Katherine Cartridge
- 3 years ago
- 37
- 0
The Art Show - Part 1 free porn video
There’s a man about our age, in his early 50s, sitting on his own at a table. He’s having a drink and reading a London tourist guide. Looking around for a place to sit in the crowded hotel bar, we approach him and I ask if we can share his table.
“Please, be my guest,” he says and I go to order drinks while my wife sits and waits. At the bar, I turn to see them exchanging words but he’s not looking at her; he still has his head in the guide.
When I return, I hear him say he’s an art tutor here for a couple of days to look through some galleries. I sit and we introduce ourselves. Charles is an urbane gentleman, well-dressed, well-mannered and articulate. Sipping our drinks we strike up a conversation about the merits of this gallery verus that and talk about the places we’ve enjoyed on our travels around the world.
The conversation eventually centres on the role of women in art. We speak about the nude and how fashions and trends have changed the concept of beauty and decency throughout the ages. We go on to discuss some of our favourite artists and their works: Botticelli, Monet, Degas and Raphael among them.
“I think it’s the allure and the mystique of the nude that’s so compelling," says Charles. "Seeing a woman naked is like being included in a special, intimate secret; a secret you really want her to share.”
“A university friend of mine was a life model,” says Francine. Looking at me, she continues, “Richard, you remember Linda, she was a model for the local Arts Society. One night when we were out she told me she really loved it, exposing herself to men like that. I’ve always wondered what it would be like but I wouldn’t have the courage to do it. Nobody would want to draw me anyway.”
Charles goes to order more drinks because we're told that the bar will close soon. When he returns I say, “We're staying here and our room has a fabulous view over the Thames. Why don't we take our drinks up there and enjoy the view.”
Francine is bright eyed and smiling when we walk out of the bar but she staggers ever so slightly, giggling as she quickly regains her composure. I notice Charles’s eyes resting on her backside as I guide her towards the lift. When we reach our room, the conversation again turns to art and we examine and dismiss the very ordinary prints hanging on the wall.
Walking to the window, I throw back the curtains and we look out at the view. It's like a fairyland of twinkling lights with their reflections dancing on the surface of the river. As I turn around, Francine is taking off her jacket and Charles nods and, quite ambiguously, says, "Yes, a beautiful view.”
Fran looks away blushing; her face glowing a bright cherry red, but I see a small smile forming in the corners of her mouth and a glint in her eyes as she puts down the jacket. “Ah yes,” she says, “but beauty is very subjective.”
“What does beauty mean to you Francine?” Charles asks.
She studiously ignores Charles’s question and gazes out of the window. At this point I gesture towards Francine. “This is beauty to me Charles; her caring thoughts, her bright eyes, her beautiful smile and the curve of her lovely body.
“Charles, do you think a woman like Francine would make a good model? Can you see a woman like her in the classical pose of a Roman nymph or a Greek muse? Or do you think something more modern and abstract like a Picasso would better suit her more voluptuous figure?
“What do you think Francine? Turn around sweetheart and show us your lovely body.”
Francine strikes up a mock chorus girl ‘grand-finale’ pose and I say, “Come on Fran, I’m being serious, I’d like to explore this theme. Which is more beautiful? Man-made buildings and ornaments or the natural human form?”
She looks at me quizzically. “It's art,” I say, “the beauty of the human form, nothing more, nothing less.”
Fran's hands rest on her hips and she looks at me questioningly. Her head is on a slight tilt, a defiant, challenging look in her eye, and she asks, “Are you sure about this?”
With no opportunity to answer, Charles and I watch mesmerised as she breathes in, puffing out her magnificent breasts. Slowly she inches her hands towards the top of her pants. Hesitating before fumbling with the button, she pulls down the zip. My eyes, wide open now, are glued to the small triangle of pale naked flesh exposed between the top of her panties and the hem of her singlet. Looking me in the eye, she rests her hands back on her hips and slides her pants down with a flourish and lets them fall to them floor.
I stand there staring at her in mute astonishment. I’m surprised but delighted she’s taken off her pants. It’s as though I’m living in some kind of dream. A secret fantasy becoming a reality. Here, right in front of me, my wife has pulled her pants down in front of a man she just met. Amazing, fantastic and so exciting, it’s almost surreal. I’m terrified that it will all melt away to nothing like an imagined Dali painting.
“Oh, Fran!” I gasp, encouraging her.
I look at the curve of her slender ankles, her finely turned calves, her silky thighs and finally fix upon her full cut, black cotton panties wrapped tightly around her crotch and waist. Straightening up with a look of confidence now, Francine reaches down and grasps the hem of her top and lifts it up revealing her very feminine soft rounded tummy. Her black lace and satin bra and her deep cleavage bounce into view as she pulls the top over her head in a flowing movement.
“Mmmm,” I groan, almost under my breath. “You are so lovely Fran. There she is... my wife, the artist’s model,” I announce laughing. “Wearing nothing but her underwear and a smile.”
Looking up and down her gorgeous body, I drink in the sight, my gaze roaming over her large breasts. I watch in delight as her nipples begin to harden and clearly show through the lacy material of her bra.
Continuing my visual exploration, I take in her navel, its shape and depth, the contours of her tummy, the slight roll of soft flesh at the top of her panties and the blemishes and minor marks of her skin tone. The marks of a real woman, I think, a woman who has experienced a full life and the joys and trauma of childbirth.
My eyes focus on the mound concealed beneath her cotton panties. I see a curl of honey blonde hair escaping beneath the elastic. She’s wearing plain, but well cut, good quality, fine cotton knickers trimmed with matching black satin. They’re very elegant but designed for comfort; nothing too fancy or revealing; certainly nothing slutty. I love the way they accentuate rather than contrast her feminine curves. She is a woman who has no need of the accoutrements of a stripper to make her feel attractive. The sight of her standing there like this, part glamour queen, part soccer mom and part shy little girl, is really turning me on.
Francine turns her back to us and looks out the window. She reaches around, unclips her bra, and slips it off her shoulders. Casting the bra aside, we see the sides of her large breasts bob out in between her back and her arms. Hesitating again, she straightens, reaches up and rakes her fingers through her hair, giving us a lovely view of her fine neck, her slight shoulders, her narrow back and her breasts swaying gently at her sides.
I can almost hear her thoughts: “I hardly know this man. I can’t believe I’m doing this. I can feel his eyes burning into me. My husband seems keen. He’s loving it, the dirty, randy sod. It feels strange and wrong, but I’m so excited.”
Still with her back to us, Fran takes a deep breath and stiffens slightly. The muscles across her back are tensing as she slides her hands down her sides hooking her thumbs into the elastic waistband of her panties. She pulls them clear from her hips, gradually eases them down… deliberately, slowly, as though she’s part savouring the moment and part fighting the urge to cover up and run away.
I feel my cock stirring. I’m getting hard and I’m worried about the bulge in my pants but I look across and see that Charles has eyes only for Francine - and they are locked on her body.
As I watch the scene unfold, questions come to mind. What is making me so excited? Is it watching my wife undressing so provocatively? Is it seeing Charles’s reactions, knowing he is watching her undress, looking at her naked body? Or is it that my wife is willingly undressing in front of another man?
My dilemma is delicious and I don’t know where to look but the more I look the more excited I become.
I feel my pulse starting to race. My imagination is in overdrive with myriad possibilities. It's like the beginning of a rollercoaster ride. I'm a bit scared but I know I'm going to love the ride. I see the top of Francine’s lovely ass, the cleft between her cheeks appearing. “Hang-on tight,” I think. “Here we go!”
Totally engrossed, I see the accentuated curve of her waist and hips as she rocks her hips from side to side, slowing pulling her panties down. As though betraying her and abandoning her to her fate, the panties suddenly fell to the floor, exposing her beautiful, shapely ass. Stepping out of her panties she is totally naked.
“Francine!” I exclaim, transfixed by the sight of my wife so shamelessly showing her soft, rounded ass to this man.
She stands there motionless for a few moments, quite still, as if rooted to the spot. The room is quiet, not a breath can be heard as she slowly turns around, uncoiling serpentine-like until she is facing us.
She has adopted the classic pose of the female nude. Her legs are crossed, thighs clamped tightly together. One arm reaches down, her hand presses tightly between her legs concealing her pussy; the other is folded across her chest, trying to hide her nipples and stem the wobble of her pendulous breasts. Her head is bowed but her eyes look up inquiringly. She looks beautiful and vulnerable, yet she has an inner radiance and there’s a sparkle of mischief in her eyes, like one of the beautiful women in a painting by the Dutch master Alma-Tadema.
“Charles, here is my wife in all her glory," I say proudly. "Completely naked for you to admire. Isn’t she beautiful.”
Francine relaxes her guard, slowly letting her hands fall away in a graceful arc and revealing her most intimate form and folds.
“Look at her breasts spilling out across her chest," I declare, "so soft and full and round. Her nipples, like succulent raspberries perched on rosé areolas. Look at the way the light and shadows chase across the curve of her waist and hips, the subtle, lustrous sheen of her skin."
I pause for a second. "See her soft thighs kissing under the heart shaped gap between her legs. Look at the aura of light shining on the gossamer of golden hair surrounding her vagina. Don't you love the superb shading on her velvety labia? Such a beautiful palate of champagne to cherry blossom through dusky pink, magenta and ruby red. See the glint of diamond sparkling on her labia? See how they protrude so coyly from her vulva? They look like the first blossoms of spring sprinkled with the morning dew."
"Yes…” mutters Charles, thoughtfully stroking his chin and studying my naked wife.
“Very nice, very nice indeed, you’ll do perfectly,” he whispers under his breath, reaching down to adjust the prominent bulge in his trousers.
Alessandra
- 17.09.2020
- 40
- 0
- Category:
- Exhibitionism
Martin to Martina
- 3 years ago
- 27
- 0
The CircleChapter 46 Martial arts pays off
- 3 years ago
- 38
- 0
