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Tax Season

The fiery personality of a small-town Irish painter disrupts the otherwise dull life of an accountant

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Tax Season

By: darkangel - Published:

Helplessly glancing at the mount of receipts and invoices overflowing the file cabinet, i see nothing is in order. Restaurant receipts, black toner, clients' invoices.

"Do you ever worry about getting audited?" I ask Her Oblivious Majesty, being busy filling miniature easels with tiny and very detailed scenery.

"I have you for that, Shawn..." she mutters her reply while mixing colors.

"I'm not a miracle worker, Pamela... and it's almost March."

My corner of the room is poorly lit, shielded from the natural light coming from the window. I flick a switch and shed soft white light from a neon tube attached to the bare cement wall.

The dusty split-level apartment's walls are lined with canvas frames. The former ballroom has no walls, except for the restroom, built out of a smaller corner of the living area, at an angle, yet large enough for an authentic antique colonial-style ceramic bath tub with a built-in shower head of the same era. A kitchen area runs along the farthest wall from the large window frame, built in wood and painted with a thin layer of pearl white. Opposite from the kitchen, on the other side of the room, a curtain divider separates Pamela's bedroom from the rest of the studio, with a thick, heavy red theater drape, cut to size.

A six-by-six feet beige area rug covers the wooden floor under the three easels. Surprisingly, very few drops of paint and thinner can be seen.

Pamela's workbench is brightly lit by the crisp morning glow.

"You worry too much." she rebuffs, same as she usually does with everything in her life.

Pamela Hurst's brilliant skills bloomed later than most, following years of distractions and holdbacks, a profound passion for the arts waited until her late 30's to become apparent.

Her first timid steps into the "industry of beauty" (as she often refers to it), were disastrous.

Her commitment was gagged and bound by fear of rejection. Her inspiration was trapped into a dark abyss. Her early pieces were stunning oil renderings of skylines, sunsets, sunrises, endless ocean views and still-life. So rich in colors and texture, yet bland and tasteless as a concept in itself. They were empty, transparent and forgettable. That is until one last massive heart break.

Pamela never talked about it much, yet she mentioned bits and pieces of the story to me, more than most.

As the morning wears on into the increasingly warmer rays of the early afternoon, i find myself trapped in a repetitive gesture pattern, shifting sheets of paper from one location of my desk to another, constantly moving my eyes from left to right.

Before i realize it, i feel Pamela's eyes on me. I raise my eyes from the mound of invoices and paperwork, as the nagging feeling of being stared at quickly invades my thoughts. Pamela is no longer working on her miniature easels. She is holding a notepad. Before i could see it, i hear the scribbling of her pencil.

"I'm sure you can find a better subject than some geek hunched over doing your taxes..." i comment with more than a hint of sarcasm.

She doesn't say anything, but she seems to be focusing very hard. Her eyes repeatedly scanning me, an inch above the top edge of the sketch pad.

I resume my work, yet considerably distracted. It's a different feeling from being photographed. It's a longer process where the discovery of details is overwhelming.

As i am almost done with one pile of receipts i hear her standing up from her repurposed bar stool. When i finally decide to look up, she is standing at about five feet from me, holding the sketch pad in her left hand. Her right hand holds the pencil onto the pad as she keeps drawing. It's not a quick, impulsive process. It seems she is taking her time with each line.

As she adds more detail to the drawing, her body shifts slightly, as her feet part to add stability to her stance. I catch myself glancing at her longer than i should. It reminds me of the first time i met her. It all began with her picking up my business card from a coffee shop at the end of the street. We met briefly at the same cafe, the same day, sometime in the afternoon, as i realized she lived only a few bus stops from me. I instantly detected an innocence about her that filtered through discussions of sales and tax deductions.

My first visual account of Pamela Hurst was intriguing. While i can't say she looks completely different with each variation of light or background, there is something about her that varies and adds different dimensions, in a similar way as those old three-dimensional postcards, shifting from one image to the next with each different viewing angle.

Curvaceous, hourglass-like, vaguely resemblant of pin-up models. A preference for short, narrow-tipped, mid-heel ankle boots. Most days, long, draping vintage skirts, and warm wool boat-neck sweaters, knit with simple patterns or flat colors. Auburn, wavy and thick strands of hair, sometimes tied up in a pony tail, sometimes held up in a bunch, sometimes braided but not often... and sometimes, free to fall as far down as the small of her back, while shorter strands parting at the front, frame her facial features.

She smiles often, in the very face of a difficult past. Her smile features barely noticeable dimples. A light layer of freckles enhances her beauty, courtesy of a partly Irish descent. Aqua-green irises framed by just a touch of eyeliner and light brown eye-shadow, as her favorite and recurrent style.

Coming the third year in a row, i found myself longing to sit at that tiny desk for what would usually require a few hours, yet peculiarly turning into a day of work.

I shift my body to the right, almost on purpose, as if this could make her desist from portraying me. She doesn't flinch. A subtle smile escapes her lips.

"OK, pencils down. I want to see it." I say to her in a subtly commanding tone.

She walks up to me, holding the sketchpad to her chest. She stops closer than i expect, and flips the sketchbook so i can see her drawing of me.

My eyes grow wide.

"I'm... pretty sure i still do have clothes on." i remark at a very accurate, and very bare version of myself.

She giggles briefly, as stare at a nude portrait of myself.

"Can i have it now?" I ask her with a sense of urgency. She keeps the drawing pad from me, laughing as i try to get hold of it.

I give Pamela a dirty look as i make one more attempt at grabbing the drawing pad from her hand.

"I think this will look great at my next exposition... what shall i call it?" She taunts with a mischievous look in her eyes.

"Very funny!" I reply, trying to sound serious.

"I couldn't think of a more fitting title! I think I'll go with it!" She announces as occasional squeals escape her mouth while i resort to quick, sudden moves to gain possession of the portrait.

I raise from my seat, pursing my lips with a determined look in my eyes.

"OK, you are in big trouble now!" I announce as i charge towards her. Pamela turns around, fast on her feet, glancing back at me for a second before darting away, towards the kitchen area. Her short heels make loud thumping noises as she dodges me, laughing hysterically.

"Giving up yet?" She taunts, just before running towards the red drape and leaping through it.

Something inside me stops me instantly. In spite of our seeming friendship, i still am compelled to respect such things as boundaries... even in horseplay.

As she closes the drapes and giggles quietly behind her layer of privacy, i am almost frozen in my tracks.

The room falls quiet.

I inch my way towards the red curtain, as i hear her quiet chuckle.

I stop only inches from the curtain. I can guess from the movement of the drape, she is leaning closely on the other side.

Suddenly, possessed by an instinct i don't quite recognize, i feel my hand move, my arm being guided by a sudden impulse. My hand tunnels through the curtain, reaching the other side, searching blindly.

Right then, i feel my hand being taken, gently guided to what seems to be her abdomen. Instinctively, i move closer to the curtain, and i find myself embracing her through the heavy theater drapes, as the impression of her back makes contact with my chest.

I hear a low thud, which i can only assume as being her sketchbook.

Something else i can only assume as being her right hand, formerly occupied by her sketchbook is not pushing the thick red velvet onto my right leg, while her left hand keeps my right hand pressed against her mid-section.

My mind is in a daze. I have no idea what to do, as this situation is new to me. If i say anything, the spell might break. Yet i am almost compelled to question her sudden interest in me, after more than three years of business-centric relationship, and a consistent pattern of short-lived relationships with men quite different from me.

As i feel the pressure of Pamela's hand against the thick velvet shifting higher and closer to the front of my slacks, this unexpected feeling of flattery begins to shift quickly into lust.

My right hand is now being slowly pushed by Pamela's, until i feel the beltline of her skirt through the soft wool of her sweater.

The soft and thick material is being pulled up, from under the palm of my hand, until the feeling of bare skin of Pamela's abdomen yet again takes me by surprise.

I feel i can barely move, then i feel once again her hand over mine. She leans further into me, as we are still separated by a thick layer of velvet drape.

The impression of her hand is now pressed against the growing bulge of my crotch. Her left hand guides my right hand up, under the woolen and warm material.

Right then, she can feel my hesitation.

"Just as i thought... you worry too much." she whispers to me, through the curtain. Next, her hand guides mine to her chest. There is no undergarment preventing my palm from feeling the warmth and softness of her breasts, the minuscule bumps giving character and texture to her areola, and the gently stiff buds of her nipples. I have no visual matching my thoughts. My mind's eye is giving me all the feedback i need, using only my right hand's sense of touch to replace my momentarily forbidden senses.

"That's it... stop worrying, Shawn..."

And so i follow her advice, as if she were a mere voice inside my head. My hand finally takes control. Pamela feels it too and lets go of it, as it moves down her own body, until i feel her left hand again, but this time, much like her right hand, pressing against my left thigh, as i feel her long nails, digging through the velvet, with surprising definition, considering the thickness of the drape that divides our bodies. Then her left hand disappears again in this arousing game of silhouettes.

My right hand becomes me, my whole body, exploring hers, caressing her skin, teasing her, brushing my fingertips over her, rewarded by subtle, gentle and sudden stirs of her entire body.

"Don't give up searching, Shawn...", i hear her whispering to me again.

My left hand presses against the impression of her backside through the curtain. I find her round, curvy cheeks. As crude as it feels, i begin to grope her, digging my fingers through the velvet, while my right hand moves down her body, until it reaches the front of her skirt. Right then i realize where her left hand has moved to.

The ruffled and crumpled texture of her skirt suggests that i shall find what i look for only a few inches lower, as i feel her left hand clenching the material of her skirt, held high up to the waist, in a bunch. As my fingertips brush against the front of her undies, i can feel the lacy hem of her skirt brush against the bottom of my wrist.

Emboldened by my own adrenaline, i let my fingers venture past the thin material of Pamela's underwear. My arousal grows as i discover the sparse and short patch of hair lightly covering her mound. I cup it, fondling her gently, as my middle and ring fingers venture further down, parting her outer labia as i feel her thighs spreading further.

Finally, my fingers find access past her warm, dripping wet opening. The back of my fingers feels the bottom of Pamela's undies, soaked in her own lubrication.

My middle and ring fingers easily slip inside and out of her, as her body begins to sway and respond rhythmically to my stimulation.

Suddenly, i feel her skirt falling over my hand, as her body shifts and turns slowly, causing my fingers to slip out of her.

I watch as the curtain is pushed aside. Pamela is looking at me. She is flustered. Her chest slowly raises and lowers with every deep breath she takes.

I move closer to her, past the curtain. I am in her territory now. I am standing right in her comfort zone. I am right where i would have never thought i'd be. Inappropriate. Out of line. I have never felt this excited in my whole life.

Every step i take towards her is a step she takes backwards. It's like a dance. It's like a test to see how far i'll go to pursue her.

By the time she realizes i will not stop, she stumbles against the edge of her antique bed frame, and falls back on the high double-mattress.

I stand before her. I am looking down at her. She meets my stare... then her eyes move lower, down on herself. Her fingers pull the front of her skirt up, exposing herself as she did moments earlier behind the curtain, where i could not see her... only feel her.

I watch as her thumbs sneak under the waistband of her underwear. She slowly slide the underwear down her thighs, past her knees... and ultimately lets the panties fall down to her ankles, and onto the floor.

Instinctively, i kneel.

I begin a slow, lingering path, brushing my lips against her soft left inner-thigh. I stop only at few inches from her opening, as a sticky wet spot expands slowly, on the inside fabric of her skirt.

I move to her right inner-thigh and proceed in much of the same fashion, only this time, as i reach less than five inches from her sex, i notice her body squirming a little more frequently.

I press both my hands on her knees, then i stand back up.

I undo my slacks and let them drop on the floor. I rid myself of my boxer shorts and the rest of my clothing... then i climb, one knee at a time, and straddle Pamela's lap, while her hands grab the hem of her sweater and pull it up, exposing her chest.

At this point my erection is more than noticeable... even more as i move further up, until my erected shaft is nested between Pamela's breasts.

I watch as her face moves closer to me, and her lips part, awaiting for my move.

I prop myself closer, until her lips can wrap around the tip of my hard member. I move in closer... until her mouth can accommodate more and more of me.

My hips begin to rock instinctively, as Pamela's head matches my movements.

I climb off of her, as i keep eye-contact the whole time.

I stand by the edge of the bed, looking at her for a moment, taking in this vision that will occupy my thoughts for a very long time.

My hand moves under the pits of her knees, pushing her legs up as i position my body between them, as she pushes her sweater up above her head and lets it drop on the bed.

"Close your eyes". She whispers to me.

I feel her hand take hold of my manhood and guide the shaft to rest along her awaiting slit, glistening wet. Instinctively, my hips begin to rock back and forth, as her hips do as well, matching my movements, causing mild but noticeable friction between our bodies, from the constant pace of the underside of my member rubbing across her opening.

Her body stops moving as i feel her hand guiding the end of my erection past her outer labia as it brushes against the glistening cradle preceding her love canal.

My hands seek in the dark until i envelope both Pamela's ankles in my grasp. I push her feet up above my shoulders and her hand ease my shaft deeper, inch after inch.

As i begin to thrust into her, slowly and deep, my eyes are still close.

I feel Pamela's legs tensing up as she hold her body higher, using her feet on my shoulders as leverage.

I hear her perspire, as her breathing becomes more labored.

It's far from being a mechanical act. It's organic in every possible way. It's instinct that compels me to match the rhythm of her breathing with my pace, as she does similarly with her movements.

"Open your eyes..." She whispers.

I am looking at her now. Our gazes are locked in an invisible embrace. Her lips are slightly parted. Possessed by a will that doesn't even feel out own, we both increase the pace of thrusting into each other, until her hand reach for me, her fingertips barely brushing my tensed abdominal muscles.

I let go of Pamela's left ankle and move my hand down, brushing my palm from her shin to her inner thigh, until her hands are close enough to grasp mine.

Her grip is powerful, as she now uses my hand as leverage to pull herself to me, quite literally thrusting her whole body into me as her breathing is now increasingly laboured.

Then it happens... and it's explosive.

Her eyes roll up under her semi-closed twitching eyelids. Her lips purse in what appears to be absolute ecstasy.

Pamela's entire body stiffens as i continue to thrust into her at a slightly faster pace.

Her climax lasts for a length of time i cannot properly describe, as my own sense of time is something of an oddity as well, for the time being.

My shaft is now being gripped within her, as i feel her inner muscles contracting and releasing in waves, slowly pushing me over the edge of my own release, causing my whole body to stiffen as well, as i grasp her hands, struggling to pace my movements, so that this moment may last as long as it possibly can.

When we both finally collapse into ourselves, our bodies find themselves intertwined.

Only a few hours pass, as the sun goes down, until i am sitting on the edge of the bed, facing the curtain. Pamela is leaning on her side. I can feel her eyes on me.

"I should go." I whisper.

I don't hear her reply. I turn my head briefly to glance at her. By the time i do that, she is turned around, looking at the wall.

I dress quietly.

Just as i am standing before the curtain, ready to head out, i hear her voice, muttering something to me. I can't catch it right away. I turn around to look at her. She's smiling at me.

"What about my taxes?" She asks me.

I grin at her.

"I'll have to come back and finish tomorrow..." i reply, oddly serious.

"I'd like that." she responds, as she pulls the covers up to her neck.

As i head out the door, i am smiling. I know her too well. We both got what we wanted. Closure.

It took an afternoon of passion to remind me that i really do worry too much, and i find it too easy to care for someone who just wants one part of me.

It's probably never going to happen again. Not with her. Yet, i know i never will regard this as a mistake...


Category: romance

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