Parisian Beauty

He stood staring up at the painting. It showed a gloriously naked woman sitting on a rock. One breast was obscured by her arm, which was held up to her brown tousled hair. The other, round and ripe, was fully on display. Her thighs were pushed together just about hiding anything more intimate whilst showing off the roundness of her hip quite beautifully.

She was looking away from the viewer with a soft thoughtful expression. Her skin was pale but glowed with an inner life. Her flesh seemed soft and inviting. The whole effect was dreamy and ethereal but also warm and sensual.

He had never seen the original before but was familiar enough with the picture. It had haunted his adolescent imagination.

He had first discovered it as a boy, flicking in a desultory manner through a book of impressionist prints of his parents' one wet weekend. He hadn't been interested in art at all and had only picked it up due to a lack of anything better on offer. Nothing had really held his attention until he came to this one picture. He had no idea that art could be so exciting.

He was in a room with his parents and so had had to pretend that he wasn't interested and had kept turning the pages. Even though he'd only seen it for a minute he couldn't get the image of such gorgeousness out of his mind. The idea that this nymph was contained in a book in his otherwise dull and respectable middle class home was intoxicating. He had felt something new and unexpected stirring within him, something exciting and disturbing and dangerous.

That night, once his parents had gone to bed, and without really knowing what he was doing, he had sneaked downstairs, taking the book and locked himself away in the bathroom with it. He had fumbled though the pages with trembling hands until he found the right one and then opened it out in front of him. He stared in disbelief and wonder at the beauty in the painting. He didn't know what he wanted. He just wanted to look at her as long as possible, to breathe her, exalt in her loveliness. So it was with some surprise that he found his hard cock in his hand and an unexpected heat building in his thighs.

As he came, he felt dizzy and light headed, overcome by the picture and the new sensations. He felt lost in a dream of the woman's breasts and hair and soft thighs.

Now, thirty years later, he was finally standing before the original and felt nothing. Unlike his younger self he could appreciate the art, the mastery, the technique but twenty years of sexual adventure had left him numb to the sensuous mysteries. He felt old.

As he pondered the wearying effects of time upon his sensibility, he heard an unexpectedly soft moan exclaimed nearby. He turned to see a young woman standing next to him, gazing at the painting with the same rapt adoration his teenage self would have given it.

"Elle est belle, non?" he murmured.

The woman just nodded and then said, in English, "God, Renoir makes me wet."

The words were like a jolt to his system, sending a current directly to his groin.

He turned to look at her properly, unaccountably excited and keen to probe further but without giving anything away.

"I know just what you mean."

She turned to face him, "God. Did I just say that out loud?"

She was young, twenty two or twenty three, either at or just finished university. She was also very tall, over six feet, with long blonde hair in loose ringlets. She wore a very short dark wool skirt exposing her long, creamy smooth legs. A long, light summer coat was lightly tied at her waist over her cream blouse. A beret was perched on her head.

There was something artlessly naive about her dress that he found quite disarming. Her accent proclaimed her to be clearly English and her wardrobe such a parody of French style that it could have been almost insulting and yet, instead, it was quite delightful.

Her coat was wide open at her chest but pulled tight around her slender waist. Her legs were long, smooth and pale. Her knees turned slightly in on each other, like a charmingly awkward baby deer. Her blouse was pulled tight across her chest showing off her breasts which were small and pointy. He could just see the pink of her nipples indenting through the cream shirt; she wasn't wearing a bra.

She was something fresh and lovely, youth and vitality glowed through every pore of her skin.

"You should never be ashamed of being moved by beauty, mademoiselle, and she is such a beauty"

He turned to look at the painting again, the softness of her breast and her thighs, the langour in her eyes before turning back to look at the blushing Englishwoman standing next to him, looking gauche but not abashed.

"Yes, she is, isn't she?" and she turned to look at the painting again and for a while they both stood there looking at the firm smooth body of a young woman who had sat naked for the great artist in the warmth of a Provencal summer over a hundred years ago.

"I'm not a lesbian."

"Mademoiselle, these things aren't important."

"Of course, but well, I'm not and, well, it might have sounded like I was, well, a little turned on by her."

Hearing her soft voice talking about getting turned on was definitely having an effect on him. He couldn't help but think of her moistening between her legs beneath that skirt.

"Do not distress yourself. A beauty like this is so sensual, so," he paused, "delicious, that it would be churlish to deny its power, whatever your sexuality."

She turned to look at him. Her blue eyes looked wild and aroused, the skin on her cheek as soft and radiant as the naked bather in the canvass frame above them.

"I'm so glad you agree."

She held out her hand, which he noticed was clad in a white lace glove, for him to shake, in the English fashion.

Instead he took it in his hands, and bent to kiss it. "Charmant," he breathed, as his lips grazed the white lace on her hand.

She giggled, as he kissed her. For him though, the experience was more disturbing. His heart had pounded as he took hers. Her natural scent was intoxicating. He didn't show it but he was ill at ease.

He was an old roue with a thousand tricks to bed an ingenue like this young lady, and he had no doubt he wanted to bed her. But sex had gone from a pleasure to an addiction, from being the most vital part of life to something dully and doggedly pursued without pleasure or anticipation.

There was something about this girl though, a freshness, a sense of possibility, that reminded him of sex in the meadows in the summers of his youth, of times spent rolling in the grass with Celine or with Marie in her parents' bed, old loves now as withered as he was.

The surest way to lose that feeling would be to ensnare this precious creature in his hunter's net. To catch her would be to lose her, to possess her to crush her. It left him unsure how to proceed. How to have her without having her? The only way was to let her have him and that meant placing himself in her hands. As soon as he began to play this as a game he would lose, and that made planning a next move quite difficult.

Fortunately she was happy to talk, asking him questions. They wandered the gallery together quite naturally. She asked and he answered. He knew the Musee D'Orsay well so could easily answer most of her questions.

Art was another fading pleasure, some sense of the sublime and the sensuous, akin to that found in sex, had been made available to him through the medium of paint and canvas. But a desire to collect, to catalogue and to possess had robbed him of its joys as surely as had his passion for sex.

He had come today for the sole purpose of seeing Renoir's Bather Seated on a Rock, the picture that had meant more to him as an adolescent than any other. It was in private ownership and only rarely publicly displayed. So he had come to pay his respects, to see if the original could work any of its old magic. Perhaps it had.

Showing his companion the way round the gallery though, explaining things to fresh and eager eyes made him realise he was seeing much of it as if for the first time. The colours seemed brighter, the drama more evident than it had for years.

He had made no moves towards her but found that she had taken his arm as though it were the most natural thing in the world. Feeling her warm body close to his made him feel almost like a giddy teenager.

He felt a certain nervousness though as they reached the room with Courbert's Origin of the World in it. It was discretely hidden behind a screen and he wondered if perhaps he ought simply to guide her past, without drawing her attention to it. After all, pretty nymphs posing nude by secluded rural pools was one thing, this painting quite another.

However, she seemed to be aware of it as soon as they entered the room, aware that there was something hidden and wanted to know what it was.

"Have you seen it?" she asked.

"Of course."

"Why is it hidden away?"

"It was thought, not quite proper, shocking even."

"Shocking? How thrilling. Is it? What's it of?" she sounded excited.

He paused, "It's a nude."

"Is that all? This place is full of nudes. Is it a man, is that what's shocking? Or a man and a woman? Is that it, is it two people fucking?"

She sounded quite breatheless now and he struggled to retain his level tone. The eagerness with which she had said "fucking" excited him almost as much as when she had earlier confessed to being aroused by the Renoir.

"It's a female nude, on her own."

"Is she touching herself?"

He shook his head, trying to dispel the image of this divine creature touching herself.

"Well, what's the big deal then?" she sounded disappointed.

"It has a certain ... directness, even a coarseness..." he trailed off, more distracted than he cared to admit. His mind consumed by thoughts of the soft, wet tenderness between Lucy's legs and her evident excitement at the thought of fucking.

"Perhaps it would be best if you saw it for yourself."

She nodded her agreement, grinning eagerly.

He signalled to an attendant, both excited by her possible reaction and terrified it would break the spell. They were escorted behind the screen where the attendant opened a panel and left the pair of them standing looking up at the vast, voluptuous bushy cunt spread open before them.

"Wow," she said.

He didn't say anything, simply looked at her, trying to gauge her reaction.

"Wow," she said again.

"You can see why they don't put it on public display?"

She nodded, "It's just so raw."

He nodded. He couldn't tell if she liked it or not but she was certainly taken with it. She lifted one finger and, keeping about six inches from the painting, traced it down the line of the pink slit between the swollen pussy lips.

Eventually the attendant reappeared and they were politely escorted away.

"I think that's enough art for this afternoon," she said.

It seemed his fears were right. The painting had abruptly shattered the mood.

"What are we going to do now?" she asked and his heart leapt in his chest. He had been careful not to make any suggestion that their chance meeting might lead to anything other than a delightful afternoon in a gallery.

"We, my dear? I most regret I must return to my work so we cannot do anything. I am late as it is. There are many things in Paris I could suggest for you, though."

She appeared genuinely crestfallen and so, what he told himself was an effort to console her rather than simply to further his own ends, found himself saying, "But this evening, there is the ballet, if mademoiselle cares for the ballet?"

"Ballet?" Her excitement was schoolgirlish now, "at the Opera House?"

He nodded.

She squealed with delight, clapping her laced hands together then she flew into his arms, both hands to his face and gave him a kiss. The kiss was to his cheek but glanced against the outside of his mouth. It only lasted a moment but she had her body pressed against him as she kissed, her small, firm tits pushed up against him. She must have felt his erection stiffening against her thigh but she didn't seem put off.

"But now, I must go," he said, struggling to regain control. "Meet me at the main entrance of the Opera House at 7 o'clock."

She grinned back, nodding, "What shall I wear?"

He allowed himself the luxury of looking her slowly up and down, drinking in her fresh, slightly gauche elegance.

"Come as you are," he said.

...

The afternoon passed slowly enough. The only excitement being whether he could actually get tickets but he was a well-connected man and it wasn't difficult. Part of him told him not to, that he was making a fool of himself with this girl, too close to losing control, that no good would come of it.

But he could feel the brush of her lips against his, the feel of her tits pressed against his chest, the feel of his lips on her lace gloves, wondering where else she might be wearing lace and if he would be permitted to kiss there as well.

He found her just where he had asked her to meet him. She was sitting on the pavement reading a book, her legs up in front of her, thighs pressed together but her calves were splayed wide apart. He noticed she was reading L'Estranger. The title was in French but everything else in translation. She was dressed exactly as before save that she had swapped her flats for strappy high heels.

She was genuinely lost in her book and he stood in front of her a full five minutes without her looking up and seeing him. He coughed, still she didn't move. He had to lean down and touch her lightly on the shoulder.

"Mademoisselle," he breathed.

She looked up and seeing him, beamed up with a wide unguarded smile. She lifted a hand up to him and he helped pull her up. Her legs were too long somehow and her movements ungainly but in that strangely charming manner of hers.

As she swung her legs around he was shocked, and instantly aroused, by a brief glimpse of blonde fuzz between her legs. It appeared it wasn't just a bra she wasn't wearing.

They wandered through the lobby and once again she seemed to naturally slip her arm into his. She seemed to be enjoying the ambiance of the occasion. He on the other hand felt suddenly on edge. That glimpse between her legs had set his blood pumping.

He couldn't make her out at all. She seemed so innocent, so naive and yet the total lack of underwear, the unguarded comments about getting wet, the very fact of her latching onto him like this suggested something else altogether. He realised that for the first time in a long time he had embarked on something not under his control, which both terrified and excited him.

They took their seats. Naturally they were amongst the best in the house, more expensive than the tourists could usually afford. His companion cut a striking figure amongst the conservatively dressed Parissien haute bourgeoisie filling the remaining seats. These were the snobs, the critics and the hypocrites, people just like him.

He ignored them and sat down next to her. She still had his arm and didn't let it go, even as they sat down. Instead she ran her hand down his arm and took his hand in hers. Gently she pulled his hand over towards her and held it, clasped with both her hands, in her lap.

The room darkened, the music swelled and the curtain rose, revealing the pretty little sylvain scene behind.

He enjoyed ballet, once even had found something almost sublime in it, but he had never found it erotic, despite the occasional more than satisfactory dalliance with a ballerina. The movements were too mannered, too controlled to express a raw sexual energy sufficient to arouse.

This was a different experience though, watching these beautiful creatures flex and twirl, with this most ravishing creature of all sat beside him. He was intensely aware of his hand in hers, that she held it on her lap so close to her sex.

From time to time he would steal a glance at her, to try and read her reactions to the dance but the auditorium was too dark. Even above the music though, he was sure he could hear her breathing, shallow and excited. He could feel her grasp his hand so hard it almost hurt on occasions.

Act One ended and the lights went up. She turned to look at him with shining eyes.

"That was wonderful. Thank you so, so much."

He demurred but was secretly delighted, with a delight that was simple and spontaneous, nothing more than a simple pleasure in her pleasure, free from design or strategem.

They sat in their seats, half turned to each other, and talked about the ballet right through the interval. She talked more than he, thrilling in the experience she was having, close to babbling really. He was happy to let her talk, thrilled to her unpretentious enjoyment of it all. He would simply interject with a wry observation here and there.

The second act commenced. He was abruptly aware that she still had his hand but that it was no longer in her lap but placed flat on her inner thigh, just pushing up against that perilously short skirt of hers.

He wasn't sure whether she had placed it there or if it were something he had inadvertently done himself. He was terrified he had ruined everything with some inexcusably clumsy gesture but also utterly aroused by the feel of her warm flesh to his touch.

She ran her hand over his, seeming to push his hand further into her. Whoever had initiated this contact, it seemed she welcomed it now.

He looked straight ahead of him, trying to refocus on the performance in front of him but failing utterly. The dancers performed their extraordinary dances but he was oblivious to everything but the feel of her thigh and the feel of his own swollen cock, heavy in his pants. He felt hot and uncomfortable and more alive than he had felt in years.

She ran her hand over his, running her fingers over the back of his hand and then, lightly gripping him by the wrist, pulling his hand further up her thigh, rucking up her short skirt. She opened her legs as she did so. He could feel his erection, stiff and swollen, pushing hard and almost painfully against the fabric of his trousers.

His hand moved up her inside thigh, right to the top, brushing her pubic hair. He wasn't touching her pussy but could feel the edge of one of her lips and its hot, animal moistness. He was hardly breathing, so alert was he with anticipation.

She closed her legs, pushing his hand into her hot, slick pussy, then opened them again.

He felt giddy. She was so deliciously wet. His fingers were instantly slick with her. He suddenly remembered kissing Nicole in her parents' front room and emboldened from being allowed to fondle her breasts, taking a chance and plunging his hand down her pants. She had been wet like a cut peach. It was unexpected but exciting.

So now he ran his fingers through her dripping wet cunt, feeling as naughty and almost out of control as when he had fingered Nicole to orgasm that long ago Sunday afternoon while her parents made dinner in the next room.

His companion too, was wet like a peach, and he fingered her like a schoolboy, sliding his fingers inside her, in and out, against the warm, constricting inner walls of her pussy.

She turned her head to his and pressed her mouth against his ear. He could tell that it was with an effort that she was suppressing her moans but he could hear her breath, short and ecstatic, over the swell of the music.

Her chest rose and fell as she came. He felt her pussy tighten around his fingers. She put her hand between her legs and gripped him hard, slowing the motion. His hand was slippery with her.

He was completely aroused, the music swelled around him as Giselle and Albrecht danced their last dance, but it was lost to him. All he could feel was his companion's slippery, spasming cunt and his own aching erection, lust and arousal roaring in his ears like the ocean, her hot breath sounding round his brain like a full orchestra.