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Dutch Painting Ch. 01

By: NotLloydG



The mid-summer sun was cascading through the trees behind her as she rounded into the open portion of the plaza. Blonde hair fell in waves to her shoulders, and her lithe frame moved with a sense of determination. She retained a sense of feminine softness despite the clear athleticism; she wore a thin summer dress and a flimsier bra than many more conventional American women might favour, and the perfect line of her B cup breasts swayed. The dress itself -- a slightly flared blue cotton bought in Milan -- was almost translucent in the sun's glare. A stray breeze ruffled dress and hair. He gazed steadily and admiringly.

He was waiting on the plaza outside his office. It was a typically muggy East Coast day, the heat oppressive even in the shade of ranks of trees. The sun had yet to brown her pale North Sea skin. She flashed him a warm smile. Early 40s she could pass for early 30s, and quite often did.

"I imagine we will eat outside." She said, beaming.

Dinner was called for 730 and it was a ten minute walk. As she chatted about her day at the office -- politics with the CEO a constant strain -- a cooler breeze began to flow and he glanced sideways at her to admire her cotton-hugged figure. Not a Playboy body of exaggerated curves and Barbie-breasts, but a classic beauty, a composition of smooth proportion and line and elegance.

She was right. Setting her handbag by the door they advanced in behind a chatty hostess to discover that the table had been set on the terrace and drinks spilled from the kitchen and adjoining seating area through the doors to the table outside. Ten for dinner; the conversation swirled above the traffic below. The hostess was a darker blonde, shorter (perhaps 5'4"), hippier (in perhaps both figure as well as bohemian tendencies) and possessed of prominent, large breasts.

They separated to talk to other guests, never reconnecting amidst the conversational free flow. They were called to sit at the table half an hour later. He glanced across at her, smiling. She was utterly desirable.

The meal was well paced, and a summer rose gave way to a Burgundy and grilled halibut. The sun set behind them and the temperature dropped somewhat. 

Seated two seats diagonal from him she asked "Would you mind fetching my wrap? Pale blue pashmina in my bag by the door."

As he went round the table her hand glanced against his and then held firm against his wrist, arresting his movement. She followed that with a caress that subtly caused him to lean in. She whispered, a soft voice halfway to gin and cigarettes at this volume, even if she did not smoke. "Carry on down the hall and look at the new portrait in the dining room."

The corridor was fashionably and restrainedly taupe and cream. The understated colour scheme carried through into the square dining room. Facing him was a wall displaying drawings and portraits of family members, amongst which was placed a new and rather attention-grabbing portrait of the hostess. This painting was not at all restrained. She was pictured against an indistinct background, kneeling at perhaps a 10 degree angle from the viewer with her thighs straight, her hips canted forward. Her arms reached up to hold her dirty blonde hair in a loose, Edwardian-seeming bun. She was quite naked, her breasts fell somewhat pendulously, adorned by dark red nipples smaller than he would have predicted. She was not waxed, but her pudenda were covered only by trimmed hair with the lips beneath presented quite distinctly by the artist.

"How interesting of her to have done that. It speaks volumes about the sexual power politics in that relationship." It was hours later and they were standing dissecting the party, preparing for bed and she was, as ever, cutting to the core of it.

"Perhaps he wanted it: 'darling you'll be posing for so and so'. Bit of a turn on for him."

"A fair point, but it really does seem to be all about messaging. "She's saying 'I control the sexual power.' Whilst staking out bohemian credentials." 

"Would you want a painting?" he asked.

"Um..." and a thought "How odd. I reckon I'd be better doing it now than in a decade."

"Nonsense. You will still be incredibly alluring in a decade." He stood and kissed her neck.

"If I did, would you hang it like that to turn your male friends on?"

"No."

She began to undress for him. Dress off, underwear off. She pirouetted for him and idly stroked a hand over the gentle swell of a perfect ass. He undressed and then began to trace his hands slowly and wispily over her body. The under curve of her breasts was a constant delight to him -- she really had perfect tits.

"Bend over for me." She smiled at him and turned again. Folding at the waist she let her blonde hair fall, rising again to turn and look at him, head hip height. Her legs inched apart and one hand moved a cheek aside to better show. A hand traced down and under to her depilated mound and then back up against a nipple.

She rose and turned to imitate the pose in the painting of their hostess.

He dropped to his knees and cupped her breasts, rolling her nipples with his thumbs and forefingers, They were both impatient; no foreplay. As he slid into her waxed pussy she said "I know an artist for this job. He's old but good."

His pace quickened, as did his pulse. "We're flying next week..." he began.

"Curiously enough to where the artist is based..." she finished his sentence.

"Can I get on top?" and she did, soon climaxing. 

"Was that about...?"

"Yes". Again she finished his question.

She clambered off him and knelt to take his shaft in her mouth. Her lips caressed his cock head and then she swallowed him, slowly working her way down the shaft. Up and down, deeper and deeper. She paused and then moved to lick his balls and under his balls before returning the kiss and stroke his shaft.

"I'll do the painting" she said. She held him steady and flicked a tongue at his head emerging from the foreskin. He erupted onto her face. She smiled.

----- 

And so they found themselves in a foreign capital a week later on a long-planned trip. They were outside a large-windowed, north-facing 19th Century house on a small street off a busy boulevard. The house was fronted by a postage-stamp garden bordered street side by a gate and a dark green hedge of yew. They passed through the gate, the studio visible through the expanse of ground floor glazing.

The artist was old, a shock of white hair brushed well back in a stark contrast to a cornflower blue shirt betraying years of washes. A tie was knotted as a belt in an hommage to the style of decades past. He was spry and his eye glittered.

The conversation was curiously straightforward.

"As the one commissioning this what did you have in mind?".

It felt odd discussing her in the abstract, as a model. "She is observedly dutch. I looked at your catalogue with interest. Your work reminded me of a modern Jacob Backer, who I understand was a great painter of nudes. So I would suppose I had been thinking something more Jan Backer than Rembrandt's Suzanna -- would you think that pale, cool tonality he borrowed from Bartholomeus van der Helst would be something to guide?"

"As for pose?" white eyebrows crept up.

"A matter for you and the model." who smiled.

The artist was matter of fact: photos would be required (to work from) and some sketch work today. He would work on the oil tomorrow. Four sessions to bring this project forward -- perhaps 2 or 3 hours a day- ideally in the morning ("But I understand you are staying a week"). She was a good lawyer and provided a document outlining that all photos and drawings were her copyright. The painter grudgingly agreed. He was politely and firmly enjoined to leave; she laughed at the evident look of crestfallenness on his face. They made arrangements to meet at a café in roughly three hours ("Posing is tiring") and she would ring him.

He was shown out, pausing to adjust his scarf as the red door closed behind. And then curiosity overcame him. He turned to his right and gazed through the broad and uncurtained window into the studio. 

Patience was required, for they sat and talked. Laughter grew and they both leaned forward in their chairs, complicity growing. Then she was beckoned to a blue-draped bed by the wall and the artist moved sideways:-- out of sight, presumably to array himself before an easel. He felt an enormous variety of emotions -- and a stiffening cock -- as she began to undress. Pullover, crisp white shirt, skirt. Matter of fact she stood in matching black bra and panties (she favoured thongs) and spoke an unheard question to the unseen artist.

She reached behind and unclasped her bra. The smooth and entirely proportionate curves of breast swayed down and settled, the medium-sized pink nipples standing somewhat stiffly. She was talking intently to the artist, leaning forward, nodding. She laughed and then hooked thumbs into her panties and began to slide them down even as she spoke to him. And then she was naked and turned to sit on the blue-coverlet on the camp bed. What pose? 

She sat and crossed her legs, breasts falling somewhat forward. More conversation and then her legs were uncrossed in order to sit with them slightly apart, leaning partially to one side, propped up by her arm. More conversation, a glance down at her pussy, a laugh and then stillness. A flash of light startled him -- the artist had promised a need for photos to work from after they flew home, but the reality of the painter snapping away at the nude her was still a little exciting and a little intimidating. 

Why not? He extracted his phone from his pocket and shot a photo or two through the window. Snap. A zoom... yes, snap. Footfalls behind him on the pavement and he turned so as not to look like the (really rather legitimate) peeping tom that he was.

Closing the gate behind him he realized that there were small gaps in the hedge. It would be an odd thing to do, but were anyone to stop at the hedge, which ran to about seven feet high, they could see through the gaps to see her: slim, elegant, lovely, quite nude.

His phone rang closer to four hours later; it was growing late for lunch. They changed plans and agreed to meet at an equidistant restaurant. He arrived first. It became immediately clear on her entry that both jumper and bra were gone and that she was in manifestly high spirits. Breasts swayed under a white shirt that, whilst it did not reveal any sign of nipple, was not made of the most concealing of fabric.

"How was it?"

"Really rather pleasant. He has a gentle humour about him and he works his best to make you feel at ease. I think he may be finding this rather exciting as there were more photos that might were strictly required."

Disingenuously he asked "What is the pose?"

"Oh, we settled on Playboy rather than Penthouse, if you must know. Or he settled on it. He tried me out in several poses."

He had been sipping sparkling water when she said that and he gulped, half choking, as she said that. 

Recovering he said "go on".

"After half an hour of posing in silence -- the sound of pen on paper and him soflty humming - he asked me to try moving my legs slightly farther apart -- not that much but enough." Her eyes had a small glint. " I did and he gazed at me with a great intensity. I have never felt that looked at before, not even by you when you gaze at me with those hungry eyes. It was rather exciting actually."

He felt a certain heating of the brow.

"He told me he was not satisfied. He then asked if we would try what he termed a "tiger" pose sideways to him. I did. It sounded more demure. But before I knew it he shifted the easel towards the window and he was staring at me from behind... I mean I had my legs split with one advancing and one retreating." Her eyes gleamed.

"Go on" he said cautiously, expectantly.

"And then he took a photo to 'provide the needed backup' and he asked me to move a knee to the side."

She paused, letting it sink in. "My pussy and my ass" she realized her voice had been rising when the woman at a neighboring table glanced up "were quite on view."

"But then he decided I ought to go back to facing him seated. So I stood up and stretched before I sat down again. I think seated is what you will get as a pose, sort of like this." She paused, pushing a chair back to lean sideways and part her legs a fraction. "He had quite a tentpole when he shifted the easel over.'

"Really?"

She laughed. "Yes poor fellow I had to blow him -- he was so wound up he couldn't work."

"What?"

More laughter and a sideways glance. "OF course I didn't!"

He took her to the hotel immediately after lunch. She practically jumped out of her clothes and then stood to part the sheers of the window, letting the soft afternoon light bathe her as she stood, arms parted wide, on display in the window for anyone glancing up for the street below.

He sat her on the bed in the pose he had seen her adopt twice that day. He sank to his knees and parted her legs wide. Her lips were suffused with a pinkness. He kissed her inner thighs and then traced her vulva with his tongue before beginning to lap and probe. She collapsed onto her back and he spread her wide, shamelessly sprawling her on the bed, exposing every secret. He used a hand to signal she was to stay in place and then wordlessly rose to retrieve the vibrator from her suitcase.

The shaft hummed gently as he placed it at the entrance of her pussy. He returned to teasing her clit with his tongue even as he slid the shaft in -- two, four, six inches, gently corkscrewing motion.

She began to moan and twined fingers in his hair. She bucked lightly as she came, tensing once and again, waves of small convulsions before relaxing. Her breasts heaved, pink nipples still rigid.

He turned her onto fours and pushed one knee ahead of the other. Admiring his handiwork he slid into her. He watched his cock disappear into folds of flesh, soft. He grabbed her hip tightly and reached forward to knot hair into his fingers. He intensified his pace until his balls were slapping against her with each thrust. She kept her head bowed and soon reached back with a hand to stimulate herself.

After two minutes he paused and pulled out. "Did you blow him?"

A pause. She turned and sat to stare at him.

Coolly, levelly: "No." A pause. "I have something for us to do tonight. May I surprise you?"

"Yes."

"Don't ask... promise? Now let me suck you off."

And so some hours later they were outside a brick building: an immense turreted Victorian presence that screamed worth improvement.

She conversed with the attendant in the booth in the lobby and then led him up two flights of marbled stairs and wrought iron banisters. A left turn then backtracking down the other long corridor and they were face to face with the artist.

A grinning artist beckoned her to a room. A twinkling artist who handed him a large easel pad and a block of pencils and said "Back of the room".

A life class?

About a dozen seats were taken by preoccupied students. One or two glanced at him as he made his way to the back and sat before a bare easel. He placed the pad on it as a sort of protective measure. 

Additional students came in until 20 were arrayed in a horsehoe around a bar platform. The artist was talking but he was unable to pay attention. His pulse had discernibly picked up. She walked into the room from a side door in a white hotel bathrobe -- the thinner waffled cotton kind knotted at the waist. The artist greeted her with a smile and said more, but he did not hear.

She glanced around the room. He could tell there was some nervousness. She studiously avoided his eye even as she glanced over the faces of the men and women in the class. She seemed to take security from the artist. He nodded and she untied the belt to her robe. A moment's hesitation and she slipped it off to stand naked, nipples stiffened, lean and waxed and wonderful.

To be continued...

Dutch Painting Ch. 02



Dutch Painting, A Second Chapter

(Continued from Dutch Painting, Ch. 01, a story that provides necessary context) 

...She seemed to draw security from the artist. He nodded and she untied the belt to her robe. A moment's hesitation and she slipped it off to stand naked, nipples stiffened, lean and waxed and wonderful. She looked to the artist for instructions. He asked to half sit, half lean against a thigh-height column of doric design. This involved a boldly full frontal presentation of her pudenda to the room -- her slit clearly on display -- before settling into a position that, if not demure (her top of her lips were still visible) was the tamer edge of Playboy. The artist rose to suggest her twisting slightly to achieve the precise pose; his arm brushed her left breast as he did so.

He continued to marvel how her beauty had been augmented and refined with the passing of years. Her face -- was lovely, defined by angular and fresh Nordic lines rather than Hollywood standards -- was framed by a cascade of blonde hair; hair that tumbled past a graceful and long neck to well-presented shoulders. Her B cup breasts -- really a generous B such that, were she to add weight, would creep into the Cs -- were firm and set off by pert, tightly defined pink nipples. She was lean and athletic, but athlete's muscles were subtly masked by gentle curves of elegant femininity. Her softly swelling hips sat atop long legs. "I hate my bum" she would say, clearly wanting the tight circles of a stage ballerina. He would reassure her that her ass was a tremendous turn-on: perfect ovals quite proportionate to her. Her belly was taut and descended to two perfectly formed, hairless pussy lips. She had danced ballet when young and carried that poise and a grace of movement with her.

He basked in this when he was alone with her, when he photographed her, and when they were on (infrequent) holiday visits to nude beaches. "You like to watch me being watched" she would tease, but in fact she enjoyed the attention and their erotic tastes had achieved some sort of symbiosis. Yet strolling on a nude beach before unclothed admirers was far from posing on a platform centred amongst a score of art students studiously sketching out her form. His cock swelled as he absorbed the intense admiration and study she was generating. He pushed his chair back and surreptitiously took a few photos of the scene, as if to ensure that he could remember something so bold, so frankly unexpected.

She had been gazing fixedly at the wall above and to the left, clearly avoiding the eyes of the onlookers. He remarked her gaze dart towards him; they locked eyes for a moment and she gave him a sly smile as if to say "you are rather liking this, aren't you, you dog". Her nipples were pinkly erect -- though the room was not superheated -- and he discerned a slight reddening of her pussy lips. She glanced at him again, this time more conspiratorially. She presented a sly and lovely smile before returning her study of the mid-distance. After about twenty minutes he observed that her gaze softened and shortened, and she took in the students, occasionally making eye contact with them.

It was a ninety minute class divided by a short break. When the pause was announced she swiftly vanished to the changing room, casting a third sidelong smile at him. After the rest break of five minutes she returned in a more confident frame of mind: unknotting the robe she turned to present the perfect ovals and ostentatiously bent to lay the robe on a low stool, affording the students a hurried but more revealing flash of her ass and pussy that may have been necessary. His cock twitched in response and it remained half or full engorged for the balance of the class. 

She had resumed both her pose and her surveying of the room. She stifled a laugh when she saw his glance -- evidently he was betraying his longing. She also avoided the quite direct smiles of a lanky, curly-haired boy.

"That would be time", said the artist and she stood, involuntarily stretching as she stood. Breasts rose, legs tightened, the lean flatness of her belly accentuating the view down to her bare pussy. Amidst a shuffling of paper and satchels, a pushing and scraping of chairs, she offered a taut loveliness to the room. More than one viewer paused to take that view in before she turned and slipped into the robe. She emerged from the changing area but hung back. Students began to drift out. Unsurprisingly there were three exploratory attempts to pick her up -- two men (curly boy not amongst them) and a pretty red-haired girl with freckles and a hipster fringe. He let the students trickle out and remained aloof, at the edge of the circle of chairs and easels, until she bade the artist an effusive farewell. He joined her and gave the artist a somewhat more restrained goodbye. 

They made it to the stairwell before embracing - tongues probing - her hands impelling his under her shirt. He found her bra-less breasts and began to stroke both nipples. 

"That was..." he began.

"Fucking hot." She finished. "Did you like it?" her hands descended below his belt to find the rigid outline of the answer 'yes'.

They were pulled up by the slam of a door and practically ran out of the building into the night. 

A slight mist was in the air and she huddled against him, hand stroking his thigh as he looked for the light of a taxi. Her hand was straying onto his crotch when one drove into view.

Huddled together in the back, their lips sought each other as the knock of diesel acceleration provided a low soundtrack. They kissed. Hand wandered oblivious to the driver as their bodies declared a hungry urgency.

"Take off your clothes" were his first words in the hotel room, and she did as she was asked. She stood before him naked. "Play with yourself as I undress."

That done he bent her over the arm of the sofa and spread her legs with his foot. He positioned his rigid cock at the entrance of her pussy. There was no foreplay -- she was practically dripping -- and he drove his length in fully. Grabbing her hips he pried her legs a little wider to adjust the angle and began to fuck her. His cock emerged from its first thrust slick and glistening. Left hand rose to twine her hair in a ponytail and his right fingers traced the line of hip and back. He increased his pace and she leaned more directly onto the sofa back. Her ass cheeks parted and her rosebud was now on view. Wetting a thumb he placed it on her pucker, she half-turned and nodded. He forced it past her ring; her pussy canal began to tighten. He pulsed his cock on the in-thrusts, once, twice, three times. Her tits swayed forward with each push forwards. His balls began to tighten and the sound of them slapping into her increased in intensity. Her hand strayed to her pussy and -- as he further increased his pace and she massaged her clit horizontally -- she came with a shudder. He pulled out cock and thumb and exploded over her ass and lower back in three bursts. 

They paused in place for a moment. 

"How was that?"

"We ought to do this more often". Her head rose, hair brushed aside, and she smiled conspiratorially at him.

"Would you mind?"

He released her hip and walked to the washroom, returning with tissue to remove the puddled sperm.

"Success?" She smiled and raised a quizzical eyebrow at him.

"How so?" 

"Did I surprise you? Did it arouse you? Was that good?" a gentle teasing poke. She ran her hands over his flanks and his lean belly. "You look good for middle age, you know." He kissed her, slowly, appreciatively.

He replied to questions with a question. "What do you think?" He smiled.

He poured two whiskies as she flopped naked on the duvet. She watched him cross the room as she toyed with an apple from the bowl housekeeping had placed -- oddly - by the bed.

"In the mood for a game of temptation?" and her face was a mixture of lust and boldness. She twirled the apple and tossed it in the air.

"All about Eve, are we?" She was reclining on her side, a posture that accentuated her svelte lines. 

She gave a low, almost gin and cigarettes laugh. "I think this effort to keep some excitement in our lives is working rather well, so I'll present a fantasy. You guess if it is one I have and then admit -- truthfully now -- if it is one you also. Guess right and we will do it, oh, within two months."

"And the point of this is what precisely?" His voice betrayed genuine surprise.

"Darling, intellectualise all you like, but your cock is betraying you." And it was. Even as he looked down it was regaining a certain swelling.

He climbed onto the bed and presented her the drink he had poured.

A deep sip and then she began. 

"Would we like to go to a strip bar where I wear very little?"

"Be more precise." He countered.

"We go. I wear something revealing. We have a dancer dance for us."

He thought for a moment. "Yes we would. I don't think you'd be ready to strip, though I think tonight broke your fear of an adverse audience reaction. By the way, how many contact details did you give out to your admirers?'

"Be quiet" but she was smiling, appreciation the public acknowledgement of her desirability to a student audience half her age.

"You know they probably thought you were 32..." he said, softly stroking her leg with his outstretched foot.

"... and assumed you were my father." Laughter. She continued. "At any rate, yes."

"Would you strip on stage?"

She paused. "I think I would certainly go without bra and knickers and let the dancer have a peek."

"And...?"

"We'll see. Yes, we'll do that soon." His cock swelled more. She watched it approvingly and continued: "You keep that lovely shaft of yours right there where I can see it. Your little-headed lie detector... So a second fantasy, then."

She let a pause hang in the air. Her foot toyed with his.

"We bring a woman in and you watch us before you fuck both of us."

He responded unthinkingly "another person brings a great many unknown quantities..."

"I think I have my answer, Mr reddened face and twitching cock."

"Would you?"

"Yes, I would like to try sex with another woman. I never have. I am genuinely curious and have been for years."

"And would you go ballistic if I had sex with her?"

"Once I would have said yes. Now I do not know.... " They looked at each other searchingly.

"And did you have any thoughts who would this woman be? Someone in mind? Order in?"

"Oh, to be discussed. Would I do it? Guess right and the game goes on."

He thought and nodded; a grin broke on her face. "Yes, I would, but only if you found a suitable candidate of whom I approved" she purred "Now on to fantasy three?"

He was viewing this more as the ventilation of fantasies than a planning exercise, or at least he thought that was it. "Alright" he said, and her eyes were sparkling with delight at the game. As she spoke, her foot grazed up his thigh, pale flesh on white sheets. "What if you filmed me in a porno?'

"We've tried that"

What about me in a porno having sex with another man?"

He gulped. "That is...not a good idea and.." he was nodding his head in dissent even as she was laughing at the perceptible rising of his cock.

She leaned forward and pressed a finger against his chest, kissing him.

"What about with the artist. You could film through the window of his studio... no one would see you. He is dying to fuck me."

"THAT is hardly a sensible idea" he retorted. 

"Your response is coming from a brain being deprived of blood to fuel that erection.... And what is sensible? Dialling in a woman to provide you with a lesbian show before you get to have sex with her is alright and helping that lovely man, so admiring, so clearly sex-starved, is not?"

"You are mocking me. And we were talking about a threesome, which we are not here."

"Are you sure?" and her toe was caressing his largely erect cock, a red head pushing beyond the foreskin.

"What if I found a girl and you watched us?"

He stared at her, trying to read her. Seconds passed and then she said: "It would be a lot easier to visit a strip bar in this city than at home... Lord knows we might meet one of your friends there. And it is only half past eight. We could have light dinner and then go...".

------- 

The lobby of the small hotel was deserted as they left. The door was swung open for them and they walked briskly down the street to a nearby Japanese restaurant. 

She was wearing a short brown mini and a flimsy cream blouse undone to the sternum, her nipples clearly visible through the fabric. A demure wool overcoat sat demurely on top of this. Her heels clacked on the pavement.

They ate at the bar, touching and not talking of the next phase of the evening despite the palpable excitement. The sushi chef cast frequent glances at her breasts. She squeezed his hand when they bundled into the taxi to take them to the well-known strip bar situated in a neighbourhood at once louche and increasingly trendy.

They arrived, checked coats, paid the bouncer and found themselves in the middling back of the dimly lit main room. The bouncer eyed her tits and legs appraisingly. ("Like the attention?" he asked. "He is a gorilla!" she replied). The stage was perhaps twenty five feet ahead: a raised platform of light refracting off mirrors and brass. He ordered a pair of whiskies. A brunette with fake D cup tits was on stage in white platforms and a sparkly bikini, the top of which swiftly came off.

"So what do you make of the evening's entertainment, Sir?" she nodded at the stage.

"That seems a more interesting scene" he replied. A girl, with quite large natural breasts, largish brown nipples and an amply swelling ass and flowing blonde hair was on perched on a small, portable platform before four Japanese businessmen and a bottle of Yamazaki. They gazed covetously at the dancer as she swayed, teasingly stroking her flanks. She parted her legs as she sank to her heels on the little stand, looking them each in the eye. The Japanese businessmen were leaning forward, making jokey asides and guffawing. "That's enthusiasm."

"What about that" she asked, pointing at another brunette quite naked on a stool before a single man to their left. She was placing one foot on the table to better part her pussy lips for him. "He looks bored of life. And desperate."

"And them"

Another couple had a red-haired (bottle red) on a stool before them. She was swaying her ass at a delighted fifty-ish man and a bored and repelled-looking younger woman. The dancer was spreading her ass cheeks. "Date for a night? Second marriage for the money?"

A waitress came and they ordered a bottle of water and two more whiskies. She leaned back as he paid the waitress, smiling and revealing a considerable amount of inner thigh. No knickers... When she leaned forward the waitress had a clear view of cleavage and a hint of nipple.

She drained her first glass and, caressing his knee, said "I'll be back" and then motioned towards the washroom. "Enjoy the show". 

The Japanese men -- their dancer paid and gone - swiveled to watch her as she went by. One spoke to her and tried to grab at her arm; she dodged and carried on. Their eyes followed her. 

Her surveyed the room. The lighting divided the room into pools of golden illumination separated by somewhat dim corridors of darkness. He watched the red-haired dancer before the couple -- man still enraptured and woman now simply bored -- and worried that this might have a similar effect for him.

Some short minutes later she emerged from one corridor of dim lighting and took a line towards him. Her path once again passed the table of Japanese. They had been drinking more heavily in the absence of a dancer.

A Japanese hand tugged at her mini as she walked by. She paused and allowed the boldest of the four to engage her in a conversation. He was leaning forward, evidently asking a question. When it elicited an odd look on her part -- half surprise -- the suited businessman repeated it, motioning to a billfold and the whisky on the table. The ne pointed at the stool set next to the table.

He studied the group: all open, expectant smile, hardly inscrutable - even at this distance. The smattering of other people in the room were either attentive to their own dancers or were lazily eying the show on stage. She bent down towards the four men in suits, her mouth starting to form the word "no". They pre-empted her with pleading and gesticulating, several bills being taken and folded, pressed towards her on the table. One pair of businessman hands rose almost in supplication. She smiled. A quick glance at him... or was it? He was curious.

Her mouth seemed to form the words "thank you". What happened to "no"?

One song ended and another began. They proffered a glass of whisky, which she accepted as she sat. One pointed at her tits, to general smiles and guffawing. She seemed to be sitting with her legs together, but the drunkest of the four bent to try and sneak a look up her skirt. The small, round platform to the right of the little table, fronting onto three of them, beckoned like a target. The boldest of the four motioned to it. Only two steps forward. She raised a foot, hesitatingly, and then somehow -- he felt a rush of blood -- she stood in her heels on the small platform. She swayed for a moment as she gathered her balance, smiling at them before closing her eyes in thought.

She reached behind, unzipping the mini and -- as she opened her eyes to take in the Japanese reaction- slipped it off in one fluid motion. It slid down her legs to gather around her feet. She stepped off the platform to gather the skirt before returning to her former position. Slowly she turned, bum peeking from beneath the flimsy shirt, and laid the skirt slowly on the spare chair behind.

Fingers reached up and she undid the buttons with agonizing care. One, two, then three. She turned and slipped the shirt off one shoulder then the other. A toss of the hair and a sidelong glance back -- away from him.

The shirt fell and puddled on the stool. A long and beautiful back was on display. She bent -- what a look at ass and pussy for them -- gathered it up and placed it on top of her skirt.

Returning to face them she ran her hands down her stomach and flanks in the manner of the dancer they had hired before her. Her hands strayed up, cupping her breasts, presenting her nipples to them.

It may have been the ventilation, but those pink nipples were stiff. The businessmen's eyes tracked her breasts as they shifted subtly with her movements. Their eyes applauded hungrily. A song ended and she started to step down, but a chorus of pleas and complaints erupted.

Their encouragements led her to rise again, her slit at eye level to them.

She stood and let hair swish over one shoulder then the other. Hips were cocked to one side and then the other. She parted her legs into a wider stance, slightly pushing her pelvis forward. The eyes of the four took in her waxed pussy, her labia fully on view: cries and happiness from the four men. 

She traced a hand down her belly to her pussy lips, and then up again. Japanese smiles. She spread her legs wider for them and they devoured the sight of her. Her finger traced into her slit then she turned and, legs wide, bent to give them a view of pussy and ass, her left hand spreading a cheek to increase the view. As she bent the index finger of her left hand reached between her thighs to stroke the length of her ass and her slit.

She rose again and turned to face them. Would she? She began to squat, legs parted wide to reveal her inner pinkness to them. Her hands traced her inner thighs from knees inwards, drawing their attention to her pussy. He did not have a clear view, but one finger seemed to be tracing up and down her slit. Her face was that of a person transported to some other place, somewhere where lust ruled.




Dutch Painting Ch. 02



And then the song ended. Pausing for a moment, her pose frozen, she looked at them and then stood. As she stepped down one of the four placed a hand on her thigh, but it was removed when she gazed at it. She flirtatiously, but swiftly, dressed giving her ass a wriggle at them as she hurried the shirt on. She was about to go when bills were pressed into her hand. She looked monetarily confused and then closed her fingers around the money. 

She rushed back to the table, her eyes alight with excitement. She gazed at the bulge of his rigid cock. "Let's go" she mouthed.

... to be continued