A Tale Of Sechs City
Charlotte Thompson sighed deeply. She was not satisfied.
She appreciated the irony of the situation but she didn't exactly want to dwell on it.
"You don't like it?" said the man next to her unhappily. It was more of a statement than a question.
Charlotte shook her head. "It's not that, Mike. It's just...I don't know if it means anything."
Mike's eyes boggled slightly. "Mean anything? Why the hell does it have to mean anything? It's a red square painted onto a white background. The public are going to lap it up. They always do."
Charlotte frowned at him. Much as she admired her Assistant Director at the Museum of Art History for his credentials, his expertise and his own paintwork, she had always differed with him on their opinion on the subject of modern art. He found it crass and vulgar; she often found it exciting and intriguing.
They were currently looking at a new piece by a young local artist, Troy Newman, who Charlotte had thought was an emerging talent in a pretty lacklustre couple of years for the art world. Judging by this piece, however, she was beginning to wonder whether or not she'd made the right choice. She worried that, having spent a large proportion of the budget she had on this new exhibition of this new work, she'd wasted it on a load of squares, circles and triangles.
"What's it trying to say?" Charlotte pondered out loud, stepping closer to the painting to try and examine it fuller. "It must be saying something."
"It's saying bull shit," replied Mike, sighing impatiently and tapping his foot. "Do you want to go ahead with this or not? We've got five more to look at before lunch, and I want to get back in good time for the Italians this afternoon."
Charlotte breathed out slowly, running her hands through her long black hair. Mike was right, of course – the Italians' visit was a huge deal, particularly for him. It had taken him nearly eight months of negotiations, long transatlantic phone calls and video conferences, and a very large sum of his own budget, but Mike had finally been able to obtain one of the most famous pieces of art in history – Michelangelo's David. The months had been so stressful for him, Charlotte could have sworn he'd aged ten years at least, but nothing could compare to the happiness on his face when he'd burst into her office a month ago with the biggest, most relieved grin on his face, shouting, "We got it! We got it!" at the top of his voice.
This just wasn't big for Mike, Charlotte knew; it was big for the Museum. They were a relatively young establishment – only around fifteen years old – and they had never had such an exciting coup as this.
In honour of it, every important public official in the local area had been invited to attend a gala ceremony in a couple of days time where the statue would be unveiled; and an exhibition of other work by the famous artist plus pieces inspired by his work was also being set up.
Sadly, it was destined to overshadow the exhibition of this new artist's work – a complete balls up of a scheduling by the overall boss and Chairman of the Museum, a pompous twit called Rupert Gold. Correction – SIR Rupert Gold; though Charlotte was sure that, if any members of the Royal Family back in England ever heard about what the Knight of the Realm enjoyed doing on a Saturday night in what could only be described as "animal houses"...well, bye bye, title.
Charlotte and Mike spent five quick minutes choosing the last of the works to include in the exhibition before agreeing to meet in half an hour after lunch. Charlotte went into her office, her stomach rumbling right on cue as she grabbed her bag and a smart, black jacket to go over the rather expensive work clothes she had dressed in especially for the arrival of the Italians. Though it was spring time in the city, a cold breeze occasionally blew through the streets; the last thing she needed was to catch a cold.
She walked out of the Museum and started the three minutes twenty-seven seconds walk to the local deli, her favourite place to get lunch. She chided herself as she walked for being so sad that she actually knew how long it took to get her there – it was just another example about how pathetic her life had become lately.
There was nothing wrong with her career, that she was certain. At only twenty-eight years of age, Charlotte appreciated just how lucky she had been to rise up the ladder of the Museum so quickly. Both a degree and a Masters in Art History had certainly helped, plus years of hard work and essential experience gained by working in museums across her home state of Florida. When the Museum of Art History in Sechs City, California, had contacted her first about the available Directorship, it had seemed almost too good to be true, like an amazing dream that she would be cruelly awoken from at the pivotal moment. More amazing was that it wasn't; it had all been for real, and she had now been happily working for a good year and three months.
No, work was fine. It was her personal life that was bringing her down. She'd put so much effort into her work and career, Charlotte very rarely ever had time for any kind of dating, let alone a proper relationship.
Her last one of those had been way back in college, towards the end of her final year, with a wonderful guy named Alex, who was a couple of year younger than her. Meeting at a shared friend's party, they'd connected quickly, brilliantly, with their love for the same kind of art and artists, weird Indie films that not many other people really understood, and the all important music of The Smiths. The sex hadn't been bad, either, when they'd got round to it. Alex had been a virgin, so Charlotte had had to teach him what to do for the first few times. She hadn't minded this at all, obviously; the power trip had been an immense turn on.
The relationship had ended when Alex got the opportunity to go to Paris for a year to study and work there. It had been Charlotte's idea to break up; Alex had been dead against it, but Charlotte ahd told him he would have been crazy to give up such a fantastic opportunity for her. As soon as he had left, after one last glorious goodbye session of lovemaking, Charlotte had cried and cried for two days straight, eventually taking a week off her studies to go home to lay all her troubles on her loving mother's shoulders. She hadn't realised how easy it could be to fall in love like that, and she'd never experienced it since.
Over the last few years she'd had more than a few flings, though nothing to really feel amazing about. Drunken one-night stands and a dirty weekend away weren't exactly the most scandalous of things to write to Penthouse about. The last of these had been a good four months ago. For someone who enjoyed sex as much as Charlotte did, it almost felt like four lifetimes.
She reached the deli and found herself at the back of a small queue of three. This wasn't unusual; though hardly insanely busy the deli had a good reputation among its small number of clientele and treated them brilliantly. The smell of hot pastries cooking, along with the fragrances of mixed salads and various cheeses made Charlotte's stomach rumble even more. She began to wonder if she would order her usual Tuna Melt or if she would try something different today. Oh, the tribulations of her life.
"Charlotte? Charlotte Thompson?"
Charlotte's eyes opened wide at the sound of the familiar voice behind her. Oh god, she thought, it would happen, wouldn't it? Right at lunchtime, too. God damn it.
She turned round, fixing her most polite smile possible, to see Troy Newman, a broad grin on his handsome, chiselled features. He was dressed in a simple faded grey t-shirt and tight fitting denim jeans. Holy shit, he looked hot.
"Troy, what a surprise," Charlotte said, trying to keep her eyes focussed on his face and not on his amazingly toned body. How could he find so much time to work out and still create the amazing pieces she had been viewing that morning? It didn't seem fair. The only reason Charlotte looked as good as she did was due to a large stack of exercise DVDs which she worked out to after work most nights.
They kissed politely on the cheek. Charlotte felt her skin tingle from his lips. His after shave smelled incredible.
"So how's the exhibition coming along?" he asked. "I'm really excited about it, I've gotta tell you. I know I shouldn't be displaying any kind of happiness 'cos I'm a serious artist, but fuck that, you know?"
Charlotte laughed out loud, causing the people in front of her to turn round slightly to gaze at her curiously. Oh crap, stop laughing like that, you moron! He'll think there's something incredibly wrong with you!
"It's going really well; actually, we've just picked the final pieces that are going on display."
"Wow, that's great. Can I see them, or should I wait for it to be a surprise?"
The line moved, causing Charlotte to almost stumble as she tried to concentrate on five things at once, one of them being Troy's crotch area, another her mind telling her not to look there. Was it warm in here? She was beginning to regret wearing the jacket.
"Erm...sure, I don't see why not. We've, er, we've got a pretty big meeting this afternoon, though, so I'm not gonna have much time really...it's the Italians, you know?"
Troy's eyebrows rose with interest. "Oh yeah, of course, David's coming to town. Any chance you can get me first in line to see that bad boy?"
"Well...let me see what I can do. The world and his wife are waiting to see this so I may have to pull a few strings...a lot of strings actually...but...we'll see."
Troy's grin grew wider. "That would be amazing, Charlotte," he whispered back. "Seriously, I would owe you forever if that could happen."
Very, very naughty thoughts at the prospect of Troy owing her favours started to play in graphic detail in Charlotte's mind. She felt a familiar tingling down below, and she cleared her throat to try and focus on being a professional and not a horny, sex-starved slut.
"Okay," she said, stammering slightly, "right. Fine. Excellent."
"Er...you're next, by the way."
Charlotte turned round to see a rather impatient looking clerk waiting to take her order. Apologising three times, she quickly ordered her usual Tuna Melt on brown and, after saying goodbye to Troy, hurried out of the deli and into the cool air. She could feel her face burning, her body warm with such a glow that she'd felt for a while now, ever since she'd laid eyes on the handsome artist, when she'd met him at his studio on a research trip for the museum.
She walked quickly back to the Museum, feeling the breeze hit her face, ignoring everyone and everything else. When the security guard on duty in the entrance hall bade a cheerful, "Good afternoon," she merely smiled politely, heading straight past him and up the two flights of stairs to her office.
She threw the Tuna Melt onto the desk; it wasn't important any more. She was hungry for something else. Locking the door and drawing the blinds of her window, she relaxed into the large leather chair behind her desk, running her hands, slightly trembling now, through her hair. They returned to the arms of the chair, stroking the rough plastic lightly. Her mouth and lips were dry; her heart was pumping fast.
Slowly, not hurrying, Charlotte began to feel out the fabric of her tights, up and down. She loved how she felt in them. She knew she looked damn good in tights – her long legs were beautifully accompanied by any piece of clothing, if at all.
Did Troy notice how good she looked in tights? Did his eyes – those wonderful eyes that seemed to be so innocent yet had that certain wisdom hidden beneath them – did they scan her while her back was turned, before she'd realised he was behind her in that queue? Had they devoured the very sight of her – her legs, her ass, her long black hair? Had he imagined what she would be like against his warm skin?
Oh god, please, let that be true. : the thought of him lusting after her with the same intensity that she lusted after him. The very first time they had met, she had had to excuse herself from her other guests to lock herself in a storeroom and play furiously with herself.
She felt that wetness once more, sitting here in her office. The excitement was beautiful – she had only succumbed to the urge at work a surprisingly low amount of times. Well, surprising for Charlotte, anyway. This afternoon would now have to add to her collection.
Her hands went up and under her skirt, feeling the dampness of the black silk panties she was wearing. They could be easily replaced, she thought with a wicked grin.
Keeping a hand on that exquisite wetness, slowly, softly playing in and around it, she reached forward to one of the drawers of her desk. Opening it, it wasn't too hard to find what she was looking for. So smooth, so small, and yet so seductive. A work of art in itself.
Switching it on, she moved it quickly to the area it was needed most, peeling back the sticky material of her panties to give it a clearer path. Almost upon impact she gasped out loud, quickly clasping her free hand over her mouth as she tried to catch her breath. It pressed in and upwards, down and through. Every jolt sent a tingle through her body.
She stifled another cry; she was becoming frustrated at the rubbing of panty material on her roaming hand. If only she could fucking scream – she wanted to so badly. But there was no way she was going to fall into the trap of blindly following her horny brain's desires to the max. This was as far as it was going to get. God, if she were caught...? But she had a Plan B. She always had a Plan B.
Reaching over to the desk again, she picked up a grey ruler. It's more frequent role was betrayed slightly by the odd tiny marks here and there along its plastic body. Placing it between her teeth Charlotte leant back into the chair, taking her now free hand back to its more important job of path clearing. Placing her feet on top of the desk, she opened her legs wider, letting her beautiful toy go deeper still.
She bit hard into the plastic of the ruler, felt it already start to get wet with the drool forming in her mouth. She closed her eyes – screwed them tightly shut – as pleasure completely overwhelmed her.
In her mind it was Troy pushing her buttons, driving her wild; she could almost feel his warm breath on her skin, his tongue on her neck. In her mind she started to call out his name, urging him to keep going, begging him not to stop.
And then, with a final whirr and a kind of splutter, reality decided to throw itself at Charlotte. She felt the vibrations lessen quickly, heard the high pitch buzz drop octave after octave after octave. Her eyes sprung open, spitting the ruler out of her mouth as she did so.
"Oh no," she whispered frantically, "no, god, please, no! Not now!" She had been so close – so fucking close! But it was too late, and there was nothing more she could do. The battery gave one last brief feeble attempt to breathe, and then it died, suddenly and terribly. To Charlotte, it felt like the death of a beloved pet.
She gingerly removed the pink vibrator from her still soaking pussy and, in immense frustration, threw it at the opposite wall of her office. It bounced off with an ominous crack. If it hadn't been broken before, it almost certainly would be now. Charlotte half-wondered why they didn't make them stronger, the amount of usage they were probably put through around the world. Or maybe it had just been a really, really unlucky throw.
As she pushed a few strands of her long black hair from in front of her eyes to behind her ear, she could easily smell her juices on her hand and fingers. God, she smelled good. She knew from experience that she didn't taste half-bad, either: kind of salty and sweet at the same time.
It made her feel more miserable; arrogant as it seemed, she couldn't believe that she was wasting all of this on a stupid toy, and not on someone who would actually appreciate it. The only obvious answer was in big, bold letters right in front of her. She needed to get laid. And right there and then she determined that she was going to get her man. She was literally physically aching for him – it was for her own good.
She shifted about in her chair, making sure her soaked panties were back in a comfortable position, before she started to concoct a plan. Within half a minute she had all the ingredients outlined in her mind. She smiled mischievously. It was all so obvious, when you began to think about it.
Taking out her cell phone, Charlotte whizzed through the contacts list until she found the number she was after. As she pressed the dial button she glanced briefly at the clock on her wall – unless he'd gone elsewhere there was definitely a chance that he would be back from the deli by now.
The other line was picked up after the third ring. "Hello?"
Charlotte's breath caught in her mouth when she heard that wonderful, sexy voice answer. She replied quickly, not wanting common sense to get in the way of desperation now. "Hello, Troy, its Charlotte Thompson."
"Hey, yeah," replied Troy warmly. "Wow, twice in one day – how luck am I?"
Charlotte's heart thumped to the beat of a samba. "That's very sweet of you," she said softly, before shaking herself. Don't let his charm distract you from his cock, she thought. "Listen, I've been thinking about what we were talking about earlier and... well, how would you like to come and see the statue tonight, completely free, with no crowds or anything like that, before anyone else has a chance to really see it?"
Troy whistled down the line, impressed. "You could do that for me?"
"I think I can pull a few strings, yeah," said Charlotte, starting to relax a little more. "If you come to the Museum at...say, eight-thirty? Everyone will have gone home by then, and I can show you it myself. What do you say?"
"It's a date. Thanks, Charlotte. This is incredible. You won't regret it, I swear. Thank you!"
"My pleasure," said Charlotte, grinning from ear to ear. Inside her head she whooped loudly, and then she did it out loud after he had hung up. This was it – her plan was in play. There were of course a few minor details to sort out, but the important thing was she was going to be alone with Troy Newman. Tonight. It was like Christmas and Birthday all wrapped up into one.
After gobbling up her lunch quickly and checking herself in the bathroom mirrors to make sure she looked presentable, Charlotte went to find Mike, who was just literally greeting the Italian visitors as she arrived.
"Ah, and here's our Director, Miss Charlotte Thompson. Charlotte, this is Mr Gregorio, Mr Verdin and Miss Jupo."
Charlotte shook them all warmly by the hand and, after a brief Q and A between them all about the Museum, invited them to go on through to the Main Floor Gallery, where drinks would be waiting for them.
As the Italians walked behind them slightly, Mike caught up with Charlotte. "You left it very fine," he hissed at her. "The statue's already been brought in and put in its place for the exhibition. I was looking for you everywhere! Phil told me you'd passed him at security, so I knocked on your office but there was no reply. Where the hell have you been?"
Charlotte smiled a little sheepishly. "I was caught up in a meeting," she offered as an excuse. "Sorry."
Mike snorted. "Wouldn't be anything to do with this Troy Newman showcase, would it? Can we please just concentrate on our guests for this afternoon – then you're free to drool all over red and white squares to your heart's content."
Charlotte hoped she wasn't blushing; she certainly felt warm. But even she was impressed when they walked into the exhibition room and saw, for the first time, the genuine masterpiece that Mike had been babbling about excitedly for so long now. Sure, they'd seen photographs; they'd seen replicas and drawings. Nothing compared to seeing the real thing standing before them.