This is an old story I wrote under a different name but I think you’ll like it. It just fits the mood I am in right now.
“Thank you very much for helping me move these boxes,” I said to my new neighbor, Susan.
“You’re welcome, Tsukki,” she said, butchering the pronunciation of my name while simultaneously clearly not meaning it. “Phil wasn’t doing anything today, anyway.”
I smiled. Phil wasn’t as uneager as she tried to make him sound. The blond man had been watching me from his window when I first drove up, and I could see the anxiety on his face when I started to unpack. He couldn’t wait to help the beautiful Asian woman who had moved in next door.
“Your husband is very strong,” I commented.
“What is in all these boxes?” Phil asked. His eyes fell to the opening in my shirt and the pale swell of my breasts. My short stature often allowed men to see down my blouse. It wasn’t accidental.
“They hold my paintings,” I said.
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Susan and Phil looked around with a start.
“How many do you have?” Susan asked.
“More than I should,” I admitted. I touched Phil on the arm, and if I hadn’t had him before, I knew by the flush on his face that I did now. “Thank you for your strength this day.”
Susan, perturbed, took her husband’s arm. “What kind of paintings do you do?”
“Completely inappropriate!” my husband snapped.
He dropped my painting to the floor, and I winced as the corner bent. I resisted the urge to pick it up. Instead, I just stood there with my head bowed respectfully.
“Sex! That is all you paint!” my husband ranted. “My position demands a wife who engages in more acceptable pursuits. You are over 50, my wife! Your mind should not be polluted with such base things. Why can’t you draw mountains and streams like the governor’s wife?”
“Because sex is more beautiful,” I replied.
My husband snarled and commanded me to not paint any more lewd pictures.
The next morning, I went outside to sweep my sidewalk. Across the street, several teenagers stood waiting for the school bus. I knew they were staring at me, and why shouldn’t they have? I was new in their neighborhood, but beyond that, they found me exotic because I am Japanese. They see my face as inscrutable. To them, I could have been anywhere from 18 to 30 years old.
My long black hair was loose, blowing in the morning wind. I was wearing the lightest of kimonos, a pink robe with yellow dragons. My hips swayed back and forth as I swept and I could feel my kimono opening around my chest as I worked. I had neglected to wear a bra, something the boys across the street were sure to notice.
I bent down to pick up something that didn’t exist, sneaking a glance at them. All of them were looking at me. At school, they would talk about me. At home, they would fantasize about me.
They too were now mine.
“Tsukki, I warned you not to paint any more of this filth,” my husband said.
“You did,” I said respectfully. He had discovered that I was not going to the garden shrine every morning to meditate. I found that the mornings were best time to paint for I carried the glow with me all day long.
“You have disobeyed me for the last time,” he warned. “Tomorrow, they all burn, and if I catch you painting again, I will ask the governor to send you to the nuns to clean up your wicked ways.”
“Of course,” I answered, with as much venom as I could summon while still being respectful.
“You’re new here,” the older man said. Americans love to state the obvious. A walk around the block had produced quite a few stares but no introductions till now. This man was getting his mail and happened to be by the street.
“Yes, my name is Tsukki,” I said as I offered my hand, fingers down.
His face lit up. It must have been years since a woman offered him her hand like a lady, as he remembered from his youth. He took my hand gently and gave it a slight squeeze. I liked how delicately he treated me.
“My name is Ned,” he said. “I visited Korea when I was younger. The people were very nice.”
“I find the people here to be nice, too,” I said. “I haven’t meet many of my neighbors yet, but those that I have met have been pleasant. I think my questions about where the grocery store is and where I can find good paints tend to exhaust their patience, though.”
He frowned briefly. “Well, if you need someone to show you around town, you can always ask me. I’m usually home all day. You said that you paint? What do you paint? My son paints houses, but I imagine you do something nicer.”
“I paint my desires,” I told him. The shy smile that came to his lips warmed my heart.
He was mine now.
I gathered my paintings together for one last look before my husband burned them. The variety amazed even me. Where had such carnal images come from? Why did they never cease to excite me? I had paintings of couples, groups and even people alone, pleasing themselves. They were all beautiful, and I hated that they must all perish.
“They are beautiful,” a voice said.
I turned to see a strange man. He was tall, almost as tall as the strange barbarians we had heard so much about. His hair was black, but his beard was yellow, although sometimes when he turned his head, it appeared red. An expensive robe adorned him, and on it were patterns of tigers and dragons. My cheeks burned when I realized that the tigers and dragons were mating.
“You have much talent, Tsukki,” he said. “With much practice, you will be the greatest artist of all time.”
“Thank you,” I said. “But by the command of my husband, I can paint no longer, and I am too old to wait for his death.”
The strange man chuckled. “You are old, but that can be fixed. What if I said I could give you the chance to live long enough to paint to your heart’s content? What if I could free you from your husband and the chains of any man?”
“I would say that you must be either a god or an oni,” I replied.
“I am both. I will give you these gifts for a price. Every ten years, I will take your six best paintings. They will hang in my Crystal Palace until the end of all time. Is this offer fair?”
“What is the trick?” I asked.
“No tricks,” he said. “Just consider me the best patron an artist could ever have.”
I agreed. He approached me and took my wrinkled face in his hands and kissed me. It was strange. I felt two tongues enter my mouth.
“If you wish to save your paintings in the morning, sleep with your husband tonight.”
At the grocery store, I couldn’t find any of the foods I craved. That was no surprise. I didn’t plan to stay in town long, maybe a year or three, so I knew I could make do. I would have to dig out my old recipes and make most of my food myself. It would take time away from my painting, but I would live, and there would always be more time for my art.
I asked the bagger to carry my food to my car, and he readily agreed. He was too shy to speak, but I could feel his eyes on my bottom as I walked in front of him. I was wearing jeans; my first husband would have fainted at if they had been invented in his time. They clung to me in such a way that nothing was left to the imagination.
“Thank you very much,” I said when he dropped my bags into the car. His name tag said he was called Sean.
“No problem,” he said quietly and rushed off. When I pulled out of the parking lot, I caught him spying at me from store entrance. There was wistfulness in his eyes that I knew well.
There was no doubt that he was mine.
For my husband, I painted my face white. I wore my prettiest shoes and my most expensive hairpins. He was surprised when I came to his chambers, but his arrogant smile told me he thought this was a bribe to stop tomorrow’s burning. That didn’t stop him taking me to his bed.
He made love, and I had sex. There was a passionate quality in our joining that hadn’t been there before. My thighs clenched around him and his mouth never ceased to adore me. I could feel the magic tingling against our bodies, but he was too busy thrusting to notice. When he spilled his seed, his moan was like that of a tortured soul.
The next morning, I was younger. It was only by a year, but a woman notices these things. One less wrinkle here, a few pounds missing here and darkening of my white hair told me that the stranger had not lied. I would have years aplenty.
That morning, my husband neglected to burn my paintings. He hinted that he could be distracted from his threat by another night like the previous one. Because he was a man who thought with his groin and not with his eyes, he hadn’t noticed that his wrinkles had deepened and that his hair was thinner.
Of course, I came to his bed again that night.
At the paint store, a man approached me and offered to paint me. I was amused by the novelty of posing. I accepted his offer and sat for him at his house later that evening. His name was Charles, and he wanted me to remove my shirt. It was easy to oblige.
For an hour, he painted my round breasts with their soft pink nipples. His technique was horrible, but the experience was unique. I resolved to do a better painting of my breasts later to counter the insult of his art.
Charles tried to seduce me that night but I politely declined. There was no need to take him then.
He was mine.
Ten years after the death of my husband, my patron came to visit me.
“You are looking lovely,” he said. That day, he wore a robe of mating monks and foxes
It was true. After the death of my husband and the death of two lovers, I was as young and as beautiful as when I first married. No matter how many years I took, I couldn’t get any younger than I’d been when I first had sex. It was fortunate limit, all things considered.
“Thank you. I owe it all to you.”
“Yes, you do,” he said. “I have selected my six favorites. Your talent has improved already.”
“I have one question please,” I said. “My husband left me a generous amount of money, but it won’t last forever. Marrying a new husband will be more difficult as I get older, and I don’t know how I will raise more money. I considered selling some of my paintings, but I didn’t want to sell one that you might want.”
“Tsukki, sell your paintings as you wish.” He laughed. “If one of those is my favorite, then I will handle acquiring it from whom ever you sold it to.”
Ten years later, one of my costumers was saddened to discover that his painting had been stolen. He paid me the same sum to paint him another, but it wasn’t as beautiful as the original. Perhaps that was a good thing, for if it had been as beautiful, he might not have kept the second one, either.
I used my front yard to sunbathe, because if I’d used the back, no one would have seen me. My black bikini was stark against my eternally white skin. Along with eternal youth, I appeared to have gained the ability to heal from any injury, even sunlight. Although I couldn’t tan, I enjoyed the warmth of the sun and used the time to plan my next painting.
“Excuse me,” my other next-door neighbor said from his lawn. “You’re new here, right? My name’s Kenneth.”
I smiled at him. His wife had assured me yesterday that her husband never did yard work, but there he was, cutting his hedges. I rolled over onto my side to give him a better view.
“Enjoying the sun?” he said inanely.
American, British or Japanese, all men said the same stupid things as a pretense to watch me. We talked for a few more minutes till his wife called for him from the house. She gave me a disapproving glare as he came in. He didn’t come back out that day.
He was mine, and I think even she knew it.
The Coven of Six stood in front of me while I remained kneeling. I was nude and covered with welts from their whips. All six of the women circled me and touched the whip marks with their fingers till they were satisfied.
“You are already favored by the Thigh-Crusher, what more do you want?” the black witch said.
“Ladies, the times move on, and civilization grows more advanced,” I petitioned. “I have taken husbands and lovers, but people are beginning to notice their deaths. I tire of seduction. I tire of breaking romances. I want to regain my youth in a way that frees me for more time to paint.”
The redhead witch kneeled in front of me and said, “We can teach you how, but there will be a price.”
“Isn’t there always?” I asked.
Six times, I pleasured each of the witches, and not a year did I gain from any of them. But they kept their word. They taught me what I needed to know. When I had finished pleasing them, my jaw aching from licking, they taught me the spell that I have used to this day.
My backyard was finished. With chalk and sweat, I had drawn the lines through the grass. On the fence surrounding the yard hung certain charms. I stripped off my clothes and climbed into the special swing I had hung from a tree. My legs spread lewdly and my shoulders supported by the various ropes, I waited comfortably for the moon to reach its peak.
In their homes and on their beds, my men began to stir. Every man who lusted for me, every man who’d masturbated while thinking of me and every man who’d thought of me as he laid with his wife was affected. The magic kept their wives asleep and silenced questioning dogs. From all across town they came. Their eyes were half-open, but their minds were asleep. They thought that it was a dream and that they dreamed of me.
Kenneth entered my yard first. He stepped out of his underwear and stood between my open legs. His manhood was hard, and my flower was wet and waiting for him. Kenneth entered me under the full moon, and I moaned at my first taste of sex in too many years.
Phil came over the fence. He would have waited for Kenneth to finish, but I was too impatient. I leaned back in my flexible swing, and Phil walked over to my whispering mouth. From his silk pajamas, his manhood poked out, proud and pulsing. I took him between my lips and sucked hard.
At both ends I took them. Kenneth’s hands squeezed my thighs, while Phil held my hair in his hands. The wind caressed our bodies as the three of us merged. I trembled as Kenneth’s thick manhood stretched my tiny flower, and I moaned as Phil’s member filled my mouth.
It didn’t take long for Phil to release his seed and a year of his life into my mouth. Kenneth gave his contribution to my eternity soon after. His seed sprayed inside me, granting me an orgasm and another year to paint with a single burst.
They stumbled away, returning to their homes with only erotic dreams to comfort them. Behind them, others had come. There were the boys who had waited by the bus. Coming through the gate was the old man, Ned. I could hear cars pulling up and knew that Charles, Sean and others were coming, too.
I welcomed the young teens between my thighs. Each lasted for only a few thrusts, and each fondled my breasts with a passionate fury that made me laugh with delight. Each gave me a year of his precious youth, and I gave each of them an erotic experience they would try for the rest of their lives to re-create.
Charles was next between my thighs, and I was pleasantly surprised by how good he was. His hips moved like the waves, and his hands were gentle in comparison to the rough treatment the teens had give me. The tree creaked as it held my swing against Charles’s powerful thrusts. He brought me to climax twice before he allowed himself to spill inside me. He was a better lover than he was an artist.
Countless men moved between my thighs or into my mouth. I was surprised I had affected this many. There were men I didn’t even recognize, people who must have seen me on the street or in a store and carried my image home with them.
When my throat could swallow no more, I began to take them into my hand. My small fingers could barely wrap around their large members, but they came nonetheless. Their seed arced in the air and landed on my pale body to be absorbed by the magic that stole their years.
The moon rose higher as the men gave me their offerings. My flower became slick with their seed, and my thighs were numb from their constant thrusting. I took them all, young and old, married and single. Tonight was the culmination of weeks of fantasy, and I felt it was my duty to pleasure them all for the life they were giving me.
Sean tried to enter my bottom, and I consented. The swing was easy to lift, and he happily penetrated my small opening. It felt good to be speared like that, and I moaned to my heart’s content under the moon. Up and down he dropped my suspended body until his manhood plugged my anus with his seed.
When Ned’s turn came, I decided to take him in my mouth. Over the years I had come to know when a man’s climax would be his last, and I felt that his should be special. His manhood reeked of his age, but I swallowed it with the respect his age deserved. His wrinkled balls slapped my chin as I bounced over his member, and though it took awhile, I finally sucked the seed from his root.
Over time, all of the men eventually left. I fell from the swing exhausted but invigorated. The men returned to their homes as I crawled inside my house. In the morning, I would shower, but for now, all I wanted was to sleep in my own bed with the seed of 100 men coursing through my body.
The next afternoon, someone discovered Ned’s body. I saw the ambulance drive by while I was painting. My fingers were sore from clutching so many manhoods, but I had to do this one painting before it faded from my memory. It depicted Ned’s face at the point when his member climaxed in my lips, and I wanted to capture the mixture of death, satisfaction and joy that had appeared on his tired eyes.