Listening to Whispers

I duplicated her example and Debra smiled and closed her eyes. When I stroked around her nipple, she sighed and touched my chest. My body shivered as her fingertips traced a line down my breastbone, across my belly and swirled the hair above my manhood. I jerked, and my erect member brushed the back of her hand. I felt smooth fingertips close around me and lightly stroke.

Her touch was unbelievable compared to the vigorous jacking off I did in the shower, and the familiar tension began to build at an astonishing pace. She slipped her thumb and finger up to just behind the head and pulled firmly. She relaxed the pressure and then tugged at me again, and I couldn’t stop myself. With an embarrassing grunt, I shot all over her hands. This wasn’t the way it was supposed to work. I had screwed this up badly, and started to apologize. Debra cut me off with a whisper after the “I”, of “I’m sorry”.

“Shhhh, Mark, I know you couldn’t help it. Kiss me and keep doing what you’re doing. Everything is going to work out fine. You’ll see.”

Debra kissed with an intensity that forced her into every feeling I had. Her lips caressed, nibbled and brushed against mine and sent tingles rushing to all points of my body. When she touched my upper lip with her tongue and then found the tip of my own, sparks exploded in my mind. I learned by trying that she loved the same feelings and I rejoiced when the first little moan flowed from her throat to resonate in mine.

I felt her small hand guiding mine from her breast down over her smooth belly, and I jumped when I touched the raven-black curls.

The whisper came from deep down in her throat. “Don’t be afraid. I like this. Just touch gently. I’ll show you what to do.”

Her thighs opened, and her fingers pressed mind down to the satin-soft texture of her outer lips. They were slightly open, and the edges were moist. I was fascinated by the slippery surface just inside, and stroked slowly up and down to enjoy the feeling.

“Yes, Mark, that’s good. You can push inside a little now.”

My fingertip slipped deeper and deeper until I felt the rippled surface of the lips that guarded her passage. Everything was wonderfully slick and wet, and the convolutions of her petals rolled and slid beneath my fingertips. I felt an opening and slipped the finger through. The slippery passage seemed to grasp at my finger as I tried slipping it in and out. The little purr I heard told me I was pleasing her. Debra’s hand pulled at the back of my neck, and I found my lips poised over a firm nipple. She pulled a little more, and I slipped the little bump between my lips. Debra gasped as I tentatively touched the tip with my tongue, and since she seemed to like it, I began softly tickling it and the wrinkled and bumpy area that surrounded it.

My finger brushed a firm little nub that had pushed from between the silky surfaces I had been caressing, and Debra’s hips rocked up against me. Her hand pulled mine up to come into full contact with the little nub, and her voice was almost a cry.

“Yes, right there...more..., oh god, yes.”

I felt her hand slipping to my member again, and although the feelings were the same, Debra’s motions weren’t so strong as before. The feather touch of her fingertips made my erection grow harder, and when I began to instinctively push against her, she stopped. As soon as I calmed down, she began again. Her own body was reacting to my mouth and fingertips by pushing back at me, and she began to breath rapidly. After Debra arched her back to meet my fingertips, I heard the breathless whisper again.

“Mark, get on top of me. I need to feel you inside me.”

Debra spread her thighs wide and as I knelt between them, her hands reached for my shaft, and gently pulled it toward her. She rotated her hips up, and brushed the head through the glistening curls and puffy lips, and the sight of the soft inner petals pushing out of her sex was so erotic I thought I would never hold on. Debra found her own opening, and pulled gently. I watched as my manhood disappeared into her secret passage and groaned as the warm wet softness encircled me. The feeling was even more gentle than her hands. and when Debra cupped my butt and pulled me deep inside her, I couldn’t suppress the cry of emotion that erupted from my throat. I knew I was supposed to push in and pull out, and started the motion my mother had explained.

“Slowly, Mark, slowly at first. You’ll know when to speed up. Kiss me again.”

When we kissed, it was as if Debra inhaled my very soul. There was nothing of me left, and nothing of her. We were one body enjoying the pleasures of passion each contributed to the union, and waves of sensation swept us both into a realm where we knew only the crush of skin against skin and the soft internal caresses of an intimacy as old as time itself. Debra thrust herself against my advance and I felt a firm surface deep inside her belly. The velvet stroke of this surface across the head of my shaft was such an exquisite feeling, and I tried to reach the same depth with every stroke.

Debra was quickening her arching thrusts, and pulled at my hips to help me find the pace. I found her rhythm, and one hand left it’s cupping grip to slip between us. I realized that Debra was stroking herself to enhance her pleasure, but I didn’t understand why until her face fell away from my lips. I looked at her, and saw her mouth drawn into a wide circle, as if she were speaking. No sound came from her pink lips except the ragged rasping of her breathing. Her eyes were staring sightlessly to the side, and with each breath, she thrust her hips up to meet me. Suddenly, I felt my shaft gripped in a firm, slippery embrace, and realized that Debra was intentionally challenging my will to hold back.

The end came so quickly for her that it drove me off the edge as well. I felt her fingers flutter between us, her passage gripped me, and she cried out. She thrust hard and then her hips quivered with staccato rocking motions. The intense sensations of the rapid thrusts, the grip on my shaft, and Debra’s mewing cries brought me to the peak of arousal. I felt the surge of fluid coursing through my shaft, and at the first spurt, Debra cried out.

“Oh God, Mark, now, now.”

Debra heaved herself off the platform as I buried myself deep in her clasping canal, and I felt another surge leaving my manhood. Over and over, she cried out and arched us both in the air. She finally made a quiet, moaning sound, and relaxed.

I was sated beyond any prior experience, and when she embraced me and hugged me tight, I nestled against her soft belly and breasts. We kissed, and then just held each other. I stroked her soft flanks and shoulders and she caressed my back and hips. I was afraid to look or move for fear that she would just disappear, and I would find myself lying on my bed with a mess on the sheets that would be difficult to explain to my mother. When I finally raised my head and opened my eyes, I was looking into her gleaming eyes and beautiful smile.

“This was your first time at this, too, wasn’t it? Was it what you expected?”

“Yes, it was, and no. I never expected it could feel like this. It’s hard to explain. I felt so close to you.”

Debra giggled. “Well, we couldn’t get much closer.”

“That’s not what I mean. I felt like we were almost ...dammit, I don’t know how to say it.”

“I know what you’re trying to tell me. I felt the same way. I always have, although it’s been a long time for me. If you can bear to get off me, I’d like to show you something.”

She led me to the room across the hall. Paintings hung from every wall, and Debra walked to a small one with no frame.

“Sometimes, I have trouble putting my feelings into words, too, so I let them out by painting. Look at this and tell me what you think.”

I had studied the old masters in art class, and owned a few prints of their work, but I never knew what the term “master” really meant until that instant. The painting was a blaze of colors with no apparent pattern, but as I studied the brush work I knew what it was. The center of the work was bold brush strokes of brilliant red, yellow and a blinding white that almost seemed to scald my eyes. It was a veritable explosion of color that appeared to vibrate as I stared. The surrounding part of the canvas was painted with some technique that made the surface stand out as if it were velvet, and the soft swirls and subtle hues were easily recognizable as the passion they represented.

“I painted this years ago, but only a few people have ever seen it. I never even gave it a title, but it was my feelings after my first time. I keep it here with me because it has special meanings for me. It’s the end of one time in my life, and the beginning of another, and I don’t want to forget either. Mark, you should know that I just felt this way again, and I didn’t think that would be possible for a woman my age.”

“Debra, I think I love you.”

She just smiled. “Yes, I know you do, and I love you Mark, but it’s not the love either of us have been waiting for. It’s the love that very close friends have, and you’ll always be a very close friend. The love you will find someday will be more than you have ever dreamed. I found it once, and then lost it, but the experience left a wonderful feeling that stays inside me even today. Yours will happen too, and probably sooner than you think.”

I took her in my arms and kissed her. I began caressing the swell of her hips, and felt her nipples rise against my chest before she gently pushed me away.

“No Mark. Maybe this will happen again, but not today. I want you to remember this as the first time, because your first time should be special, and doing it again would spoil your memory of what we had together. Besides, your mother will know you’ve been up to something. You need to shower before you go home.”

I drove home smiling at the knowledge that Jerry’s stories were all wrong, and also at the knowledge that I would never tell him so.

I really did love her, although now I know she was right, just as she was always right. We spent my Christmas vacation putting together a portfolio of the paintings and drawings I had done. I really wanted to attend UT, and told her so.

“Well, your work is good enough to get you the scholarship, but the other work submitted will be good also, so you might want to apply at some other schools as well.”

“Oh, I already have, but I’m still hoping for UT.”

I got the letter in March and went for the interview. Dr. Morton, the Dean of Fine Arts, looked at my portfolio for a hour before saying anything.

“From the looks of this work, I’d say you know Debra Hastings. Am I right.”

I said he was, and that she had helped me a lot during the last year.

“Well, this work is good enough to qualify you for one of our scholarships, but so are many others. We’ll let you know our decision in about a month.”

I had interviews with three other schools, and got the same answer from each. Debra said not to worry, that they always took a long time to decide, but by the end of April, I had almost given up. The second letter arrived and was from Dr. Morton himself. It said I had been awarded a four-year scholarship and would I please make arrangements to begin classes that fall. I was overjoyed, and so was Barbara when I told her.

“I knew you could do it. That’s why I sent you to see Debra Hastings.”

I went to college that September and Debra moved to Paris to teach. She wrote often to ask how I was doing, and reading and responding to her letters became a quiet interlude in the hectic days of classes and the job I held to earn some spending money. Often I would ask her a question about a new technique I had learned in class, and she would give her comments. Usually they were favorable, but I did have one professor she called a “glorified sign painter”. Apparently she knew him from someplace, and didn’t think much of his talent or of the things he taught. I did what I had to do to pass his class, but soon forgot most of it. It was between semesters of this year that my advisor showed me the letter of recommendation Debra had written to Dr. Morton.

In my junior year, I literally ran into Barbara as I was rushing to a class. I helped her to her feet before recognizing her, and then stood there like a dummy until she said “Hi Mark”.

She had quit her job at my old high school, and had come to UT to work on her Master’s. In view of all she had done for me, and also because I had just been paid for the past week’s work, I asked her to dinner that night. The dinner was great, but I found Barbara to be better. I fell into the habit of calling her most nights, and usually we spent the weekends doing something together. She was a little worried about our age difference, but after two months of forced isolation from each other, “just to see if we still feel the same way”, we were again spending all our spare time together. We got married that summer, and my senior year was the best of the four because I had Barbara with me all the time. It was not until then that I learned Barbara had been one of Debra’s special students, and was also when I told her I knew she had posed for me. After a few minutes of silent blushing, Barbara asked what else I knew about her relationship with Debra. I said I didn’t know anything else, and then nodded knowingly as she told me of a sexual experience that mirrored my own. When I told her we had that side of Debra in common, she laughed and said “Well, she told me she was ambidextrous”. We should have both been jealous, but somehow, we both loved Debra so much that any bad feelings were out of the question.

Barbara was teaching again, this time as UT faculty, and was also selling some work on the side. We heard from Debra once in a while, and in one letter, she talked about a man she had met. We figured she had found love once again. I received a package shortly after my graduation with a letter congratulating me. In the package was the small painting Debra had shown me that day in her studio. The note attached said, “Mark, I don’t need this anymore. I have painted another one, and I think you’ll understand what that means. Please keep this to remember our time together. Congratulations on both your graduation and for finding Barbara. I hope she’s the one you were waiting for, and somehow I think she is. All my love, Debra”

We stayed at UT, and I eventually earned my doctorate, but I didn’t enjoy teaching regular classes. I left that to Barbara, because she enjoyed it, and I painted full time. It took years before my work was recognized, and I owe a lot to Barbara for paying all the bills during that time. Now, I sell a few works each year, and although we’re not rich, we get by nicely.

We didn’t hear from Debra again after the Christmas card five years ago, at least not in her own hand. The letters of commission included a note from Karen telling us that Debra had learned of the project, and had demanded that both Barbara and I be included. Karen didn’t say why the university acted upon the demand, and I suppose that’s just another thing about Debra we’ll never know.

The coffee had again grown cold as I sat reminiscing, and I poured it down the drain. I looked back at the painting I had done from a memory that was as fresh today as it was the day I lived it, and I knew how to fix the problem. It was my old problem of eyes. I didn’t have to think of where to dot the paint to bring those beautiful dark eyes to life. I had lived with them for months, and had seen them in my mind for thirty odd years. I stepped back and saw with satisfaction that Debra stared at me from the stair. It was probably not the real Debra; I don’t think anybody knew who she really was, but it was the Debra I knew. I was so involved in the painting that I jumped when Barbara spoke.

“Do you think she’s still alive?”

“I don’t know. She’d be what now, eighty-three or four? It’s possible, I suppose.”

“Don’t you think it’s strange that everybody in the art world seems to know her, but they don’t know anything about her? I mean, every museum director, every art professor has a Debra story to tell, but none of them know who she really is. They just have this incredible respect and admiration for her.”

“We know who she is. She’s a beautiful woman who shared a great talent with a few lucky people. I think she wanted to stay hidden from the public. She liked doing her own thing, and if she had been well known, she would have had to conform. It was enough that people liked her art, because that’s what she lived for.”

“I wish we could see her again, before....”

As Barbara sniffed and then sobbed, I took her in my arms and stroked her hair.

“I know, but she wouldn’t want that. She wants us to remember her as we knew her. She told me once that I had to look past the surface and find what was beneath, and we need to keep doing that. The surface is birth, life, and death. What’s underneath is what remains afterwards. In her case it’s the paintings that hang in every museum worth the name..., and in us. She’ll never be gone, at least for us. She’s just off somewhere, painting something new, and listening to the whispers that tell her how.”

Thanks for reading this work. Please vote to indicate how much you enjoyed it, and send feedback if you can spare the time. Your votes and feedback are the only way I will know how much you enjoyed my effort, and furnish the only means to improve my writing.

Thanks again, Ronde.