Harker came over—the idea being we’d do the art assignment, which was to create a painting or drawing of a private moment, one that might not be easily recognizable as such to anyone but the artist, but which would instill in the viewer a sense of the import. We set up our easels in the living room with light from the skylights pouring down. We wouldn’t need the ceiling spotlights.

“What the fuck does sense of the import mean?” Harker complained.

“Beats me,” I said. “Probably opposite of a sense of the export.”

Harker laughed. “Well, that clears it all up,” he said. “Thanks.”

“Any time,” I said, and then I kissed him. The kissing went on for a while and I ended up lying back on the couch with Harker kneeling between my legs, his mouth feasting on my pussy. I happened to glance up. Some puffy white clouds were drifting along, visible through the skylight. I suppose it could be construed as calming. The ceiling fan was circling silently, and the clouds drifted and drifted, and it was calming, but at the same time I was getting closer and closer to climax. I could feel Harker’s tongue sloshing the wet of my cunt, and if he’d only touch my clit or my asshole I knew I’d come. That moment of no return.

I pushed him away.

“What? Was I doing it wrong?” Harker wanted to know.

“You were doing it perfectly,” I assured him. “But now it’s time to paint.”

“Really? You’re kidding, right? I thought maybe we would...”

“Maybe we will,” I said. I gave him a quick kiss. I tasted pretty good. For a moment I thought the art could wait. But I pushed him away again.

The painting didn’t take too long. The ceiling. The skylight. The drifting clouds. The tight little spot begging for the touch of Harker’s tongue.

“I don’t get it,” Harker said.

“You’re not supposed to—it’s a private moment,” I told him.

“But what about the import?”

I pushed him back onto the couch. I knelt between his legs. He tasted pretty good. Export.