The crowd milled about the gallery sipping glasses of champagne, their eyes fixed upon the wall and the display of erotic artwork featured in the show. They gave appreciative smiles and murmurs as they passed by each piece, but there was a slight look of confusion on all their faces. The pictures were expressionist in style, a mixture of colors, shapes and textures. There was no set form in them, but only suggested in the composition of the whole. Without form nor detail the pictures were causing quite a stir. People found them erotic and very sensual. Men walked awkwardly trying to avoid reveling their erections and women fanned themselves as though the room were sweltering at 70 degrees.
After the third or forth champagne was consumed, people began to change slightly, imperceptibly at first. The crowds began to congregate at pictures as though revering a masterpiece. In fact, it was the proximity to the other bodies that subconsciously drew them together. They crowed in examining the pictures and pressed themselves tastefully close together. As flesh began to rub flesh the mood got even more suggestive. Men ceased caring if others noticed there swelling in their pants, on the contrary, they began to almost encourage the glances with bold stances displaying their hard cocks. They were not overt about it…that would’ve been garish. They simply stood talking in slightly louder voices with their jackets opened.
The women began to subconsciously allow contact as strangers, men
Free Sex Moive and women, would press behind or in front looking at the artwork and their bodies would rub deliciously. The crowd liked the artwork even though their was something haunting about it. An image that was not quite in focus. Something that was known but perhaps forgotten. But that something was driving them to a state of controlled frenzy.
Two people noticed this. The artist, Jean-Paul Pascal stood watching the crowd with his own sense of excitement. He could feel their hungers growing within them and he reveled in the fact that his work was causing it. His art was very personal to him as though an extension of himself, and all these people were getting horny looking at it, looking at pieces of him placed on the wall for display. He smiled and sipped the champagne watching them, not wanting to miss a moment or nuance of the frenzy.
The other watching was Claire Dylan. She was assigned this story by the magazine and had tried to get out of it. She disliked expressionist art and the snobs that attended these gallery shows. She knew her story would maybe get 20 lines in the back of the magazine as the artist was virtually unknown. And she knew the artist would ask her to model for him, like it was a huge honor to be asked to strip and pose for a culturally elitist, hormonally overactive, snob. They always told her how beautiful she was, that her body was perfect, her face like an angel of temptation. She had accepted the first offer when she had just started at the magazine, feeling flattered a great artist would want her to model. When she had gotten to the studio and found him setting up wine and condoms, she knew she had been wrong. They were all the same. She turned her attention back to the crowd and watched in fascination as the individuals blended with the crowd and became part of this throbbing mass. She saw the passions being ignited and wondered briefly if something had been put in the champagne.
Jean-Paul watched the beautiful woman standing there watching the
Teen Porn crowd like so many bugs on display. There was contempt in her eyes and he wondered if his artwork offended her or if the contempt was only a symptom of a deeper loathing. He glanced back at the crowd and decided they were not nearly as interesting as this lady. Yes, lady, for she was a lady, he could see that. She was beautiful, with long brown hair pulled back from her face and a tight black dress on that reached down to just above the knees. She carried herself with grace and had a noble look to her eyes. Her body was curvaceous and legs long and tight. But the thing that most struck him was the dignity about her, the self confidence that she exuded.
Claire knew he was watching her. She had seen him glance her way and then turn to stare openly at her. She knew in a few seconds he would walk over and introduce himself, waiting for a moment there after for adulation and fawning that usually accompanied that revelation at the artist’s show. He would be surprised this time, she thought, no fawning, bent kneed, little groupie here. She smiled and across the room Jean-Paul felt sad. There was a bitterness to that smile that destroyed
