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He'd mouth-fucked me. Had Satan goaded me?
    I walked
briskly home, convincing myself that I'd not do it again, that I
wouldn't allow the panic to drive me to behave like that again -
like a whore, a slut, a prostitute. Prostitute. The word haunted
me, battered my mind with its ragged edges. Prostitute. I'd
received payment for what I'd done, I'd received sperm. Money,
goods, sperm... whatever was taken in exchange for sex didn't
matter - I was a prostitute.
    At home, I
wandered into my studio, trying to push the degrading act I'd
committed to the back of my mind - to the dark, shadowy corners of
my mind where I kept little boxes full of secrets, dreadful
secrets. There was a blank canvas on my easel, waiting for oils -
dreaming of rolling hills. I wished my mind was blank, clean. What
to paint? I wondered, taking the pallet and squeezing paint from
tubes. White paint - sperm. Taking a brush, I allowed my racked
mind to wander, to drift in an ocean of thought.
    I worked for
several hours, not really knowing what I was doing, what I was
painting. I seemed to be in a dream, unconsciously moving brushes
and the pallet knife across the canvas, mixing colours...
    Answering the
phone, I was delighted to hear Tony's deep voice. But guilt
suddenly gripped me in its cold steel hand - hurting my mind. "How
are things?" he asked.
    "I'm working."
They were the only words I could find.
    "What on?"
    I turned to
look at the canvass, conscious for the first time what I'd actually
been painting. I was naked, leaning over a young man sprawled out
on the grass, his erect penis in my mouth. Sperm dribbled from my
lips as I fervently sucked on his orgasming glans. His expression
was one of complete and utter satisfaction. His fingers were
embedded deep within my vagina, pussy-wet fingers, clearly visible
between my crudely opened thighs.
    "What on?"
Tony asked again.
    "Er... I'll
show you when it's finished," I replied, focusing on my pussy lips,
taut around the young man's thrusting fingers. Had Satan guided my
hand?
    "Are you OK?"
Tony asked concernedly, suspiciously. "You sound different."
    I was
different; I'd broken my marriage vows. Prostitute. "Yes, I'm OK."
Another lie. "And you?"
    "I'm missing
you, Helen. I wish we were in bed together."
    "Yes, so do
I." I sounded far from convincing! "There's the doorbell, I'd
better go." There was no one at the door, and I think he knew it.
Lies seemed to bubble from my lips with ease now.
    "OK, I'll ring
you tomorrow. I love you."
    "I... I love
you, too."
    Love? How
could I tell him that I loved him when I'd just sucked another man
off, swallowed another man's sperm? Mouth-fucked. What was love? I
knew not the meaning of the word. Love, lust, sex...
    Grabbing a
Stanley knife, I was about to slash the canvas, destroy the blatant
portrayal of my wanton adultery. The knife poised above my head, I
couldn't do it. The painting was good, one of the best I'd ever
done - I couldn't destroy it. Besides, destroying the painting
wouldn't destroy the truth. I'd prostituted myself, allowed a
stranger to fuck my mouth.
    My thinking
was becoming crude, my vocabulary uncouth. "Fuck," I murmured as I
flopped onto the Chesterfield. I felt dirty. "He fucked my mouth."
Could I ever kiss Tony again? The aura of another man's sperm
glowing around my lips, could I ever lock my mouth to his and kiss
him in love? Mouth-fucked.
    Leaping up as
the doorbell rang, I dashed through the hall. "Laura!" I beamed,
discovering my best friend standing on the step. "Come in!"
    "Hi, Helen,"
she smiled, tossing her long black hair over her shoulder as she
stepped into the hall. "I thought I'd drop in for coffee and a
chat."
    "I'm pleased
you did."
    "I haven't
disturbed you, have I?"
    "No, no I was
just..."
    "What are you
working on at the moment?"
    Sperm .
    What was I
working on? Me, sucking sperm from a man's orgasming penis,
drinking his come. Laura knew where my studio was and hurriedly
made her way there. I suggested that we go into the