The Origin of My World – a Tribute

Author's disclaimer 1:

This story is a tribute to one of my favorite pieces of art - „L'origine du monde'" by Gustave Courbet. It helps the story tremendously to know this painting which is why a quick internet image search before reading is highly recommended.

Author's disclaimer 2:

English is not my native language, yet I prefer to express my ideas in this language. Please indulge me, be nice and forgive me for any spelling or grammar errors as well as awkward expressions or a poor choice of words.

PROLOGUE

"Take a look at this, Sarah!"

He slightly adjusted the laptop on his lap so she could see the screen despite the reflection from the kitchen window. She was standing behind the old leather couch that had furnished their apartment since they moved in together two years ago. It had probably been in existence long before that. Although it was previously owned, it wasn't probably that old but heavy usage had worn it out severely and Sarah and Brandon had partly been responsible for that -- in more than one way. Right now, he was thinking back to some of those sexy times on what should generally be a mood killer of a sofa, while Sarah took some time to respond as she was silently pondering what she was seeing.

"Why are you showing me porn, Brandon?" she asked in a very monotonous, almost bored tone of voice. His reply was instant...with a hint of annoyance.

"It's not porn, Sarah! It's a classical painting and it's actually very famous. It's called 'L'origine du monde' by Gustave Courbet. And it happens to be one of my favorites".

She paused for a moment, not blinking but still staring intently on the laptop's screen.

"It is. A painting. Of a pussy, Bran," she insisted.

Clearly, she was not nearly as enthusiastic about this as he had hoped. Didn't she get it? Didn't she see what he saw? The honest yet not-so-blunt, almost romantic bareness of the object portrayed? A woman's vulva with a full bush of dark pubic hair which almost looked groomed, even though that probably would not have been typical for the painting's time of origin. Didn't she see the extraordinary angle and point of view of this magnificent piece of art that were undeniable proof of a very, very skilled artist? It revealed only a specific part of a female body, lying in her bed, sheets wrapped all around her, engulfing her. They were clearly very delicately and deliberately placed, and they only revealed just one of her areolas was showing, slightly puffed-up nipple included. The other was only to be guessed at by the beholder who, when staring at the painting for a longer stretch of time, had two choices -- to acknowledge the artistry and be amazed ... or to get a solid hard-on.

Brandon absolutely had had both reactions in the past. And even though the sight of such a gorgeous female body got him sexually aroused, he did not interpret it as an objectification of the woman. Yes, her face -- one of the prerequisites of a woman being perceived as more than a sex object -- was not shown... but so weren't her feet. And to him that made it less problematic, for some obscure reason. To Brandon, the painting rather seemed to make a statement on the power that women harnessed between their legs, a power far more powerful than that of the dangling piece of meat men were carrying around. And in a more philosophical reading, to him the view captured on the delicate canvas also hinted at the ever-important discussions about the origin of humankind and the significance of motherhood.

So why didn't she like it? If anything, she should see the craftsmanship that went into it -- or rather craftswomanship? He wasn't sure of the gender identity of Courbet. The use of lighting which dapped everything in a mood that resembled love, adoration, romanticism and, yes, also plain horniness. Not to mention the naturalistic perfection of the brushstrokes. There were a hundred more reasons why he adored this painting.

And still, Sarah did not get it. He caught himself thinking 'I guess Tony's girlfriend would get it immediately, she wouldn't think of the terms porn or pussy.' And he immediately hated himself for having had that thought because he loved his girlfriend of four years exactly for being different from the other people around him.

When he entered art school four and a half years ago, he was immediately drawn into that maelstrom of a very special subculture. One which he, an artist, obviously felt very welcome in. But one which on some level he also despised. That fateful combination of self-centred academia with an almost condescending worldview and of minds working like free radicals always on the search for a bond and a not-so-chemical reaction. Also, they liked to fuck around like bunnies -- concepts of free love and intoxication did their thing. Throw into the mix a constant desire to express your feelings -- all of them all the time -- and several different forms of plain crazy and you basically had a perfect description of the habitat that was an art school. Overall, it was fine but sometimes Brandon still felt he belonged to a living breathing cliché.

Sarah was a welcome break from that! While a lot of his coeds dated other artists and free thinkers, Sarah was on a route to becoming an accountant. Where he and his fellow artists were a bit crazy or wild, she was very down-to-earth. Where he was an extrovert that talked to much and too vigorously at parties, she tended to keep to herself and kick everything down a notch. Where he was impulsive and daring, she was safe and sound. And he absolutely loved her for it. Inf fact, they made a very good team because of their differences in character. Furthermore, he thought he was drawn to Sarah's different approach to life because he himself felt that he wasn't exactly like the other students and professors. For instance, he didn't care for the condescending way in which they treated art. For instance, he hated the distinction between high art and pop art. Which is also why he had constant fights with the others -- intellectual fights, mind you -- and liked to spend his free time outside of that very peculiar circle. He did like his pal Tony who was actually his best mate and he did get along well with some of the others on a daily basis, but he also thanked the God he didn't believe in for movie nights and reading Stephen King with Sarah, followed by sometimes very romantic and sometimes very naughty, almost animalistic sex. Where his fellow students liked Hungarian black and white paintings of windmills from the 1920s, he loved Andy Warhol. Where his peers liked internet videos about expressionist sculptures, he liked to stream popular TV shows and watch internet reactions to them. And where his fellows liked to make romantic love in the moonshine, he liked to throat fuck and then cum on his lover. And Sarah was his relief! Relief from the burdens of an art student. However, there was one other thing that he loved almost as passionately as Sarah...his own art.

"Why do you feel the need to show me a painting of a stranger's pussy while I am doing dishes, Brandon?" she inquired, half-jokingly, half-annoyed.

"Isn't it obvious? I want to do my thing with this," he replied. "And would it be better if it was a friend's pussy?" She left that last remark uncommented but just stood there in silence.

Brandon knew what was up. He knew the dance. In the end, she would not object to his plan. He had done naughty, even kinky stuff before in his art. Hell, he knew, she loved him partly because he was a freak in bed, just like herself although she tried so hard to hide it sometimes. So why would she mind him doing his thing with a painting of a naked woman? And she also really liked his art pieces, had even offered to buy one from him. An idea which he considered ridiculous.

But here was the thing -- she didn't yet know what would be different this time. Time for him to let the cat out of the proverbial sack.

"Uh, you need to let it grow for a while, Sarah," he said, a bit too timidly for his own taste.

"Excuse me?" was her brief and slightly irritated response. She looked at him not in disbelief but in simple ignorance.

He swallowed dryly. There was no going back now! "Yeah, I want to do my thing but this time with you as my model."

His 'thing', the thing that his professors and some of his fellow students belittled or plain out despised him for doing, was what he was actually best at in terms of art. Instead of coming up with his own ideas, style and subject for his works, he took famous pieces of art and copied them while subtly or significantly changing and enhancing them in one way or the other. He changed contents, adding styles, tried different materials. Things like that. That was the way how he, Brandon Fuller, created art. Something new from the old.

He had tried to do this with movies and sculptures, but paintings and photographs was where he was best at. He had copied Andy Warhol's 'Campbell's Tomato Soup' but using packets of stenciled Ramen Noodles instead. He had painted Munch's 'The Scream', in the exact same style, but making it look like Kevin McAllister from Home Alone, with Christmas trees in the back an all. He had created what he considered an awesome version of Dali's 'The Persistence of Memory' with cellphones instead of clocks. His peers and professors let him know that they deemed it too unoriginal, too uninventive, too un-artsy. But he just loved it. And Sarah did too. And that gave him intense pleasure.

This time, Brandon was adamant that he was going to re-paint the 'origin of the world' using Sarah as a model instead of just the original painting -- or more precisely, Sarah's coochie. And that meant, she needed to let her wonderful auburn pubic hair grow and grow. In spite of her silence, he was also sure that it would not take too much convincing because in the end he knew she would be up for it. Her kinky side always got the better of her, no matter what fake fight she would put up to keep up appearances. He assumed that beneath her 'hard accountant shell', she secretly nurtured a hopeless romantic with a very soft spot for his art and an even softer spot for his cock. But that was definitely way more than she would admit.

So just as expected, it only took him two full weeks of convincing her and six more weeks till her bush was grown enough for his taste.

THE PREPARATION

She was lying on the quite expansive bed that they had spent entirely too much money, maybe as a welcoming contrast to the old couch. They had fucked equally passionately in here than on that couch, too. The bed itself was fully drenched by the clear and warm light of a perfect morning sun, the beams entering through the broad windows which their apartment luckily offered. Brandon was standing behind a tripod which held his favorite camera, and he was trying to adjust some of the settings so that the picture would come out really, really good. He wanted it to hold up to the occasion, for the picture to be almost a work of art on its own. It had to be, too, because this picture would be the basis for his painting. It was that or asking Sarah to lie naked in the sun for hours on end, maybe even several days. On second thought, he wouldn't mind that. His penis? Even more so. He had first considered it. He might even have been able to pull it off, to convince Sarah to do this 'act of love' for him. All it would probably take was multiple day-long lectures about the value of his art, some well-spoken essays on his behalf about the pure beauty of her naked body, maybe a poem thrown in in between, and then also the promise that he would take her to that expensive new Thai restaurant which she loved. But in the end, he had opted for the pic. That was the cheaper way in every regard.

"Can we get on with it?" She interrupted his train of thought and repositioned her upper body, leaning on her arms, looking at him a bit impatiently. She also had the looks of someone a bit uncertain about this whole arrangement but who was strangely digging it at the same time.

She briefly and unconsciously scratched herself between her legs, the downside to those gorgeous pubes, he supposed.

"No, stop, Sarah! Lie down again! You're ruining the shot... Also, your left leg needs to be spread apart some more...and let it hang down from the bed," he instructed her.

"Like this?" She was trying to rearrange her body so that it would be an exact copy of the painting that he had put up on his tablet computer on the nightstand -- for her to look at and imitate. He could see at the look on her face as well as her restless body movement, though, that it was a rather uncomfortable position for her.

"Yes, that's better...but wait." He took the tablet with the original painting on it, walked over to the bed and gave it to her to hold up for him. "Hold this so I can see better!"

She obeyed, being ever the good art model that follows every direction of the auteur. He then knelt in front of the bed and carefully adjusted her legs as well as the white sheets surrounding her by hand, his eyes rapidly switching back and forth from screen to skin. When he first touched her leg and applied some pressure until she moved it in the right direction, Sarah startled and let out a slight moan, almost as if in protest.

"You have cold hands," she said with more of a giggle than actual anger in her voice. He smiled at her in response. "Sorry, babe!"

He was wearing his old dark blue Dali-joke shirt. Printed on it on top of a very stylized version of the famous beard, were the words of an old art-joke he had heard on TV a long time ago. It read 'I went fishing with Dali once. He used a dotted line and caught every other fish'. Art jokes. Corny to some, fabulous to him. He liked wearing it to his classes, so the others took offense. He also wore his very blue, very worn out, very tight briefs. No use to put on pants at home on a sunny Sunday morning.

Brandon now used both hands to shift and reposition her legs and arms. His face came very close to her private parts and while there he suddenly found himself staring at her pubes for what was far longer than the appropriate amount of time, had he not been her boyfriend.

"What are you staring at, honey?" she asked. She had tried to say it seductively, but it came out rather nonchalantly. But again, that soft giggle after she had said it. He liked that giggle. Liked it indeed.

"Inspiration." His smile broadened as his hands gripped her thighs and pushed them further apart. "Keep very still now, the position needs to be perfect!"

But as he said it, Sarah appeared to be focusing more on his touch than on her job at hand. It was only out of the corner of his eye that he saw it -- she was biting her lip. He knew that sign and what it usually meant. It encouraged him. While he still knelt there at the side of the bed, very close to her private parts now, wrapping the soft and incredulously white sheets with the sunlight gloating o'er carefully around her body, she asked him in almost a whisper: "Do you like them...my pubes?".

Not entirely surprised by the question, it still drew him out of his concentration for a moment. He made eye contact with her.

"What do you think?...Yes, in fact, I do ". He slowly let one hand run through that tremendous auburn bush just above and all around her pussy lips. "It doesn't just look great, like, you know... very retro. It also feels very good to the touch. Such an interesting...texture." His hand moving slightly up and down the lawn that had become a jungle.

He also played with her hair, feeling the slight tickle on the soft skin between the base of his fingers. But something was nagging him: Auburn hair instead of black hair. That was the only thing he could come up with. His 'enhancing' of the original work that was the very core of his trade. Not much to go on. To him, it did not seem enough of his own mind finding its way into his painting. But maybe he could think of something down the line, later, when he actually painted the thing.

He directed his thoughts and attention back to getting the job done, the photograph. He took his hands away from the auburn fire that did not singe his hands at all, ready to stand and take the photo of what was now an imperfect but good enough copy of the body seen in the original, when he suddenly heard Sarah's soft and fragile voice, like a child when being told to stop playing and to go to bed.

"No, don't! Keep going, keep doing that, babe." She looked at him with large vulnerable eyes. He realized that she didn't care anymore about the perfect leg position or being the best model slash muse for her artist. No, not at all. His touch, her newly found love for her own pubes and her dirty mind had found something else to focus on at this very moment. And sometimes, he decided, the artist had to take a step back and let the flesh step forward. He grinned at her. She carelessly threw the tablet to the side of her onto the bed.

THE ACT

His face was now very close to the origin of the world. He slowly caressed the inner parts of her left thigh with one hand while the other played with her pubes again. This produced the lip-biting again as well as several shorter moans. He did not even notice that he was mimicking Sarah and bit his own lip, only interrupted by his tongue licking and wetting his lips.

"You like that, huh?" he inquired even though it was the most rhetorical question there ever was.

"You bet, babe!" she said while allowing herself to giggle and moan again.

He was aware that she followed the movements of his hands very closely, taking in the sight of him taking in the sight of her, especially of her gorgeous pussy. And when he brought his face even closer, he suddenly noticed it -- the first faint glint on her wonderful snatch. Even if he wanted to keep on playing with her pubes and leaving her with this half-dreaded, half-enjoyed anticipation, his body now went into full sex mode. His hormones had taken over. As he brought his face closer, and with it his mouth and tongue, Sarah's body also decided to go into autopilot, ignoring everything about the task and the idea to stay in a very definite position. She slightly pushed her hips upward, seeking to greet him and his mouth. Which led to the moment of contact as his lips met hers. It was almost too much for him, the scent of her, the feeling of her wetness on his lips, his own long moans that now escaped his mouth and were muffled by her dampened pussy lips. He started kissing her gently until he heard her moans grow louder and longer. His eyes shot up and he saw that she had thrown her head back, eyes closed, back arched. She parted her legs to allow him full access. Brandon stretched out his tongue and let it glide along her slit, taking in as much of her fluids as possible, and then grabbed her legs firmly, pulling them further apart. He started to lick.

"Ooooh, Bran....argh...yeah" she let out rather clumsily and a porn director would have cut that take, He didn't care. It turned him on. As his tongue flicked over her clit, slow at first, then faster and faster, Sarah started to grab his head, fingers deeply buried in his hair and pushed him deeper into her core. He saw this as a clear sign and invitation to enter, to go spelunking. In between long but fast strokes and swirls of his tongue along her pussy, he let the tip of the tongue enter in her slit as much as was anatomically possible. In and out, followed by long strides and licks again, applying as much pressure as his tongue could manage. He knew what she wanted without her asking for it. He had learned by heart what she needed and especially what her pussy and clit reacted to. He had done it so often -- both of them being very orally disposed in bed -- so he knew that each act of his tongue should be accompanied by his finger on her clit, carefully applying pressure but ever so often pushing and rubbing harder. Every time he did that, she let out a small cry, in sweet agony, before his wet tongue gave the clit some cool bliss.