When I met Reginald, how my life changed! We became lovers the first night we met, and the best of friends within a week after that. He had that combination of traits that so many women want, yet so few find: self-confidence (but without a shred of arrogance), a ready wit, and unfailing consideration of my wants and needs. There was nothing we did not share with each other, and soon I found myself moving into his apartment. Within three months, we were engaged. I still called him "Dom" and he sometimes called me "Contessa."
It was amazing to me how rapidly he fit into my world of naked soirees featuring erotic art. Since we were now an "item," he had free access into that world, and often graced the parties with his beautiful body and quick intelligence. And after a few hours of naked flirting with all and sundry, we were primed for a "quickie" the moment we returned home, followed by several hours of lovemaking. Sometimes we were joined by another woman, and once by another couple, for a night spent in everything but sleep.
It was shortly after one of these soirees that I received a telephone call from, of all people, Professor Corrigan, who had worked with me in Wiesbaden. The connection was not good, but I was able to make out his voice clearly through the crackle of the wire.
"Mrs. Wright, do you remember that picture we had in Wiesbaden ... the one with those four boys? In the bedroom?"
I laughed. "How could I forget? And -- you won't believe this -- I have another painting by the same artist right here in my bedroom! Not signed, but there's no mistaking it as the same artist."
"Is it ... you know..."
"Erotica? Absolutely. But with different subject matter, if that's what you mean."
"Amazing! Well done! But I called about something else. You remember what those boys, or rather the girls, were doing in that picture?"
"Collecting semen for paint?"
"Yes! Well, I've come across some tempera works that look like they've been made by that process. Again, no signature, but much the same setting ... male nudes in various stages of repose and sexual ... excitement ... in seraglios. Some female nudes, as well. There's one that has some notes on the back, and the handwriting matches the notes I told you about earlier, the ones supposedly from the ... the 'facilitator' ... the woman in that picture. So I think they're the real deal."
"Where are those temperas now? Have you still got them?"
"Alas, no. I had to return them to the owner. He's a British art collector. Rich as Creosus. Lives on an island of his own in Greece, with his wife and children. I think he owns half of it."
"I'd love to see them!"
"That's what I was calling about. I told him about you. He wants you to see them, and he's willing to pay your airfare back and forth. And you'll be staying with his family, so there really won't be any cost to you."
"I probably can't authenticate them, if that's what he wants. No provenance..."
"I told him that. But you've done tempera, right? If these were actually done by that process -- that recipe -- you'd know what to look for, right?"
"I honestly won't know until I see it."
"Well, if you want, the offer's there. And this bloke says to bring a friend if you like."
Well, an offer to fly to Greece, all expenses paid, doesn't come along every day, so I grabbed the chance and told Dr. Corrigan to make the arrangements. Dom and I had already planned on taking a trip on his orchestra's annual summer break, And so it happened that, about a month, Dom and I were in a seaplane over the Adriatic, approaching one of the many islands that were strewn like pebbles across the face of the sea.
We were met at the dock by Mr. Arkwright and his wife. I was to learn that he'd made his money in various wartime industries, and he'd parlayed it into a fortune by investments in Mediterranean shipping, African diamond mines, and American electronics firms. Nigel was in his early fifties, as was Elaine. They both had a bit of plumpness, but it looked good on them, and there was no mistaking their overall physical fitness, once they removed their clothing. Yes, they were nudists, and stripped the moment they were inside their estate.
"You're free to do so as well," Elaine said. "I gather from Dr. Corrigan that you've had some experience with nude socializing."
"However did he know about that?"
"Well, your little parties are no secret in the art world! Word gets around."
"I guess it does! But the complication here is that our crowd equates nudity with eroticism. I don't know how Dom will react to it."
"The same way men do everywhere, dear. But if you wish, we can provide robes for you."
We gratefully accepted the offer and were provided with soft cotton robes, although our hosts continued to be nude. I found myself looking at Nigel's cock more than I probably should have. It hung limply down, its cap completely covered by foreskin. I was used to seeing erect cocks by the dozen, but it was a novelty to see one flaccid, swinging free, and I found myself grinning at the sight; Elaine noticed my interest, and grinned, too. "They do look a bit silly when they're soft, don't they?" she whispered into my ear.
Within an hour, I was looking at the temperas, and there was no doubt that these were from the same hand that painted the other two masterpieces. There was the same confident eroticism in the hard cocks and heavy breasts and voluptuous forms and rich brocades. And there was a luminosity to them that far exceeded any other examples of that medium that I'd seen. One in particular was striking. It showed a girl just entering puberty, with small breasts and only the slightest tuft of hair at her crotch, lying on her side and facing the viewer. One finger was pulling a cunt lip aside slightly, exposing her clitoris. There was the slightest trace of a smile on her face, as if she was delighting in exposing her clit for the first time, or perhaps from pleasuring herself. What arrested my interest were the vibrancy of the pink pigment used on her lips, nipples, and clitoris, which not only seemed to glow but to change color slightly when the painting was tilted. On the back were the notes, in Italian, reading "Beatrice at thirteen. Last sample from Luigi before the change."
"Did Dr. Corrigan tell you anything about how the tempera was supposed to have been mixed?" I asked.
"About the semen?" Nigel replied. "Oh, yes! It was the first I'd heard of it, but it seems possible."
"To be honest with you, I've done a lot of tempera, and seen a lot more, but nothing that looks like this. If only we knew more about the process! But it's not something we can research."
Nigel and Elaine exchanged a meaningful glance. Then Nigel said, "Olivia, that may be possible."
"Well, we have a son..."
The room fell quiet as the implication dawned on me. "You don't mean..."
"Quite. Would you be up to it? Elaine has a full artist's studio on the premises, which we would put at your disposal."
I thought furiously, trying to remember the details of the collection process. "How old is he? If he's too old, it won't work."
Elaine spoke up. "Dr. Corrigan mentioned that. Derek's just now started to ejaculate. The laundress noticed it on his sheets last week, and told me."
"But how do we collect it?"
Nigel smiled. "The same way they did before. Would you be willing to give it a go?"
"I have your permission? To 'seduce' your son?"
"Our permission, and our blessing. All in the name of art research, of course."
"But this has to be totally consensual. I need your son's permission, too."
And we asked him that evening. Derek was a handsome boy, with the gangling look that such children have when entering puberty, as if he had lately inhabited a different body and was unsure about what it would do at times. He had brown hair, thick on his head and wispy at his crotch, and deep brown eyes, and full lips. Somehow he looked pure Greek, even though both his parents were English. Since had been a nudist since infancy, he saw no reason to conceal his genitalia. His penis was circumcised, unlike his father's. It looked impossibly small on him, although thick enough even though flaccid.
Nigel began the discussion as we ate our desserts. "Derek, you mother and I know that you're masturbating now. Don't be afraid..." he added quickly as Derek's eyes opened wide even as the rest of him seemed to suddenly shrink. "It's perfectly normal. Every young man does it. Ordinarily, we wouldn't even bother mentioning it, but we have a big favor to ask you."
He told Derek about the mystery of the tempera recipe and made the proposal in short but graphic terms. "Mrs. Wright would like to make some experiments in re-creating the recipe, and needs your semen to do it. Would you be willing to help her?"
Derek thought a minute, and then nodded. "Will you be giving her your sperm, too?" he asked his father.
"No, son. Once a boy is well into puberty, the semen doesn't react properly any longer. Or so I'm told."
The boy smiled. "Well, you won't know that until you try it, won't you? As a control, sort of."
Nigel laughed. "That's the spirit! If Mrs. Wright wants it, she can have it! Of course, she might prefer collecting sperm from her own young man."
"Livy, you can have as much as you want, in any way that you want," Dom said with a grin.
"Well, that would seem to make the most sense," I mused. "From a research standpoint, that is. But I think I'll ask Elaine to take Nigel's 'sample' for me. And another thing. If we're going to be this intimate, it's 'Livy, ' not 'Mrs. Wright.' Understood?"
Derek nodded, as did Elaine and Nigel.
"What can we use for collection vessels? Do you have any small jars or something?"
"How about test tubes?" Derek asked. "I've got about twenty of them from my chemistry set. I had two dozen, but I broke some."
"Those would be fine," I said with a smile. "And it does give the project a certain scientific patina!"
And so it was that I found myself in Derek's bedroom an hour later. There was a rack of five test tubes on the nightstand by the bed. "Now I understand that I'll get more from you if I tease you first. Do you have any preferences?"
"Mrs. Wright ... Livy, I mean ... I would like to see you naked. That would help."
I grinned. "I bet it would," I said, and I opened the robe to expose my breasts and vulva. His eyes widened. The robe slipped off my shoulders and onto the floor. Of course, he had seen plenty of nude women before, but this was the first time that there was a blatantly sexual element involved. Suddenly I felt more naked than I ever had before, even when prancing around in the nude at the soirees, even when exposing myself to lovers.
"I'm new at this, too," I stammered.
"It's all right," he said as he played with his cock. I saw it swell and fatten.
"May I touch it?" I asked as I sat beside him on the bed.
And I did. I held it gingerly between my thumb and first finger, and felt it pulse as it thickened. I found my hand trembling even as I felt a blush of warmth suffusing my skin. His scrotum was still a little boy's scrotum, undescended and bald. I had to remind myself that the balls within them were already fully functional. And his muscles were a boy's muscles, flat and sleek even though he had obviously had regular exercise. His slim young body looked so frail, so trusting, so ... delicious. He could not tear his eyes from my tits, hanging low and swinging, just inches from his face. He extended a shaking hand and touched my left breast, lifted it, felt its weight and softness, the sudden stiffness of its nipple. I echoed his caresses with ones to his cock, and it was at full hardness in a flash. I became the woman in my first erotic dream in that bed in Wiesbaden, glorying in her power over a young man's libido, and found to my astonishment that I was entirely comfortable in that role, as if my whole life had led up to this point.
And that's how we spent the next hour, exploring each other's body as I teased him hard, let him soften, and teased him again. Each time, his cock responded more quickly, and the pre-cum was flowing. I knew I had to finish him off quickly, so I grabbed the test tube and held it to his cap as I gave him a few final strokes. I was rewarded by a gush of fluid, in spurt after spurt, almost transparent, with only a blush of the creamy, pearly white I'd expected. I stuck my little finger into the tube and extracted a drop of it, and tasted it. Yes, it was indeed different from the musky taste of Dom's semen, which I had had ample opportunities to taste. It had a freshness to it, something of the sea, like young oysters. Meanwhile, Derek's body relaxed in a shudder. I stroked his softening cock and his belly. His eyes beheld me, shining and adoring. I kissed his forehead and thanked him, and left with my prize, still naked.
There was a small refrigerator by the wet bar in the den a few doors away, and I put the test tube in there after labeling it with the donor and date. As I closed the door, I heard a noise behind me. It was Nigel, holding a test tube of his own sperm. His penis was soft but its tip glistened with cum, and from the slightly dazed expression on his face, it was clear that he'd just achieved orgasm. I accepted the sample, labeled it, and stored it with the other. I suddenly became aware of my nudity, and found myself attempting to cover my private parts with my arms, but he laughed and said that he'd seen enough feminine forms not to be overly agitated, particularly after he'd just climaxed. That broke the spell, and I found myself at ease with him ... so much so that as we parted, I gave him a quick hug and a kiss.
But I was still horny as hell, and when I went into my bedroom, I fell upon Dom with a ferocity that startled him. Nothing would do but that I have his cock, so much bigger than Derek's, in me right now. I knew that I wasn't fertile that night, having just had my period, and dispensed with the usual diaphragm and condom. Dom always loved it when he was able to ride me "bareback." Now he lay face up on the bed with a huge smile on his face as I straddled him and impaled myself on his rod. The sudden ardor, the feel of my cunt on his naked shaft, my own lunging and pitching, and he was climaxing almost immediately, and my own climax came a heartbeat afterwards. We both breathed hard, like we'd just run a mile.
"Wow," I said. "I haven't cum like that since the first time we met."
"It must have been playing with that little-boy cock," he said with a smirk.
"Yes, and the big-boy cock, too." And then we drank some wine, chatted a bit, and then made love in a more languorous style. I felt his body relax after his second orgasm, and with his softening cock still inside me, I drifted off to sleep and dreamed, once more of the other Dom, the boy of medieval Italy...
Dom was content with his life, even after having been dismissed from his position as live-in lover to the countess. Her death had dissolved that employment, but the count proved true to his word, and secured a position for him with one of the Pope's chamber orchestras, where he would be second violinist. The job came with a stipend that would keep him comfortable, but he was forced to come up with his own lodgings and his first arrangement, with one of the other musicians, proved awkward. Dom had been used to being in the nude, but this distressed his new roommate, who thought it blasphemous to bare so much naked skin. So he went clothed all day for the first time in five years, even changing into nightclothes. Although the room was small, he had his own bed, a trundle bed that was rolled under the large bed in the daytime. His roommate had a revulsion against being touched, or even being close to another person, so this arrangement was the only one possible.
But that was to change. One day, Dom spotted a figure from his past crossing the street ahead of him. It was Luigi, one of the boys whose "syrup" had been collected for the Master, as his own was. Dom hailed him down.
The youth looked at Dom blankly.
"Don't you remember me? Dom? From the Master's household?"
The youth blinked, and then smiled. "Dom! I didn't recognize you! You've grown a bit, you know. I'm on my way to the tavern. Will you join me?"
And so it was that the boys became reunited. Luigi, it seems, had found employment with a counting-house, since he had acquired an excellent education in arithmetic during his time with the Master. And he was living only a block from Dom. But the person who shared the room and bed with him was moving away, and he needed somebody to take that person's place. Dom eagerly accepted the offer, and moved in the very next day. He found to his relief that Luigi had not outgrown his love for nudity, and the two of them had soon dispensed with their unnecessary clothing. Dom was fascinated by the amount of hair on Luigi's body. Even as a child, his pubic hair was already profuse, and now at sixteen there was scarcely an inch of skin below his neck (apart from his palms, his penis, and the soles of his feet) that did not have its thin covering of fur. If he did not shave, he would doubtless have had a full beard.
The two shared the same bed, as was common at a time when beds were scarce. It was the first time Dom had slept with a man, and he wondered what would happen should he wake with an erection, as he often did. But his fears were unfounded, as Luigi made it clear from the first night that he expected that their relationship be sexual as well as comradely. As he was lying in bed, Luigi came in, slipped under the covers, and reached for Dom's penis.
"Here," he said. "Give me your hand." Dom did so, and Luigi guided it to his own member, hard and thick. "Squeeze it, like so. You know what you like to have done to your shaft. Just do that to mine."
"Isn't this a sin?" Dom stammered. "What if the priests should find out?"
"A sin? Silly boy! It was a priest who took my cherry and showed me all the ways a man can make love to another man! Haven't you made love since the days with the Master?"
"Not with a man, Luigi. With women, but not men. I never even thought about it."
"I did, Dom. Even when Angelina and Antoinette were milking us, I thought about boys. The sight of their tits and crack didn't excite me, although I enjoyed their hands on my rod. But what I was thinking about was cocks. Angelo's cock. Francesco's cock. And your cock, dear boy. Yours was the prettiest, especially when it was hard. And now I am holding it in my hand! Relax, and let me bring you pleasure!"
And Dom did so. Since Luigi had been trained in the art of milking cocks, just as Dom had, he knew just how to tease and excite, first with little squeezes and caresses, then with more forceful stroking. Dom responded in kind, using what he remembered of Antoinette's deft arts, and was rewarded with a gush of syrup from Luigi's penis, followed almost immediately by his own ejaculation into Luigi's hand.
"Did you like that, my dear boy?" Luigi crooned into his ear. "And this was just the beginning. I have so much to show you!" And then they slept.
As the days passed, the two became more comfortable with each other. Since the evenings were warm, they both went nude when they returned from their respective employments. Luigi became bolder, kissing him on the mouth, pressing their bodies together so that their cocks touched. At first, Dom was excited by this new dimension in his sexual life, and Luigi lost no time in introducing him to homosexual love. Within a week, Luigi had penetrated his ass, depositing his syrup into Dom's bowels. Dom protested at first, but Luigi insisted. To Dom's relief, Luigi's penis was of average length but slender when hard, so it was not as painful as he feared. And he found, to his amazement, that there was a pleasure center inside his bowels that he never knew existed. Even though he had just ejaculated, the pressure of Luigi's cock on that pleasure point brought Dom back to hardness almost immediately.
Eventually Luigi insisted on being penetrated as well, and Dom had some difficulty in inserting his own thick tool into Luigi's asshole. But he persevered, and soon it was Luigi being impaled and trembling with lust as his thin cock spurted semen onto the bed linen.
It would have been a perfect arrangement except for two things. First, Dom had some residual qualms about homosexual love, since he had been steeped in notions of sin from his earliest memories. What was more important was that Dom felt no real emotional connection with Luigi, as he had with the women he had coupled with. Luigi was only a receptacle for his pleasure, and a means of stimulating his lust. As he slept, he had erotic dreams, but his companions in those dreams were women rather than men.
As it happened, Luigi was not the only person from Dom's early days that he would meet in Rome. After Mass one Sunday, he was passed in the church's forecourt by a young woman with a baby. She was taking the baby to be baptized; it was only a few weeks old at most. This time, it was the woman who recognized Dom, and called him by name.
"It's me, Dom. It's Beatrice. The cook's daughter. From the Master's house."
"My God! Is it you? It is!" The memory came back in a flood of the thirteen-year-old girl with the tiny breasts who was sent to the boys' bedroom to learn something of the arts of pleasing a man from women who knew every trick of that trade. Dom remembered the feel of her small hand on his hard cock, and the sweetness of her smile.
"But what are you doing here in Rome, Dom? They said you went to live with some nobleman."
"I live here now. I play the violin in an orchestra, for the Pope." He would have elaborated, but a priest approached the couple and told Beatrice that the baptismal font was ready for her now. Dom started to make his parting, but the girl said, "Dom, please stay and be a witness to my daughter's baptism. You are the only person I really know in this city."
"In that case, it would be my honor."
And so he stayed as the little girl was christened Maria and welcomed into the House of God. An elderly couple from Beatrice's place of employment also showed up as the ceremony was starting and agreed to stand as godparents to the child. After the rite was over, Dom returned with them all to their home, which was in the servant's quarters of a modest but prosperous household. They sat in the kitchen, which was where these people worked, and the two young people caught up on each other's lives after the old couple went off to their bed. Although Dom had learned not to describe his employment as the Countess's lover in great detail to strangers, he found himself telling everything to Beatrice, who was smiling and nodding even as she blushed to hear the details. And then she told her tale.
Beatrice had been married a year ago to a strapping young lad who impregnated here, went off to war, and gotten himself killed in his first military engagement. Suddenly widowed at the age of seventeen, she found refuge at this house, where her own father had once worked before he went to the Master's kitchen. He had come from Rome and when he died only two months ago, he had been brought home to be buried in the churchyard near the estate in whose service he had been raised. The master of this estate had heard about the death, attended the funeral, and met the man's widowed daughter. He had taken pity on her and offered her employment and a place to live until she delivered her child.
"He may keep me for another month or so, but I don't know where I will be going after that," she said. "After my father died, the Master hired a new cook, who insisted on replacing the old kitchen staff with his own." As they talked, they found themselves holding hands. Dom gave hers a squeeze of reassurance. His mind was racing. He knew that the younger son of his old patron, the Count, had a residence in the city and that the Count himself was there on a visit that week. A thought came unbidden to him.
"Beatrice, I may be able to help. Leave this to me." And then he kissed her hand and took his leave from her.
Within an hour he was in the presence of his old patron. Apart from a little more gray in his hair, the Count appeared unchanged as he regarded him gravely. "I hear you've done well, Dom. The director of the orchestra is pleased with your work. But you realize that your place is here in Rome, and not at my estate. I cannot take you back."
"I realize that, your Excellency. But you told me once that I could come to you in any distress."
"That I did say. And what is your distress?"
"It's not mine, exactly, milord. It's a friend of mine from before I went to live with you. She's now a widow, only eighteen, with a baby and no means of support. I was wondering if you could help her in any way."
The old man smiled. "You wish to use my influence to help this unfortunate soul? You have not changed, my boy! You think more of others than of yourself, and that is the mark of an honorable man."