Scheming is a story about aggressively living an artistic life, not merely the art of words and colors but taking art as the central active principle of an artist’s viewpoint. This is a portrait of me in spirit, if not in life. I’m not so ruthless. – Malinov

by Lord Malinov

I knew Trent wouldn’t be home. He’d stung me and I wanted get back at him. So I called on his wife when I knew she’d be alone. Maybe it’s an underhanded trick, but Trent hardly played fair with me. I believe in returning blow for blow.

The Smallminded Grant had changed my life more than money should but does, and in the process it transformed Trent into a living symbol. The man represented everything I was struggling against, everything I could never be. When I knocked on the door of their suburban home, I despised him. Trent had proved himself to be a petty tyrant without a shred of nobility and a small mean soul. For reasons of its own, society had conspired to hand this shallow paper-pusher control over me. It was bad enough that I had degraded myself by bowing and scraping at his pathetic altar to receive the money I needed to write my book. But then, as my work approached completion, Mr. Trent and the Smallminded Foundation suddenly withdrew all support from my efforts. He chastised my life, my work, the very fiber of my art. Trent sickens me.

Interestingly, Trent has a beautiful wife, a woman he simply cannot deserve.

My creativity works on all levels. I have some skills in the field of battle. When I suffered the sting of his blow, I studied him. Some consideration revealed the secret to Joseph Trent’s smug happiness. The beauty in his bedroom inspired this hopeless man with an unflappable self-satisfaction. What couldn’t he do, after screwing her?

I took for granted that Trent wouldn’t be giving my problems another thought. There wasn’t a chance he’d bother evaluating my art on its own merit. His decision had been made the moment Trixie and I had been nabbed by the cops. He couldn’t imagine there was anything to discuss. But something told me that his wife, the lovely Mrs. Kate could open her pretty mouth and effect a change in his small, timid mind. What’s more, I believed I might convince this woman that they should give me another chance. I had seen a softness in her eyes.

We had only met once before, very briefly, when the grant was being considered by the foundation. Trent and I took an immediate dislike to each other at the first interview. When I left his office, I felt convinced that I would never see a dime of the foundation’s money. That weekend, Trent and his pretty lady dropped by the Wakko to hear my band play. During a break between sets, I went to the bar to get a drink. An attractive woman sitting alone caught my eye. I saw more than her prettiness, for there was something about this woman that fascinated me at once. Kate has a gleam of earthy wisdom in her eyes. I felt bold, and said something. She responded and we spoke together for a few minutes, long enough to give me ideas. Then my nemesis, Trent, appeared out of the shadows and put his arm around her. The bastard was beaming with pride, catching me flirting with his wife. I had no idea who she was. The next day, I received word that my grant had been approved.

How could I not think that the pretty woman, Kate, had been behind my good fortune? Trent hinted that it was Kate’s enthusiasm for my work that persuaded the foundation to cut me a check. When they took the money away, I knew Kate was my best hope of getting it back.

What’s more, I knew that Trent loved Kate. I figured that if he was going to persist in denying me the money I needed, nothing would hurt the bastard more than stealing his wife away.

I clutched my book in one hand as I rang the bell. When I met Kate, that night at the club, she struck me as an attractive woman. However, in the simplicity of a lazy summer afternoon, shorn of social contrivances, Kate looked too lovely for words. My eyes opened wide, drinking in her elegant charm, and I forgot everything for a moment.

“Mr. Courlain,” she said, recognizing me at once.

“Mrs. Trent,” I replied, regaining my composure. “I wonder if I might have a word with you.”

“I suppose,” she said. “But please call me Kate.”

“My name is Mark.”

“Hmm,” she said with a smile, “I thought it was Razor.” Kate led me into the parlor, offering me a seat. I moved slowly in the direction she indicated.

“It’s a stage name. I use it to foster the illusion that our music is dangerous.”

“I think it rather suits you.”

“So do I,” I mused. “That’s why I chose it.”

“Are you dangerous?” she asked with a self-conscious laugh. “My husband certainly thinks so.”

“Yes,” I said. “To someone like him, I could be very dangerous.”

“You don’t like Joseph,” she observed.

“He thinks he can control me,” I said. “He doesn’t seem to understand that control is the polar opposite of creativity.”

“I’ve seen you on stage, Razor. You exercise incredible control.”

“Control in that sense is the artistry. I have studied and practiced the control of delivery, timing and phrasing. But control is a workman’s skill, achieved by practice, by rote. Control is easy, but it can smother creativity, when left to its own devices. Creativity is a flower which must be fostered and tended until it blossoms. Control is the hoe that cuts away the weeds. But if the hoe cuts the flower in its zealous efforts to control the environment, nothing beautiful ever grows.”

“Can I get you something to drink?”

“Please,” I replied.

“I’ll confess that Joseph doesn’t know much about flowers, but he’s a first rate farmer, if you don’t mind my abusing your analogy. His work at the foundation helps hundreds of artists. Aren’t you just angry because he’s giving your bit of ground to some other flower?”

“He didn’t cut my funding because my art was inferior. He cut it because of the little trouble Trixie and I were mixed up in.”

“The foundation has responsibilities beyond nurturing wild flowers. Your scandal might hurt their image and their ability to help other artists. By embarrassing them, you bit the hand that fed you.”

“Good art is always dangerous.”

“Even if that’s true, and I’m not sure it is, just because something’s dangerous doesn’t mean it’s good. And just because the artist is arrested in a scandal doesn’t mean his art is dangerous.”

“Did anyone bother to read what I’ve written?” I asked.

“Really?” she asked. “No one looked at your work?”

“Not one. They don’t give a damn about the art.”

“Is that it?” she asked, reaching for the notebook in my hand.

“Yes,” I said, handing it to her.

“May I?” she asked.

“Please,” I replied.

It is often awkward to sit by while someone reads the words you’ve written. You don’t want your presence to influence their reactions, but it’s as difficult to pretend you don’t want to see the response first hand. Kate fell at once into my piece, wholly absorbed in scanning the pages. That, I knew, was a good sign.

I finished my drink and then amused myself with studying the Trent parlor. Expensive hutches held pristine arrangements of ceramic figurines and imported pottery. Photographs leaned on tables with the wry smiles of vacationing relatives. The environment was warm and nonthreatening in every regard. Finally, I noticed a painting almost hidden in the corner of the room, a watercolor of soft desert pastels rising and rippling to form something like a narrow canyon at sunset but more like an aroused cunt masquerading as a landscape.

Kate turned the pages with the steady pace of a skilled reader intent on moving through the words.

“Did you paint that?” I asked, interrupting her intense study. I already knew what she thought of my work. Her lips betrayed the feelings I had succeeded in rousing.

“Yes,” she said, blushing deeply. “Years ago.” She gestured toward my words. “This is good.”

“You shouldn’t hide it back there,” I said. “It’s gads better than that or those.” I pointed to several dull paintings of horses and waterfalls.

“Joseph,” she said, looking back at the open notebook in her lap, “doesn’t care for it.”

“Ah,” I said. “I should have guessed. So do you think they should have cut off my funding?”

“No,” Kate said emphatically. “This is magnificent. You are very good.”

“Two months are all I need. Can you persuade them?”

“I can try.” she said. “They might still listen. But you were arrested.”

“And the courts are going to punish me. Why does the foundation have to get in a kick? I can still give them art.”

“Why were you arrested?”

“Kate,” I said with a coy smile, “the whole thing was nothing. No one was hurt. I didn’t steal, kill or rob anyone. Nothing like that. It was pure excess, a spontaneous overflow of feelings. . . I’m not sure I can tell you about it.”

“Why not?”

“It’s not really a story for mixed company. I think it’s damn sexy, in fact.”

“Oh,” said Kate, a little piqued. “Tell your story, sailor. I’ll let you know if you go too far and offend my sensibilities.” Her sarcasm goaded me into a heightened desire for frankness.

“I was with one of my friends, a woman I hang out with. Trixie’s a wild one. I wouldn’t call her my girlfriend, although we spend lots of time together. She’s an artist, a damn good artist. Better than me, maybe, but don’t tell her I said that. Some of my best ideas have come from her. Not just what she says, but the way she lives.”

“A painter?” Kate asked.

“Sometimes, but Trixie’s really a performer. We were down at Clyde’s over on Chestnut, tying one on and she started telling me about fertility rites, you know Frazer’s bough and all that jazz. Anyway, Trixie was painting verbal pictures of May orgies, various and sundry traditions from a thousand cultures to make the crops grow by sympathetic magic and I could tell the subject was getting her really hot. When Trixie gets aroused this flush starts rising from her chest to her shoulders and up her neck. Her fingers started fidgeting with her buttons, like she’s thinking about taking off her shirt, even though we’re in this crowded bar. Her voice fell about an octave, until she sounded so sultry that I abandoned myself to the tender stroke of her words. One look into Trixie’s eyes and I knew she was lost in the dream of ancient rituals. She has hot blue eyes and they shone feverishly. Trixie’s whole being fiercely demanded attention. Her brain was spouting sociology, but her cunt was running, participating in the mystique”

“Damn,” said Kate, her own voice deepened slightly.

“That’s what I said. Trixie wore this thin muslin skirt and I noticed that she was caressing herself through the fabric, gently rubbing with the beat of her patter. Her nipples were bulging against her shirt.”

I paused to lick my lips, remembering the jut of Trixie’s tits. Kate’s eyes were open wide, waiting for more.

“So Trixie kept telling me these stories, just one after another about kings and queens and sex and death, and I’m just sitting there, completely enraptured by the sound of her voice. All of a sudden, Trixie stops talking. She reached over and grabbed my arm tight. I started to say something, but then I noticed a look of panic in her eyes. Trixie bit her lip and a spasm shook her. I asked her if she was all right, and she moaned a stifled moan. Then I caught on. We’re sitting in a bar with a hundred people, and Trixie’s coming hard. I could feel people staring, but Trixie doesn’t seem to notice, she just shivers and throbs. Orgasms are ripping through this pretty girl. The scent of her cunt was overpowering. Finally, Trix throws her head back and let’s out a giggling squeal. Man, it was beautiful. I was smiling from ear to ear. People whispered and pointed. One couple close by started clapping in appreciation.”

“What did you do?”

“I paid the tab and got her out of there. Trixie’s capable of anything, and I didn’t want to find out what kind of trouble she could start with a bar full of people watching her. We ran down Chestnut, generally headed toward my place. That’s what I had in mind, anyway. Trixie was charged and so was I, so I figured we’d go back to my place and burn some of that sexual energy off in private.”

“I can understand,” said Kate. A soft flush slowly crept from her shoulders up her throat.

“When we turned up twenty-eighth, Trixie saw the park. She took off and I had to follow her. When we got to the big field at the east end, she started tearing off her clothes and chanting stuff about the Great Mother and the Rain King. I was dumbstruck. I mean, I’m used to pretty wild stuff, but this was all so insane, and yet it was really powerful. A few minutes later, Trixie was completely naked, lying on her back with her limbs stretched out, reaching for me. What could I do? I did my best to answer her prayers, at least until the cops showed up and dragged us down to the station. Trixie didn’t seem to care. She was in a state of rapture, glowing with some kind of fucking divine radiance.”

“Yes,” Kate said in a low voice, “that is sexy.” Her left hand unconsciously caressed the breast of her blouse, raising the shadow of a nipple underneath. Kate closed her eyes for a moment. “Oh, my,” she whispered.

“If that’s not art,” I said, staring at Kate, my whole being intent on kindling the spark I had lit into a blaze, “I don’t know what it. It wasn’t just Trixie and me fucking, but a fertility ritual, as old as humanity, brought to life in the garden.”

“But,” said Kate, trying to find her voice again. “I see.”

“I didn’t plan it that way. It just happened. Like art.”

“Self control is what . . . .” Kate’s thought trailed off.

“Lose control,” I said softly and I kissed her. She melted at my touch, her body going limp as if I had touched a switch, released the tension that held her upright. Kate responded to my provocation, but only slightly, an involuntary reaction, as though her surrender was compelled by a desperate appetite of years without passion. Her reticence touched me and I backed away, unwilling to press her any further. In the momentary brush of our lips, I felt a sudden blossoming of admiration for this woman of sense and emotion. I didn’t want her to regret my visit. I’d forgotten about her husband, about my petty craving to inflict pain on him.

“I’m sorry,” I said as her eyes questioned my retreat.

“No,” she said, insisting, demanding, a fire suddenly raging within her dark eyes. Lunging toward me, Kate pressed her lips hard against mine, feverishly, passionately, wantonly. Her hands roamed my body, pulling me close upon her, exploring and compelling my surrender to her unleashed desire. “I’ve always dreamed of a man like you, and I won’t let you go without . . . ..” Her bold hands assaulted my crotch, rubbing furiously at my cock through the soft denim of my old jeans.

“Stop,” I said and she ceased her pawing, looking lusty in her reluctant obedience. “Take off your clothes.” Her eyes expressed both coyness and modesty. “I want to watch you undress,” I said, as though my command held some forethought, echoed a design in search of an underlying purpose. Kate backed away slightly, bit her lip, and reached for the top button of her blouse. I gazed hard, drinking in the seduction as each button came unfastened. Her bra was white and lacy. The tits within were big and creamy. I pulled open my fly. Kate blushed modestly as she unclasped her undergarment. I pulled my hard cock into the light. Kate moaned as her bra slipped away, exposing her naked chest. I rubbed my cock appreciatively. Her dark nipples tightened. I groaned. Kate cupped her breasts in her hands and squeezed, kneading the milky flesh. “Beautiful,” I said.

Kate turned away from me as she unsnapped her jeans and pushed the faded denim down her hips. Her flesh was fair with the soft shades only found in those who never pursue the sun but sometimes happen into it. The waist of her white panties fell, dragged down a short ways by her jeans. The soft cloth cut a subtle line across the creamy curves of her full bottom. The jeans dropped. Kate stepped free of the denim crumpled at her feet and pulled her panties up, stretching the cotton taut. I stroked my cock as Kate swung her hips, teasing me with a circular sweep of her veiled charms. The woman had me by the balls; I never wanted anyone so badly in my life. My imagination roared. Deep creases implied the shrouded lips of her cunt. I swam in sensations of the woman, tormenting my patience imagining the naughty details she still hadn’t told. Kate’s tits sometimes swung into view, offering pretty peeks topped with cherry tight nipples. Kate was on fire, teasing me this way. The money was gone, but the woman was mine.

Kate turned around, thrusting her bare breasts toward me. The sight arrested my attention beautifully and I rubbed my cock in appreciation. Pushing her thumbs into the waist of her panties, she danced closer. More than anything in the whole world, I wanted to see her muff, the lips of her cunt, to let my eyes devour the last secret she could know. Kate moved closer, her hands poised at her waist, trembling to show me everything. I gave the air an involuntary lick. She pushed her pantied pussy against my mouth.

“Suck it, pretty boy,” Kate said. The cleft of her panties eagerly sought my tongue. “I don’t care,” Kate growled, her hands in my hair. “I can’t stand it, just suck my pussy, please?” I lapped at the moist fabric. She yanked her panties down and I kissed her aching cunt. Kate perched herself on the sofa and poured wet kisses over me.

My fingers slipped into Kate’s hole as she teased my tongue with her clit. An orgasm ripped through her in a flurry of spasms and squeals. I kept Kate from falling, lost in ecstasy as she collapsed across the sofa, spent.

I knelt down behind my antagonist’s wife and slipped my dick into her dripping cunt. A shudder inside of Kate tickled my lustfully sensitive rod. I was in heaven. Kate had always been attractive. I took great pleasure in looking at her, clothed and proper, but eyeing Kate from behind, with her round bottom tipped up, her back arched, her big tits in soft silhouette, her hair tossed wildly as she met each thrust with a bump of her cunt, Kate embodied my best fantasies.

At times I was fucking Kate, but at other times she was fucking me. Kate let herself get raunchy when the mood struck her, taking everything she could get with reckless abandon. But our intimacy would turn around and she’d be confiding some secret in a tear-filled rhythm as our bodies pulsed, connected together. Then I’d be on her, pumping and kissing, embracing and filling the emptiness we felt in each instant spent apart.

The hours slipped away, and eventually I had to go. I was licking her cunt gently as she read from my book, when I realized it was already after five.

“I can’t control myself,” Kate said, pulling on her jeans. “I’ve always wanted someone like you.”

I took my book and left.

Three days later, the grant was restored. I’ll probably finish my book soon enough. Kate, however, put herself out of my reach. I still hate Joseph Trent. The bastard always seems to have something I want.

But I’ll get her. All I need is a scheme.

About David Cain

David Cain, literary author, bon vivant, rogue romantic poet - author of Witch, Song of Songs, Journals of Lord Malinov, Erotic Romances and others ...
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