The Vase
Copyright© 2009 by Maxicue
Chapter 8
Historical Sex Story: Chapter 8 - The autobiography of a teenage gigolo, trained by his mother, a successful mistress, to be the best like she was at providing sex and companionship to the elite women of New York City during the 1940s. More categories will be added as the story continues.
Caution: This Historical Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa mt/ft Ma/ft mt/Fa Fa/Fa Fa/ft Consensual Romantic NonConsensual Rape BiSexual Heterosexual Cuckold Incest Mother Group Sex First Safe Sex Oral Sex Anal Sex Masturbation Petting
I met the little whore at the gallery while Mom had her dinner date with the immigration lawyer. The whore introduced me to the gallery owner, a lovely and sweet little French lady, stout and nearing fifty. I brought the drawings from our first night and gave it to the owner. The anger scaring her removed, the brilliance remained. She wanted to show them.
"It would have to be in a week. She's leaving after," I said.
"I am?" asked the little whore. I nodded.
The gallery owner looked around her gallery. I looked around as well. A couple reminded me of the painting teacher's work which I liked. Most I could take or leave. The featured artist used a bright pallet of pure colors depicting floating symbolic figures in a rustic landscape telling a story or a dream. Interesting, but they didn't move me. The gallery owner stood in front of some paintings in a corner alcove. "Could you bring me the other drawings you showed me?" she asked.
"I don't know," said the little whore.
"We'll get them," I promised. "What would you like to do tonight?"
"I have to go to work," said the little whore.
"Not anymore," I said.
"See the man at the corner of the window?" The pimp smoked preoccupied. He didn't look in so he may not have noticed her.
"Do you have a phone," I asked the gallery owner. She did. "Is there another way out of here?" There was. I called the hotel restaurant and had my mom paged. I asked if we could take care of business. I told her I would meet her at the hotel. She stashed our money there, another condition of her bribes. Bribing cost us a lot less than a hotel room. "Where does the exit lead?" I asked the gallery owner. The pimp walked away while I exited. I hired a cab and waited for the little whore. She emerged from an alley and we drove to the hotel, the little whore staying in the cab. Mother gave me the money and the emancipation form and I headed to the Negro's apartment, crossing my fingers. He was there. He gathered the guitar player and another guy, a Frenchman who resided near our destination. The Frenchman resembled a short and squat and scarred gangster. The cab reminded me of an overstuffed car full of clowns at the circus. We had given the driver his tip ahead of time. At the little whore's home we found the mother's pimp wasted on wine. The mother walked the streets. The little whore told the Negro where she worked. He brought the old whore back to the apartment with a big scary knife provided by the Frenchman as encouragement. Another knife held by the Frenchman threatened the pimp. The little whore gathered her drawings and a couple of art books and her birth certificate, all hidden under the same floorboard and tossed them in the trunk and waited in the cab, replacing the guitar player beside my unthreatening self. The mother, a bloated woman dressed in unclean chiffon signed the document emancipating her daughter. The Frenchman signed as witness. She grabbed the large lump of cash, about a quarter of what we anticipated. Mom's Negro lover ordered her to keep silent in his low rumbling voice or he and his friends would return and she'd have an even harder time getting tricks. The cabby drove us away. Adrenalin rushed through our systems making us giddy. Except the little whore stayed silent, clutching my arm, not yet free. I paid everybody when we dropped each off and took the cab to the apartment. Only when the door closed did the little whore relax. She relaxed more when I gave her a shot of heroin the Negro had given me along with the new syringe. After my shot we relaxed in bed, nodded off, awoke, made slow gentle love, nodded, made love some more, took a long bath, made love and slept. Discovering heroin desensitizes, prolonging orgasms seemed good. Later it proved less.
Early the next morning we headed to the hotel. Mother had given me a key to the two bedroom suite. I discovered Mom naked getting out of bed when I poked my head into her room. It reeked of sex. The Negro remained sleeping under a sheet. Emerging dressed in a slip, she whispered she needed to bathe. The communal area being relatively small, voices could be heard in the bedroom. We whispered we'd meet her in the lobby. She noticed the roll of drawing paper in the backpack I lent to the little whore. Mom wanted to see. The little whore unrolled them. The thick lines and violent shadings depicted herself, her mom, the pimps and scenes from her hellish life. Brutal but well wrought, the quality kept the eye inside the terror discovering unexpected beauty. Though untrained, a life of refuge in drawing in a city full of art fed her skill and her talent grew. Mother hugged the little whore, kissed her cheek and whispered, "Magnifique my daughter."
Mother met us within a short time, always quick to bathe and dress when needed. She ate a croissant we had been enjoying in an alcove of the lobby along with a cup of coffee. We continued watching the hoi polloi pass by. Then, all of us dressed for business, we headed to the lawyer's office.
His embarrassment suggested sex. Mother hugged and kissed him anyway. She handed him the emancipation form and followed him as he filed it at the nearby government office and then to another office to get my new sister a French Passport which he expedited efficiently. It would be ready by the end of the week when we planned on leaving Paris. Parting from the lawyer outside the government building, my mother hugged and kissed him, discretely rubbing his groin and handed him some bills. His blush and awkward smile communicated his enjoyment of her and his happiness to move on from the amazing experience.
We celebrated at the Montmartre café sharing drinks with the artists who began a long day of drinking. One leaned over Mother and whispered. She kept saying no. Then she relented, telling him she'd come by in a couple days. He seemed satisfied, gave a quick kiss and returned to his compatriots. "He needs to finish the painting," Mother explained with a wink.
"Who is that?" asked my sister. When my mother told her, her eyes went wide.
"Do you want to meet him?" asked my mother.
"No. What would I say?"
"Show him your drawings," said Mother.
"They're like children's finger painting to him," said my sister. Mother grabbed them and went to the artist and unrolled them. The artists gathered around the drawings, pointing and commenting like debating art critics.
"Where's the gallery?" asked Mother.
My sister wouldn't say. I told them. They nodded and continued appraising. We headed there next.
"We sold two already," said the gallery owner. "I had them framed early this morning." She took the drawings from my sister who told her about meeting the famous artist and how he and his friends critiqued them. I never saw my sister so excited. She looked adorable. The gallery owner led her into the back office. A pretty young woman with long dark hair and glasses and a sexy body stuffed into a business suit darted out a couple minutes later with the drawings in one hand and a check in the other. When the owner and my sister emerged the owner explained her cut of 50%, apologizing for the size but explaining new artists expected it. Since my sister had no bank account, the owner sent her assistant to cash the check and bring the drawings to the framer. "You'll have to give me your address in America," said the owner. I wrote down the old flapper's address and took her card. "I wish I'd done this sooner," she said. "But your other drawings scared me."
"I didn't expect it at all," said my sister, excited. "Thank you so much."
"You told the artist about my gallery?" asked the owner.
"Of course," said my sister forgetting I had to tell them. "They know it. They were happy about the choice."
"I don't know if you'll get him to come. I'm not sure I want him to come. Those artists can be a handful." We agreed and chuckled. Mom's chuckle awaited the translation.
We chatted patiently while awaiting the sexy assistant's return, looking at the other paintings and the drawings of me and my penis. The assistant did a double take when she handed the cash to my sister. We stood in front of my penis. She smiled at me, licked her lips and headed into the back office, her formidable fanny swinging.
"Great advertising," my mom said. I blushed.
"Maybe we should ask her if she wants to join us tonight," said my sister. I saw the lust. The owner's presence held back my comment.
"Let's," I said. Hand in hand we headed to the back office. The assistant paused before answering, studying both of us. She agreed.
"Dinner's at 7. We're buying," said my sister. When told where, the assistant's eyes went wide. "You don't need to dress up. We're having a casual night. You like jazz?"
Unfamiliar with it, she wanted to learn. "How old are you?" she asked me.
"Old enough," I said.
She grinned. "For what?'
Nothing charming or witty came to mind. I didn't want to be crude or obvious. She probably wouldn't have minded, but I would. The longer the pause the better the answer worried me despite her patience. "For whatever you require, mademoiselle," I said, tempted to bow but didn't. Happily she chuckled.
"See you then, monsieur. I need to get back to work."
After stopping at the apartment to pick up a change of clothes we headed to the hotel. When we arrived the other shoe dropped, worn by the producer in a foul mood. "Didn't you get my message?" He asked looking down on us.
"I always get your messages," said my mom.
"I left it two days ago. You never called."
"I've been busy."
"I bet you have." He took hold of her arm and dragged her to the elevator. "You come too," he said to me. When my sister entered with us he asked who she was.
"My daughter," said my mom, smiling through her fear.
"What are you talking about?"
"It's a long story."
We arrived at the floor and walked swiftly to the room. "Open it," demanded the producer. Mom fumbled with the key but nothing could be done. The Negro lay in bed reading. Mom liked pulp mysteries. "I should have known," said the producer furiously.
"What, and your bed's been empty all this time?" Mother asked.
"I wouldn't be caught dead fucking a nigger," spat the producer, "or fucking a nigger lover." The Negro jumped to his feet by the first statement and held the producer against the wall by his throat at the end of the second. Naked and dangling his extra large black penis, he didn't care.
"Well then you be dead, Massa," growled the Negro.
"Let him go," said Mother. When he didn't she said, "Please."
"As long as you're polite," said the Negro throwing the producer to the floor. "You don't deserve her," he said and walked into the bedroom, slamming the door.
"You know he's right. How did the London girls rate? Any better than me? Have you ever fucked anyone better? How about the conversations? Or did you bother talking? Or were you thankful you were fucking them so you didn't have to listen to their boring shit?"
"I needed to see you," said the producer rising to his feet and adjusting himself, returning to his proper veneer. "My wife's coming to London next week. Things took longer than I hoped. I looked forward to enjoying you before she arrives. You ruined it."
"You ruined our fun too," said Mom.
"You wouldn't be having any if it wasn't for me. I brought you to England for a reason. I let you have your fun. You were supposed to be here for me when I needed. That's the arrangement."
"I'm here, lover," said my mother.
"You disgust me." He tossed down three tickets for the ocean liner. "You can use my ticket for this, whoever she is."
"My daughter," said my mom wrapping her arms around my sister and me.
"Some whore you picked up off the street," said the producer. We laughed. "What's so funny?"
"I was a whore until today," said my sister. I had been translating. I started translating what she said.
"I understand fine," snarled the producer. "I'm an educated man unlike some of you."
"Who cares," said my mother. "You're as ignorant as the rest of the rich noble men and poor white trash that chased my Negro lover here."
"I was going to exchange my ticket, but it'll be my last gift. I hope you have enough for the hotel room because I'm not giving you another cent." Mother and I laughed. My sister wasn't in on the joke. I would explain it to her later.
"We're fine," said my mother. "And since you're not paying anymore, maybe you should leave."
"I don't know why I fell in love with you," he mumbled.
"You never loved me. You needed a good fuck and a good conversation. You bought it. You got your money's worth. So fuck off." He did.
"Are you okay," I asked.
"I don't know. He was a good sponsor. I thought he was a good man."
I resisted calling him a pretentious fool. I never told her what I thought of him or any of the sponsors for better or worse unless I sensed danger.
"He gone?" asked the Negro emerging dressed. "I'm not apologizing."
"Of course not darling," said my mother. "Do you mind company? My son and daughter have a date with a pretty Parisian."
Having a couple of hours to kill I drew a bath, and after I borrowed my mother's razor to shave my sister where Americans shave, including her legs and underarms and her pussy, though I only knew models did that and I shaved her bald there, she drew me in the bath. She laughed when my penis head broke the surface of the water, an affect from getting intimate with her pussy, and ran naked into our bedroom to fetch her pad and charcoal and sat on the toilet and drew. Taking awhile, and I had to masturbate occasionally, it resulted in a detailed rendering, including little shaved hairs floating on the surface and the distortion of the water on my genitals. My face in the drawing looked like I wanted someone to join me and take care of my erection, but when she finished I took care of it myself. She watched and I heard her say, "Ooh," when I spent, but hadn't masturbated. When I asked after my orgasm why she hadn't joined me, she said she needed to rest her pussy for later. We showered and dressed and went down early to meet our date.
The assistant looked sexier in a light blue dress tailored to her ample bosom and her curving waist and slightly pronounced tummy. She unbuttoned and removed a pale yellow cardigan, draping it over the spare chair showing her long fair arms. Nearsighted, she wore simple black framed glasses bringing character to her pretty face, but looked prettier with them resting above her forehead when she perused the menu. Sexier too: her brown eyes seduced. I insisted she indulge without concern about price. Her casserole cost less than our fancy steaks, but she revealed her remarkable appetite gobbling up the rich, generous serving.
An unselfish conversationalist, she asked us questions. Our honesty surprised and intrigued her. Spare in her own story, the reason became clear once she joined the confessional spirit. Her father, brother and boyfriend had been killed fighting for the resistance. Sadness became revenge. She and her mother made inquiries in the village where the killings happened and discovered the traitor, a rich landowner. He owned the house where they hid and planned, though a family who worked his land rented it. The family participated because of threats to their lives and livelihood.
"I wish I could help," I said. The war had been around everyone like air, even when it seethed miles away across the ocean or on the other side of the earth. Boys my age envied those a few years older who made the long treks and adventured and killed Nazis and Japs. Those lucky ones often paraded their uniforms on the street. Movies and radios and newspapers and talk preached patriotism and democracy and the defeat of fascism. Some men didn't feel lucky. They may have been on the winning side but ended up defeated by horror and sensitivity. Men walked lost, a bottle in hand, trying to forget. Being manly soldiers had unmanned them. No longer able to earn a living for themselves let alone a family, they bobbed adrift alone on the ocean of the streets, their ship of reason wrecked by the insanity they witnessed and became. The unnoticed and unwanted resilience, a body's ability to stay alive, a body demanding food because starving hurt served as life preservers. They suffered unquenchable thirst. A rare few like the young poet who survived the pain reported, unvarnished by political propriety. Without the varnish it resembled a strange and painful and dirty game of kill or be killed, the winner weighed down by the smell and taste of blood and excrement of the loser and the sulfur stench of the winning weapons exploding projectiles of death. I witnessed the results, heard visceral reports, but the distance and my youth kept the effect of nobility, bravery and envy intact.
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