The Gallery
- 1 year ago
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Public Encounter In A Gallery free porn video
When I’d decided that I’d use a day from my week off work to visit an art gallery, it had seemed like a good idea. It was the sort of thing I’d done all the time when I was a student but that had fallen by the wayside out in the real world. Back then I’d trundle around with whichever ukulele-wielding Zooey Deschanel-lookalike I was nursing a crush on that month, hoping my half-baked theories on surrealism or De Stijl or goodness knows what – cobbled together from a combination of a Wikipedia article the night before and a quick thumbing through of the gallery’s brochures while she wasn’t looking – would give her the impression I was a serious, intense intellectual who might be able to make some serious, intense love later on, rather than what I really was: a horny and slightly pretentious blagger punching well above his weight.
Now, seven years later, stood in the centre of a mediocre provincial art gallery, with no quirky would-be artists to impress, and indeed with absolutely nobody for company but a security guard who seemed amazed that even one person as there, I felt free to admit this to myself. I could look at a painting, tell myself it seemed nice, maybe get what it represented if someone explained it to me. Then I could move on to the next painting and repeat the same process. That was about it.
I really could have done anything else with my time off. This pitiful exercise in nostalgia was keeping me away from, I don’t know, road trips to sunny coastal resorts down south, or going to that ski slope just out of town. I could have checked out if that massage parlour near the train station really was as dodgy as everyone said it was. I could have sat in the pub all day and got pissed on my own. It would still have felt slightly less embarrassing than this.
I figured if I hung on for a couple of minutes more then it wouldn’t look like I’d walked in, changed my mind and walked out again. It wouldn’t be embarrassing if I at least clung on for a little bit more.
I heard the door open on the far side of the gallery. I turned to see my own personal Birth of Venus walk in the room. She had wavy brown hair flowing over her shoulders and down to her breasts. Her black and white hooped shirt clung tightly to her. She carried herself in a manner which suggested that she had an inkling how beautiful she was but hadn’t been entirely convinced herself yet.
Suddenly I was twenty again. I was half-wondering if I was daydreaming, or had fallen and hit my head, or had gone through some hitherto-undiscovered time warp that was located in a poorly-attended art gallery in the East Midlands. She was like every girl I’d ever followed around like a lost puppy dog way back when had merged to create some mutant idealised woman that was sure to destroy me if she had half the chance. Since I was already spending my free time questioning my basic decision-making, I was pretty susceptible and impressionable. She had more than half the chance.
Our eyes locked and she smiled. I think I smiled. More likely, my jaw dropped open on the left side, giving me a dumb, lop-sided grin that I can’t stand but always end up with when my guard is down. She stifled a laugh. This was bad.
“You know,” I said, gesturing to the painting in front of me, “This represents a fear of the unknown.” The painting was a dark maroon rectangle, with a single yellow dot in the top left corner.
“Does it?” she replied, her eyebrow arched. She moved towards me like a cat that had cornered its mouse.
“Well, of course, it’s not immediately apparent. It’s easy to be overwhelmed by the sheer expanse of… colour. But the maroon is the unknown, it’s danger, it’s v******e. The yellow is home. It’s the lights left on on a dark night. It’s a lighthouse. It’s safety, the familiar.”
I hoped that if I blathered on enough she’d not look at the card underneath the painting that said the exact same thing a thousand times more eloquently.
“I’m not sure that’s true,” she countered. “To me the maroon is lust, it’s like a mist that descends, clouding everything out, and the yellow is the light, it’s the only way out.”
She bit her lip, smiled naughtily and looked about to see that the security guard was out of earshot.
“It’s an orgasm.”
I almost found my way through my own maroon mist and to the yellow light at that moment.
We continued on, me bullshitting my way, she interpreting every painting as being about sex. Was she a cruel mirage? A ghost that haunted the gallery, coaxing erections from patrons? Or just some cray little nymph who got her kicks this way?
We sat on some leather seats. I saw the security guard leave the room. I was gesturing towards the first painting again.
“Yes, I think I can see the point you were making…”
She reached out gently and took my hand. She pulled it slowly, inexorably towards her breasts. She used my hand like some tool to caress them for a short time, before leading me dumbstruck further down. My hand slipped inside her trousers. Thinking for the first time since she had taken my hand I used my right hand, my free hand, to unbutton them. My left hand slipped in to damp cotton panties.
The first thing I came across on my travels was a thicket of pubic hair, matted and drenched. As I did so it was like a jolt of electricity shot my fingers, as she twitched away from me slightly. She gasped. I had contorted myself to be sat behind her, my legs around her. Her body was rigid up against me, my free arm holding her. I paused to see if she was OK. Seeing no signal to stop, I let my hand wander further. As I did so, rubbing gently against flesh, she melted and became limp against me.
I teased my way around her clit with as light a touch as is possible inside cramped trousers and underwear. I prised her pussy lips open ever so slightly with my index and ring finger, slipping my middle finger up and along the exposed flesh within. She purred with delight. I felt her get wetter. I could feel my cock getting so hard I thought it would start to curve up.
I plunged my fingers inside her cunt. Her body rippled as I did so. My fingers were burning up inside her. I pressed deep as I could go before withdrawing. I alternated between shallow and deep excavations. As I did so my right hand crept up her top and slipped her bra up over her left breast. I toyed with her nipple before squeezing it. This time she stifled a yelp.
Inside her pussy I found my fingers rubbing the roof of her vagina. The area I was rubbing began to twitch the more I did so. The twitches then spread to her legs, and then the rest of her body. I massaged her furiously, pushing her to the edge, before I gave her nipple one more squeeze. I felt the juice dribbling through the fingers of my left hand. Her panties were now drenched. She dropped back on me, letting me take her full weight. A satisfied smile played across her lips. Her eyes were fixed on the maroon painting.
After she composed herself she left without a word, but with an extra wiggle to her walk. Dazed, I licked at my hand, checking first that I was definitely alone. I waited for what felt like an eternity for my hard-on to disappear and left.
As I left, the security guard was coming back in.
“Enjoy your visit?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said, trying to suppress a smile. I could see that he too was trying not to laugh.
Now, seven years later, stood in the centre of a mediocre provincial art gallery, with no quirky would-be artists to impress, and indeed with absolutely nobody for company but a security guard who seemed amazed that even one person as there, I felt free to admit this to myself. I could look at a painting, tell myself it seemed nice, maybe get what it represented if someone explained it to me. Then I could move on to the next painting and repeat the same process. That was about it.
I really could have done anything else with my time off. This pitiful exercise in nostalgia was keeping me away from, I don’t know, road trips to sunny coastal resorts down south, or going to that ski slope just out of town. I could have checked out if that massage parlour near the train station really was as dodgy as everyone said it was. I could have sat in the pub all day and got pissed on my own. It would still have felt slightly less embarrassing than this.
I figured if I hung on for a couple of minutes more then it wouldn’t look like I’d walked in, changed my mind and walked out again. It wouldn’t be embarrassing if I at least clung on for a little bit more.
I heard the door open on the far side of the gallery. I turned to see my own personal Birth of Venus walk in the room. She had wavy brown hair flowing over her shoulders and down to her breasts. Her black and white hooped shirt clung tightly to her. She carried herself in a manner which suggested that she had an inkling how beautiful she was but hadn’t been entirely convinced herself yet.
Suddenly I was twenty again. I was half-wondering if I was daydreaming, or had fallen and hit my head, or had gone through some hitherto-undiscovered time warp that was located in a poorly-attended art gallery in the East Midlands. She was like every girl I’d ever followed around like a lost puppy dog way back when had merged to create some mutant idealised woman that was sure to destroy me if she had half the chance. Since I was already spending my free time questioning my basic decision-making, I was pretty susceptible and impressionable. She had more than half the chance.
Our eyes locked and she smiled. I think I smiled. More likely, my jaw dropped open on the left side, giving me a dumb, lop-sided grin that I can’t stand but always end up with when my guard is down. She stifled a laugh. This was bad.
“You know,” I said, gesturing to the painting in front of me, “This represents a fear of the unknown.” The painting was a dark maroon rectangle, with a single yellow dot in the top left corner.
“Does it?” she replied, her eyebrow arched. She moved towards me like a cat that had cornered its mouse.
“Well, of course, it’s not immediately apparent. It’s easy to be overwhelmed by the sheer expanse of… colour. But the maroon is the unknown, it’s danger, it’s v******e. The yellow is home. It’s the lights left on on a dark night. It’s a lighthouse. It’s safety, the familiar.”
I hoped that if I blathered on enough she’d not look at the card underneath the painting that said the exact same thing a thousand times more eloquently.
“I’m not sure that’s true,” she countered. “To me the maroon is lust, it’s like a mist that descends, clouding everything out, and the yellow is the light, it’s the only way out.”
She bit her lip, smiled naughtily and looked about to see that the security guard was out of earshot.
“It’s an orgasm.”
I almost found my way through my own maroon mist and to the yellow light at that moment.
We continued on, me bullshitting my way, she interpreting every painting as being about sex. Was she a cruel mirage? A ghost that haunted the gallery, coaxing erections from patrons? Or just some cray little nymph who got her kicks this way?
We sat on some leather seats. I saw the security guard leave the room. I was gesturing towards the first painting again.
“Yes, I think I can see the point you were making…”
She reached out gently and took my hand. She pulled it slowly, inexorably towards her breasts. She used my hand like some tool to caress them for a short time, before leading me dumbstruck further down. My hand slipped inside her trousers. Thinking for the first time since she had taken my hand I used my right hand, my free hand, to unbutton them. My left hand slipped in to damp cotton panties.
The first thing I came across on my travels was a thicket of pubic hair, matted and drenched. As I did so it was like a jolt of electricity shot my fingers, as she twitched away from me slightly. She gasped. I had contorted myself to be sat behind her, my legs around her. Her body was rigid up against me, my free arm holding her. I paused to see if she was OK. Seeing no signal to stop, I let my hand wander further. As I did so, rubbing gently against flesh, she melted and became limp against me.
I teased my way around her clit with as light a touch as is possible inside cramped trousers and underwear. I prised her pussy lips open ever so slightly with my index and ring finger, slipping my middle finger up and along the exposed flesh within. She purred with delight. I felt her get wetter. I could feel my cock getting so hard I thought it would start to curve up.
I plunged my fingers inside her cunt. Her body rippled as I did so. My fingers were burning up inside her. I pressed deep as I could go before withdrawing. I alternated between shallow and deep excavations. As I did so my right hand crept up her top and slipped her bra up over her left breast. I toyed with her nipple before squeezing it. This time she stifled a yelp.
Inside her pussy I found my fingers rubbing the roof of her vagina. The area I was rubbing began to twitch the more I did so. The twitches then spread to her legs, and then the rest of her body. I massaged her furiously, pushing her to the edge, before I gave her nipple one more squeeze. I felt the juice dribbling through the fingers of my left hand. Her panties were now drenched. She dropped back on me, letting me take her full weight. A satisfied smile played across her lips. Her eyes were fixed on the maroon painting.
After she composed herself she left without a word, but with an extra wiggle to her walk. Dazed, I licked at my hand, checking first that I was definitely alone. I waited for what felt like an eternity for my hard-on to disappear and left.
As I left, the security guard was coming back in.
“Enjoy your visit?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said, trying to suppress a smile. I could see that he too was trying not to laugh.
Safiya
- 17.06.2022
- 8
- 0
