The Art & Science of Love
Caution: This Erotica Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa, Consensual, Romantic, BiSexual, Heterosexual, Fiction, Rough, Polygamy/Polyamory, Oral Sex, Anal Sex, Exhibitionism, Slow, Nudism,
Desc: Erotica Sex Story: Chapter 1 - Artist Doc Peters leads his lovely young neighbor Rita through an exploration of the art of loving. The young research scientist, however, eventually wants everything tested and results confirmed as she leads him through the exploration of the science of loving.
I was pulling weeds in my pathetic little garden early Saturday morning before it got hot. Somewhere between cursing the weeds and the rose thorns, I saw my next door neighbor drive in her driveway. I stood to say "Hi" and as she got out of her car I saw that it was not my neighbor, but her daughter, Rita. I'd known Rita since she was little, and now in her mid-twenties she was the very picture of loveliness, even in a sweatsuit boasting the name of her alma mater.
Even though she was a beautiful girl who was often at my house during the summer months—all the neighborhood kids seemed to migrate from house to house, eating indiscriminately from everyone's pantry—she had never been more to me than the neighbor kid. That is until her senior year in high school. She was a cheerleader and one day the squad was raising money by going door-to-door selling candy bars. She showed up at my front door in a pair of hot pants that showed her cheeks and a tube top about as wide as an elastic bandage wanting to know if I'd like to buy some candy. I realized in a rush that she'd blossomed in the past year and was downright sexy and provocative. I nearly told her I'd like two hands full, but I settled for buying a candy bar and then went inside for a waking wet dream about the fresh bit of candy next door.
In spite of that little episode, I managed to rein in my libido and maintained a pleasant and platonic relationship with my neighbors. Rita left for college, got a good job as an entry-level research scientist, and moved away. But she moved back home this summer to plan her fall wedding with her mother.
I called cheerfully to her as she got out of the car and she smiled and waved back. How's the job going, I asked, and she answered that it was fine. And the wedding plans?
I was not prepared for the sudden outburst and rush at me.
"It's been postponed ... indefinitely," she said and burst into tears.
"I'm so sorry, Rita," I said. "Do you want to talk about it?"
She fell on my shoulder crying, tears soaking through my gardening shirt. She had a softness about her that I couldn't help but notice as she pressed into me—a girl in sweats and, if I had to guess, nothing else. I gently led her into the house, grabbed a tissue and dabbed at her eyes as she sank into the living room sofa.
"Let's get you a cup of tea and you can tell me all about it," I said and went into the kitchen to set water on the stove to boil.
"It's awful, Doc," she whimpered behind me. "It's like I don't even know him. He's being so mean."
I'm not really a doctor, by the way. Dimitri Rafael Petrovich according to my birth certificate, but I changed the last name to Peters as soon as I turned 16. With the initials D.R., kids had been calling me Doc since grade school. Like the famous Dr. Science, I'm not a real doctor. I have a master's degree ... in art. That's why I make a living selling real estate.
I set the freshly brewed tea on the breakfast bar where she'd moved as soon as I went into the kitchen. It was obvious that she didn't want to be alone, even in the next room. She took a sip of the tea and I waited without prompting her. Her lower lip quivered and she spoke to the teacup and not to me.
"He said I couldn't suck water from a firehose," she whimpered. "He said I just don't turn him on."
No matter what my fantasies, I certainly never expected to be privy to this kind of information. Instead of speaking I just reached over and patted her hand. This wasn't a subject that would benefit from me prying into what she didn't want to say.
"I don't know what he's complaining about. He can't say I don't turn him on. He's hard every time he walks into the room. He shoves it in my mouth then wants to fuck. He finishes and goes to sleep, or jerks off until he's ready to fuck again. How can he say things like that? Aren't I pretty?"
She was steaming. Now it was time to reach in with the reassurance.
"Rita," I said gently. "You are beautiful and sexy. The guy must be an idiot."
"But why would he say I don't turn him on? I do anything he wants me to."
"Hmmm. Well, let's get some things straight," I said. "It's not your problem. It's his. He's a typical mid-twenties asshole. He's got an income, a beautiful girlfriend, and he can't figure out why he's not happy. All he thinks with is his cock." I'd only met the guy once and had an instant dislike for him.
"He's not always like that," she said becoming defensive.
"Of course not," I said. "No one is ever all one thing or another. But there is a development cycle for young men that gets in the way of knowing what they are looking for. Their lower animal functions rule over all the higher level reasoning."
"What do you mean?"
I opened the refrigerator and took out two grapefruits and set them on the counter.
"What do you see?" I asked.
"I see two grapefruits," Rita responded.
"Exactly. Now if we brought Alex in here, what do you think he would see?"
"He'd have to see two grapefruits, wouldn't he?"
"He would," I answered. "He'd see two grapefruits and he'd get a hard-on." She laughed. It was good to see a break in the teary demeanor.
"Now," I said, deciding to continue the lesson. "Do grapefruits turn him on? No. It's a response to archetypal stimuli that he can't help. A guy like Alex will get a hard-on while he's shaving if his cock happens to bump against the bathroom sink."
"I've seen that happen," Rita said, then blushed crimson. "I thought it was because I was there." I looked at her with a real feeling of tenderness. What I was trying to teach was a hard lesson that every young woman should learn, even though it isn't pleasant. But how much happier they would be if they recognized the difference between synaptic response and real feeling.
"My dear girl," I said, reaching up to stroke her cheek gently, "you are capable of turning on any man you desire. It's when a man responds to your desire that you connect, not when he responds just to your shape. You just need to learn to recognize what you want and not assume that just being there is enough to get it."
"Do I turn you on?" she asked softly. Great. Now I was on the spot. I didn't want to offend her, but I had to be honest with her.
"Rita, it takes more than being in the presence of a beautiful woman to turn me on," I said. "When you want to turn me on, you'll find me willing."
She looked at me and held my eyes with hers. I was afraid I'd gone too far, but she smiled shyly at me.
"I'd better get going before the neighbors start talking," she said, slipping off the stool. "Thank you for the tea and sympathy, Doc." She stood on tip-toe and kissed my cheek with a lingering tenderness then turned toward the door. "Mind if I stop in again to talk?" she asked.
"Any time," I responded. Then she was gone.
It was a week before I saw Rita again. She'd played an active role in my fantasies during that time, but I'd had a lot of work to do. I had open-houses and showings, and managed to squeeze in a portrait sitting with a wealthy and good-looking woman named Shiela who had heard I was discreet and would give her exactly what she wanted. She wanted a sexy portrait to give to her husband for their tenth anniversary. After several sketches in different poses, she gradually started to relax her grip on the drape I'd given her until her right breast was fully exposed. She liked the sketches and we worked on the pose a bit until we had her with her head tilted slightly away with eyes glancing toward the distance and the drape restored so that her nipple barely peaked out. I snapped a digital photo of the pose as well as the sketch and promised that I would have the painting available in two weeks. She came to look over my shoulder at the easel and let the drape fall to the floor as she came.
It wasn't unusual to have a model lose her inhibitions as we worked, and more than one had completely lost control. I watched her (and her breasts) as she examined the sketch. I could see exactly what she was seeing as she looked at the sketch. Her hand rose to her cheek and tried to trace the line of her jaw in the way I had drawn it. She mimicked the pose and touched her neck, then let her hand trace the position of the drape in the drawing across her chest to lightly touch her nipple. It was delicately shaped and the way it rose as she caressed it let me know that she had probably not breast-fed her two children. Nipples tend to lose some of their sensitivity after an infant has sucked on them day and night. Hers were obviously sensitive as she sucked in her breath at her own touch. She stood rigidly there for a moment without moving.
"May I come back to sit for the actual painting?" she asked with a quaver in her voice. Now doing an oil or acrylic painting is a much longer process than doing the preliminary sketches. That's why I typically snap a digital of the pose so that I can use it for reference as I paint from the sketch. Sitting and holding one position for two or three hours (with occasional breaks to relax the muscles) is much different than the ten to fifteen minutes it takes me to sketch a pose. But frankly, I'd much rather be referring to her fleshly presence as I painted than to the photo.
I agreed and we set a time. I would lay in the background and base and be ready to focus on her when she came back. She dressed in front of me without going behind the changing screen, putting on her lacey bra and nearly shear blouse, then arranging her hair. She would be spending the week between now and when we met again developing a strategy to seduce me, I could tell. I would be spending the week developing a strategy to let her.