Message-ID: <25711asstr$965704221@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
X-Original-Message-ID: <200008070910.AA661192872@mail.ev1.net>
Mime-Version: 1.0
Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii
From: " Malinov" <malinov@mail.ev1.net>
Reply-To: <malinov@mail.ev1.net>
Subject: {ASSM} Quantum Lust by Lord Malinov
Date: Mon,  7 Aug 2000 23:10:23 -0400
Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail
Approved: <assm@asstr-mirror.org>
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d
X-Archived-At: <URL:http://assm.asstr-mirror.org/Year2000/25711>
X-Moderator-Contact: ASSTR ASSM moderation <story-ckought69@hotmail.com>
X-Story-Submission: <ckought69@hotmail.com>
X-Moderator-ID: newsman, apuleius

Quantum Lust 
by Lord Malinov 

<malinov@mindless.com> 

~~~ 

I don't usually read the campus paper, but my thermodynamics
class was canceled and I had some time to kill, so I bought a cup
of coffee at the Student Union and there was an article on the
front page about the physics program and it mentioned some
friends of mine which led me to a review of the new Duke Xstasy
cd that Sherry had been telling me about and I just kept reading
bits and pieces until I reached the classifieds. 

I would never have even noticed Theresa's ad, except that my
girlfriend Sherry's birthday had started looming on the horizon.
Actually, the day was still more than a month away, but I had
been warned; Sherry was not the kind of girlfriend who would
appreciate being short changed her on her birthday. She'd made a
point of discussing the occasion with me a few days before and
Sherry made it quite clear that she had expectations; dinner at a
good restaurant, some kind of fancy theater event and a present
she wouldn't be ashamed to mention when her parents or her
friends asked her what I gave her. Sherry's what we call a high
maintenance girlfriend. I'm not saying that I begrudged her the
money. She's beautiful, sharp as a tack and really lots of fun. I
feel lucky to have her, and I couldn't realistically expect to
keep laying a girl like that without laying out some cash. I may
be a scientist, but that doesn't mean I'm a dummy when it comes
to the ladies. 

Anyway, unless I planned on dumping Sherry, what I really needed
a good dose of money to cope with this event and this ad caught
my eye; "Art student seeks model, $50/hr (XXX) XXX-XXXX." Fifty
bucks was exactly what I was looking for. Besides, the idea of
selling myself to pay for Sherry's birthday tickled me. In fact,
I'm sure I had a big grin on my face when I took a sip of my
lukewarm coffee and stroked my pride by imagining getting paid a
wad of cash for my rugged good looks. 

Then a self-conscious bit of humility made me decide against even
considering it, realizing that an artist probably wanted some
tall anorexic woman to look disinterested and not some nerdy
looking physics student. 

Then I became downright excited, imagining my mug memorialized in
some classic scene, as a Socrates drinking hemlock or Napoleon
astride a wild stallion, or maybe Mozart composing some song. 

Then I turned the page of the newspaper, deciding the artist was
probably some fey guy who just wanted an excuse to leer at my
genuinely masculine form. 

Then I imagined the sneer that would cross Sherry's face when I
showed up at her apartment with a couple of daisies and a coupon
for a free dinner at Hank's Diner. 

"Hello," a woman answered when I called. 

"I'm calling about the ad, for the model." 

"Oh," she said a little tentatively. "Have you ever modeled
before?" 

"Not really," I said, unprepared to make something up. 

"Well, I have someone already," she said. "It really isn't . . ."
Her voice trailed off. 

"Well," I said, "maybe I could give you my number, and if you . .
." 

"No," she said emphatically, cutting me off. 

"Oh," I said. 

"I mean," she said, "could you sit for me this afternoon?" 

"I have class until one-thirty, but after that I'm free." 

"Two, then, yeah, the light's real good at two." she said and
gave me the address of her studio. 

"Thanks," I said. 

"See you at two," she said. There was a playful sound in this
last statement that haunted me all through class. 

We were reviewing for mid-terms in my partial differential class,
and there wasn't any question that I needed to be there on that
particular day. The math had been systematically trying to escape
my grasp, stretching slowly and surely outside of the realm of
the truths I could readily imagine. My life had been complicated
and between Sherry and paying rent and car trouble, not to
mention the rest of my classes, it was getting hard for me to
really focus on esoteric transformations. Nonetheless, I felt
certain that the mid-term would not take my personal troubles
into account. This was going to be a killer exam. 

The bottom line was that I had questions about what we had
learned, and I needed answers. This review was the last chance I
was going to have to get them answered. 

So I went to class. I sat in the stiff wooden chair and poised my
pencil above my notepad. Soon the professor began explaining
things again. I watched carefully as he traced out mystic streaks
of white chalk, letting them drift methodically across a green
slate board. I copied the wisdom mechanically with dull black
pencil marks over the faint blue lines of my college ruled paper.
I did my damnedest to focus on the changing heat gradients across
a hypothetical bar of iron. 

There was some movie I'd seen, I don't know when, about an
artist, Brigette Bardot, I think, wearing black chino pants that
hugged her hips and a white cotton shirt with one shirt tail
hanging out and a thick streak of paint across the breast pocket
and a long brush in her slender fingers and a wisp of hair
reaching across the sultry look in her eyes. My prematurely bald
math professor integrated temperature over space and all I could
think of was the look of hunger this artist gave as she touched
the camel hair to pigment, tracing form across canvas, trails of
heat with a family of equations and a fan slowly rotating as I
stood exposed before this inspired goddess. 

"And then we add the quotient," was what my professor probably
said. "Hot naked cunt-titty-fuck-cock sex," was what I heard. It
was a losing battle. I felt trapped in a raging sea of madness. 

The hand on my watch crept around the dial. My thoughts shot off
in every direction, distracted by artistic fantasies, ignoring
every word said in that essential review. My heart throbbed with
a pounding pulse, drowning out every carefully articulated rule,
instruction and answer. I could only feel myself becoming part of
the creative process, gazed upon, inspiring the gifts of some
remarkable young artist. In truth, I wanted this woman so badly
that I ached as I sat in the dry air of the classroom. I hadn't
met her, yet I felt certain I would have her, in a swirling sea
of clouds, knowing that all creation had devolved into being at
the studio at two, because that, to me, is what art had become,
integrated over time, divided and resolved. I had never really
thought much about art before, but as I waited, I felt certain of
the solution; Art means sex. Q.E.D. 

And Sherry would have her birthday. Furthermore, she would get
exactly what she wanted from me and that would mean even more
sex. Fuck partial differentials. Pussy rules. 

By the way, I really bombed that test, a badly burned victim of
lust. 

Anyway, what I'm trying to say is that I was really nervous and
excited when I went to Theresa's studio. I had absolutely no idea
what to expect - I'd never actually been to an artist's studio
before - and every time I tried to imagine what it would be like,
I'd hear that tickle in her voice when she said that she'd "see
me," and I'd get excited. When I finally knocked on the white
door, I could barely breathe. 

Theresa isn't Brigette Bardot, but she did look like an artist. I
mean, what's an artist supposed to look like? There was paint on
her. Physically, Theresa's fairly small, kind of elfish, with
straight brown hair and soft brown eyes. She really wore a white
shirt with a big streak of bright blue paint across the top. She
was holding a dirty bit of cloth in her left hand; the cloth
reeked of paint thinner. Her blue jeans hung low on her narrow
hips, almost falling off her, deliciously so, if you know what I
mean. The denim was ragged and faded until they were as white as
they were blue, with torn out knees. She had blotches of a
thousand colors on the back of her thighs. I guessed that she
wiped her brushes on the back of her legs when she painted. 

"Hello," she said sweetly. Her eyes gave me a once over and then
she looked away. A hint of color touched her pale cheeks. "Come
on in." 

I followed Theresa into the studio, which was really just a
cluttered room with a concrete floor and big windows along one
wall. Sunlight streamed bright through the dirty glass. She
tossed the rag in her hand onto a ledge over a dull chrome sink.
Then she knelt down and picked up some colored sticks that were
on the floor, one after another, without saying a word. I could
see the elastic waistband of pink panties where her jeans pulled
away from her back when she leaned over. I don't know why, but
this little glimpse of her underwear made me like her. 

"What do you want me to do?" I finally asked, feeling a bit
awkward standing there watching her. 

"Hmm?" she asked. I don't think she heard me. 

"For fifty bucks an hour, I guess I should do something," I said. 

"Sure," she said. "You've never done this before?" 

"No,' I said. "Does it make a difference?" 

"Not really," she said. A little smile touched her face. "I don't
think it does. Might even help." 

"So what happens?" The whole Brigette Bardot fantasy had melted
away by this time. I thought Theresa was sweet and I was ready to
help her out. 

"You stand over there, and I sit over here," she motioned toward
a tall stool. "I sketch." 

"Really?" I said. "Fifty bucks?" 

"We'll do it for three hours if you're good. I can afford one
fifty." she said, looking intently at the tip of her pencil. 

"Are these your paintings?" I asked, nodding toward some canvases
leaning against the wall, smears of red and pink across a white
canvas. 

"Sure," she said. 

"But if you paint like that, what do you need me for?" 

"I don't know," she said, pushing a thick lock of chestnut brown
hair behind her tiny ear. Her cheeks were again tinged in red.
"Sometimes it helps me to work with a model." 

"Well, it's your dime," I said. "Over here?" I asked, pointing to
a vacant space on the floor. 

"Um, yeah," Theresa said, picking up a spiral bound pad. 

"How should I stand?" I asked, moving to the space. 

"I don't want you to pose." Theresa shook her head. 

"Why not?" I asked, surprised by her sudden change of plans and
then I felt a surge of anger. I had as good as already spent the
hundred and fifty bucks she promised me. 

"I mean, I don't want you to stand still. Just take off your
clothes and let me look at you while I draw." 

"Oh," I said. It was my turn to blush. I hadn't considered that
she might want a nude model. I thought about protesting, but I
needed the fifty bucks and besides, I thought, when did I start
complaining because some pretty girl wants me to take my clothes
off? 

As I unbuttoned my shirt, I tried to count the number of women
who had seen me naked, since I had grown up. I looked over at
Theresa, perched on her stool, staring at me, almost smirking as
the pencil in her hand tickled the paper on her lap. I felt
stronger realizing that she was enjoying this. Our eyes met
briefly, allowing me to feel the flicker of interest in her
pretty brown eyes but as quickly she looked down at the page. I
unbuttoned my trousers and then quickly pushed my pants and
briefs down to my ankles. Better to just get it over with, I
decided. Ta-Da. 

So I'm standing in this room, completely naked. It was fairly
warm in the sunlit room, but I still shivered slightly at first.
The place was junky, with barely any room for the kind of
romantic fantasies I had been nursing. There was a stack of cans
coated in drips of tan house paint to my left, seven or eight
long thin boards leaning against the wall to my right, grey
cinder blocks piled on top of each other, several mason jars
filled with a deeply black liquid, a bunch of crushed silver and
red beer cans next to an leaning stack of yellowed newspapers. In
the only empty space in the room sat a mousy looking girl on a
tall white bar stool, a mere eight feet away, gawking at my naked
body while she doodled on a pad of paper. 

I scratched myself slightly and felt unbearably self-conscious. I
coughed, but she didn't seem to notice. Her deep brown eyes
seemed to be fixated on my dick, which had shriveled nervously.
She scribbled relentlessly while she stared. 

"Is there some special way you want me to stand?" I asked, just
hoping to break the tension by talking to her. 

"No," she said, "just relax." 

"Easy for you to say," I said. "I'm a little uncomfortable." 

"More than a little," she said with a laugh. "It's all right, I'm
like a doctor." 

"Really?" I said, taken off guard. 

"No," she replied. "Would you be more comfortable if I took off
my clothes?" 

"Sure," I said with a grin that was probably a little too eager.
She continued to draw. 

"Why are you modeling?" she asked. Her pencil scribbled quickly. 

"I need the money," I said. Now I couldn't help imagining what
this girl would look like naked. Fortunately, thinking this way
helped my cock appreciate the possibilities of the situation and
as my dick grew to more manly proportions, I felt a little less
self-conscious. Her tits were small, but what I really wanted to
see was her ass. The rest of her was a bit scrawny, but I liked
the curve of her butt. This was starting to get fun. I leaned
back against the wall, giving her a good view of my growing
erection. I tried to tempt her into getting naked with a lusty
stare. 

"I figured you wanted the money," she said. "What for?" 

"Girlfriend's birthday," I said without thinking. 

"Figures," Theresa said, sounding disappointed by my answer. My
erection began to wilt. 

"But I really do like art," I said, hoping to head things in a
better direction. 

"Me, too," she replied, turning the page in her notebook. Pausing
for a moment, Theresa tilted her head to one side, staring
crudely at my body. I turned coyly, again uncomfortable with the
feeling of being judged. She smiled, amused by my vulnerability. 

"What do you look for?" I asked. Theresa blushed. "In a model, I
mean." 

"You're a good looking guy," she said with a shrug. "I want
someone who makes me feel something. You kind of excite me, which
is excellent, in a model, I mean." 

I appreciated the idea of her excitement and it showed instantly.
"Is that what you look for?" 

"Sure," she said, scribbling away. "A naked guy is way better
than a pot of flowers." 

"I suppose so," I said, my hard-on starting to really rage. 

"I mean, when a dick stands up that way, my focus is intense.
It's not always true, but you have a good dick and I can't help
paying attention to it. I could already close my eyes and trace
every vein in that thing. I can focus on the lines and curves of
your dick and I'm not thinking about anything else. It's just me
and the dick." Theresa scribbled furiously as she spoke. 

"That gets you off," I said, fairly breathless. 

"It's a good exercise. I could spend a thousand dollars on art
lessons and never focus this hard." 

"That's hot," I managed to say. I touched my prick without
thinking, stroking myself a bit. 

"Glad you think so," Theresa replied, tearing back another page
and scribbling like crazy. She stared with sincere interest as I
continued to rub my prick. "Are you an athlete?" she suddenly
asked. 

"Not really," I said. 

"I didn't think so," she said, a little too amused. 

"Physicist," I said, trying to impress her with my mental
muscles. 

"Really?" she asked. 

"Quantum physics." 

"Cool," she said, looking up at me and adjusting herself to a new
position on the stool. Her legs were now spread slightly so that
I could see the curve of denim along her inner thigh, and it
seemed a darker shade of blue. "What is quantum physics?" she
asked, her pencil moving slowly and methodically over the page
she held. 

"Actually I want to do particle physics. We study to tiniest bits
of matter." 

"I like big things," she said. 

"I'll bet," I replied, catching the insinuation and rubbing my
cock back to attention while she watched intently. "But I get
into the deepest recesses of knowledge, figuring out things about
the grain of existence, the stuff of life." 

"Cool," she said. "So you stare into a microscope?" 

"This stuff's too small for that. You can't see subatomic
particles. The best we can do is push them around and measure the
affect they have on bigger things." 

"Oh," Theresa said, staring at me but not meeting my gaze. 

"Like we can take an accelerator and smash particles together in
a bubble chamber. The particles break into a thousand pieces and
when those pieces spin away from the collision, they leave a
trail of bubbles in the bubble chamber. By looking at the
bubbles, we can figure out things about the particle." 

"Cool," she said. "Do they have color?" 

"No, not really. But they make pretty designs, like the curve of
a woman's bottom, sometimes. I think about that anyway, probably
when I've been spending too much time in the lab." 

"That's like what I do." 

"Really? In what way?" 

"You can't see emotions directly. But you can see the affect they
have." 

"That is kinda the same," I said. My cock started rising on its
own, without me touching it. Theresa was really starting to turn
me on. 

"Except my stuff works both ways." She shrugged a cute shrug. " I
don't know how to explain. It's sort of complex." 

"I guess so," I said. I suddenly had a vision of Theresa taking
off her clothes and bending over to wiggle her bare ass a bit. My
whole body throbbed. 

"The heat in your eyes is just wicked," she said softly, as
though to herself. "I'm thinking if I could capture the way this
makes me feel, I could . . . Damn, if I could only . . ." She
stopped, licked her lips and breathed heavily. I could tell that
she was trying to decide something. I felt faint, imagining what
she might be thinking. 

"Yeah," I said weakly, touching myself again, believing all at
once that she wanted me to come closer. 

"Wait," she said, putting down the pad of paper. I didn't know
what I was waiting for. My cock throbbed. Theresa started
unbuttoning her white shirt. I held my breath, eyes open wide.
"Just wait," she said, finally peeling back the thin layer of
cotton. Theresa has small tits, but her dark nipples stood up
tall. "There," she said, picking up her pad again. I looked at
her, confused. "Let me see your eyes," she growled. I stared
hard, wanting this woman with all my soul. 

Her breasts peeked between her arms, bulbs of soft cream, tipped
in hard nuggets of a thick reddish brown. Her pencil raged over
the paper, scribbling with a mad intensity that almost competed
with the pulse of my heart, lines over lines, nearly ripping the
paper, capturing and expressing with a wild brilliance. Page
after page turned by. Her naked stomach fell into a series of
waves, ripples of flesh down to her low-slung denim waistband. I
shuddered with desire, wanting desperately to take a few steps,
but stayed, held fixed by her intense activity. I couldn't bring
myself to interrupt her, but madly lusted after her, waiting for
her to stop drawing and come relieve my hunger for her touch. The
drawing seemed endless, my craving brutal. Each time she looked
into my eyes, I wanted to scream. Then a stroke and another
stroke and another infernally tempting glance. I felt as though I
couldn't bear another minute, waiting. 

"There," she said all at once and put down the pad with a sigh.
My lust went wild, enraging me, urging me to leap across the room
and throw myself the topless girl sitting so close. Theresa
smiled in a friendly way and then started to button her top. 

"But," I said, barely regaining my composure as the realization
that we weren't going to fuck sent cold streams of disappointment
flooding over me. 

"Come back tomorrow," she said, "at two. I'll see what I can do
with these sketches tonight, and then we'll know what we need to
do tomorrow." She sounded joyful, happy with what she was doing.
I shuddered in disbelief and anger. Theresa handed me my
trousers. "Get dressed and come back tomorrow." 

"I have a test," I managed to say as I pulled on my pants. "I
can't come at two." 

"Oh," she said, turning to hand me two twenties and a ten.
"That's all right. I probably have all I need, you know, enough
data to yield results." 

"I want to come back," I protested. 

"Well, we'll work something out." 

"Tonight?" I said, desperately. "Or after my test, at four?" 

"I'll call you," she said, showing me to the door. "You're
beautiful." 

Theresa didn't call me, which wasn't a surprise since she didn't
have my phone number. I thought about calling her, but it just
seemed so cheap, calling to ask if she would pay another fifty
bucks to see my dick. 

A few weeks later, I dropped by an art show. In one room I found
this big painting, pinks and reds on a field of white. "The Stuff
of Lust,"was the title. Sherry loved it. 

~~~ 
Quantum Lust 
by Lord Malinov 

<malinov@mindless.com> 


--
Power belongs to those who dare . . . Sapere Aude
<http://users.ev1.net/~dccain/malinov/>
--

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+
| alt.sex.stories.moderated ----- send stories to: <ckought69@hotmail.com> |
| FAQ: <http://assm.asstr-mirror.org/faq.html>  Moderator: <story-ckought69@hotmail.com> |
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+
|Archive: <http://assm.asstr-mirror.org> Hosted by Alt.Sex.Stories Text Repository |
|<http://www.asstr-mirror.org>, an entity supported entirely by donations.         |
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+