"Well, do you think you could give me an hour then, after you get your poem done?"

Robby thought of what he could do ... with his mother ... for an hour and his prick stiffened. He also felt his cheeks get hot. "Um ... yeah, I could do that."

"Good, because ever since Saturday I've been wanting to do ... more."

Robby felt a little faint. "More," he repeated.

"Yes ... more," said his mother.

He got up and went to his room, where he tried to think about his homework assignment. How could he possibly write a poem when all he could think about was his mother's body? The curve of her breasts, with their up-thrust nipples, looking like tiny ski jumps or something.

He stiffened. Wait a minute ... what if ...

He sat down and picked up his pencil.

Thirty minutes later he laid the pencil down, undressed, put on his robe, and went to find his mother. She was in the living room, wearing her robe. This time it didn't bother Robby to see her in it.

"I'm finished," he said. "We can paint now."

She got up and stretched. The robe was tied tightly, but her breasts thrust out, pushing the silk toward him. "What did you write your poem about?" she asked, as she began walking toward the studio.

"The woman," he said.

She stopped and turned around. "The woman who ... you think about when we paint?" She was looking at him through lowered lashes.

"Yes," he answered.

"I think I'd like to hear that poem. Would you read it to me?" She sounded uncertain, her voice husky.

"Yes." His voice was firm.

"Well then ... bring it with you." She turned and went on.

Robby already had it in the pocket of his robe. He followed her.

When he got to the studio she was already behind the easel, looking at the painting. He dropped his robe and went to stand by the column. The hair light was on, so he could see the words easily. She could also see that he was half erect easily.

"I thought of her tonight and ... remembered," he announced. "That's the name of the poem," he added. Then he went on. "I closed my eyes, but my vision failed to dim. She was there, standing ... and I could not un-see her. Her eyes, so dark, her skin so pale, her hair ... gossamer. She was the very picture of beauty.

"She looked at me ... and I could not hide my faults. And yet, her eyes began to shine with the light of the stars. And she smiled. At me. For me. She loved me, and her open arms allowed me to love her back.

"Her touch, feather light, hovering, unsure, but there, made passion bloom, like cactus after a rain, explodes into life. And I was consumed as if by the stars in her eyes, As if they came close and burned me to nothingness.

"I thought of her tonight and ... remembered, the passion that changed my life forever. And if there never were another night like that, I should surely die a happy, happy man, floating through eternity in the stream of her love."

He felt empty when he was done. He'd never written anything like this before, and he wasn't sure at all that he'd done what he was supposed to. But he'd thought of the woman he loved, and written what he thought, or something like what he thought. The images and words had spilled onto the paper. The biggest problem he had was that he felt like he had to set the passionate incident at night. Morning sounded wrong somehow. In the end he just stood there, hoping for the best. He was afraid to look at her. He felt a little silly.

But he was rock hard.

The emotion which Robby's 'poem' generated in his audience-of-one resulted in chemical changes within her body. Hormones were released into her bloodstream, and those effected parts of her body in various ways.

There were small unconscious tremors that took place. The tissues that lined her vagina became ultra sensitive. Her nipples puckered and then swelled as blood rushed to them. Her clitoris enlarged perceptibly and began to protrude from the skin that normally shielded it from direct stimulation. Her breathing rate increased, because more oxygenated blood was needed to service all the parts of her body that had suddenly awakened and needed that oxygen.

Coincident to all these things happening, the egg produced by her left ovary approached within an inch of her womb. It was now in reach of any sperm cells that might be present in that part of her body.

Valerie laid her paintbrush down. Her hand was trembling. She stared at the man her son had become.

Passion is an interesting thing because it is so nebulous. It's difficult to create passion intentionally. It can be allowed to happen, or a situation can be created where the potential for passion is high, but normally passion can't just be 'turned on'.

Normally.

And passion comes in different varieties. An erection is one type of passion, and that is passion in the 'here and now'. It is a clear and present sign that, at that moment, passion is present. Valerie knew that, and had responded to it when she took his erection in her mouth. That variety of passion could be ... and was ... consumed as they shared it between them.

But poetry such as Robby had written, regardless of the quality of the words, comes from a variety of passion that cannot be consumed, that, for all intents and purposes, flows in the body like blood, suffusing every part of it. It communicates, rather than acting and instead of abating with use, it grows until it fills the body to bursting. This type of passion has been known to drive men ... and women ... utterly mad.

It can also trigger the other variety of passion.

Robby's communication of his passion triggered something in Valerie that she had felt only once before in her life, and that was when she gave herself to the man who became her husband. That night had been the first time she felt like her body would explode if she didn't do something to satisfy the need inside her. She'd allowed him to do things to her that night that she hadn't planned on, but needed more than anything else in the world.

She found herself staring at her son's stiff prick.

"This ... woman," she began, stepping away from the easel. He hand hovered over the knot holding her robe closed. "She is very lucky that you feel ... so strongly for her."

Robby felt relief and strength flood his body. "I love her," he said. Valerie stepped closer to him, her fingers flicking at the knot. "And if you could ... if it were possible for you to show her ... what would you do?"

The knot fell apart, and her robe opened a hand's width. She was clearly naked under the robe. The light glinted on something shiny between her legs, high up on her thighs.

Robby, after what had happened before, felt no trace of hesitance. "I would make love with her."

"But you said you've never ... done that," said his mother.

"How hard can it be?" he said, stepping down from the dais.

"Perhaps if you ... showed me ... what you'd do if ... she let you." Valerie licked her lips. Her throat was dry. "I could give you ... advice."

Robby was a big boy. He knew his sister was at her friend's house, and would be for some time. Now the passion that flowed in his veins began to surface. He reached out and nudged the robe off both her shoulders. With her arms straight at her sides if fell as if filled with lead. She was so beautiful he almost lost it right then and there, but he clamped down on his emotions. He picked her up, like a groom who is carrying his bride over the threshold and took her to her bed.

Through it all she said nothing, could say nothing. Her throat was too tight, her breath gone. When he laid her down on the bed she stared at him. They were frozen for one moment in time, a last chance to avoid what they both knew was coming.

She found her voice. "Show me," she whispered.

Now his passion filled him to overflowing. She barely got her legs open in invitation and he was on her, like a lion on a lamb. The speed with which he found her opening and slotted his prick astonished her. Then he powered forward, skewering her in one thrust.

She cried out at the force with which he entered her, the surprise of being full so suddenly, and the fact that her pussy had felt nothing in it bigger than her finger for four months. She felt like the tip of his cock was prodding the muscles she breathed with and found it hard to get a deep breath. That she was literally sopping wet made all the difference between what could have been a very bad beginning, and the unleashing of her own wild passion.

And then, just as suddenly he was the one crying out, an anguished "Noooooo," as she felt his seed explode into her depths. Her passion exploded at the feel of that heat and her orgasm caused her to thrust against him, almost dislodging him from her pussy's clasp.

He slowed and she felt the splash of a tear on her chest as he cried with shame at his lack of control. Her hands grasped the sides of his head and she pulled him down for a long, warm, lover's kiss.

"Keep going," she whispered. "You aren't anywhere near finished yet. Trust me."

His eyes widened as he realized he was still hard, not perhaps made of steel any longer, but perfectly capable of going on. He'd seen porn flicks, so he began sawing in and out of her, his loins slapping hers on the down stroke. Her hands grasped his ass and held him when he hit bottom, pulling his hips into a half circle and pushing him back out again, only to pull him back to her. He got the idea immediately and started doing that on every down stroke.

"Ohh yes," she moaned.

That simple statement brought the steel back into his prick and he began to emphasize the circle while he was deep inside her. His muscles bulged as he pinned her to the bed over and over. He saw her breasts wiggle as he pounded her and craned his neck to taste one pointed nipple.

"Ohhhh fuck yesss," she moaned again, her hands moving to his head now, not needed any more on his ass.

She was close to another sweet release and she grunted, "Bite it". He did, knowing to moderate the pressure and she screamed, thrusting her hips up wildly, her head flopping back and forth, hair flying as her passion erupted again. Through it all he kept pounding her into the bed.

When she relaxed, he slowed, going in and staying there, making little circles as the tip of his prick nudged something rubbery deep inside her.

"Ohhh Robby, baby," she sighed. "Can you go a little longer?"

"Yes," he said, and kept massaging whatever that was deep inside her. It felt good massaging the tip of his cock.

Valerie began to use her muscles to squeeze him, and she began to use her fingernails, sliding them across his back. And she pulled him down for long kisses where they dueled with their tongues. Still he stayed deep, moving in circles.

"It's going to happen to me again," she moaned.

"Good," he panted. "Cause it's going to happen to me again too, really soon."

This orgasm was completely different than either of the ones before. It was almost silent as each of them worked toward the feeling. Valerie found hers while he was kissing her and she made humming sounds into his mouth as the most glorious feeling made her body feel like it was slowly burning, turning into smoke, and drifting away. Her pussy rippled and milked him for his precious sexual fluid.

Robby, planted deep in his lover, felt his balls give up his reserve supply of semen and he sighed as the relief it brought rushed through his now tender penis. He pushed into that rubbery mass as that relief flowed out of him.

Millions upon millions of sperm cells that had lived in Robby's body now took up residence in Valerie's body. Those from his first premature issue coated her vaginal walls, creating a sticky kind of bond between that sensitive skin and his penis. The rush of new sperm from his second orgasm were trapped by that bond, and had nowhere to go except into a small irregular shaped hole that led to her womb. The river of sperm that took that route began swimming this way and that, looking for an egg.

In a tiny tunnel that only a few hundred thousand swam into ... They found one.

Interactive Point:

To continue reading about only Valerie and Robby, select version Alpha.

To see Robby's Aunt Penny get involved in the romance, select version Charlie.

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