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From: Mat <mmtwassel@gmail.com>
Injection-Date: Thu, 18 Oct 2012 18:19:41 +0000
Subject: {ASSM} Private Exhibition by Mat Twassel
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Date: Thu, 18 Oct 2012 20:10:02 -0400
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     ***Private Exhibition***

One  rainy Saturday afternoon, I stopped by the
museum, where I am a member. I thought there was to
be a special exhibition for members only, but I had
the date wrong. "It's next Saturday," the woman at
the information desk told me.

"That's okay," I responded, feeling more than a
little foolish. "I'll just wander around then."

I like looking at art, and sometimes I like looking
at people looking at art, but soon I was weary of
the crowds. I wandered through galleries without
paying much attention to anything, dimly aware of a
sign with an arrow and the words New Acquisitions.
I may have made a wrong turn.  I found myself in a
part of the museum I'd not explored before. I went
down a narrow stairway, around a corner, another
corner, through a door, and through another door
with "furniture" lettered upon the frosted glass. I
opened the door.

Other than the furniture--the desks, chairs,
bookcases, clocks, and tables, many of them were
truly beautiful, though not necessarily something
I'd want in my own apartment--I was the only one
there. In the far corner was a round table, and I
could easily picture it in my living room, not that
I could afford such a thing, but it's always nice
to dream.  After studying it for some time, I took
out my cell phone to take a photograph.

Just as I pressed the shutter icon, someone moved
into the frame.

"Oh, sorry," the woman said, for it was a woman, a
young woman, very pretty, with dark rich russet
hair and a bright red blouse--not a combination I
would have thought so fortunate, but this woman, by
dint of her coloring or her attitude or something
ineffable, brought it off, brought it off with
ease.

We looked at each other. I don't think it was her
coloring or the color of her blouse or handsome
helmet of hair that I was thinking of, not
explicitly. I don't know what I was thinking of.
She said,  "I hope I didn't ruin your picture."

That brought me out of my reverie or trance or
whatever it was I'd been in. I glanced at the
viewing screen. I looked at the woman again. "Ah,
no," I said. Then I added, "It's a beautiful table,
but not nearly as beautiful as you."  If you knew
me you'd know I'd never say such a thing. I'm a shy
person. Reserved to a fault. I fear I blushed.

Smiling sweetly, the woman said, "What a sweet
thing to say."

Again, or still, we seemed unable not to look at
each other. I knew something was expected of me,
but I didn't have any idea what; no words came to
mind, but unthinking, I blurted, "It's true. I hope
I didn't offend you."

"Oh, no, not at all."

And still we looked at each other. Her eyes were...
I hadn't any idea. I was seeing her at some inner
level.

"Um, would you like me to email you a copy of the
picture?"

I turned the phone so she could see it, and she
stepped nearer, quite near, and one of her hands
lightly held my wrist, the other rested against my
shoulder. Her thumb took my pulse. Her aura took my
breath.

"It is a nice table," she said. "Kind of bare,
though." She released me and stepped away. "Isn't
it?" Her tone, mild up to now, was almost sharp,
demanding, but her eyes continued to grin.

"You think it needs something on it?" I ventured.

"Maybe. Maybe something... beautiful? Does anything
come to mind?" While she waited for me to answer,
her fingers went to the top button of her blouse.
She teased it open. Then the next and the next and
the next.

"Yes," I said, softly, after each button.  "Yes,
yes, yes yes yes."


Naked, she mounted the low platform, stood sideways
from me at the circular table, spread her legs, and
bent forward until her upper half was resting upon
the table, a plump nipple pressed slightly to the
side of her smallish, barely squashed breast. She
reached back and with both hands gripped the smooth
flesh of her girlish bottom. Grinning naughtily at
me, she pried herself apart.  "Aren't you going
take the picture?" she asked. So transfixed was I
by her beauty, by her actions, by her, that I'd
forgotten I was even holding the cell phone camera.
I looked at it blankly.

"You know," she said, an adorable lilt to her
voice, "if you were sitting on the chair you'd
probably have a really good view of my cunt and my
asshole."

I nodded dumbly.

She laughed, a light, good-natured little laugh, a
stern giggle, if there is such a thing, and said,
"It's too bad sitting on the chair is strictly
forbidden."  Then she stood up, hopped off the
platform, reached her arms around my neck, and drew
me into a kiss, a kiss which, essentially, has
never ended.


     ***Private Exhibition Critique***

Me: What did you think of it?

Julie:  Mmmm. Kind of sweet, only...  Well, I
shouldn't say.

Me:  You should. Tell me the truth.

Julie:  I don't know.

Me: Come on. I want to know.

Julie:  Okay. You didn't put in anything about your
cock.

Me: My cock? What about it?

Julie:  How good it feels in my mouth. How good it
feels in my cunt.

Me:  Oh.

Julie:  Yeah. In fact, I feel like having it in my
mouth and my cunt right now.

Me:  You do? I think I'd like that too.

Julie: But first I'm going to jerk you off. I'm
going to make you spurt all over my belly. Because
I like the feel of you in my hand. I like watching.
Mmmm, yeah, the way your cock looks and feels
getting all excited. The slit starting to open. The
skin getting dark and ready. Darker and readier.
The creamy spurts of fresh, hot cum. Oh! Yeah!
That's it, baby.  So good! So much!  Now, now I'm
going to suck you. Before you soften. Suck you
stiff and hard again. Mmmm. And then I'm going to
fuck you, fuck you so good and hard.



     ***The Million Dollar Bathroom***

Julie works in the museum's catalog department. She
says for all practical purposes she is the catalog
department. She has a small office on sub-level
one. She says there is no way I should have gotten
to the gallery to which her office is attached,
which is not a real gallery at all but a practice
gallery. Several doors should have been locked.
That first time, she was making her way back to her
office, locking the doors behind her. "And there
you were."

"And there we were," I reply.

Sometimes I visit her at her work. I watch her
sitting at her computer doing her cataloging. I
stand behind her and rub her shoulders.  I do a
little work of my own on my laptop.

Then there are the bathroom breaks. Because of all
the locked doors, we go together. That's not the
only reason.

It's a little bathroom, only a sink and a toilet.
There's a frosted window which looks up at a
courtyard. There are several paintings by Miro and
on the wall behind the toilet a Picasso, which I
can contemplate while I piss or while Julie, seated
on the toilet, sucks me.

I asked Julie how much the paintings are worth.
"They're priceless," she said. "But at auction?"
"A million or two, maybe."  "Tell the truth, these
are just copies, aren't they?" "No, they're real."

Also in the bathroom on the ledge below the window
is a little pot. "How 'bout the pot?" I asked her.
She was confused at first. She thought I was
referring to the toilet bowl, which her grandfather
called "the pot."  "Oh, that," she said, after I
indicated the pot on the windowsill. "It's
priceless, too." "Now I know you're kidding," I
said.

She told me the story of the pot.  Her sister gave
her mother a miniature tree, but her mother either
gave it too much or too little water, and the tree
turned brown. Julie told her mother maybe repotting
the tree would help. "No, no," her mother said,
"it's a goner."  Julie took the tree home and then
to the office, where she repotted it and set in the
bathroom window.

"And you revived it," I exclaimed.

"No, no," Julie said. "It was a goner. In the end I
threw it out and put an air freshener stick in the
pot. Raspberry chocolate, or maybe chocolate
raspberry."

Sometimes when Julie sucks me she makes me come in
her mouth, and sometimes she stops short, leans
against the sink, and has me fuck her from behind.
That is what I like the best. To the sides of the
mirror I can see the two Miro paintings, and in the
mirror I can see the reflection of the window and
the raspberry chocolate or chocolate raspberry pot,
but I prefer to look at Julie's face as she gets
closer and closer to climax. I like to draw it out
as long as possible, for her orgasm, when it comes,
is truly priceless.


END

An illustrated version of this story may be found
at http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/twassel/www/

A number of my erotic illustrations my be found at
http://www.flickr.com/photos/27472542@N08/

(Note that most illustrations are "restricted" so
set your profile accordingly.)

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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