Tell Me What to Do

By N.E. Moore

Tell Me What to Do is exquisite erotica. It leads you through six intertwined stories, each a tale of sensual discovery. It captures the blossoming sexual arousal of a muse and the artist who teaches her. It explores longing and desire, love and loss. The stories of erotic romance and emerging passion occur in a cottage above the sea, in an iconic building in Paris, in an American city, and in the bucolic Tuscan countryside. Like good sex, the rhythms of these stories vary; their outcomes are satisfying.

Tell Me What to Do is a scrumptious read, a revealing novel of erotic awakening. Told through the eyes of six strong characters, their stories are a literary delight. Readers will find something of themselves in each one of them. If you can only read one erotic novel this year, make it Tell Me What to Do.

• Language: English
• Publisher: N.E. Moore
• Release date: Mar 1, 2020
• ISBN: 9780463442258

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N.E. Moore

Tell Me What to Do

Copyright © 2020 by N.E. Moore

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2020 Chirra Floren Trust

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

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Tell Me What to Do

For those who seek pleasure in love

Eros seizes and shakes my very soul like the wind on the mountain shaking ancient oaks.

Sappho

Contents

Tell Me What to Do

Elsa

Ramón

Johanna

Daniel

Fiona

Gerard

About the Author

Tell Me What to Do

Part One

Elsa

August

I thought of him, alone in that rocky cove, creating his art with camera and paint. I thought of him and I needed his words.

As I got closer to the coast, the summer heat dissipated. The salty air reminded me of a life lost for good, of a time when time seemed endless, and love was all. It reminded me of him, and her, and tragedy. Tears crawled down my cheeks.

I stopped at the little store at Rocky Point. I thought he might like some wildflowers. Perhaps a chardonnay. The young girl at the counter sang me a song for free, as her cat slept in an open window. The sea breeze carried a gull’s cry.

Four miles down the road, I stopped. His painted mailbox sat on a driftwood post. I turned onto a dirt road that slanted toward the water. Sunflowers bent in the breeze and the pale blue sky sat on the ocean. There were no clouds.

I drove around a large boulder. The crescent cove stood off to the left. His cottage, yellow and blue and white, was tucked into an outcropping of even larger boulders. The scene looked like one of his landscapes and it made me feel calm.

I stopped near his front door. I was early. His dog ambled over to sniff my legs. A wave crashed below.

Elsa, he said, as he came around the corner of the cottage.

Daniel, I said, reaching out to embrace him. He enveloped me, his strength still with him after the cancer and the tragedy.

Are professors allowed to do this with students these days? he said, a smile dancing on his lips and in his eyes.

Probably not, I said. But it’s been years since I called you Dr. Dan.

How are your kids?

They’re great, I said. After each summer with their dad, they come back two inches taller. They’re truly a joy.

And what about you, Elsa? How are you? I pulled back. I didn’t want to cry.

We sat on slatted chairs, the wind blowing now and then. He’d put the wildflowers in a gray vase. They looked like a still-life, sitting on the small wooden table. He opened up a bottle of red wine. He listened. I spoke, uninterrupted, for a while.

So, there it is. I’m consumed with motherhood and work. I’m too timid to break out. I feel like I’m drying up.

What do you really want, Elsa? He clasped his hands under his chin. I hesitated.

I want my old professor to tell me what to do. I want to live. I want to be the woman I think I am under all this shit. He smiled just a little, reached for his glass, and sipped the wine. He looked at me with those gray eyes that matched the rolling sea.

Stand up, please, and walk over to that rock. I looked at him and then did what I was told. The sun warmed my face. Now, please come back and sit down. He filled my glass half way and offered me some crusty bread. He looked out to the ocean and then back to me. How do you feel right now? he said.

I want to cry.

Then cry, he said, and I did. After a few minutes, he took my hand and we walked into his cottage. He showed me the guest room he had prepared for my visit. Take a nap, if you like. I’ll wake you for dinner. He closed the door. I fell on the bed and drifted off. When I awoke, I heard him moving around in the main room. I washed my face and changed my blouse before I joined him.

That smells so good, I said.

Just a little baked salmon, some basmati rice with curry, and a few green beans, he said. I hope you like fish. His cooking was like his art--careful, considered, balanced. The chardonnay went well with the food. Our conversation focused more on him, but it took some effort to cut through his reticence to speak about himself. The ocean was our dinner music and, after a couple of hours, it lulled me toward more sleep.

Thank you, Daniel, I said, holding him close. Thank you. He smelled old and wise. Can we talk some more tomorrow?

Of course, Elsa. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? Have a good night.

* * *

The next morning, we walked along the beach and, like kids, skipped stones into the surf. We talked about trivial things. We laughed at old memories. We reflected in silence. The ocean air refreshed my spirit and I was anxious to get on with exploring a path to the next stage of my life. We scrambled back up the sandstone to his cottage.

Let’s get some coffee and go into the studio, he said. His studio was separate from the cottage. Its large windows let in a lot of light. All around, there was evidence of the wonderful artist Daniel is. Finished paintings, works in progress, and large-scale framed photographs leaned against the walls. In a corner farthest from the door, there was a digital workstation and a photo printer, a couple of old armchairs and a small table. Most of the room was empty, filled from time to time, I guessed, with an easel or a model or whatever else stimulated his creativity.

The artist’s lair, I said, turning in a circle with my arm stretched out.

Sometimes, he said. Sometimes, it’s just a retreat from the cottage. He carried his coffee to the corner with the chairs. I followed and placed my cup on the table. Filtered light from a skylight showered us.

This is nice, I said. It’s cozy.

Elsa, let’s talk more about you. His gray eyes pierced mine. He waited, silently, for me to speak. I opened up to him. He watched me talk of desire. He listened to my needs. He listened closely to my words.

It’s pathetic, I said. I mean, I’m pathetic. I don’t know what to do. He stood up and slid his chair closer to the open space. He told me to stand in the center of the room where another shaft of light shone from the ceiling. He sat down in his chair and looked at me, quietly, for a full minute.

Turn around, slowly, he said. I turned for him. Do it again, he said. What are you feeling?

I feel like I’m on display. I feel self-conscious.

Turn your back to me, he said. I faced the door.

What are you doing, Daniel?

I’m doing what you asked. I’m telling you what to do. I’m exposing the woman inside of you, the woman under all the shit you’ve talked about. I turned and faced him. His eyes held mine and then they dropped to look at the rest of me.

It seems like the artist is looking me up and down, sizing me up for a painting or a photograph.

How does that make you feel?

Embarrassed, to tell the truth. I’m modest. Maybe to a fault.

Take off your jeans, he said.

What?!

I’m telling you to take off your jeans, Elsa. I looked at him. He stared back and crossed his legs. He just kept looking at me, waiting.

I can’t do this, Daniel.

Why not?

"Because I’m embarrassed. You’re my professor, for god’s sake!

I was your professor, Elsa. I’m not anymore.

Still…

Still what? he said. He sat there, looking at me, waiting for me to take off my jeans. And in the stillness of that room, in the center of the light, I took them off.

Well? I said. He stared at my crotch, then found my eyes again.

It’s a start, he said. You’re nervous, aren’t you? I was. I was embarrassed seeing him look at me. Now, take off your shirt. He wanted me nude, one step at a time. He wanted to see me, all of me. Deep down, I wanted to be seen.

I reached for a button. Still nervous, I reached for another. He kept his eyes on mine, as I dropped my shirt to the floor. He stood up and walked around me, keeping his distance, giving me space. He asked me again how I felt.

Still nervous. Still embarrassed. I said.

"Why?’

I feel so exposed.

You’re still clothed, he said.

I know.

Do you want to be nude?

I don’t know, I said, surprising myself. Now, he was in front of me, looking at my blue panties. I looked down and saw a wet spot. Oh, my god!

This is turning you on, Elsa.

I am so, so embarrassed, I said. I looked up at his gentle face smiling at me.

Take off your bra, Elsa. Take it off for me. He spoke with the lilt of his native Ireland. He stepped back, giving me even more space to show myself. This man, this artist, my teacher, kept looking at me, waiting for me to take the next step. I was no longer in control. I did what he told me to do.

This is for you, Daniel, I said, as I slowly pulled my bra away.

Your nipples are hard.

Like you said, I’m turned on, even though this is embarrassing as hell. I laughed nervously. He smiled and stared at my breasts. His eyes fell back to my wet crotch. Then he turned and walked back to the table. He sipped his wine and brought my glass to me.

To you, lovely Elsa, he said, raising his glass. We both drank.

Thank you, Daniel. I never thought I’d be standing here, half naked, drinking wine with you.

The twists and turns of a life well-lived, he said, taking my glass. He placed our glasses on the table and returned to his chair.

Please face the door, he said. I obeyed. Slowly, very slowly, remove your panties. I did what he asked and left my panties at my feet. How does it feel to be completely nude in this room with me? he asked.

Embarrassing, I said, still facing the door. I know you’re looking at me, at my ass, and I can’t cover up. And here’s the truth, too: I’m excited, I’m turned on, I like being told what to do, I like showing myself, I feel like a woman again after so, so long.

Then, turn around and let me see all of you. I couldn’t stop smiling as I showed myself to him. He smiled back, taking all of me in with his beautiful eyes.

* * *

Lunch was new for me. The onions and tomatoes, the olive oil and parmesan, tasted great. Sitting naked next to Daniel kept me on edge. His dog lay at my feet, content to get a few table scraps from his master. Being nude outside in the warm afternoon was pleasant. There was no breeze. A light sheen covered my skin. For dessert, Daniel offered some Chianti and breadsticks.

I answered some probing questions about my lack of a sex life and my lack of many male friends. I felt safe outside the cottage with my former secrets. I felt safe in the control of my teacher.

Let’s go back to the studio, he said. Inside, he placed a high stool in the center of the room. Please sit, he said, and I did, as he walked over to a cabinet and pulled out a camera.

What are you doing?

I’m going to take your picture. Actually, I’m going to take a lot of pictures of you.

What will you do with them, I asked.

Post them on the internet, of course, he said.

Wait! You can’t do that! I’d be humiliated. What if my kids saw them?! He smiled. You’re joking, right? He played with his camera and a light meter. Come on, Daniel. Tell me you’re joking.

Do you trust me, Elsa?

I think so.

You’re not sure? he said.

I trust you, Daniel. I meant it, but I was nervous again. I felt very exposed.

Good, he said. He raised the viewfinder to his eye and began shooting me from different angles. He changed my position on the stool and shot some more. Then, he had me stand up and spread my feet apart. My moist pubic hair glistened in the light. He encouraged me to play to the camera, to make love to it. He wanted to see my sexiness. He wanted me to let go.

This is moving too fast, I said. I can’t shake my embarrassment. I’ve never done anything like this. He put the camera on the stool, picked up my clothes, and handed them to me.

I’m sorry, Elsa. Please get dressed.

We sat outside the cottage and talked. He alluded to Ovid and Shakespeare and Stieglitz. He asked me to bare my soul and I spoke of conflict, embarrassment, and fear. He was teaching me, in his way, to find myself again. After a while, he said he was going to get vegetables for dinner. I declined his offer to tag along. When he left in his old truck, I used his outdoor shower and then fell asleep to the sound of the ocean. He wasn’t back when I awoke, so I walked down to the cove. The late afternoon sun shone golden against the cliffs, as sandpipers scurried along the beach.

I got back just as he was carrying two cloth bags of vegetables into the cottage. I helped him wash them and put them in a steamer. We drank some wine and talked of love and, in the gathering dusk, ate dinner under the sky.

I need to be alone for a bit, Daniel. I need to think. Will you excuse me?

Of course, Elsa. I’m going to work for an hour or so in the studio. I’ll see you in the morning. I got up, embraced him, and kissed his cheek. In my room, I undressed and studied my body in the mirror. I caressed my skin. I touched myself and probed my sex. I stifled my moans as I sought release. When I came, I cried.

* * *

His barking dog woke me up early in the morning. Rain was falling. I put on a sundress, just the sundress, and found him in the main room, drinking tea.

Good morning, Elsa! he said, smiling.

Good morning, Daniel. Did you expect this rain?

I did, he said. Would you like some tea? I nodded and he poured a cup and offered a small English biscuit. He told me that he had reviewed the photos he took of me and asked if I wanted to see them later. I said I did. Then, standing by the stove, I took off my dress.

I want you to see me, Daniel. I want you to see the real me. I’m not sure who that is yet but, being here, I’m finding out. He looked at me and smiled. He looked at all of me. I smiled back and fondled my breasts. I rubbed my nipples to make them hard. I pulled on my pubic hair and spread my lips. I turned around and grabbed my ass. I looked back at him watching me and I giggled. He started laughing, too.

You’re a beautiful woman, Elsa. You deserve to be happy. I think you’re beginning to understand that.

I think I am too, professor. I walked back to the table and sat down. I touched his face. Thank you, Daniel. He smiled again. After breakfast, I want you to take more photos of me. I’ll pose however you want.

You won’t be embarrassed?

I will be but, strange as it seems, I want to do this. He nodded and said he hoped I’d find out why.

I left my sundress in the cottage and walked with him to the studio. This time, he moved one of the chairs to a window with morning light and asked me to sit in it. He draped a colorful shawl on my body.

May I touch you from time to time, Elsa, to pose you? He was so polite, even though we both knew that he could do what he wanted with me. I couldn’t refuse.

Of course, you can, I said. You can do what you want with me. He smiled and patted my head and, then, walked across the room to get a camera. He turned on some soft jazz.

Your curves and the folds of the fabric blend well together, he said, as he began taking the photos. He adjusted the shawl and put a wide-brimmed hat on my head before taking about twenty more shots. Then, he took the hat and the shawl and tossed them on a bench. He placed my arms on my chest and moved them about until he was satisfied with what they covered and what they left exposed. He asked me to cross my legs so that the sun shone on them just right.

"So, this is how a famous artist