Except for her hypnotic performance, everything around him was fading. Spotlights dimmed. Shapes blurred. His senses were commandeered by the ferocious throb threatening to burst his strained Burberry flat fronts.
Somewhere at the other end of the main gallery, his wife would be mingling amongst semi-circled acolytes accessorized with flutes of half-drunk Lyme Bay, joining in buzzed homage to the controversially explicit photographs and sculptures on display. A constellation of social luminaries, both real and reproduced, guaranteed healthy crosscurrents of murmured speculation.
The sounds rose and fell from far off, a white noise surf that had nothing to do with him anymore.
Concealed in the shadow of a mythical couple on the verge of an epic fuck, the nubile girl pulled him closer and whispered his most perverted desire.
She backed him against the solid mass of a nude male torso and knelt between his trembling legs.
From below, her wrist breached the symmetry of her dress.
He needed relief. He needed it fast.
He could come in her mouth, before anyone found out.
***
The dress had drawn his eye first, its vivid medley of colors as striking as a life vest amidst the formal sea of beige and black.
As they had entered the festivities, two male sentries armed only with full frontal staffs wanked in freeze frame opposite one another. The contorted visage on one struck him as familiar. It was rumored that some celebrities, and even a few aristocrats, had been immortalized by this particular artist. So subtle were the resemblances, that no one knew for certain. Rumors remained exactly that.
Everyone agreed the turnout was impressive, both in quantity and quality. His wife pointed out the theatre legend, three middling starlets and a newly divorced duchess. He nodded politely, but their appeal was lost on him. Who would be watching fully clothed people, in a roomful of bare tits and dicks?
He also couldn't understand how the spectators could be content to swarm like a flock of strutting flamingos, rather than disperse more comfortably in the expansive hall. He hated confined quarters, no matter how expensively understated the fragrances might be.
They accepted regional Chardonnay from trays circulated by smooth-chested stewards in shirtless black tie.
He waited until after a half dozen stops on the tour before excusing himself to explore on his own. She was used to his need for solitude, and graciously accepted his peck on the cheek as she waved heartily to another couple.
He wandered toward the exhibits now abandoned by the flock, seeking to indulge his own opinions about each, without the prattle of collective criticism about.
Voices parried at a safer distance behind him as he reached a voluptuous rendering of two females in Sapphic embrace while ogled by a masturbating male. Embarrassed at his base reaction, he turned to see his wife in animated conversation with acquaintances responsible for their invitation.
He had to admit, she looked damned sexy in the strapless cream sheath, top swells tastefully mounded beneath a perfect strand of pearls. He adored the love for adventure beneath her placid exterior. For his birthday, six months before, she'd hired a professional masseuse to give him a happy ending, captured on video for the couple's private enjoyment. Which they enjoyed, on occasion.
Something wasn't quite right, however. He was feeling accommodated, even humored of late. He had chalked it up to complacency and the stresses of everyday life. Like all phases, it would pass.
She caught his eye and tossed her 'I'm thinking of you' wink before re-engaging her peers. Maybe once they were alone again, he could talk her into leaving early.
Meanwhile, there were the libido-friendly attractions at hand, like the Sapphic duo's tit-fondling lip lock. Bet the chap who's wanking off to the side is keen to get his woody between either set. Know I would.
In a neighboring threesome, two young females simultaneously fingered one another while bestowing curious licks on either side of a much older man's impressively curved bone. Want, was the one-word review from under his boxers.
A splash of startling colors interrupted his lecherous reverie. Their wearer pivoted and posed just beyond an exquisite carving that captured a self-pleasuring woman's anatomy with the finesse of a harpist coaxing glissandos from her instrument.
Normally he would have been transfixed by the latter. But his gaze bypassed the risque recital to roam a fall of silken tresses that drifted gently along the Matisse of the living woman's back, then it locked onto the skirt's swing as it swept her gluteal curve.
A frisson of deja vu spiraled straight to his groin at the sight of the dress. He felt guilty for staring so long. Quickly he occupied himself with a much larger tableau of a well-endowed male eager to lock loins with a nearly nude nymphet.
The colors crossed his line of sight again. For the first time, she faced him.
The birthday masseuse!
She wore that dress when I followed her to the private room...
Surprise and panic seized him in warring proportions.
What was a happy ending parlor girl doing at a shindig like this?
Her eyes met his with the friendly nonchalance of a fellow aesthete.
Maybe she doesn't recognize me with my clothes on.
She sauntered a few degrees closer and paused, studying the couple's larger-than-life lust.
His head bobbed defensively toward the crowd.
"She can't see me from this angle," the girl spoke with reassuring softness. "Your secret will be safe."
So much for not being recognized. He knew his face had reddened. 'Awkward' didn't begin to describe the situation. This girl had seen him naked. Had rubbed her oiled hands and firm tits all over his nakedness. Had kneaded, teased and sucked him off to two explosive ejaculations.
She had even gone so far as to...
Because he wasn't sure what else to do, he sipped courage from his glass. Part of him wanted to run, but curiosity tagged in and started wailing on panic when her fresh, non-designer scent roused appealing memories.
He certainly wouldn't have minded running into her again. But here? Now what?
"That's right, carry on as if you're alone," she encouraged. "Pretend to admire the frescoes."
He marveled at her cool control of the situation. Just like my birthday, when she lay on top of my back and told me to put on the blindfold...
"What do you make of what you've seen so far?" she bantered.
"It's...arresting, to say the least," he answered tightly, fighting off flashbacks of her unclothed comeliness.
He shot an anxious look down the gallery. His wife, farther away now, was chatting with a curator they knew. Reprieved, his gaze returned to the younger woman, but his mind raced to recall how much of her appeared on the video he and his wife had seen.
Her affable smile grew confidential. "I saw you checking out Lady Swinburne and Lord and Lady Entwistle a few moments ago."
He was puzzled. The Sapphic scene with the male voyeur? "You can't be serious," he scoffed.
"I assure you it's the truth. I know the artist personally."
Shock registered on his face. The ice was broken. "Y-you mean--?" She nodded. 'Lady Swinburne and Lady Entwistle are--"
"Yes. They are. But as you could tell, Lord Entwistle is just fine with it. Did you spot Brian Kellers on your way in?"
The rugby superstar? So that's why the sentry looked familiar!
"On the wall nearest the Entwistles, you'll find three large photographs," she directed. "Lani Kalenas, Sharon Bloom, and Wyndham Winston. We call them the MILF Muses. Go on, have a look."
He ambled over to the nude portraits of the journalist, the veteran actress, and the talk show host. Their poses were identical – manicured hands hoisting luscious, large nippled tits aloft. Everything else was carefully concealed by selective lighting.
When he risked a sideways glance, the girl could not be seen, which gave him the confidence to return to her orbit.
Her expression was playful. "Would you have been able to tell, if you hadn't known?"
He felt oddly pleased to be privy to such insider information, though given the source, he wouldn't dare pass on these tidbits at home. The new secrets glittered between them, shiny trinkets to be carefully stored upon parting.
"Paolo had a lot of fun working with Veronica Bangs and Luisa-Martine, too."
He brightened at the mention of his two favorite porn stars. At first opportunity, he'd have to check out their contribution to the evening's attractions.
"But theirs weren't finished in time for the opening. Paolo thinks it will be sometime next month."
Wait a minute. Exactly how does she know this artist, this Paolo? Is he one of her other massage clients? Did he get the same VIP treatment?
He was annoyed with himself for feeling annoyed.
Oblivious to his pique, she motioned toward the couple before which they stood. "Astonishing, isn't it? It took two years from concept to finish. Note the attention to detail in the musculature..." Her caress floated over the male's flexed thigh.
He tried to ignore the stab of longing - how he wanted it to be his thigh! - to ransack his memory for that giveaway visual he might have overlooked.
How much of her could my wife have seen? The long hair, yes, but what about her face? Obviously she wasn't wearing that dress at the time she was teasing my cock with the silk knickers she'd just taken off...
...or with her...
No. That part was strictly off the record.
Stop it! You can't risk a hard-on here, in front of...
Leave!
Now!
But his vintage Cole Haans weren't receiving the message. They shuffled. They shifted. They remained in place.
Her photo had not appeared on the massage therapist's web page. Of that, he was certain. He had looked it up one ball-aching afternoon while he was alone in their flat. Thinking to scratch an impulsive itch with a repeat performance, he had phoned, but a recording announced the shop was on holiday for the next two weeks.
Since she's keeping herself hidden, what difference does it make?
He decided to relax and enjoy the guided tour.
"See how the artist has interpreted her excitement?" she gestured. "Her top is still on, but just barely." She traced the pouting bubbles of the female's exposed underswell in a slow, horizontal figure three.
As her tender palms cupped petite nipples and began a sensual journey down the nymphet's torso, he wondered how his palate could suddenly feel so dry in spite of the recent wash of wine.
"She looks ready for him, doesn't she?" One finger edged along the ripple of engorged labia, then delicately circled the marbled jut within. "And she needs to be. Look how large he is."
Please, no. Don't show me like that.
But her hands-on demonstration had already shifted back to the heft of the man's inner thigh, brushed the heavy dip of his balls, and tickled upward until the base of his inflamed rod was nearly wrapped in her hand, its girth too broad for complete enclosure.
"There's such an eroticism about the moment before penetration, don't you think? Anticipating that sense of conquest, of taking...knowing how good it's going to feel..."
She tugged in coddling vertical strokes, gradually inching her way into the sensitive zone he recognized as his own. Tiny, titillating kisses nudged him through his haberdashery.
Please, yes. Don't stop what you're doing.
Just as the tactile safari was about to summit the massive erection and plant its flag, he became aware of intrusive chatter. A pair of diamond-studded dowagers were closing in on them at a spry pace.
As casually as he could manage, he approached the next closest work on display. A seated male and female openly masturbated each other, while another female knelt between his legs to lick his tight balls, and the first female was gagged with another man's cock. Which did nothing to quell his own stirring bulge.
The tap of designer label soles on hardwood grew more distinct. A shrill, mezzo whine overlaid the steady trot.
"Really! The swill that passes for art these days! And such a corrupting influence! My Herbert would be rolling in his grave, I tell you."
Her companion tut-tutted in agreement. "I can't believe I missed Resignation Street for this...this pornographic filth. I don't know about you, Mildred, but I could use a real drink about now. First, I need the restroom."
The shrill mezzo tilted a Piageted wrist. "The Hopsnuffle Club should still be serving. We can stop by and say hello to Ernestine. Did you hear about her daughter? She's getting married again! This must be her third..."
Tapping and gossiping receded as the pair turned away from the hidden tease and her startled quarry, then disappeared down a hallway.
During the interlude, he noticed that the social swirl had retreated in the opposite direction, like an outgoing tide he'd lost track of.
It's a sign. I should just walk away. Get out, while the getting is good.
His frail resolve collapsed when he heard the girl's light laugh. He decided to admire the onanistic harpist some more.
"I'm glad you're not that uptight," she giggled. It was the same mirthful sound she made shortly after his stiffness erupted into her willing mouth, when she shyly confessed that he'd brought out the cumslut in her. The surge in his pants, which had quieted with the dowagers' diatribe, was up to its troublemaking self again.
Perhaps he would work up the nerve to ask her to meet somewhere, sometime soon.
"You like that one, don't you? I can tell," she prompted.
"Yes," he answered without moving his lips.
"You like watching a woman pleasure herself."
He was silent. They both knew.
"It's my favorite of all the works he's done with that theme. I was thinking of you when I posed for it."
"What?!" Forgetting all caution, he swung toward her with an incredulous stare, ravenous for more details.
He saw that her thumb was still flicking the thick, priapic crown.
"It's true. Paolo wanted to do some shots of me in the studio, the day after your..." She groped for a venue-appropriate euphemism. "...appointment. I could still feel your fingers..." Her own alighted on the wishbone formed by the nymphet's intimate folds. "...right...there..."
Her intonation wobbled; the flush of her cheeks deepened. "The rest happened naturally."
He drained his glass, to no avail. His throat still felt parched.
"Paolo was very pleased," she blushed.
That must mean only one thing. "Did you and Paolo—"
"Yes. Remember the scene you watched when I made you come again?"
"That was him...about to fuck you in that chair?" he blurted, turned on beyond all reason.
"Such an eroticism about the moment before penetration," she sighed in dreamy reprise. "Paolo is well-proportioned, just like you. Obviously, he took some artistic license here," she giggled again, gliding her fingers up and down the phallus with mesmerizing technique.
If statues ever ejaculated, this one will.
If she keeps it up on that oversized voodoo doll, I will.
Lustful mischief widened her eyes. She drew tiny circles over the underside, just beneath the head. "I bet you've even watched our video all by yourself."
That dirty little vixen! Does she have a camera in my bedroom, too?
On that restless, tumescent afternoon right after his fruitless phone call to the masseuse, he had. Frustrated and aroused, stripped naked and rock hard, he watched the DVD. Then he switched off the player, lay back and writhed on the bed to their private scenes, the ones that needed to be censored from the finished version.
For the girl had done much more than the hand job his wife had requested for him. As he relived the forbidden feeling when she slid her tightness onto his thickness and he had to remain agonizingly still while she stroked herself off, he rutted his fist to the quickest, most volatile come he'd had in a long time.
"You've thought about doing that again with me, haven't you?"
Hearing the truth in her soft voice, sent a jolt through him.
"I know I still think about it." Her hand slipped away, leaving the randy male's hard-on to fend for itself. "I think you do, too."
He longed to ask if and when it could be arranged, but his tongue wouldn't cooperate.
"There is an element missing from this event, wouldn't you agree?" She rested her pert bottom on the pedestal's broad lip, and slowly spread her graceful legs.
He took one last peek down the gallery, then joined her in her hiding place. His pulse thundered in his ears.
"Still images everywhere, right? Some two-dimensional, some three...but don't you think this theme lends itself to a bit of...performance art?"
She lifted the colors with her other hand, revealing the pretty little niche he had been allowed to probe and tease during their memorable session.
She wore no knickers.
His mind fizzled, greyed out. It must be the heat from the floodlights.
"In this kind of performance art," she breathed, seductive fingers curling within her opened frame, "the viewer must do more than watch. He must also participate."
She rose, reached out and caressed the warm, monolithic bulge in his trousers.
"Stop," he squirmed. "I can't risk it." I'm too close...
"Getting off in your pants, you mean?"
Oh, fuck. Just the way she said that..."Yes...No. This."
"Shhh," she soothed. "Don't you know by now..." Deftly she unzipped him, her eyes melting down all resistance. "...that I can take care of that?"
She grasped his tie and drew him closer, until her cheek feathered against his. Her fragrant heat filled his nostrils.
What he heard her whisper, made him harder than he ever dreamed possible.
She backed him against the solid mass of the male's torso, slid onto her knees, and released him from his tailored restraints.
The words she had spoken capsized what remained of his consciousness. Their utter depravity intensified the delicious tugs on his rocket, the decadent flicks of her tongue where his precum glazed.
His aching, rigid manhood sought the perverse gratification he'd fantasized about since his birthday, and plunged toward its long-anticipated refuge. Her coconut-glossed lips parted to accommodate his thickened member, then sealed him in.
He looked down at her geometrical aphrodisiac of widened knees and angled legs. At her wrist diving beneath her skirt. At his cock disappearing into her mouth.
Feels...so...wrong...so...fucking...hot...shouldn't be...doing this...but...been...much too long...and it feels...oh fuck...
His hands wound in the silk of her hair, guided her where he needed her to be.
Her breath misted his fur-coated groin. It blew in tradewind gusts as libidinous fever rose from between her legs and opened her throat to his deepest urges.
He felt the tremors overtake her much sooner than he'd thought. His cock vibrated with her stifled mewls and quivering limbs. The feel of her silenced screams stoked recklessness within him.
She'll never be more ready than she is now.
He wished he could have seen what went on under the dress as she came.
It would be effortless to lift her...
He released his grip from the back of her neck.
...turn her around...
And seized her by the shoulders.
...bend her over the horny dude's leg...
And tried to drag his engorgement from the persistent compression of her lips.
...push up that slutty dress...
And discovered his backward maneuver was no match for the titanic roughness.
...spread her thighs apart...
And felt the slippery fingers which had rubbed her slit, join the others in mooring his shaft to the buoyant bob of her mouth.
...and fuck that tight tease of a cunt...
And thrashed under the relentless, prick-pleasing waves of her tongue.
...like the wanton...
His knees wobbled. She clutched with both hands behind his hips, abetting his ultimate thrust.
...little slut she is...oh fuck...
He struggled to keep from making a sound as the heavy cargo of his need was jettisoned through his cock in powerful, satiating blasts.
The ever so taboo suck of her mouth lengthened the rush, until he thought he'd faint.
FUCK.
Fucking amazing.
Awash in his release, and buffered by their cloud of half-suppressed gasps and groans, neither was aware of the footsteps until it was too late.
A piercing exclamation of shock broke them apart and painted her chin with an incriminating splash of come, as his relieved column slithered into view.
Groping to straighten postures and disheveled clothing, the pair found themselves the objects of diamond-hard disapproval from two bejeweled, flabbergasted matrons who had taken a wrong turn in trying to find the exit, then heard what they construed as distressed noises emanating from the sculpture.
"You were right, Mildred!" hissed the one on the left, jaw quivering in outrage. "All this newfangled art is a corrupting influence!"
Sobered and zipped in record time, he retreated toward the safety of the flock as rapidly as his liquid legs would bear him.
As the biddies' scowls raked her up and down, she was tempted to spill a tasty morsel about the man's wife that would have scandalized them right out of their Bvlgari baubles.
Instead, the girl smiled serenely at the older women, cleared her chin with an elegant, two-fingered swipe, and smeared his dripping seed luxuriantly along the randy male's colossal cock, careful not to cover the camera embedded just beneath the formidable ridge. Its hidden clones were leering from the harpist's shoulder and from the navels of the mutually masturbating couple.
Paolo was going to be very pleased.
