Message-ID: <19911eli$9902140445@qz.little-neck.ny.us> X-Archived-At: From: "Adhara Law" Subject: {Adhara} "The Death & Life of Edward Grable" {MF, MFF} Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d Mime-Version: 1.0 Content-type: text/plain Path: qz!not-for-mail Organization: The Committee To Thwart Spam Approved: X-Moderator-Contact: Eli the Bearded X-Story-Submission: X-Original-Message-ID: <19990213170930.18176.qmail@hotmail.com> As always, I hope you enjoy the story. This particular story of mine involves less descriptions of sex than my previous story (and I know that people often complain that they also have precious little ;) ) -- the story is primarily _about_ sex rather than involving sex. If you're looking for a stroke story, this will probably not be your cup of tea. However, I'm posting it to the group because I know there are a few readers who look for my stories. Thanks, Adhara Law THE LIFE AND DEATH OF EDWARD GRABLE by Adhara Law Copyright 1999 Adhara Law. All rights reserved. May not be reproduced or distributed, with the exception of USENET archiving, without express written permission by the author. Edward Grable was among the greatest lovers who had ever lived. Were sex an art form, galleries would have devoted entire wings to the master and his work during his lifetime, studies in the evolution of his genius. The aura of artistry surrounded him, and people who coveted his secret hovered around him continuously, hoping to siphon some of that genius off of him. But none of that mattered now, because Edward Grable was dead. To understand the sexual artistry of Edward Grable's life is to understand his fitting and timely death, and this begins in his youth. His first lover was a woman almost twice his age. She lived next door to him in a split-level house, the kind that dotted every suburb in the fifties. Her husband paid Eddie -- he was called Eddie back then -- to take care of the yard, to trim the shrubs and mow the lawn and generally keep the estate ahead of the rest of the neighborhood in that unspoken-of contest for suburban domination. Eddie had just finished mowing the lawn and was about to start trimming the shrubs when Mrs. Carlson appeared in the door, her capri pants and tight pink sweater leaving no curve to the imagination. She leaned seductively against the doorjamb and called Eddie's name. "How about a glass of lemonade? You must be parched," she cooed. Eddie thought that sounded nice. He followed her into her kitchen, admiring the décor on the way -- he had never been this deep into the Carlson's home before -- and graciously accepted the cool glass, the condensation dripping over his fingers in tiny rivers. Mrs. Carlson watched him with heavy-lidded eyes as he drank it down and his Adam's apple bobbed mechanically in his throat. At his last gulp, she reached for the glass and set it with fluid grace on the counter, then settled a perfectly polished and manicured red nail on his shoulder. She traced the outline of his oxford button placket down the front of his chest. "Eddie," she whispered, "would you like to see the bedroom?" Eddie gulped. She led him gently by the hand to the master bedroom, her swaying hips enticing the young Edward Grable forward the way a snake charmer seduces the cobra out of its basket. In the bedroom, she turned to him and pulled him closer. "Mr. Carlson is away on business," she whispered in his ear as she began unbuttoning Eddie's shirt. She noticed his nervousness in the uneven rise and fall of his chest and said, "Don't be nervous, honey. This is perfectly natural." So Eddie stopped being nervous. They eased onto the bed, Mrs. Carlson guiding Eddie's hands to her nipples, Eddie nuzzling the warmth between her neck and shoulder. There was something innate that told him what to do even though he'd had no such experience before. His hands knew just what to touch, his lips knew just what to kiss. Amidst the sighs and moans of Mrs. Carlson, Eddie worked the magic he didn't know he had. It is said that prodigies are infused with an old spirit that guides them through their art, giving them knowledge that would take them years to learn in school. It is said that Mozart began composing at the age of five. If Eddie could be said to be a prodigy, then this was his composition. Mrs. Carlson's surprise was clear; she had obviously expected a neophyte, and rightly so. Watching Eddie through the years next door, she had seen him buffeted by the turbulence of puberty, watched him grow up from a shy, awkward, and gawky teenager into a shy, awkward, and gawky young man. He was tall, skinny, and his ears were a little too large for his head, and made all the more prominent by the blond buzz cut that was so fashionable in the fifties. She could not recall ever seeing a young woman on his arm. She watched the blond bristles as they moved ever so slightly up and down between her legs. "Oh, Eddie," she moaned. "You're absolutely incredible!" And with her back arched and her head thrashing from side to side, she came for the first time in years without the aid of her hand. And so it began. Composition No. 1: Mrs. Carlson. Geniuses shine with a different light than ordinary people. They contain a magnetism that one feels at the core, though often their outward appearance contradicts it. The diamond of Edward Grable's genius had been polished through the guidance of Mrs. Carlson, and now it glittered for all the world to see, despite its gawky and awkward exterior. Though Eddie visited Mrs. Carlson as often as time and Mr. Carlson's busy travel schedule allowed, he was suddenly beginning to notice just how many _women_ there were out there. Women he had never met began striking up conversations with him on the street. Waiting for the bus downtown, he would be surprised to find himself in the middle of a pheremonally-induced circle of femininity, soft hands accidentally brushing against his thigh accompanied by the sounds of, "Oh my, excuse me...." He would find himself making apologetic faces to the men who were left standing alone at the other end of the bus stop, scowling at him. He would later learn never to apologize for his gift. His next composition was a young woman by the name of Marilyn Cullers. Only a year older than he, she'd found a way to sit next to him on the bus downtown every day for the past week. Eddie was oblivious to the wordless catfight that ensued every afternoon between the five or so women who rode the same route home that he did. Marilyn had schemed to be the first on the bus when it came to her stop so that she'd have first choice among available seats. Now as she sat down next to Eddie and smoothed her skirt, she shot a smug smile back at the women who gave her dirty looks as they passed by. "Hi, I'm Marilyn." She demurely offered her hand to Eddie, who was staring out the window. "Oh," he said, taking her hand awkwardly. "I'm Eddie Grable." "Eddie..." She said the name as if it was a holy password into some unknown vault of treasures. She would find out that it was. "Would you like to come home with me?" Her wild whisper sounded almost like a plea for help. Eddie went home with her. She nearly tore her own clothes off as she dragged him to the bedroom, pulling at him wildly as she fell onto the bed. Eddie's artistry took over and soon he was creating art on the canvas that was Marilyn. His fingers and body moved over her as he watched her face carefully, controlling the moment so as to elicit just the right facial expressions, the right twist of the head and the right parting of the lips. As she moaned, writhed, contorted under him, he waited for the perfect moment, and then released the power of his genius. Her face was a study in angelic, epiphanal beauty. Composition No. 2: Marilyn Cullers. At a time when most men of his generation were looking for a woman to marry and settle down with, Edward Grable never even flirted with monogamy. There were a few women who complained, but for the most part his lovers were willing to compromise fidelity for the most incredible sexual experience they'd ever had or would have. And it gave Edward more canvases to work with. The fifties gave way to the sexually liberated sixties. Though Edward never gravitated toward the hippie lifestyle, his sex life certainly espoused the free love sentiment that surrounded him. Still somewhat shy and socially inept, he didn't have to worry himself with the awkward task of meeting women; they flocked to him. And it was around this period that he learned the technique of slowing time. He was in the bedroom of his small apartment with a tall, sleek redhead, her form stretched languidly beneath him. As his body slowly brought forth the art that was in her, he studied her carefully. Her eyes were shut, her mouth open in what was about to be a cry out. He realized that the moment was slowed so that he could work the canvas until it was perfect. It was as if he could get inside the moment, crawl around in this little bubble of time and stretch it, compress it, tinker with it until it was absolutely right. He took advantage of it. He moved his fingers and his body, watching her expression change. There -- her mouth was set so perfectly, almost but not quite an O. Now the eyes -- he moved and played until they were open ever so slightly, just the way he liked it. She was ready. He let time expand back into regularity and watched as his work of art blossomed like a flower beneath him; he admired the delicate arch of her back as she came, the sound of her cries resounding against the walls of the small room. When the moment had passed, she smiled lazily up at Edward. Edward Grable developed a photographic memory out of necessity. Where most artists had a gallery in which to display their work, Edward had only his memory and a sole audience of one -- himself. Even his lovers, his compositions, could not see the genius in their own faces, being wrapped up in the moment as they were. Awkwardness and social ineptitude eventually left Edward Grable as he matured through the sixties and into the seventies. In the early part of the decade, he moved to the west coast in a fit of artistic ennui. Word of his arrival had somehow spread prior to his coming, and women of the rich and famous elite were already banging down his door before he'd unpacked the boxes. He realized he had a new challenge: take the faces and the bodies that had been seen all over the world and transform them in his own vision. He was immediately invited to all the important social gatherings; he was often the only one who was introduced without a title. A simple, "This is Edward Grable" often made the new acquaintance's eyes open wide with recognition. If he was a man, he shook Edward's hand graciously and for the next hour, tried desperately to pry Edward's secrets from him. If she was a woman, she used every ounce of her charm to get into his bed before the night was over. "Please," she would often say. "Let me be your next composition, your new canvas. I won't disappoint you." Sometimes Edward took them up on the offer; sometimes he didn’t. He was getting discriminatory as his art flourished, choosing only those faces that, like a slab of unchiseled marble, told him what new creation lay hidden inside. And he no longer limited himself to a single woman. In the late seventies Edward embarked on what was to become known as his pivotal work -- Menage No. 1. A group of three women. By now, people begged Edward to let them see a creation in the making. He only had to say the word and tickets would be sold at exorbitant prices, auditoriums would be filled to capacity. The outpouring of admiration nearly brought tears to his eyes. So he agreed to showcase this most astounding, most daring work yet. He arranged the women on a soft landscape of velvet and satin pillows, making sure that the lighting was right for each one of them. The players were stunning -- a young African-American woman with skin the color of flawless mahogany, a strong Nordic blond with the bluest eyes he'd ever seen, and a delicate Asian woman whose features were exotic and enticing. The spectators were gathered at a discreet distance, none of them wanting to become known as the one who disturbed the master at his greatest moment. A pregnant, shrieking silence filled the room. He began with the Asian woman. They watched as he moved over her, his once awkward and stringy body moving with a fluid ease that was borne of his inherent talent. She writhed and moaned and he hands clutched at him wildly. While one hand worked between her legs, the other hand moved on to the African-American woman. She arched her hips toward him as a cool smile played along her lips. And as he worked the canvases of these two women, he lowered his lips to the blond. The pillows were a sea of writhing limbs and colors, Edward's blond head and long arms moving in an orchestrated dance the way a conductor controls his music. There was not a single part of his body, a single appendage or muscle, that was not somehow making these women sigh and moan and weep in almost religious ecstasy. Even the crowd, in a strange kind of sexual osmosis, writhed in tiny movements as they watched Edward bring the symphony to a close. The moment was right. In that bubble of expanded time that only included Edward and his creations, he watched each woman carefully to determine the right moment in which to bring her to climax. He decided to go with the blond first, then the Asian woman, and then the African-American woman in a dazzling sexual spectrum. While he moved gently in and out of the delicate Asian beauty, his lips and tongue danced between the legs of the blond. Edward's art had become so refined that he didn't need to see the blond to know when the timing was right to release her; he felt it in the core of his being. As her back arched and her eyes closed, he watched her quiver and clutch the pillows by her head in orgasmic ecstasy. In an instant his attention was focused on the Asian woman, her dark hair scattered over the pillow under her head like a halo in shadow. She came seconds after the blond, her tiny mouth open in a small O. Finally, he moved to the African-American woman, who he had been saving for last, keeping her on the edge with his free hand. He moved down between her legs and watched as she threw her head back with wild shrieks. The room exploded in raucous applause, shouts of "Bravo!" filling Edward's ears. It capped off the closing of the decade nicely. Through the early eighties, Edward was often asked to repeat the performance, but he felt that every woman was an individual creation under his body, and any work of art that she was involved in was an extremely limited edition. Like all artists, Edward went through phases. As he got older -- Edward was now in his fifties -- he experimented with age, trying to turn back the clock in that one bubble of time and make an older woman seem twenty years younger. He created some lovely pieces then. Then there was the series of compositions in which he wanted to see years of sudden wisdom appear in the face of younger women. There were some unique compositions there, too. But as the years wore on, Edward Grable grew tired of his art. In his seventies, he had begun to feel that he'd exhausted all the creative possibilities that sex and women afforded him. He had seen every nuance of the female orgasm, had seen every conceivable contortion of the lips, the eyes, and the face. There was simply nothing left. He had gone to a bar near his small studio apartment in L.A. to try and forget what the passage of years had done to him. As he ordered a gin and tonic and fixed his gaze on the old television above the bar, he heard the most beautiful voice reverberate next to him as its owner ordered a drink. She was stunning. She looked to be in her late twenties. Her hair was gold without somehow being blond, and her face held all the images that Edward had mentally collected over the years, all of his most striking compositions. This was a woman who would awaken his muse, he thought. "You're Edward Grable, aren't you?" She asked politely. He could tell that she knew exactly who he was, but was demure enough not to fawn. He told her that indeed he was. "I've heard so many wonderful things about you." She extended her hand firmly. They talked over drinks, and once again Edward could almost feel that bubble in time, and he tried expanding it and transforming it, not wanting the moment to end for a while. But it did end, and they sat across from each other and stared. "I think we should go back to your apartment," she said quietly. It was not a question, or even a statement inflected as a question. It was almost an order. Edward did not refuse it. His seventy-odd year old bones felt almost twenty again, almost as young as when he had first walked into Mrs. Carlson's house that day and drank her lemonade and saw her bedroom and made her come. He watched this woman's hips lead him forward the same way that Mrs. Carlson's hips led him forward as they climbed the stairs to his apartment. And he almost felt the same nervousness that he felt with Mrs. Carlson as the young woman removed her clothes in a seductive striptease that elicited a croaking moan from him. They eased to the bed. Edward instinctively covered the young woman's body with his, but she put a hand firmly on his chest. "Let me," she demanded. He gently lay back on the bed and let her. She moved like a cat above him, her hands and mouth and legs all working in concert. He was amazed. The heavy lids of his eyes closed and he was back in Mrs. Carlson's house, in her bedroom, listening to her sugary voice whisper, "Don't be nervous, honey. It's perfectly natural." And he heard Marilyn Cullers ask desperately if he would go home with her, and he heard himself answer that he would. And he saw the three beautiful women he had made sexual art with and heard their sighs of contentment as the audience applauded. The young woman slid down between his legs and began working her own magic, sliding him in and out of her mouth with fluid grace. As his back arched in delight, he heard the familiar whisper in his ear. "You were the genius, Eddie," Mrs. Carlson -- long dead now -- cooed seductively. "You gave to all of us, Eddie, but you never took any for yourself," he heard Marilyn whisper. "You deserve so much," the blond, the Asian, and the African-American all whispered. Edward had never experienced the sexual ecstasy that he had elicited in hundreds of women. But as the young woman with him covered his body with hers, all the faces of all the women he had made love to, all the lips and all the eyes and all the arms kissed and embraced and smiled at him, all at once. Edward Grable died, his face the ultimate work of sexual art, far surpassing any composition that he had ever created. -------------------------------------------------------- Adhara Law More of my stories can be read at: http://members.theglobe.com/adhara_law -- +----------------' Story submission `-+-' Moderator contact `--------------+ | | | | Archive site +----------------------+--------------------+ Newsgroup FAQ | ----