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From: tara blackwood <tarablackwood22@yahoo.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} The Artist - Chapter 1 (1/1) (MF, cons, cheat)
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Copyright and Disclaimer:
This story is copyrighted material. (c) 2004. All rights
are reserved by the author, including that of
publication. Posting on-line is only allowed when
permission is explicitly granted by the author, and includes this
disclaimer.
Contact the author, Tara Blackwood, at tarablackwood22@yahoo.com
for more information.
The following is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any person,
living or dead, is purely coincidental and entirely unintentional.
WARNING:
This story contains material with explicit and sexual content that
some may find offensive and may be illegal in some regions.
You must STOP reading if:
1. you are underage (below 18 in all cases or 21 in some regions),
2. this type of material is illegal under any circumstances in your
region,
3. you are offended by explicit or graphic sexual content,
4. you are offended by profanity or graphic language.
Thank you and enjoy. TB.
THE ARTIST (chapter 1)
(1)
On the first floor of the opulent art gallery, Lance Barnes heard the
phone ringing behind the door of the office upstairs, but his head did not
turn. He calmly continued the tour he was giving his customer, walking him
slowly past the oil paintings and stopping in front of each to supply
background information and a lengthy assessment of profit potential. At
the insistence of his wife, Henry Singleton was there to make purchases,
and Lance made sure their inspections were thorough, and slow.
There was a reason for his dalliance. He knew quite well what might be
going on behind that closed door on the second floor, and he meant to keep
Henry occupied on the lower level as long as possible.
The Singletons had stayed late into the evening, had waited for the last
of the throngs of New York's high society to leave so they could conduct
their deal without distraction. Henry and his socialite wife Carol had
been art enthusiasts since their early years, and the pieces that now hung
from their walls of their estate, gathered during the eighteen years of
their marriage, rivaled any private collection in the country.
The two men had been down on the gallery floor for some time, and Mr.
Singleton was becoming annoyed at the sluggishness of his host's promenade.
Sensing that, knowing he had kept the man away from the office as long as
could be expected, Lance led him toward the works of the local artists.
Abstracts by Kenneth Kopac. Charcoals by Dirk Ubl.
Then, Lance and Henry stopped where Carol had insisted that her husband
browse, in front of the oils by the fabulous Phillipe Cousineau, owner of
the gallery and personal friend of Lance. Henry stared at them
quizzically, his head askew and his brow furrowed, attempting to understand
exactly what it was that his wife saw in the highly unusual work.
With Henry momentarily occupied, Lance glanced up at the office. The
ringing phone had stopped immediately, and he surmised that Phillipe had
answered it. The great painter whose work Henry Singleton was shaking his
head at was up there, behind the door.
So was Henry's wife.
She would remain to discuss price she had told her husband, and asked
him to go down and examine the paintings, and choose his favorites. Lance,
having seen Phillipe's charm dazzle so many women before her, understood
Carol Singleton's motives. The chance at a private sitting with this
famous and captivating man, even for a moment, had struck a deep chord in
her. Struggling now to maintain the beauty that took no effort at all in
her younger years, she craved the flattery that the attentions of such a
young and enthralling stranger might provide with his risqué compliments
and provocative glances. Such harmless flirting is safe yet fulfilling for
such women, supplying the benign excitement of imagination without the
hazards of truth.
The young artist had bewitched her quickly, and understood from the
subtle changes in her body language and her breathing that she found his
bait mouthwatering. Rich, pampered women like Carol were Phillipe's
lifeblood.
Phillipe had nodded stealthily at Lance, and Lance understood what was
required. Off he took Henry Singleton, shutting the door as they left,
leaving Phillipe and Carol alone together to allow her to soak up the
enticing stares and praise without worrying about her husband's reaction.
Henry had gone willingly at Carol's request, unable to conceive that his
wife might have an ulterior motive. He could not imagine that she might be
somehow attracted to a man like Phillipe. To men, the artist seemed
flighty, even effeminate, with his pretty face and genteel carriage. They
could not see the unparalleled dynamism, the smoldering sensuality.
But their women understood.
The crowded exhibit had begun several hours earlier, the first
unofficial viewing of Phillipe's latest set of oil paintings, new works by
an artist of such unprecedented brilliance and sweep they had the stunned
art world turned on its head. Already a legend at the age of twenty-two,
Phillipe's success had brought him fame and spoils beyond imagination.
Hailed as the new Picasso, as a prodigy rare in history, his reputation and
riches had multiplied and swelled.
No one but his confidante Lance had even the slightest inkling that
young Phillipe cared for none of it, not the notoriety or the money. No
one else knew what Lance Barnes knew about Phillipe, that he desired only
the people that his name and wealth could bring to him. Enticing treasures
like the breathtaking Mrs. Singleton and her rich husband, for instance.
Despite possessing such singular skills, once-in-a-generation talents
with oils and brushes, Phillipe did not paint for the love of art, or even
for the art itself. No urgent voice within him demanded it, no sense of
history's loss could have swayed him toward it. If he had put his brushes
down, forever, they would never have called to him again.
He had another gift, one far more precious to him. He had known it
since the day puberty took his childhood from him. It was that other
talent which drove him, which controlled him, which called his name at
night. In his mind, in his heart and soul, in every inch of every bone of
his being, he drew breath for no other reason but to pursue that solitary
desire. He lived for one thing, and one thing only.
To seduce other men's wives.
The thrill that power gave him, the electricity, could not be attained
anywhere else. Even brush to canvas, in the hands of one of the century's
most acclaimed artists, could not generate a small piece of the emotional
fire and sense of control he felt the moment his manhood entered another
man's wife. That twisted gratification was all Phillipe needed or wanted,
the knowledge that he was capable of taking a woman of culture, a woman of
endless means and resources, and making her unhappy with her husband and
available to him.
A woman like Carol Singleton.
"Pardon me, Carol," Phillipe had said as the phone rang. Even with the
receiver at his ear, his hot eyes remained on the beautiful woman seated
across from him, as they had been since her husband had left the room.
He ran them up and down her body with neither embarrassment nor shame.
To her thin, shapely legs in their black hose, crossed tightly, high heel
swinging, and to her deep cleavage, at socially acceptable depth yet
supplying more than a clue of her ample breasts. To her powder-brushed
cheeks, their hue subtle and expert, and the deep, red lipstick that
provided a mannequin-like contrast to her snow white skin, and to her
magnificent white-blonde hair, colored no doubt to hide the gray hints of
time that could be disguised but not deterred.
Phillipe took her in to the last detail, his scorching eyes setting
little fires on her body as they went. His gentle manners, his aggressive
staring, his intense masculinity had been working on her from the moment
her husband had gone, and Phillipe could feel her wilting slowly. Another
rich and attractive socialite, aging and frustrated with her life, ripe for
the suave charm of a gorgeous man whose true art was seduction.
He winked at her and smiled, making her blush as he spoke.
"Hello, Arlene," he said into the receiver. A tinge of jealousy arose
in Carol at the sound of another woman's name. Though she had just
recently met Phillipe, his effect upon her had been so strong that she
viewed Arlene Leeson's call as a competitive intrusion. From the moment he
had kissed the back of her hand, his stares and touchings had been raising
goose flesh on her arms and legs, and now the mere mention of another
woman's name had provoked sharp jealousy.
"I'd love to, yes," Phillipe responded to a question from Arlene that
Carol could not hear. "Discuss other things? How mysterious you are! My
sweet one, I have a guest with me. May I call you back? We can meet later
in the week. Fine. Ciao, my love."
Sensing her bristling with envy, Phillipe answered Carol before the
question left her lips. "Just another art dealer, my dear," he said,
soothing her suspicions, "asking me to lecture at her gallery."
And then, Phillipe got back to business.
He rose slowly, and moved toward Carol.
"How extraordinary you look today, Carol," he said, his voice soft and
flattering. "I hope I do not embarrass you by saying so, but I always find
it impossible to keep such impressions to myself." Phillipe approached her,
looking not into her eyes as he spoke, but at her long legs, exposed
halfway up her thigh as she was seated.
He stood in front of her in silence then, and his powerful physical
presence worked its magic on her. She tried to hide the fallout, but her
nervousness was impossible to camouflage. The pace of Carol's breathing
increased noticeably as he complimented her, and grew deeper still as he
came near. Despite her husband's proximity, the tiny, illicit daydreams
Phillipe was sparking in her had her heart pounding fiercely in her chest.
"Come," he said politely, extending his hand. "We'll see how the
gentlemen are doing."
When their fingers touched Carol felt a stirring in her loins, that
foreign sensation her husband had long ago lost the ability to arouse in
her. She had never dreamed there was a man who could impact her the way
Phillipe was, and he had done it in minutes, with intense flattery and with
his powerful eyes. Here she was, an experienced woman, a faithful wife,
feeling suddenly like a schoolgirl alone in the cloakroom with her
loverboy.
She assumed they were going downstairs, but they walked instead toward
the huge window that overlooked the gallery. Standing directly behind her,
Phillipe raised his arm over her back, and pointed across the large floor
to where Lance and her husband were inspecting his work. His elbow rested
softly on her shoulder.
"There they are," he said.
There were other things going on now. His chest was brushing up against
her back slightly, and Phillipe heard Carol take a deep breath at that
contact. He knew he was melting her, the way he could any women. He
sensed her vulnerability burgeoning and he moved a bit closer, his thigh
grazing against her buttocks then.
"Which one of the paintings do you think he will choose?" he whispered
into her ear, placing his hands gently on her hips.
Carol's tension grew at that new and daring contact. Things seemed to
be moving too fast, and in an attempt to halt that progress she motioned
and waved through the glass toward her husband, who was glancing up at the
window as he spoke to Lance directly beneath them.
She waited for him to wave back.
"He can't see you," Phillipe informed her, his deep voice low and
intoxicating, his mouth inches from her ear. "He can't see either one of
us. This glass is made for privacy, for secrets."
As he spoke, Phillipe pressed his hands against her harder, and them
slid them slowly and heavily forward, toward her stomach. Shocked and
fearful, Carol drew a very deep breath deep into her lungs.
"Do you really want him to see you, Carol?" he asked her. Phillipe's
palms moved slowly across her ribcage as he spoke. They closed softly over
her large breasts, and the air rushed from Carol's mouth in a long moan
that was unquestionably feminine.
Behind her, Phillipe continued to speak as he felt her nipples stiffen
into sharp points against his massaging palms.
"It is glorious, is it not, to be the observer," he said, "to be able to
do what you want, whatever you want, in full view of everyone, yet still
not be seen?"
Against her protests, Phillipe began unbuttoning her blouse, and peeled
it away from her. He lifted her breasts out of her bra, making her gasp
again as she felt his hands on her skin.
Carol's sporadic and troubled breathing increased perceptively as young
Phillipe's aggression continued. His hands were pressing her bare breasts
toward him, flattening them, squeezing then gently, and he felt them
swelling in his hands.
He was fully erect now, and he began slowly rubbing his erection against
her jutting backside.
"Oh...no," she protested, but the action of her body began saying
something completely different. Her eyes fluttered closed, and her head
fell back against Phillipe's chest as his hands continued their work.
Instinctively, she pressed her hips backwards, and the contact with
Phillipe's stiff manhood became solid and constant.
She was moaning in earnest now, and one of her own hands involuntarily
found Phillipe's thigh, gripping it strongly.
"You know, Carol," Phillipe said informally, speaking as if they were
across the room from one another. "We could make love right here, and no
one would know," he told her, one hand between her legs then, able to feel
right through the fabric the moisture that had built up on her blazing
vagina. "Even as your husband looks up at us, so close, as if he is our
audience, I could take you and he would never know."
His roving hands were making the beautiful woman wild. Her head began
tossing side to side, and her long, white hair slipped across her shoulder
and covered her face.
Phillipe slid one hand down across her abdomen, slipping it past the
waistline of her dress and into her panties.
As she felt him on her flesh, the noises she made became those of a
woman in need. His index finger began sliding thickly along the dripping
lips of her vagina, and his thumb slowly revolved on her swollen clitoris.
"Ugh...ugh...ugh," she uttered in cadence, her hips bucking, feeling a
climax building with startling rapidity. She was overwhelmed, no longer
caring that her husband was twenty feet below then, staring up at blank
glass behind which this gorgeous young stud was molesting her.
"Yes, beautiful Carol," Phillipe whispered as he felt her knees bending
to allow his fingers deeper penetration. "Look. Your husband is watching
us."
When she didn't, he said more insistently, "Open your eyes," pinching
her thigh to bring her back. Carol obeyed then, even as she moaned, even
as her hips thrashed forward and back. She looked at Henry.
Her husband was indeed staring up at the window, staring straight at
her, as if he could see. Phillipe increased the speed as he sensed her
impending orgasm, his thumb rotating quickly and two fingers deep inside
her.
"Look at him," Phillipe demanded. Carol was grunting in passion now,
about to reach her crest. "Look your husband in the eyes as I make you
come."
A smile crossed Henry's face, as if he were enjoying the view, and he
began laughing at a remark by Lance.
Behind the glass, his wife exploded.
The volcanic orgasm hit her like a train, and her whole body began
trembling fiercely. All the while, as Phillipe had instructed, she was
looking at the face of her husband, doing so while she willingly let the
artist take her.
The expertise of Phillipe's hands had brought her to climax quickly, and
the sounds she made when the eruption hit could be heard faintly on the
gallery floor. Henry looked up at the strange noises, wondering what they
were and where they came from.
"Isn't it wonderful," Phillipe whispered, his fingers still inside her,
"as if we are looking down on them from heaven?"
Carol was limp in his arms, her knees sagging slightly, her spasms
subsiding. Never in her life had she felt like this before. The sexual
satisfaction was mind-boggling, and total.
"Isn't it wonderful," the artist said to her, "to feel like a God?"
(end--Chapter 1)
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