Art Appreciation Part 1/3

[Tari...@aol.com]

Archive-name: art-appreciation.1

Art Appreciation, Part One
by Taria

He was late, this time by about forty minutes. Not only is my
husband rarely on time, but he is also extremely forgetful, and the
longer I stood the more certain I was that he had forgotten all about
our dinner plans. "Damn him anyway," I thought, shifting from foot
to foot in the chilling cold. The steamy breath rising from between
my clenched teeth was a perfect match for my fire-breathing mood,
and I remained there another five minutes, alternating between fuming
and freezing.

Finally, I turned on my heel to march off in a huff, and noticed
that I had been standing my lonely vigil in front of an Art Gallery.
"Cooper Gallery," the sign read, with a small clipped advertisement
touting "The Photographs of Andres" taped to the inside of the window.
I couldn't really see inside, because the windows were mostly fogged
up. "Warm," I murmured, and forgetting everything else I swung the
door wide and entered.

After basking in the blessed heat for a long moment, I opened
my eyes to see a tall coffee-colored man sitting behind a desk.
He flashed a small smile at me as I thawed out. "Welcome," he said
quietly, and he gestured toward a bound guest book, which I signed,
smiling back. He gestured with his head--I caught the sparkle of
a metallic earring out of the corner of my eye--to his right, and
with a quick "thank you" I followed his head-shake and walked with
measured steps (my feet were just getting feeling back, and I was in
heels) into a large, carpeted room sectioned by grey cubicle walls.
"Andres Presents the History of Sex," read a plaque to the left of
the entrance, and I began to wonder exactly what I was in for.

Nudes, mostly, or so it seemed to me at first glance. I walked
slowly around the room, mostly unseeing, my senses dulled in the
muffled environment of the padded walls and thick carpets. Idly I
paused before a portrait of "Alessandra," a lantered-jawed, tanned
brunette who gazed directly back at me with pursed lips, the fingers
of her big right hand resting on her bent knee. Musing, I noticed
the odd effect caused by her chiselled face and jaw, her broad nose,
and then down to her curved shoulders, thin arms, and large breasts,
the brown erect nipples pointing out in different directions.

As my eyes continued their downward journey I noted the lighter
patch of her bikini area, her massive-looking thighs...and suddenly
I blinked. I rubbed my eyes twice and stood a little closer, bending
at my waist as I brought my face close to the photograph. Yes!
There it was--I DIDN'T imagine it! Hanging between Alessandra's
spread thighs, directly beneath the round, tanned breasts, was a penis!

And not a tiny, shrivelled little one, either, but a life-sized
downward-pointing shlong--I couldn't repress the word--jutting out
from a patch of pubic hair, with one testicle showing behind it and
to the left. My head spun for a moment, and I stepped back to take
in the total effect of this shocking image. Of course--the masculine
face, the large hands--a man's hands--but still...nothing looked fake
either. From neck to waist I saw a woman's body, the heavy breasts
and hairless torso narrowing down toward the waistline. Hormones?
Some kind of bizarre surgery? The unexpected pink penis-flesh at
the lower center of the image, covering the flat mat of pubic hair
I had expected to see and even imagined at first before I really
looked carefully, had put me all out of whack. In a daze, I turned
away from Alessandra to the next large, glossy photograph, and all
my breath went out of me with a whoosh.

A couple stood before me, again staring imperturbably out of
the picture directly at me, their heads tilted to face me and their
bodies faced to the right, so I stood looking at them from the side.
Two young lovers, both in their late teens, blond, Nordic-featured.
"Christiaan & Rose," the caption read, and I drank them in. She stood
behind him, snuggled up against his back with her arm curled underneath
his and her hand bent up, resting on his muscled shoulder. Her long
hair, parted in the middle, hung down behind her face, which displayed
the barest of smiles; his head, framed by close-cropped hair and his
lips slightly parted, rested against hers.

They were gorgeous, young, beautiful naked bodies, his chest and
her breasts modestly shielded by their loving, interlocking arms.
Below his impossibly chiselled waist I could see the curve of his
buttocks, from the side; in front of them his penis--so much like
Alessandra's, I could not help thinking--emerged from a fine spray
of light brown pubic hair. And behind him, her hips slightly angled
away, was his lover. Her hips were framed within a black V of two
leather straps, her pubic area covered by a patch of black leather,
and with a bright white penis--no, a cock, surely--angled down,
resting, it seemed, between his buttocks.

My face grew hot, and suddenly I felt I could not breathe.
Dabbing at my forehead a little I casually shrugged myself out of my
coat, glancing quickly all around me to see if anyone was watching me,
staring at me. There was no one...but it did not matter, for I could
not look away. My eyes were riveted by the image before me--Rose, who
was smiling at me, yes, I could see that now, clearly. And Christiaan,
his head tilted slightly back and resting on hers, his lips parted
perhaps in passion, in pleading? "Yes, Darling...take me now"...I
imagined his moans, his desire to open himself to be penetrated,
be entered. be fucked...by Rose, his Lover, perhaps under different
circumstances his Woman.

And she, her hips tilted back but ready to thrust forward, and up,
and in, to fill him and fuck him and do him and push into his body
until the two of them were connected at the genitals, but with her
behind him and her pubis against his ass cheeks and the depths of his
body filled...I was flushed, and shaking, and aroused beyond belief.
Somehow I tore my eyes away from the sight of the young lovers and
staggered to the Ladies' Room, washed my face, and stared into the
mirror. Rose looked back out at me, smiling her blissful half-smile.
I emerged quickly and headed straight for the door, and was leaving
but, without knowing why, stopped and turned back to the man at
his desk. "Uhmm..." I cleared my throat, and moistened my dry lips.
"Excuse me...was there some kind of a catalogue of this show...for
sale?"

I stepped out into the freezing cold with my catalogue, concealed
in its nondescript bag, still blushing. And then...a coincidence,
perhaps, or fate? As I stood in front of the gallery, bemused,
two young women emerged from behind me, pushing me a little as they
burst out of the door, all energy, hands clasped tightly together.
Like me, both girls were flushed, but they were also giggling, their
eyes dancing as they laughed together. One of them turned to say
"excuse me," and as she did her coat fell open and I saw a white
t-shirt with purple lettering: THE GARDEN, it said, in flowery script,
and then they were gone.

A long-ago memory from a friend's bachlorette party resurfaced,
the image of several phallic packages being passed around as we
raunchy--embarrassed, really--ladies giggled and blushed and drank
white wine. The wrapping had said THE GARDEN too, and I even
remembered the street address because it was in the next building
over from my husband's office in those days. With a sudden shock I
realized I was just down the block from the store. And gripped by
a sudden impulse I could not resist I made my way there, got buzzed
in the front when I pressed the bell, and took the elevator up two
floors. The staff were all women; so were most of the customers.
And after standing awkwardly for twenty minutes, chatting with an
amazingly matter-of-fact salesgirl for five minutes more, and then
steeling my resolve, I handed over my credit card.

When I got home I crept in like a philandering husband returning
home at 4 A.M., my shoes dangling from my fingertips and my packages
bundled up inside my coat in my arms. "Honey?" I called out, hoping
and praying that my forgetful spouse was working late again, engrossed
in his latest Big Important Project. Luck was with me that evening,
for noone answered my tentative hellos. Dropping my shoes and coat,
I practically ran into the bedroom clutching the crumpled paper bags
and their secret hidden treasures. I immediately decided upon the
perfect hiding-place: an upper shelf in my closet already cluttered
with hair accessories and other detritus, seldom-used junk I simply
could not do without.

But wait...was that the front door? In a rush of fear, an
agonizing moment of potential discovery I simply could not handle, I
froze. I snapped out of it and stashed my bundle away in an instant as
quietly as I could, and then called out in a slightly quavering voice,
"Sweetie? 'Zat you?" It was, of course, and he was hungry, tired,
and put-out at me for leaving my stuff all over the place in our clean
living room. "Can't you put your things away?" he grumbled as always,
neatening everything up as he made his way through our apartment.
I was so relieved that he suspected nothing that I completely forgot
to reprimand him for his thoughtlessness in standing me up. We ate
and then went to bed early, and he was out like a light. I was so
wound up I barely slept a wink all night.

The next morning I waited anxiously for the chance to be alone.
When my husband finally cleared out I picked up the phone and called
in sick to work. The empty apartment was big and quiet as I stood in
my robe and sipped my coffee. Out of sheer willfullness, and maybe
a little fear of the unknown, I bypassed the bedroom and headed
for the bathroom, where I drew a hot bath, sprinkled it lightly
with some scented oils I almost never use--who ever has time for a
bath, anyway?--and sank into the tub with a deep sigh. I deserve
this, I thought to myself. When do I ever take a day off, anyway?
Why shouldn't I indulge myself? And so I soaked, and I washed myself
slowly and lethargically.

But I knew why I was home. And when I soaped and rinsed my
breasts I tingled; and when my hands ran down my soapy arms and up
my legs I felt light-headed; and when I washed my pussy my fingers
lingered there, lightly caressing the lips and folds and making
a small circle with my index finger just inside the entrance; and I
felt myself raise my hips off the tub bottom so I could insert a soapy
finger inside my anus, and my muscles clenched and tightened around
the unaccustomed intruder and I made a small moan, a barely audible
"oooooo." And then I opened my eyes and awkwardly got to my feet,
the water splashing over the edge of the tub and my body tingling and
chilled by the outside air. Quickly I toweled off, and since I could
stand this no longer I left the bathroom, headed for the bedroom,
and opened my closet door.

Standing on my tiptoes, my hair still dripping down my back, I
rummaged around with my hands until my fingertips made contact with a
paper bag. Leaving the flat package of the catalogue on the shelf, I
grasped what I wanted and pulled it down. My hands almost trembling,
I uncrumpled the small lavendar bag and shook it out over my bed.
Out dropped a triangular patch, with a few buckled narrow straps
dangling. One more fevered shake, and out came a pale simulated penis
and scrotum, with a round base. I tried to remember the arrangement
of the straps as the salesgirl had demonstrated; when I couldn't quite
get it, I jumped up again and fetched the catalogue from its hiding
place on my shelf, and skimmed the pages rapidly until I found Rose
and Christiaan. I fiddled for a few moments, adjusting and rebuckling
straps and looking intently at the strap arrangement on Rose's hips.
I tightened a little more, and then moved over a little to gaze into
the full-length mirror on the closet door.

Standing before me was me, looking ridiculously naked except for
the black-and-white contraption strapped around my middle. "This is
silly," I muttered, feeling the discomfort of the straps and the
weight of the thing pulling at my pubic area. I moved a little closer
to the mirror and turned to the side, and suddenly I didn't feel so
ridiculous any more. I turned my head and looked at my reflection,
at the curve and swell of my left breast, with its pink nipple; at
the slight rounding swell of my belly; and then at the length of the
pale erect cock that seemed to extend from my body. The image was
undeniably erotic, and I felt myself tingle all over as I stared.
I watched myself in the mirror as I raised both my arms slowly over
my head, arching my back sexily so my breasts stood out. My cock,
as I was coming to think of it, stood up as well, bouncing a little
as I moved. Slowly I lowered my arms, my hands first caressing the
sides of my neck, then down to my breasts. I watched as I rubbed them,
kneading and squeezing softly, the sexiness of the action heightened by
the sight of my erect cock protruding out. My fingers played lightly
with my nipples, which had already hardened perceptibly--no surprise
there, I thought--and then caressed the underside of my breasts,
lifting them slightly away from my body. I felt the cool moistness
there that remained after my bath, the wetness that my quick towelling
motions had not dried, and I moaned softly, my eyes narrowing slightly
as I watched how I caressed myself. My hands moved down my sides
now, to my hips, where they encountered the thin leather straps I
had buckled there. My fingers followed the straps to the harness,
and then I watched myself in the mirror as my right hand touched the
penis I wore, clenching around it, encircling it, rubbing it.

The new latex didn't feel like any cock I had ever held in
my hand before. It was cool, not warm and pulsing like a man's,
and it seemed like my hand stuck to it slightly with its newness,
its plasticky feeling. I reached into my bedroom drawer and found
a crimped tube of K-Y jelly that my husband and I sometimes used.
I squirted a little out into my palm--it was cold and felt a little
greasy--and as I watched I returned my hand to the cock and began to
pump slowly. The lubricant helped a lot, and I held my body still
as I watched my hand moving up and down, masturbating the cock
I wore on my body. I closed my eyes and kept pumping, trying to
imagine what it would be like to jerk off my own hard, erect cock,
and involuntarily I thrust my hips forward a little, fucking my hand
as it pumped up and down, up and down. When my eyes opened again
a laugh bubbled up from within as I thought of Freud, and "Penis
Envy" and what my old Psychology professor would think of all this.
But then, why be envious? I really did have my own penis now.

Just thinking about my cock warmed me up again, and I realized
with a moan that my adventure of the day before, my sensual bath,
and my activities in front of my mirror had aroused me beyond belief.
I tried to sneak a hand behind the straps and harness I wore, but
that was no go: everything was too snug and too tight. Reluctantly I
loosened them, driven by my rising need for a release of all my pent-up
sexual energies. As the cock and harness came free in my hand,
I lay down on the carpeted floor before my mirror, my head propped
up a little on a throw-pillow so I could see my reflected image.
With my left hand, I roamed across my breasts, rubbing and stimulating.
I watched as my right hand, still holding the cock in its harness,
moved down to my legs. Slowly and carefully I touched my pubic
hair with the cock moving down my bush...lower...lower...suddenly,
shockingly, the cock slipped inside me almost halfway, meeting with
no resistance as its lubricated length encountered my pussy opening,
moist and hot from my arousal. I gasped for an instant, and then
pulled it out almost all the way, leaving only the simulated cockhead
still inside me. My left hand abandoned my breast and joined my right,
and using both hands I pushed the cock into myself once more.

Mmmmmm.....yes.....that was it. Slowly I fucked myself with the
cock, pushing it in and out, first shallowly, then deeply. It was a
comfortable size, not some massive Superdick twelve-inch monstrosity,
but instead about the same size and thickness as my husband's, some
six inches, according to The Garden's clerk. I opened my eyes and
peeked through my spread knees at the mirror, watching my hands as
they pushed and pulled the cock in and out of my pussy, which was now
glistening with the wetness of the lubricant and my own juices. I kept
thrusting with my left hand, harder now, as my right moved up to touch
my clit, finding the familiar nubbin and rubbing hard, stroking faster.
From a distance I could hear the growing volume of my moans and sighs,
the "oh yes" and "fuck me" and "ohhhh" that I could not hold back
and did not want to. My pussy and my clit were the total center of
my existence; my entire being was focused on the hot passion I felt,
the overwhelming fuckingness of my masturbating universe. I rubbed and
stroked and thrust and fucked and fucked and fucked and yes and yes oh
yes oh yesohyesohyesFUCK...ME....YES....The cock was jammed into me as
deep as it could go and my hands rubbed frantically at my clit and I
came and I came and my pussy muscles throbbed and clenched around the
cock and slowly it ebbed and my hands fell back to the floor soaked
and the cock still in me began to slide....out...and it dropped out of
my pussy and a tiny trickle of moisture followed it, dripping from me.

I put the cock on twice more that day, once in front of the
mirror and once on my bed. I masturbated four times more, fucking
myself twice with it, once on my back and once on my knees, my right
arm stretching to its limit to pump the cock in and out of my pussy
from behind. By that night I was exhausted, totally fucked out,
and still aroused. As a dildo my cock had its uses. But that was
not the reason I bought it. As my husband slept beside me I remained
awake for a second straight night, thinking feverishly about Rose,
Christiaan, me, and my cock.

(To Be Continued)

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