Message-ID: <46572asstr$1076465406@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
X-Mail-Format-Warning: No previous line for continuation: Wed Aug 14 16:30:23 2002Return-Path: <tarablackwood22@yahoo.com>
X-Original-Message-ID: <20040210183534.82520.qmail@web21509.mail.yahoo.com>
From: tara blackwood <tarablackwood22@yahoo.com>
X-ASSTR-Original-Date: Tue, 10 Feb 2004 10:35:34 -0800 (PST)
Subject: {ASSM} The Artist - Chapter 2 (1/1) (MF, cons, cheat)
Lines: 527
Date: Tue, 10 Feb 2004 21:10:06 -0500
Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail
Approved: <assm@asstr-mirror.org>
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d
X-Archived-At: <URL:http://assm.asstr-mirror.org/Year2004/46572>
X-Moderator-Contact: ASSTR ASSM moderation <story-ckought69@hotmail.com>
X-Story-Submission: <ckought69@hotmail.com>
X-Moderator-ID: dennyw, hecate
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. Any comments would be welcome as well.
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.
This novel is being posted chapter by chapter. Read previous chapters
first, of course.
Thank you and enjoy. TB.
THE ARTIST - (chapter 2)
(2)
Blackmail.
The word alone conjures up intrigue, visions of shadowy backrooms and
lurid conversations far from the eyes and ears of everyday life.
Seduction.
Stir that magnet into the mix, and all but the dead will turn their
heads. To try and hear the secrets that can never be theirs. Yearning to
see what should never be seen. And in the darkest recesses of their
hearts, dreaming the mysterious dreams that bear tasty and forbidden fruit.
No one was there to hear or see, or to dream, as Arlene Leeson and
Phillipe Cousineau bargained out the final terms of the sinister plot
Arlene had just presented to him. Both laid out their cases why a
fifty-fifty split was simply not equitable, considering their roles in the
scheme. They both wanted more, much more.
Arlene was the mastermind, the information provider, the introducer, and
she let her young guest know that.
"Without me," she argued to Phillipe, "you would not be here in the
first place. Without me, this conversation would not be taking place."
"Yes, dear Arlene," Phillipe responded, his voice soft and his
enchanting eyes covering her like a glove. "But without me, you have no
plan. We are both aware why you turned to me. Is it not because there is
no one else who could do what you ask?"
Arlene was seated behind her desk. Phillipe rose and circled it,
walking toward her. She had seen him many times over the past year, yet
still his spellbinding presence stunned her. She swallowed as he
approached, determined to keep their meeting business-like.
"Am I not correct, dear Arlene?" he said, staring into her eyes. "Do
you know another man who might be capable of this?" Phillipe kept his
distance, sensing her anxiety and the clear affect their new proximity was
having on the elegant woman.
Needing to regain some space for herself, she rose and walked around the
opposite side of the desk and across the room to the window. Arlene knew
he was right. There was no one who could perform like Phillipe. If she
couldn't convince him, there would be no one else to turn to. She needed
something further to bolster her case, and peering through the window, she
found it.
"Come," she said, motioning to the artist. "Look at them."
The window overlooked Arlene's lecture hall. Along its walls hung
Monet, and Renoir. Toulouse-Lautrec and Gauguin. Two huge Jackson
Pollacks graced the entranceway. Along the stage, set upon easels, were
some of the recent works of her guest speaker, the latest masterpieces of
the great Phillipe Cousineau.
The room was full, invitation only for Arlene's talk on modern art, and
for her introduction of the city's latest wonder boy, who now stood inches
behind her gazing down into the crowd. The two of them could not be seen
from below.
"One-way peeking only," Arlene informed Phillipe. The artist nodded,
quite familiar with such things. He surveyed the room, attempting to pick
out the four couples Arlene had spoken of.
"There," Arlene said, motioning toward the front row, "in the purple
dress."
Phillipe's eyes went toward the woman, a thin, stunning blonde. Her
name was Elizabeth Bax. She was thirty-six years old, Arlene had informed
him. Wife of James, mother of John, Janice, and Nicole. The Baxes were
filthy rich, family money made in cosmetics, passed down to them to do with
as they wished.
Even at a distance, Phillipe could tell Arlene had told him the truth
about Mrs. Bax. He could see the beauty she had spoken of, the elegance
of line, the intense femininity. He could see the beginning of the age
lines around her eyes as well, attempts to cover them through surgery and
touch-up not totally effective.
"You can only fight time for so long. Isn't that right, Arlene?"
Phillipe said, only partially disguising the fact that he was speaking not
only about Mrs. Bax, but of his hostess as well.
Arlene ignored the couched insult. "Quite beautiful, isn't she?" Arlene
asked.
"Quite," Phillipe answered. "I would love to meet her," he continued,
answering Arlene's next question before it was asked. "I can assure you,
my dear, that she'll find me...... interesting."
"Is a fifty-fifty split agreed upon then?" Arlene asked, having
abandoned any notion of getting a larger percentage.
Phillipe thought deeply before responding. Though he found it easy to
hide, Phillipe did not like Arlene Leeson. He found her not only
obnoxious, but bourgeois.
"I could simply do it myself," he said, knowing the rise that would get
from her.
She spun toward him quickly in anger, but maintained her composure. He
was right, of course.
"That wouldn't be fair, now would it?"
Her eyes met Phillipe's, and locked there. He was hypnotic, and even a
woman as worldly as Arlene was not immune. The longer she stared, the
further away she was from the lecture hall. The longer she stared, the
more she forgot. The longer she stared, the more she had to lose.
Phillipe's hand brushed her hair softly from her shoulder, and he looked
into her eyes, saying nothing. Their faces were inches apart. In that
long, frozen silence, the young artist cast his spell.
"God," Arlene whispered to him, almost hypnotized, "you're so
beautiful."
"Why don't you kiss me, then?" Phillipe answered vainly.
It was Arlene who moved first. Her head tilted slightly and her eyes
fluttered shut. She inched forward slowly. Urgently, Arlene needed her
lips on this luscious man, needed them to touch his. Her mouth parted as
it approached his, expecting contact, but her motion was met with words,
and not his tongue as she had hoped.
"Point out the others," he said matter-of-factly, teasing her as he
turned away, leaving her terribly exposed and embarrassed.
So quickly and so unexpectedly, this magnificent male had provoked her
into wanting him, and hung her out to dry. Arlene's face flushed at his
victory, and she felt like a jilted teenager. She cleared her throat as
she tried to get her eyes back into focus on the crowd.
Seated right up front, Phillipe saw the Singletons. They had purchased
three of Phillipe's latest oils and paid dearly for them that night, Carol
arguing at first with her husband, and then demanding when his protests
continued. Henry had written the check in protest, and handed it to a man
who had just given his wife the most potent orgasm of her life. Carol was
different now, more distant from her husband. Phillipe knew he had changed
her. She was thinking back no doubt, reliving their little secret, as she
waited impatiently to see him again.
"There," Arlene pointed, toward a sleek redhead in the rear of the room.
"That's Judith Carlton."
Phillipe stared at her. Like his first target, she was in her late
thirties, and utterly delicious. The man beside her was graying, quite a
bit older than she, totally out-of-place next to such a beauty. He looked
comical as he took her hand and kissed her cheek, as if he were her sugar
daddy instead of her husband.
"It's amazing what you girls will do for money," Phillipe commented
astutely. "Is that what makes up our audience here in New York, beautiful
women who sell their souls for material? You would never see such odd
couples in Paris."
Arlene ignored the Frenchman's comment, and continued.
"And there," she said, pointing directly below them at a woman she knew
Phillipe would lock onto and strip naked with his eyes.
"My, my," he said when he saw her.
Her hair was midnight black, as thick and wild as the mane of a lion.
Her face was incredible, deep northern Italian in its beauty. Her eyes
were dark green and huge, her pouting lips full and pumped up with
collagen. The lipstick was cherry red, vivid and thick. Her body was the
most voluptuous Phillipe had ever seen. Hourglass, he could tell even as
she sat, with huge breasts and wide, womanly hips, her waist impossibly
thin. Her crossed legs in their black stockings were astonishing, her
tight skirt well up toward the top of her thighs. She wore four-inch
heels. The thought crossed Phillipe's mind to introduce himself to her
immediately, but that time would come.
"Roberta Luongo," Arlene said, pleased by Phillipe's obvious interest.
"Mafia wife."
Phillipe nodded, his intense scrutiny undeterred by that new fact.
He looked at Roberta's husband. `Perfect,' he thought to himself. Mr.
Luongo had arrogance written all over him, the type of man who was used to
getting whatever he wanted, one unintroduced to pain, to humiliation. A
man who was selfish with his possessions, and violently so. He was just
the type Phillipe enjoyed cutting down to size, and the artist knew
instantly what his most prized possession was.
"Are you sure you want to get involved with this one?" Arlene asked.
"We could limit it to the other three, if you wish." Mrs. Luongo, given
the family circumstances, would be the one whose outcome was the most
unpredictable.
"I'm quite sure," Phillipe replied without hesitation, still staring at
Roberta and her obese, slovenly husband. The dangers only added to the
adventure for him, were just one more plus in his mind. The more difficult
the circumstances of the conquest, the more his ego, his narcissism, were
challenged.
"There is the perhaps the most interesting of all," Arlene continued,
pointing out yet one more of the amazing women that seemed to dominate the
crowded room. "Her name is Claudine Southwick. Catwalk model. Doctorate
in philosophy from Oxford. She is one of the richest women on earth. The
perfect wife, the perfect woman."
Claudine was from England, in her early forties, a full twenty years
older than Phillipe. An astonishingly beautiful woman, she was married to
one of the world's wealthiest men. Arlene explained to Phillipe that she
was a model wife in every respect. Honest, loyal, faithful, and the
perfect showpiece for her entrepreneurial husband. Having retired from the
fashion world and with her doctoral degree buried deep in a trunk in the
attic, she spent her time worldwide, running worthwhile charities in his
name, most of which were directed at third-world hunger and the plight of
unfortunate infants.
Her reputation was beyond reproach, lily white. Often, her stunning
face had graced the covers of the Times, New York's and London's, for her
altruism. Arlene had astutely noticed how she buried herself in an endless
assortment of hobbies, surely to relieve the boredom and inhibitions of her
life, she had surmised. Mixed in with the philanthropy that reflected so
well upon herself and upon her husband, her latest tangent of escape was
art. Arlene had been certain she would be present at the great painter's
well-publicized talk about Impressionism and its influences on his work.
Phillipe stared at one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen.
Everyone knew her face. It had highlighted most of the important fashion
catalogues in the world at one time or another. He himself had seen it
many times, lusted over it. Though a bit older, she was clearly more
youthful in spirit than the other three.
Phillipe moved across the room, leaving Arlene at the window.
"Fifty percent will be adequate," he said, startling Arlene, who had
convinced herself she'd be lucky to get forty. "Fair is fair."
Having seen his prey, he was more than interested in their new game, and
would have done it for free.
"I've put the information together for you," Arlene said, her eyes
directing his to a group of folders on her desk. "There are pictures,
addresses, financial information, and some personal items about them, their
likes and dislikes, and so on."
"Come here," he said to Arlene, snapping the lock on the office door.
His tone was no longer cold. Without warning, tenderness had returned
to his voice. And passion. Arlene shook her head, still rattled by her
previous weakness and determined not to show that same weakness again.
"It's time for my lecture," she said, still by the window.
"Do you have confidence in me?" Phillipe asked, his question soaked in
conceit.
He knew she did. When Arlene had picked the man who might be capable of
seducing such beautiful and untouchable women, Phillipe had been her only
choice. No one else would do. And now that irresistible man was here,
with her, alone.
In spite of herself, Arlene again began to feel the stirrings that she
knew only a male like Phillipe could catalyze in a woman. From across the
room, he had her burning for him.
Arlene stared at his chiseled face, too beautiful to believe. His
chocolate eyes were on her again, with the pull of a vampire. Never had
Arlene felt such magnetism. His tall body, lean and lithe beneath his
strangely-cut Italian suit, was the most enticing she had ever known.
"How does it feel, Phillipe?" she asked, her voice trembling slightly,
her knees weak. "How does it feel to know you can have any woman you
want?"
"Come," he repeated, raising his hand, answering her question that way.
"Shall we seal our deal? Your audience will surely wait for you."
Arlene, because she had to, went to him then. She had imagined it for
months, and now that the time was here, she was unable to deny him.
Down below, Arlene's husband was preparing her lectern, placing her
papers where she had instructed him.
As he followed her mandates, his wife moved in front of Phillipe. The
artist placed his strong hands on her shoulders, pressed downward ever so
slightly, and the conquered Arlene dropped slowly but willingly to her
knees.
Her husband looked up, awaiting his wife, expecting her to appear at the
top of the stairs at any moment, but she would not be coming just then.
Not yet. Business had been concluded, and there were other things she had
to take care of.
Other needs, needs that she could not control.
Arlene slowly unzipped him, removed him with her hand, and took him into
her mouth.
(end--Chapter2)
-------------------------------- Do you Yahoo!? Yahoo! Finance: Get
your refund fast by filing online <1st attachment begin>
<HTML removed pursuant to
http://assm.asstr-mirror.org/erotica/assm/faq.html#policy> <1st attachment end>
----- ASSM Moderation System Notice----- Notice: This post has been
modified from its original format. The post was sent as an email
attachment and has been converted by ASSTR ASSM moderation software. -----
ASSM Moderation System Notice-----
------- ASSM Moderation System Notice--------
This post has been reformatted by the ASSM
Moderation Team due to inadequate formatting.
--
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+
| alt.sex.stories.moderated ------ send stories to: <ckought69@hotmail.com>|
| FAQ: <http://assm.asstr-mirror.org/faq.html> Moderators: <story-ckought69@hotmail.com> |
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+
|ASSM Archive at <http://assm.asstr-mirror.org> Hosted by <http://www.asstr-mirror.org> |
|Discuss this story and others in alt.sex.stories.d; look for subject {ASSD}|
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+