Art in the Park

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I was face down on a table, withering in pain from something being inserted into me.

“Oh shit.”

“It’ll only hurt for a minute.”

“It’s been about five minutes, and it still hurts,” I snapped back.

“You’re the one who wanted this, now just man up.”

The pain didn’t let up. In fact, tentacles of it exploded through my torso. I was told this was going to make me feel great. I believe I was misinformed.

“Ouch. Dammit Kelly, that hurts.”

“Don’t be such a baby.

The elbow being jammed and twisted in what I was told was my rhomboid major was there to work out a trigger point that theoretically was the bain of my existence. Whatever it was, getting rid of it was a bitch.


“I’ve worked on 80-year old women that don’t whine as much as you.”

Kelly lightened up a bit, kneading the area with fingers as opposed to attacking it with blunt instruments. She applied some Zheng Gu Shui, an Asian liniment that is advertised as having a cooling and pain relieving effect, but don’t believe everything you read, then stuck her elbow back into the muscle.


“This is where you carry your stress. If you carried it in your ass, as opposed to your traps and rhombs, relieving it would be a gas. Get it, gas out of your ass.”


“Sometimes I crack myself up.”

She worked on the area between my shoulder blades in a quasi-gentle manner, though there were still bites of pain that shot through me as she tried to loosen my muscles. Based on experience, I would more than likely feel better a day or so later, but be back on the table in three weeks going through this all over again.

“All right, that’s enough torture for the day,” Kelly said, and began long strokes with her finger tips from my shoulder to my butt in what she described as the relaxation portion of the therapy.

She dribbled some warm oil on my back, and softly rubbed it into my skin as she worked her way up and down my back, and then my glutes, squeezing and releasing my butt muscles before making her way down my legs and feet.

From the balls of my feet, Kelly kneaded all the way up my calves and the back of my upper legs along my hamstrings. She lightly grazed my balls as her hands again moved to my ass and lower back, and worked her thumbs up along the muscles on either side of my spine. This was nice.

With a playful slap on my butt Kelly said, “Okay, now turn over. I think you deserve a happy ending after what I’ve put you through.”

I’ve known Kelly for about ten years. Our first meeting pretty much went just as this one had. I had gone to her for a massage to get rid of a nasty Charlie horse I’d picked up while playing hockey. She put me through an agonizing therapeutic sports massage, during which we chatted, I griped, almost cried, she laughed, and we generally hit it off as well as two people can when one is face down for an hour and the other is inflicting searing pain.

At the end she said she felt guilty for all she put me through, asked me to turn over so she could gently work my neck and pecs. After about ten minutes of this she said, “Oh, what the hell,” and finished the treatment by going down on me, prefaced of course by the declaration that she never, ever did this. To clients that is. Once she got started it was obvious she had given more than a few blow jobs in her day.

After that first massage, Kelly removed my towel and found a fairly flaccid penis, but brought it to life by flicking the tip with her tongue. She covered the head of my cock with her mouth and began to suck hard, back off, then inch down a bit, and repeated this process until she had completely devoured me.

She held me firm in her throat for a moment, and then slipped back toward the tip, without releasing the grip her lips had on my cock. Apparently well skilled at breathing through her nose, Kelly began to rapidly descend and retreat, her mouth never leaving what was now a pulsating organ. She cupped my balls, gave them a polite squeeze, and deep throated me in a blink of an eye. In the time it took me to say, “Oh shit,” I was exploding in her esophagus.

Naturally I went back for more massages, but there were no more happy endings in the therapy room. That would only happen later, after we’d had gone to a movie or out to dinner, and then we’d do just about anything imaginable, and both were extremely happy at the end. After a few weeks we were inseparable, and I quickly determined that Kelly was the ideal woman for my needs–a beautiful massage therapist with a modest inheritance and no gag reflex.

Kelly pulled her t-shirt over her head and got up on the table. She slid her full breasts across the soles of my feet and over my toes as she moved upwards, and began to lick and suck on my balls. She rolled one, then the other, around her steamy mouth before taking them both in at once; and played around with them with her tongue before letting them loose with a plop.

Kelly had this way of creating what feels Casibom like a vacuum around my dick while drawing it into her mouth. She oh so slowly engulfed me, inch by precious inch, until she had my entire length wedged in her throat. She held me there for a moment, and then backed off the same way, actually sucking hard while letting me slowly slide out.

She repeated this for a few minutes, and just as I started to feel an orgasm beginning to build, she pulled off and asked if I was close to coming.

“I’m definitely headed in that direction. Why, is there a problem?”

“I’m horny as hell, and I was thinking about fucking you if you can hang on long enough.”

“I’ll do my best. Please jump on board.”

Kelly quickly shed what clothing remained, and got back on the table. She was very self-aware sexually, and knew exactly what she wanted and how to get it. She planted her feet on either side of me, got up on her haunches, and lowered her moist, tepid pussy onto my cock. This was her position of choice when she wanted to come quickly.

She was in control, and all she needed from me at this point was to lay still and stay hard. This wasn’t a tough assignment.

Years of experience with my lover taught me that when she was in this position she was in heaven. With mouth agape, lower lip pulled tight across her bottom teeth, eyes closed and a hint of her upper teeth glistening in a knowing smile, within minutes Kelly was panting and moaning, and quickly fell into a comfortable rhythm.

There were no worries as to whether or not the table was sturdy enough to handle this.

After a few months of us dating, Kelly had become so comfortable with our relationship that she had a girl friend join us on the massage table. Kelly was where she is now, and her friend straddled my face as the two of them kissed and grinded themselves into multiple orgasms atop me. The memory of that night inched me closer to coming, and I had to refocus on staying hard and still.

“Oh god, this feels so good,” Kelly moaned as she glided up and down my slick dick.

I reached up and began massage her breasts, pulling and twisting her nipples, and this began to set her over. Kelly’s breathing became deeper, but sporadic, as she focused purely on her carnal needs.

“Please don’t come yet,” she begged. “I’m almost there.”

Kelly raised herself up, almost to the point she was off my dick, and then slammed down hard on me. She did this one, two, three times before settling in on me, her pussy gripping my dick as orgasmic ripples flowed through her body.

Quivers scurried up her torso, her eye lashes fluttered and boobs jiggled as she came off an impressive orgasm. Arching backwards, she flipped her hair out of her eyes and exhaled as though she’d been holding her breath for a month.

“Oh god, did I need that,” she said, still somewhat disheveled. “I’ve massaged two hot guys and three hotter women today. You don’t know how bad I needed that. Thanks for hanging in there.”

“I’m surprised you didn’t have a go at one of them,” I said with a sneer.

“It was everything I could do to mind my manors. I had this blonde, first time client, who had the biggest boobs I’ve ever seen. I just wanted to flop my face between them, just like guys do,” Kelly said, and she readjusted her position so she was now on her knees.

“And the men?”

“Don’t think it didn’t cross my mind, but I knew this was waiting for me when I got home,” and with that she squeezed my prick with her vaginal muscles. I almost lost my load right then.

She leaned over, gave me a full kiss on the mouth, and started to gyrate her hips. Even her pussy was more than capable of giving me a massage.

“Come inside me. I love it when I feel your come fill me up.”

I grabbed Kelly’s hips, and jerked her toward me as I thrust up into her. The quick, unanticipated maneuver sent a shiver up her spine.

“Oh shit,” she yelped. “That felt surprising wonderful.”

She followed my lead and quickly began to move her hips back and forth, faster and faster. Kelly had me on the brink, and I noticed beads of sweat collecting above her top lip; a telltale sign of an impending orgasm.

“Oh god, another one,” Kelly said as she began to shudder. “Oh how I love your cock.”

“I can’t hold out any longer.”

“Fill me baby; fill me with your precious come.”

I thrust up into her one last time, getting my cock as deep into her as I ever have, and began to shoot streams of jism into the hottest fuck on the planet.

Kelly came once more during my orgasmic episode, and fell on top of me, her damp, tangled black hair across my face, her glimmering breasts smashed against my chest. It took a few minutes for us to catch our breath and gather ourselves.

She finally rolled off of me, and gave the tip of my dick a quick kiss. As she went off to the shower she said, “Why don’t you make pass through crap-in-the-park, and see by chance if there’s anything at all worth Casibom Giriş looking at for the B&B.”

For the past 20-years or so the small bedroom community where we live has hosted an event called Art in the Park. For about the last 19-years or so I have suggested that they call in Crap in the Park, so the name would truly reflect what was being sold under all those white tents.

From a pure numbers perspective it was a smashing success. More than 300 exhibitors, I can’t bear to call them artists, display whatever it is they’ve concocted over the winter—paper mache lanterns, faux driftwood carvings, empty wine bottles dolled-up to be ersatz vases, macramé thingy bobs, and the like.

Thousands of people walk through the town, great for the restaurants and bars, buy stuff, and make a mental note to come back and visit when there aren’t thousands of people walking through the town. It would also be great for me, next year, when the local bed & breakfast I decided to snag out of foreclosure is ready for guests again.

I was kitty-corner from the action, and walked across the street to enter the swarm of people in search of the last great piece of American kitsch. I didn’t have far to go.

Three booths in was a guy who was customizing name plaques using old license plates. Utilizing tin snips he would cut out letters and/or numbers, and hot glue them to a plank of pine wood. Who wouldn’t want something like that hanging in their den?

I walked around for about an hour. In that time the thermometer climbed into the high nineties and a layer of humidity crept in and smothered the crowd; great weather for walk amongst a thousand strangers. I had come about full circle when I noticed something completely wrong and afoul for the given circumstances. In the second to last booth, right across from the license plate guy, was someone who actually had the audacity to put oil on a canvass.

Sitting at the back of a tent, in what little shade she could find surrounded by impressionist paintings, was a woman, probably in her late thirties, looking entirely bored and put-out while fanning herself with the event program.

“You have some nerve,” I said, “Showing up at this place with what could pass for actual art.”

She gave me a somewhat vacant stare, then said, “The registration brochure said 100’s of artists and artisans.”

“The brochure lied. I take it this is your first time here.”


“Other than being lied to, how are you doing?”

“I’m hot.”

“Yes you are.”

This time I was on the receiving end of a more piercing stare, but it was followed by a chuckle.

“You said it, not me,” I said. “But I do happen to be in total agreement. But enough about you, tell me, is this your work, or are you stumping for the artist?”

“It’s mine. Only a complete nut bag would be sitting in this heat humping someone else’s work,” she said.

“Yes, I suppose if I was out here humping I would want it to be for my own satisfaction, not someone else’s,” I countered.

Blank, bored stare followed by a shaking of the head and increased fanning of a sweating brow.

The woman got up out of her director’s style chair. “I guess I’m just filled with innuendo and double entendres this afternoon,” She was wearing a tie-dyed sun dress, which may have come from a couple of tents down, that clung to her body thanks to the damp summer air. Her hair was raven black with streaks of crimson and bronze, tied back in a ponytail. Her cheek bones were high and flushed from the heat, accenting deep, dark eyes. She stuck her hand out and introduced herself as Emma.

“Hi Emma, I’m Mark, and I really do like your work.”

“Really, or is that just the line you feed to all of the starving artists out here.”

“Well, again, you’re just about the only artist out here, and I only use that line on attractive, female impressionists.”

“So it’s fresh material.”


Most of Emma’s paintings were of sea sides and landscapes, but what really caught my eye were a couple of boathouses featuring, old mahogany power boats, probably Chris Craft or Century.

“My water period,” she said when I probed deeper. “I spent a few summers in the La Cheneaux Islands in Michigan’s upper peninsula on Lake Huron. Absolutely gorgeous about five months out of the year.”

The wind began to pick-up, knocking over a number of paintings, just in time for me to stop talking and making a fool of myself. I helped her tidy up the tent, and spent a few minutes looking around, seriously admiring her work.

“What’s this going to be?” I asked, pointing to some paint on a mostly empty canvass.

“That Victorian home over there,” Emma said, pointing across the street. “Beautiful colors and lines. I started it this afternoon after I got set up, but it got too hot.”

“Well if it’s anything like the rest of your work it should be wonderful. I’ll take it.”

“What,” she said, shaking her head. “I don’t even know if Casibom Yeni Giriş I’m going to finish it.”

“Well, you have to finish it if I’m going to buy it”

“But why do you want something that you haven’t even seen.”

“I’ve seen your work, and I like the subject matter. You’re painting the town’s bed and breakfast, which I happen to be part owner.

Just then a gust of wind blew down the street, disrupting most of the tents and their wares, followed by an absolute deluge.

“Shit,” Emma yelped. “Where in the hell did this come from?”

There was minor pandemonium as the fair-goers ran for cover, and the displayers grappled to keep merchandise dry and unbroken.

“What can I do to help,” I asked, as Emma scurried around with no apparent plan as the wind and the rain steadily picked up.

“Shit, shit, shit. My van is about a half mile from here. This is a fucking nightmare,” she yelled. “Take those paintings off the brackets, and let’s put what we can under this plastic.”

Emma wasn’t the only one cursing, as it seemed it was every peddler for themselves once the rain broke. The crowd had thinned out quickly, many probably into bars, restaurants and stores, others to their cars or homes. I gathered the paintings up as fast as I could, and Emma covered them one by one.

A flash of lightening lit up a late afternoon that had become eerily dark, followed quickly by a clap of thunder.

“That’s awfully close,” I said. “What do you think about hightailing it over to the B&B before we end up in Oz?”

“Seriously, that’s okay.”

“It’s my place, and I don’t think you have any better options.”

We grabbed a few paintings each, dashed across the street and put them in the foyer.

“I’ll go get some more while you dry these off. There’s some paper towel in the kitchen.”

It wasn’t letting up, and by the time I had returned for the third time water was collecting in the street, as the storm sewers couldn’t take the massive amounts of rain.

Emma trailed in behind me. “How many more?”

“Just a few, I can get them.”

“Okay, I’m going to see about Linda,” Emma said.


“Linda, the tie-dye queen. This is hers, and she’s a friend of mine,” she said as she tugged on her soaking wet sun dress. “You don’t mind if I bring her over do you?”

“No, not at all.”

I took the last of the paintings over to the B&B, and about ten minutes later two women in sopping wet tie-dye sun dresses hit the porch carrying large plastic storage containers.

“Come in, come in. Hi, I’m Mark, you must be Linda. Is there anything else I can run over and get for you?”

“No, no, this is great, thank you. Everything else is locked down in what is supposed to be water tight containers. I doubt if anybody is going to go around ripping people off during this monsoon. Once it stops, I’ll head back over. Thanks for giving me a place to escape, it’s quite lovely.”

Linda was the winner of the wet, tie-dyed sundress competition; that is if your one to go solely on a tight, slick fit over very large breasts. She was about ten years younger than I had Emma pegged for, stout, not chunky, with cropped red hair and a sunburst tattoo on her right shoulder. I was thinking lesbian.

Emma had more of an athletic build, with nice breasts outlined in wet blue, orange, yellow and red waves, and a terrific ass. These two were definitely the most interesting pieces I’ve ever brought home from Art in the Park.

“Now what?” said Emma, as she twisted off the band in on her pony-tail and shook out her hair.

I had a couple of ideas. Kelly wouldn’t be home for awhile, not that she would mind other than me not waiting for her, but passed on articulating them for the time being.

“We’re not fully functional yet, but the rooms are ready. Why don’t you each go upstairs and find yourself a room, and grab a hot shower. There should be soaps, shampoo, and lotion, as well as robes in each of the baths. Please help yourself to the wine on the dresser.”

I futzed around in the kitchen a bit, and tried to tidy up. We were at least a month away from being able to open for the public, still hadn’t received an occupancy permit, but the place was capable of handling a few guests.

Kelly was still at the store. I texted her that we had guests, and to bring back some steaks and salmon, Romaine and other salad fixings. Probably more than what the so-called starving artists were going to have as it was. And speaking of them, I wondered where they were. It’d been about an hour since they headed upstairs, so I wandered up there to make sure everything was fine.

The first door on the right was open, and I peered in. It looked like one of the two had been here, but no noise was coming from the bath area. I wandered around a bit before hearing some movement down the hall.

I probably should have knocked, but I’m not sure it would have made any difference. Sliding my head inside the door I found my guests. Emma was sprawled out on the bed, each hand firmly clenching a clump of bed sheet and sporting a look that bordered between agony and ecstasy, as Linda, planted between her legs, deftly delivered what was causing the animation on Emma’s face.

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