My Thoughts are Your Thoughts Ch. 04

With my reputation as a painter of nudes steadily growing, a prestigious London gallery offered me an exhibition that autumn. It wasn't going to be, for me anyway, a huge exhibition, bearing in mind my relatively young age, perhaps about thirty or forty paintings, with a few drawings and limited-edition prints. However, it would certainly enhance my reputation even more, and allow me to charge higher prices in future.

I accepted the offer of course, which meant I would have to knuckle down to some serious painting. I already had a good number of paintings and limited-edition prints, but I needed a few bigger canvases as well. The gallery also suggested they contact some of my patrons who had my work in their collections in order to borrow some of my earlier works for the exhibition, and with these, 'loan,' paintings I was confident I could mount an exhibition worthy of the name.

I sent away some photos of work already held in my collection for the gallery owner to select and was surprised when he chose a few of the more erotic paintings. When I queried him about this, he said the erotic work might well be seen as controversial, thus generating more media interest, and consequently, more visitors to the gallery. More visitors meant more sales, and so I agreed, little realising the repercussions in store for me. Let me say right now, nothing bad came of it, but it certainly brought reactions and opportunities in unexpected quarters.

With the last of the paintings crated and dispatched, I had a few days before the exhibition opened in London. Luckily for me, my lovely nurse, Fiona Brown was available again, and I spent two delightful days in her company before heading off to London for the opening night. It was what the cliché-ridden media would call a, 'glittering,' affair, or so it seemed to me, a young man from a remote Scottish provincial city.

There were a number of famous people present, actors, T.V. presenters, sports personalities and such like, as well as the usual collectors, art critics from the newspapers, etc. I positively glowed with the praise heaped on me from every side, but I knew it was all so ephemeral. I kept telling myself, 'today's headlines are tomorrows waste paper.' I was introduced to so many, 'influential,' people that it was hard to keep track, but I tried my best to keep tabs on the art critics. They were the ones who could make or break the success of the exhibition.

Amongst all the favourable reviews and interest that came my way that evening, there was one art critic in particular who made it obvious that he thought I wasn't worthy of a solo London exhibition, so I didn't expect a good review from him, but one bad review was more of a hiccup than anything else. As I mingled with the crowd, shaking hands with people I'd only seen on T.V, chatting with politicians, flirting with beautiful, sophisticated women, I was in my element.

Midway through the evening, red, 'sold,' stickers began to appear beside a few of the paintings, and the gallery owner was highly pleased with how things were going too. I even had a few women offer to model for me, offers made in a joking manner, but joking or not, it was significant that I eventually left the party with a few telephone numbers for future reference. I was like a dog with two tails, and it got even better when a well-known actress, who I'd admired for a number of years, asked if I'd accept a commission to paint her, with the proviso that it must remain private. All in all, the first night of my exhibition was a roaring success in my eyes, and at the end of the night, with a few more paintings sold, I was highly delighted, and so was the gallery owner.

That night I slept alone, getting up relatively early, and after breakfast I went out to have a stroll round the West end of London. I also slipped into, 'my,' gallery just to see if there was any favourable reports, 'the morning after the night before,' where the owner greeted me like a superstar.

'One of the best opening nights ever my boy,' he said, positively beaming, and handed me a few newspapers with the art critics reviews of the show circled in red. They were all very favourable, except for the critic who made it clear that he just didn't like my work. However, I didn't lose any sleep over his less than complimentary review, and I was to have my unwitting revenge very soon.

I went back to my hotel just after lunchtime, and as I collected my key from hotel reception, the receptionist told me I had a number of messages and indicated that there was a lady waiting for me. When I asked her where, she looked to my right, and pointed out a woman about my own age, but maybe a few years older, it was hard to tell. I thanked her and went over to find out who she was. 'Hello, I believe you want to see me?' I said, introducing myself.

'No need to introduce yourself,' she said pleasantly. 'I was at the gallery last night although I didn't get the chance to talk to you. I know exactly who you are,' she added.

'Well then, you have me at a disadvantage,' I confessed, 'although, now that you mention it, I remember your face from last night. You were wearing a blue dress - very elegant,' I added. She nodded, smiling, pleased that I'd remembered her.

'Yes, I was wearing a blue dress. You have a very good memory,' she confirmed, still smiling.

'Actually, I don't, but you did rather catch my eye,' I confessed, which pleased her even more. She told me her name was Annabelle, and that she really needed to talk to me. I suggested that we go into the resident's lounge and have a drink, but she looked around her, like a scene from a spy film.

'I'd really prefer somewhere a bit more private,' she said, 'is it possible to go up to your room?' I agreed, but I thought I'd have to be cautious until such times as I discovered what this was all about. As we waited in the lobby for the lift, to arrive, I took the opportunity to size her up. She was about medium height, very slim, but quite busty at the same time. Long blonde hair, with very even features, and sparkling blue eyes, all set off to perfection by the classic, 'little black dress.'

Her legs were slim and shapely, great legs, black sheer stocking or tights, with impossibly high, stiletto heels which must have cost as much as my monthly household bills. Everything fitted together perfectly; in fact, she was quite lovely. I was hoping in my wildest fantasies that there was something very interesting about to happen. The silence continued in the lift, and I sent her a few erotic thoughts, just to get the ball rolling, as well as mentally touching her. She looked at me then, a strange look on her face, which morphed into a smile. I felt she was about to say something when the lift glided smoothly to a stop and the doors slid opened. We got out, walked along the corridor a little, and I opened the door to my room, ushering her inside, where I got her a gin and tonic from the drink's cabinet, and still water for myself.

'Now Annabelle,' I said, 'you're being very mysterious, what can I do for you?'

'Sorry,' she replied in a voice, which back home would have been described as, 'posh.' She sounded a lot like Joanna Lumley, the actress, her voice soft, low, and well-modulated. Even here in London, I knew that her voice and accent denoted breeding and money, with a capital, 'M.' The voice can tell us a lot about people, and I listened attentively as she spoke, 'As I've already said, I was at the gallery last night and I was very impressed by your work.' I nodded, smiling at her, pleased that this stunning example of femininity liked my paintings.

'And?' I said, hoping to elicit more, she didn't disappoint.

'I'd like you to paint me. I know you must have lots of women offering to model for you, so that's why I took the bull by the horns, so to speak, and came to see you directly.'

'Well... ' I said, but before I could add anything, she jumped back in.

'I've thought about it all night, so it's not some spoiled little rich girl notion. Please say you will, I have a good figure. People have asked me to model before, photographers and such, but I've always turned them down.'

'Yes... and I can see why they asked you. You have a great figure, I couldn't help but notice,' I said. She smiled, almost shyly as I said it. 'You must understand Annabelle; I'm going back home in a few days' time. I don't have any sketchbooks or materials with me. All I have is my camera, which I can use to get some photos of you, and use that to convert to a painting,' she nodded.

'That's OK, I'm happy to pose in any way you want,' she replied.

'Are you sure?' I queried. 'The gallery is already talking about another exhibition next year, or the year after. Your painting would be on full public view, but if you're not worried about being recognised, then I'm happy to paint you,' I said, pointing out potential pitfalls.

'No, it doesn't bother me, I'm quite happy to be seen. I work hard to keep my body in good shape, and I don't have anything to be ashamed of.'

'Well, if you're sure,' I said, trying to sound blasé, but excited that this beautiful, sophisticated woman was about to take off her clothes for me. I fetched my camera from my suitcase, and she stood up to remove her dress. She reached round behind her to pull down the zip. Meanwhile I had been looking around the room to look for a place to pose her. There was a delightful chaise longue, which I pulled over in front of the full-length window. The décor in the room was first class as one would expect from a London West End hotel, and together with this beautiful, cool blonde, I thought it should be easy to get some first-class shots that oozed quality. When I turned back to her, she was still struggling with the zip.

'James, the blasted thing seems to be jammed. Be a dear, and pull it down for me,' she asked, pulling her long blonde hair up and away from the area so as not to get it entangled in the zip. Close up, I could smell her perfume, a light and subtle fragrance. I managed to untangle a stray thread from the zip mechanism, which was causing the problem, and slowly pulled the zip down, first revealing a lacy, but very skimpy black bra, and noticing a fine down of golden hair in the small of her back just above her bottom, then as I pulled lower still, tiny black panties.

Making the most of it, I pushed the dress off her shoulders, where she caught it at the front and let it fall to the floor. Without being asked, I slowly pushed the bras straps off her shoulders, making as much as I could of this intimate contact, undressing her. She shivered, perhaps with anticipation as I pulled the straps lower still, almost exposing her fine breasts, and then I opened the clasp at the back to remove it completely. She didn't move away, or seem to object in any way, and leaned back against me.

I put my arms around her waist, and she snuggled closer, pushing her bottom against my groin. She wanted this as much as I did, so I let my hands slide up over her abdomen, cupping her big tits in my hands. I'd thought with her being so slim that they may have been surgically enhanced, but no, they were all her own, completely natural, and very responsive too. Her nipples grew even more erect and hard under my touch, and she sighed a long shuddering sigh as I stroked and squeezed her breasts.

As I did this, she slipped a hand round behind herself, feeling the hardness of my cock through my trousers, but she soon found the zip, and pulling it down, she inserted her hand, caught me and pulled me free. She turned to me then and we both looked down at her beautiful, elegant hands wrapped round my dick. She stroked me for a moment or two, her hands gently stroking and squeezing my cock and then cupping and feeling my balls too, but even good things must come to an end.

'Shall we make ourselves more comfortable,' she suggested, breaking free from my touch and heading for the bed where she sat down. Now that I could see her boobs properly, I was surprised at how big and firm they were, and beautifully shaped too. 'Are you going to undress James?' she requested in that husky Joanna Lumley voice. I was stripped within seconds and sat down beside her, and as she turned to me, I kissed her, my right hand cupping her left breast, squeezing and fondling.

She moaned a little and I pushed her down on the bed, stroking and touching her all over, feeling her delightfully soft skin to my heart's content. Her legs were apart in expectation as I touched her legs, soft skin inside her thighs then gently rubbed her through her panties. Her bottom lifted off the bed to meet the pressure of my hand and I let my fingers slide below the fabric, skin on skin. She was already wet, but it was as nothing compared to how wet she got in the next few minutes as I let my fingers slide into her. Past the fleshy labia, feeling the flow of her juices escape, as I opened her up, feeling her push against me until my fingers were embedded to the knuckles in her hot cunt.

She tried to push her panties off, but my hand was in the way, so I momentarily slipped my hand out, allowing her to remove her knickers. Now she was naked apart from black hold-up stockings and those terribly expensive shoes. As I licked and sucked her fabulous titties, I continued to stroke her pussy with my fingers, and she came within minutes, writhing and thrashing about under me. I held her for a moment or two, letting her get her breath back, and then turned my attention to her cunt. I pushed her legs apart and let my tongue trail down from her breast, over her stomach, to the inside of her thighs.

She knew what was going to happen next and was already half-way to an orgasm just thinking about it. Her pussy was a total delight, the lips prominent and generous, seemingly designed for my sucking and fucking pleasure. She was shaven, or waxed, I can't tell the difference, but as a visual artist, to me her pussy was a work of art all by itself. I parted those wet lips even more with my tongue and her heady aroma added another layer of hardness to my already rock hard erection. As I tongued her clitoris she became ever more vocal and excited

When my tongue finally dipped between those fragrant and musky lips, lapping at her juices she was more than ready for me. She grabbed my head pulling me against her wetness, my tongue doing sterling work on her clitoris, and the two fingers I'd slipped into her were opening and stretching, rubbing her g-spot. She moaned loudly, gasping, calling out my name, begging me not to stop, which I had no intention of doing anyway, until at last she was seized by an epic orgasm, which went on and on and on.

'Oh, fuck James, that was good,' she said, when her orgasm faded, the profanity seeming all the more incongruous because of her refined accent.

'Thank you, but I'm not finished yet,' I promised.

'No, no, of course not, I want that hard cock of yours inside me. Now would be a good time James, stuff it right up my pussy, as hard as you can, don't be gentle,' she demanded, adding a polite, 'please,' at the end of it. I told her to get on her knees, which she did without protest. Her cunt was a glorious sight as it opened wetly ready for me. I didn't hang about, ramming with ease into her wet hole, where it slid up to the hilt in one stroke.

She let out an, 'ugh,' sound, almost grunting with pleasure, and I withdrew again before ramming it into her as hard as I could. She squealed with delight at this rough treatment. 'That's it James, fuck me good, fuck me like a dirty whore,' and I was only too happy to oblige. As I took her roughly from behind, I marvelled at the peach-soft skin on her back and bottom as I stroked her skin with my hands. I wondered, since she liked it rough, if she might like a wee bit of added incentive, so I smacked her soft arse quite hard. She went up a couple of gears at that. 'Oh, James don't stop... smack me... hard... punish... ooh... me for being such a slut,' and as she said it, she pushed back hard trying to get me as far up her velvet hole as possible.

She became ever more vocal, animal like noises escaping her beautiful mouth, building up to a fever pitch of pleasure and excitement as I smacked her and fucked her. Suddenly she pushed back hard against me. 'Oh god... I'm coming... dying... yes, yes James,' and then words failed as the orgasm seized her in its grip, and she was reduced to incoherent noises of sheer lust and pleasure. Swept along by it all, her excitement was too much for me, I couldn't hold back any longer, and I joined her in that ultimate pleasure, pumping my hot spunk into the depths of her cunt.

Later, the first heat of our lust spent, I took some photos of her on the chaise longue for the proposed painting, and I got some beautiful photos of her, works of art in their own right I thought. However, she insisted I take a range of very erotic, explicit photos as well. It seems she liked the erotic paintings I'd exhibited and let me know if I wanted to exhibit any paintings of her like that, then she'd be delighted with my choice.

'James,' she said eventually, in that languid husky voice I'd come to love, 'all this posing with my legs open is making me very horny again. Put the fucking camera down and help me out.' So, I dropped to my knees in front of her, she spread her legs wantonly for me, and I went to work on her juicy cunt with my tongue and fingers. Later I had her on the bed again, fucking her at her request, just as hard as the first time. I think I acquitted myself well, and she seemed pleased enough, kissing and hugging me affectionately as we descended in the lift to the hotel lobby once more. I wondered if I'd see her again and asked quite casually.

'Will I see you again before I leave London?'

'Darling, you're going to see me tonight,' she said. 'We're going to be at the dinner party at John's place, didn't you know?' and I had to admit I didn't. Then a thought occurred to me.

'We?' I queried.

'Yes, sweetheart - my husband and I, so you must promise to be good and keep our little secret when he's there.'

'Husband? I didn't know you were married,' I said. She had no ring on her finger.

'Oh, I thought you knew,' she said, naming her husband, the very same art critic who hadn't liked my paintings at the gallery last night and gave me a bad review. So, quite unwittingly I'd had my revenge, and a fantastic afternoon into the bargain, fucking his wife silly. I wondered if I would have enjoyed it even more if I had known as she writhed and groaned on the end of my prick.

'He can be most awfully pompous at times,' she said. 'We argued about it last night and I told him your paintings were marvellous, but he still gave you a bad review. I'm most awfully sorry about that,' she said apologising on his behalf.

'Please don't apologise Annabelle, you've more than made up for it this afternoon. I know it's something I won't forget in a hurry.'

'Well, I'm not quite finished with him yet,' she promised. 'I'm still mad at him.'

'So, what are you going to do?' I asked, curiosity getting the better of me.

'When I get home, I'm going to take some of your come that I feel dribbling out of me as we speak, and rub it on his toothbrush.

'Eeeuch,' I said, the mere thought making me queasy.

'He'll never know,' she said, 'it's a woman's secret revenge and serves the bastard right.'

'Won't he get a bit of a shock when he sees you, naked in oils, at my next exhibition?' I offered.

'Possibly,' she said, smiling mischievously, 'but it will be worth it to see the look on his face. Anyway, it's a painting, it's not as if it's a photograph, he may suspect, but he'll never know for sure, especially if we both deny it,' and with that, she kissed my cheek, called me darling again, and climbed into a taxi.