by Cynthia Charlson
I love Vienna. There’s the music, of course, and also the Danube, guarded by fairy-tale castles that once held off the Ottoman Turks. And then there’s the rococo splendor of the Schonbrunn Palace; the smoke-filled coffeehouses and medieval squares; the lit-up trolleys gliding along the Ringstrasse, giving off sparks from overhead cables. All that and the Vienna Woods, and deep winter snowfalls that muffle everything.
I arrived there for the first time three years ago, not long after I graduated from college. I’d been touring through Central Europe with a friend of mine named Maggie, and when the summer ended and she returned to America, I went on alone to Vienna. I was planning to write a novel, and so I set myself up in a tiny apartment in the Blutgasse district. It was a beautiful part of town, with narrow cobbled streets and an abundance of shops and galleries.
Within short order, though, reality set in. I was running low on money, and my credit cards were nearly at their limit. Either I’d have to find a part-time job of some sort, or I’d be forced to head back to the States.
Then one wet and windy afternoon, I ducked into a wine tavern to get out of the rain and came across a handwritten notice pinned up on the bulletin board: An artist was looking for a nude model, female, age twenty to thirty-five. Call Kristina.
Though I’d never done any modeling, I have a good figure and I’m not particularly modest. And since the person I’d be posing for was apparently a woman, how hard, I reasoned, could it actually be? Jotting down the phone number, I rang up Kristina when I got home and made an appointment to see her the next day.
At three o’clock the following afternoon, a taxi delivered me to an old warehouse building not far from Am Hof Square. After Kristina buzzed me in, I went up a flight of stairs and found myself in a large studio with an overhead skylight and stacks of canvases piled against the walls. The air was saturated with the rich, earthy aroma of oil paint, a scent I’ve associated with Kristina ever since.
When I appeared in the doorway, she was on the far side of the studio, speaking in rapid-fire German on the telephone. Giving me a friendly smile, she waved me inside and continued her conversation for another minute or two.
It was just as well, because it gave me the chance to observe her on the sly. She was much younger than I had expected—no more than thirty, I guessed. Tall and slim, with wheat-blonde hair drawn back in a ponytail, she was wearing an oversize T-shirt and paint-splattered jeans. With her Nordic good looks and willowy figure, she was an impressive sight.
Hanging up the phone, she came striding across the room and firmly shook my hand.
“Ah—Cynthia!” she said. “Wie geht es Ihnen?”
“Sehr gut, danke.”
There followed another rapid-fire burst in German, and when I asked her to please speak more slowly, she switched to fluent English without missing a beat.
“So then,” she said briskly, “you’re an American, ja? A student?”
“Not any longer. I graduated from college in June. I’m writing a novel at the moment.”
“A fellow artist,” she smiled. “Excellent!”
We spent the next ten minutes chatting and strolling around the studio, with Kristina pausing now and then to show me some of her paintings and sketches. I liked her work a lot—mostly lean, angular nudes, very graphic and erotic and very much in the style of Egon Schiele, a Viennese painter who’s always been a favorite of mine.
When the moment of truth was at hand and it was time for me to disrobe, I stepped into a curtained-off alcove and stripped off my clothes. By this point, I felt so comfortable with Kristina that I wasn’t especially nervous.
As I pushed aside the curtains and started walking across the studio, my plump breasts bobbed against my chest. I was about to put my hands on them to keep them still, but just then Kristina stepped away from her easel and calmly studied my figure. She’d put on a pair of wire-framed glasses, and when she tipped her head to the side, the lenses flashed sunlight into my eyes.
Giving me a reassuring smile, she asked me to sit on a tall stool directly beneath the skylight. As I perched my bare buttocks on the edge of the seat and put my hands on my hips, Kristina lit up a cigarette and appraised me through a haze of bluish smoke.
“Your bosoms,” she finally said, and arched her back to indicate that I should stick out my chest. Once I struck the pose she wanted, with my “bosoms,” as she put it, jutting out in front of me, I stared off into the distance and let my mind go blank. It didn’t stay blank for long, though. Sitting there nude, with my nipples erect and my hairless pussy candy-pink in the sunlight, I started to think about sex. I hadn’t been to bed with anyone in nearly three months—the last time had been in Geneva, when I spent a long weekend with a Swiss tour guide named Stefan. He was a cute, boyish, sweet young man with a lovely penis, and he was absolutely crazy about my tits.
Suddenly a voice interrupted my thoughts.
“Cynthia?” Kristina was saying. “Let me see you in profile. Turn to the side, bitte.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” I smiled. “My mind was elsewhere, I guess.”
In fact, I’d managed to daydream myself into a state of mild arousal. Or perhaps not so mild, because when I shifted to the side and crossed my legs, I realized how sticky my pussy had become.
Was it noticeable? I wondered. I couldn’t tell without breaking the pose I was in, but the thought that my vagina might be visibly wet, and that Kristina might have picked up on it, was embarrassing as hell. Then again, precisely because it was embarrassing, it was also a turn-on.
Trying to snap out of it, I said to myself: Stop thinking about your pussy, or you really will get soaking wet.
About two hours later I was back in my apartment, in my bathtub, legs flung wide apart, furiously diddling my swollen button. I’d been going at it for so long that my wrist ached, but for reasons I couldn’t understand, I still hadn’t managed to bring myself off.
At long last, flushed with arousal, I took my hand away from my cunt. Maybe after a half hour of downtime, I thought, I’d be able to make myself come. Standing up, soapy water dripping off my breasts, I toweled myself dry and went into the bedroom.
To keep myself occupied until I was ready to masturbate again, I wrote out a few postcards to friends back in the States. After that—sitting on my bed, scrunched over, tits pressed against my knees—I gave myself a quick pedicure.
Once I finished my toes, I flopped back on the bed and started playing with myself again. Instead of heading right for my clit, I spent a while tweaking and tugging my nipples. Presently I reached down and tickled my inner thighs with my nails, and then I patted my congested labia with my fingertips—a flurry of quick little love taps to get my pussy’s attention.
Lifting my hips slightly, I slid two fingers into my slit as deeply as I could. I let my fingers wiggle around in the squishiness for a moment, and then I began driving them in and out. But once again, no matter how frantically I fingered myself, the lusty feeling swirling in my tummy never quite coalesced into an orgasm.
What was going on? I’d enjoyed modeling for Kristina, and had left her studio in a happy mood, feeling sexed-up and horny. I was even hornier by the time I got home. So why couldn’t I come?
That’s when it hit me: In the bathtub, and here on the bed, fingering myself, I’d been focusing on the wrong mental images. Stefan, his pretty cock, the way he’d spilled his cream on my breasts—sexy memories, for sure, and masturbating to those mental pictures normally would’ve gotten me off. But my body was trying to tell me something that my heart already knew: It wasn’t Stefan I wanted at that moment, nor any man. It was Kristina.
As soon as the light went on in my head and I admitted to myself what I really wanted—pussy, not cock, and, more specifically, Kristina’s pussy—everything fell into place. I didn’t have to struggle any further. All I had to do was pretend that the fingers in my vagina were Kristina’s, and when I tightened my gooey cunt, all the radiance that had been building up inside me for so long released itself and poured through my pelvis.
Over the course of the next few weeks, I modeled for Kristina almost every other day, and we quickly became friends. Of course, in my case, I was hoping for more than friendship, but I was afraid to make any sort of move until I knew where I stood. Quite obviously, Kristina liked me a lot; but did she want me sexually, as I wanted her? I couldn’t tell.
Then one evening, after we’d finished up at the studio, we walked over to Am Hof Square and went into a coffeehouse. While we were sitting there sipping cups of sweet black mokka, Kristina asked me if I’d like to go on an overnight trip with her.
“This is the best time of year to see the Danube,” she said. “We could take a boat and stay the night in Linz. What do you think?”
“Oh, that sounds wonderful!” I exclaimed. “Yes, by all means—let’s do it!”
Early the next Saturday, we boarded a little white steamer that was heading upriver. Kristina had reserved a cabin for us—a cozy little cupboard of a room, beautifully appointed in teak and so small we could barely turn around without bumping into each other. After we dropped off our bags, we got some coffee in the lounge and then sat outside on the deck and watched the Danube Valley unfolding before our eyes.
It was a golden day in late October and the air was crisp and cool. There were vineyards on both banks of the river, veiled in soft blue haze, as well as apple orchards and dark green stands of towering pines. Up in the craggy hills we could see crumbling old monasteries and Crusader castles—in one of them, Kristina told me, Richard the Lionhearted had been imprisoned eight centuries ago. There were Roman ruins as well, and quaint country inns, and streams of white water unraveling like lace down off the hillsides. It was a dreamlike landscape, impossibly lovely, with 2,000 years of history passing in review on either side.
Brimming over with happiness, I said, “I’m so glad you thought of this, Kristina!”
“Me too,” she smiled.
A few hours into the voyage, we went back to our cabin to freshen up for lunch. As I was bending over to get something out of my suitcase, I sensed Kristina’s eyes on me. When I glanced at her, sure enough, she was staring at the curve of my ass. I was wearing a pair of cute hiking shorts that flattered my rear end, and when I caught her eyeing my behind, she got flustered and quickly turned away.
But the expression on her face had told me everything I needed to know. In that brief instant when she lost her composure, I could see how much she desired me, and the longing in her eyes gave me the confidence I needed. Without saying a word, I went up on my tiptoes and took her face in my hands, and then I kissed her squarely on the mouth. It was a serious kiss—open-mouthed and slow and sensuous, with nothing held back. After a few long moments, Kristina parted her lips and responded in kind.
Real kissing always melts my heart and soul, and this particular kiss soon had me weak in the knees. It had the same effect on Kristina too. When we finally stepped away from each other, her face was crimson and she was visibly trembling.
Tripping over her words, she started to apologize to me in German. “Es tut mir leid,” she stammered.
“Don’t be sorry,” I shushed her. “Don’t say anything.”
Lifting my hands, I undid the pearl buttons on her blouse, all the way down to her waist. She was wearing a tiny bra that was sheer enough to show off the coral-pink areolas on her breasts. Kristina made a move to close her blouse, but I brushed her hands away and began tugging her skirt past the flare of her hips. As the skirt settled onto the floor, she took a step backward and sat down on the bed.
“Take your blouse off,” I told her. “Don’t be shy.”
Her vivid blue eyes were big with emotion, and finally she looked away and removed her blouse. When she slipped the straps of her bra off her shoulders and then reversed it and began undoing the clasps, I peeled her white cotton panties down the length of her legs and tossed them aside.
Finally! After all these weeks of posing in the nude for Kristina, now it was my turn to see her naked and exposed. And what a lovely sight she was! She had adorable tits, and fine peach fuzz trailed from her lower belly to her sex. Her long sleek legs were spectacular, and in heels and stockings, I thought, she’d be too stunning for words.
Kneeling on the floor, I put my hands on her thighs and forced her legs wide apart. It was startling how different her vagina was from mine. I have full, prominent lips that pout and darken when I’m aroused, but Kristina’s pussy was neat and tidy, with small lips pressed snugly together. It was an innocent-looking pussy that went perfectly with her smallish tits—even the scent of her cunt seemed sweet and innocent, like fresh dewy grass.
Bending forward, I covered her pussy with my mouth and insinuated my tongue between her prim lips. As I drove my tongue in deeper, she let out a moan and thrust her hands into my hair. Very quickly, all in a rush, she turned butter-slick, and her stickiness was soon smeared all over my face.
With my hands splayed out on her upper legs, I could sense how close she was to climax from the tremors in her thighs. Pressing her tiny berry beneath my tongue, I jammed two fingers into her opening and stirred them around.
“Mehr!” she gasped, meaning “more,” and so I gave her another finger and slid all three back and forth in her cunt. She was deliriously aroused and her once-tight pussy now seemed expansive, so I pushed in a fourth finger and then rapidly flicked my tongue on her button.
“Ja, ja, ja!” she crooned, and all at once her vagina tightened around my fingers and she started to come. Leaning back on her hands, Kristina lifted her hips off the bed and squashed her slippery sex against my mouth. It was like being kissed hard by her cunt, and for a moment I had the giddy sensation that the white light of her climax was shining out of her opening and glowing in my throat.
When she finished coming and fell back against the bed, I licked her clean and then stripped down to my panties. Lying down next to her, I lifted one of my breasts and offered her the nipple. She took it between her pursed lips and then snuggled closer and began sucking. There was no biting, nothing to make me wince and pull away—just the firm, steady suction of her mouth against my tit, until the rhythmic tug and pull of my nipple left me dazed and dreamy.
Turning my head, I looked out the porthole and watched a flight of storks moving south across the sky, bound for their winter home in Africa. I could feel the thrumming of the boat’s engine in my ass, while up higher, in my chest, another sort of thrumming was coursing through my sucked-on breast.
“You sweetheart,” I whispered, and stroked her cheek with my fingertip.
Minute after minute, her mouth kept working on my tit, until finally I was so stirred up that I couldn’t stand it anymore. When I pulled my engorged nipple out of her mouth, Kristina immediately got down between my legs and began eating me through my undies.
“Oh, yes, yes!” I whimpered.
Yanking at the waistband of my panties, I pulled them up until the crotch slipped into my slit and my plump lips were exposed on either side. The moment Kristina started sucking on my pussy lips, I just flew apart into pieces and came like a soaring angel.
The steamer docked at Linz when dusk was falling, and Kristina and I took a room in a bed-and-breakfast and made love all through the night. We’ve been living together for three years now, in a flat not far from her studio. And the novel I was working on? I put it aside and started another one—about the woman I fell in love with on a journey up the blue Danube.