A Work of Art

Three years ago my wife Courtney, and I (Kevin), seemed to live for the Arts. We weren't the least bit pretentious (at least I hope that we weren't), we just liked art of almost any type. Dutch cityscape paintings, primitive African sculptures, pre-Colombian masks, Salvador Dali murals -- we loved them all. Our house was adorned with the best original art that we could afford, and we went to art exhibits and museums at least once a month, and usually once a fortnight. We were members of the "Circles" of the two closest art galleries, and attended all the private exhibitions, openings, and galas, that they offered, and even travelled to New York and Washington for special exhibits. We had many good friends who shared our interests.

While in the eight years that Courtney and I were married we also had many other interests even if not as prevalent as our interest in the Arts, and other groups of friends, our friends in the art community were the closest. In fact with one exception we'd rather have interacted with our art friends than anyone else. The one exception; Tom's second wife Katrina.

I tried to like Katrina for Tom's sake. However, it was really difficult. She seemed uneducated, had no appreciation for most classical art including masters like Monet and van Gogh, and was constantly making flippant comments about pieces that others in our group found fascinating. The members of our group had had many conversations about how Tom could get along with her or put up with her lack of sophistication. However, there was one discussion that the male members of our group never had; why he married her.

Katrina is hot; like a sultry tropical breeze on a brisk winter day. Although her face is only slightly above average and she dresses relatively conservatively, it wasn't possible to hide her consummate boobs, ass, and thighs. At the time that this story initially took place, however, Tom's patience with her simplicity seemed to wane despite her steamy form. He had publicly criticized her on a number of occasions, resulting in some icy situations that required my expertise to defuse. I'm a professional mediator and negotiator, and actually enjoy transferring my work expertise to my personal life. When it came to Tom and Katrina, however, even though my tension-soothing activities ultimately always worked, I never got any acknowledgement, let alone thanks from either of them even though the rest of the members of our group expressed appreciation.

Despite my misgivings about Katrina, I was always pleasant to her, and she to me, in one-on-one situations, although such encounters were not numerous.

I had known Katrina for about three years when the impetus for this story arose. The largest local art gallery was having its 50th anniversary gala, featuring an exhibition of Jean Miro paintings and rare lithographs gathered from all over the world, including the original of perhaps his most famous painting incongruously titled "Sculptures." This gallery was also famous for putting on a food and drink spread that was unrivaled whenever it hosted a soiree and this event promised to be the best ever. I was really looking forward to attending.

About a week before the event, Katrina called up Courtney; apparently she was in a weepy mood. Tom was going to be out of town on business (the event was on a Wednesday night) that he couldn't get out of but for some reason Katrina really wanted to attend. According to Courtney Katrina hit her with the line "I know that most members of our group think that I'm a simpleton and bore, but I'm trying hard to fit in and you and Kevin are the most tolerant of me. Could I please hitch a ride with you two?"

"Uh...sure," Courtney replied, at a loss for what to say. Apparently that made Katrina very happy.

"Uh, Kevin," Courtney told me shortly afterward, with a sheepish look on her face. "That was Katrina. Tom will be out of town for the 50th Anniversary Gala and she wanted a ride. I couldn't turn her down."

"Oh shit," I mumbled. "I guess that I'll have to take some patience pills, or get heavily intoxicated -- or both."

"Don't be so grim," Courtney chuckled. "She said nice things about us and said that she's trying hard to fit in and learn more about art. Miro should provide a perfect teaching experience."

"Really?" I cynically asked, with raised eyebrow.

"Be nice," Courtney laughed, then poked me in the ribs.

************

I had just about gotten used to the idea of Courtney and I taking turns interacting with Katrina at the Gala when a few days later another shoe dropped. "Uh, Kevin, Darling," Courtney gushed. Whenever she said "Darling" or gushed it meant that I won't like what she said next.

"What?" I replied with a jaundiced eye.

"You know how much I want to go to the Gala -- but something has come up at work and to foster my career I just have to be out of town from Wednesday morning to Friday late afternoon. I'm really sorry," she said, stroking my chest with one finger.

A first question sprang into my mind. "Is John Bates going on this trip?" I asked in an unpleasant voice.

"Yes, along with two other people," was her defensively awkward reply. She quickly regained control of herself, though, and said with a joking tone -- although I didn't consider it funny -- "Why are you so concerned about him all of the time?"

"Because he figuratively -- I hope not literally but I don't know for sure -- is always sniffing your crotch, that's why," I forcefully responded.

"Oh, Kevin, you're misinterpreting things."

"Really, Courtney, then why is he always trying to dance slow dances with you every time your company has an event, or that time we saw him and his supposed 'girlfriend' at the Passionfruit Night Club? How did he know that we were there?"

"We've been over this many times," she said, somewhat exasperated. "It was just a coincidence, and he dances with other people too."

"Just fast dances -- plus I didn't like his comment that last time that I told him that only I dance slow dances with you," I growled.

"He was just joking," she chortled.

"I didn't find it funny," I shot back.

"Oh, Honey, don't be jealous," she cooed, "you know that you're much better looking than he is."

I did think that I was much better looking -- and knew that I could kick his ass with one hand behind my back -- but I also knew that women in general, and Courtney in particular, don't regard looks the same way that men do. Her last boyfriend before we got married seven years ago looked very much like John, and she seemed to be enamored with him before he stupidly dumped her and then unsuccessfully tried to get her back.

Still miffed I asked "Do you really need to go on this trip?"

"Yes, sweetheart, I do. You can call Brad if you don't believe me," she responded in a conciliatory manner, stroking my chest again -- Brad being the CEO of her company and a straight shooter.

I was grumbling to myself as Courtney hugged me; then an entirely new problem popped into my pea brain. I gently moved Courtney to arm's length and blurted out "Are you going to call Katrina and tell her that she can't come with us because you're not going?"

"Why would I do that?" Courtney asked after a short pause and a puzzled look on her face. "You're still going, aren't you? She can still go with you, can't she?"

"I was relying on you to take the pressure off of me in dealing with her dim questions and behavior; now I have to go it alone?" I grumbled.

"Our other friends will be there. Be a gentleman about it, Kevin. Like I said, she's trying to change -- maybe it will be fun."

"Yeah, likely," I groaned.

"You're all bottle-brushy, aren't you?" Courtney grinned. "Let me soothe your frazzled nerves," she continued as she massaged my shoulders. I knew that she was playing me, but since I thought that this was going someplace good, I went along. I continued to grumble under my breath until she unzipped my pants, fished out my cock, and started sucking it while staring at me with a provocative look on her face.

Just before I was ready to blow I lifted Courtney up, bent her over a padded chair in our living room, flipped up her skirt and pulled down her undies, and then ran my stiff cock up and down her moist pussy lips. After a minute or so of loud "Ummm"s from her I buried my pole in one thrust, causing her to scream "Fuck Yeah!" I then proceeded to piston in and out at warp speed until a mutual climax that left us both weak-kneed and finally collapsed on the living room rug. In our prone position we alternated among spasming whenever an aftershock hit, groaning, and chuckling.

When we regained complete awareness I picked her up, carried her to the shower, and after a groping, gyrating, and giggling session, carried her to our bed and fucked her again in missionary position.

After our second fuck -- the most that I was capable in a day -- she quickly fell asleep on my shoulder. Sleep did not come as easily for me. I was still miffed about her business trip with John, and having to deal with Katrina all by myself since I was sure that our friends would be of little help. I finally fell into a troubled slumber.

I was bothered enough that two days later I did call Brad. I knew him pretty well from company functions, and even had played tennis doubles with him a couple of times when his normal partner couldn't make it during tournaments at his Country Club. I tried not to be too nosy or obvious, and I think that I basically succeeded since I started the conversation by asking him if he knew how to get tickets to the local World Team Tennis club's next match. I confirmed that Courtney really did need to go on the trip, but that only she and John were going, no one else. That decision had been made recently, however, so maybe she wasn't lying about it. I was still miffed.

I did my best to fuck Courtney senseless Tuesday night before her trip the next morning. She complained a little, but it seemed more joking than real, so I decided to suppress my angst about her and John being alone two nights. Plus, now I was dealing with another anxious situation -- taking Katrina to the Gala by myself.

I called Katrina up around noon on Wednesday, hoping for an opening to back out of taking her to the Gala -- although I still planned on going -- but she was so enthusiastic about it that I would have had to be a real shit to cancel on her. "I'm so looking forward to viewing the Miro exhibit with someone knowledgeable who won't constantly put me down like Tom does," she gushed at one point.

I steeled myself for a difficult evening, but vowed to make the best of it. The event was black tie, so I was in my tuxedo. When I picked Katrina up she was elegantly dressed with a floor-length strapless, sleeveless, backless and shoulderless electric blue gown, split almost up to her hip on the left side. A bold sapphire necklace adorned her neck, and an understated sapphire bracelet hugged her left wrist.

"You look great," I honestly said as I helped her put a pashmina over her bare shoulders for the ride to the gallery.

"Thanks -- you're the best looking penguin I've ever seen," she chuckled in reply.

The small talk on the way to the gallery was a little forced, but once we got there, consumed a few oysters, shrimp, and veggies, and two generous glasses of wine each, our conversation flowed much more smoothly. As we toured the Miro exhibit, Katrina was full of uninhibited questions and comments.

Katrina wasn't much impressed with "Ear of Grain," an early Miro work. "When Miro was a young artist he was influenced by the realism of the Dutch Masters. Note the attention that he gives to the objects here, because that will be reflected in his later works where he constructs clean-edged, biomorphic forms in his trademarked style," I explained to Katrina as we viewed it, trying to display as little pomposity as possible.

"Looks like a bad still life to me," Katrina chuckled before finishing her second glass of white wine (they don't serve red in galleries). "I might need another glass if they all look like this," she grinned while holding out her glass.

The way that she said it was actually humorous -- and since "Ear of Grain" isn't my favorite either I grinned right back, and got her another glass. When I caught up with her she was pensively viewing "The Beautiful Bird Revealing the Unknown to a Pair of Lovers."

"Thanks, Kevin," she gushed, making prolonged contact with my hand as she carefully moved the glass from mine to hers. "This is a really busy work; I can't quite understand why it is like that," she proclaimed.

"Patrons of the arts more sophisticated than myself," I cheerily replied, "believe that in this work Miro featured a solid background that emphasizes the simplified forms and lines that together mimic the appearance of a complex constellation in the night sky. At the time that he painted this some believe that its crowded, chaotic feeling echoed Miró's own feelings regarding the violent upheaval in Europe at the time. He painted this when he and his family were fleeing the Nazi's."

"No shit," Katrina giggled. Then she remained contemplative for a while longer then remarked "I can see that -- thanks, Kevin, you're a fricking genius."

I laughed. "I'll take just 'genius;' I don't need the 'fricking' superlative."

She gave me a sincere, spontaneous hug.

I actually had a decent time playing tour guide for Katrina as we viewed the rest of the collection. Instead of being stupid or asinine, most of her comments were humorous or reflective, and some even insightful. This was despite the fact that I got her a fourth generous glass of wine.

Katrina's best comments were saved for last -- the composition Miro entitled "Maternity."

"Is that really a woman?" Katrina giggled after she had viewed the work for a couple of minutes while polishing off her fourth glass of wine.

"Yes, it is," I chuckled; "obviously it is very schematic, reduced to its simplest form."

"So is that supposed to be one tit in profile, and the other straight on, with two stick-figure children hovering in mid-air as they suckle?" she laughed as she pointed to objects in the work.

"That's what the experts say," was my grinning rejoinder. "Supposedly this is what remains after he stripped away any excess representation; simply the instinctual and emotional aspects of the relationship between mother and child that may not be evident in more naturalistic illustrations."

"I guess that she has a pretty nice rack, even if she's anorexic," Katrina smirked, "but I have to say that I could show you some art in my house that is much more aesthetic than that."

"They say that beauty is in the eye of the beholder," I clichéd.

"Yeah, well the art work that I can show you in my house you'd think was much more beautiful and dramatic than anything in this collection," she grinned.

We met up with some of our friends, had a very pleasant conversation in which Katrina enthusiastically participated, and winked at me each time that she parroted one of my observations. By 9:30 things were breaking up. Katrina went to "powder her nose," while in an alcove I called Courtney on my cell. The use of cell phones in the gallery is frowned upon, if not downright forbidden, so I had to be in a hidden, out-of-the-way location.

Well at least I tried to call Courtney. My call went straight to voicemail. I left a cheery message, telling her that the night was actually fun and not the total disaster I had been apprehensive about, and asked her to call me no matter what the time.

On the drive home it was clear that Katrina was feeling no pain, although she also quite clearly was not so drunk that she wasn't in control of her faculties. I was quite surprised by one of her early comments on the drive.

"I may not have told you this before, Kevin, but I really have to thank you for all of the times that you've rescued me from awkward situations when Tom has made demeaning comments. I really appreciate it," she said, squeezing my bicep as she finished.

"I...uh...I hoped that I was being helpful," I stammered, taken slightly aback by the genuineness of her comment.

The she earnestly continued with: "I also have to thank you profusely for being so nice to me tonight. I'll bet that you were looking forward to it with trepidation, but I hope that it wasn't too awful for you."

Again, I stammered a little when I replied "Uh, actually, uh, it was fun for me tonight. I hope that you had a nice time."

Just then the bright lights from a passing vehicle reflected off her azure eyes and sapphire necklace at the same time -- a truly exotic sight. "I had a wonderful time," she cooed, eagerly displaying her pearly whites.

When we got to her house she held my right hand and unaffectedly asked "Would you like to see what art I have in my house that almost anyone would agree is art more praiseworthy than Miro's 'Maternity?'"

It was only a little after 10:00 p. m., and I never went to bed before midnight even on weekdays.

"Sure," I responded. "Let me get the door for you."

I hurried around to the passenger's side of the car and opened the door for Katrina, gently taking her hand to allow her to more easily alight from the car. The portions of her dress defining the slit parted, revealing a glimpse of her left thigh that was even more desirable than what I had gleaned from earlier subtle inspections of her body.

I helped her with her keys. She closed the drapes in her living room and then excused herself. "I have to make a stop before I show you the art that I'm so proud of," she smiled. "Can I get you a drink?"

"I think that I had enough at the Gala," I replied. "I still need to drive home."

"Oh, don't worry -- you'll be completely sober by then. If you change your mind the bar is right there," she said pointing to a small wet bar between the living room and kitchen. "I'll be back in a jiffy," she said as she disappeared somewhere into the back of the first floor.

I strolled around the living room looking at the paintings on the wall as I made another call to Courtney's cell phone. It went straight to voicemail again. I left a terse message: "Call me." I was a little a little perturbed, but shrugged my shoulders and continued viewing the compositions on the walls.

I had only been in Tom's house once before, when he was married to his first wife. It seemed that most of the artwork had changed since then. I liked some of it, but none was good enough to get me excited -- certainly nothing that was "Much more beautiful and dramatic" than the Miro works, as Katrina had promised in the gallery. "She's probably retrieving a painting or sculpture from her bedroom," haphazardly crossed my mind as I continued to peruse the wall hangings in the living room.

Then I heard a noise off to my left. I turned to look just as Katrina walked into the living room -- smiling. She was wearing her high heels, sapphire necklace, and a sapphire ankle bracelet -- and nothing else! It's lucky that I hadn't gotten a drink from the wet bar because I surely would have dropped it.

"Now be honest, Kevin; is this a work of art, and is it more beautiful and dramatic than anything you've seen in marble or on a canvas?" she rhetorically asked as she moved her hands in a demonstrative motion while gently rotating, ultimately a full 360 degrees.

I was dumbfounded, speechless, and gobsmacked. There was no doubt that Katrina's body was the best that I'd ever seen, live or in any media. Her thirty two year old skin was as tight and smooth as an eighteen-year-old's, and her tits as turgid but with enough sag to establish that they were natural. Her mammoth breasts with puffy nipples seemed too large for her thin upper body -- but more desirable than any I had ever seen. Her thin waist tapered smoothly to a round firm ass and sculptured hips. Her thighs were world class, and the open triangle that they formed with her pussy was intoxicating. She seemed to have a naturally sparse bush and a prominent clit -- something that I wanted a closer look at.