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The Six Erotic Oil Paintings. free porn video
The six erotic oil paintings
I knew my spinster great aunt Philomena as a formidable, grey haired old
lady. She lived in a somewhat neglected mock-Gothic high-ceilinged
Victorian house in Ealing, near the Common. The elaborate geometric tile
floor in the porch continued down the passageway, and in defiance of the
Clean Air Acts, she always had a coal fire or two burning in the
Victorian fireplaces, even sometimes in a bedroom, right through the
winter. Her furniture was elaborate and heavy, but threadbare and
marked. I'd visited with parents many times, and had stayed there with
her on high days and holidays. She had some beautiful paintings in her
house, all six of them mounted in exquisite ornate gilded gesso-covered
frames. Each one of them depicted the same subject, but in a different
setting, and I could never choose a favourite as I loved them all. They
were disturbingly erotic, and all the more so because each depicted a
girl, just embarking on puberty, but otherwise androgynous in shape, and
naked.
I could see the similarities with myself when I was that age, although
perhaps the figures were slightly idealised. What man couldn't become
obsessed with the subject? What man could not be gripped with lust at
the sight? What man would not therefore feel transformed into a
paedophile just from that? They were bad enough in that the subtle
erotic nature of each had an effect on me, and I am a mature married
woman with children. As a result, to be frank, I was afraid of the
effect they would have on my husband, because they were going to be
mine, left to me in Great Aunt Philomena's will, now that she'd passed
away. I was both slightly worried by the effect they would have on him,
because Great Aunt Philomena normally had them covered when there was a
man in the house, but I was also excited that perhaps, just perhaps, I
would get the benefits of his sexual arousal!
The house and her other possessions had gone to my other relatives,
parcelled out carefully according to the recipient's interests, tastes
and needs. My brother Richard, for instance, was the new owner of a
collection of leather-bound first edition books by a variety of authors,
each signed and dedicated. It was the perfect gift for such a bookworm
librarian. The bequest to my cousin Petronella, who designs lingerie,
was a collection of ladies' intimates from the nineteenth and early
twentieth century, a collection that could (and eventually would) do
credit to a fashion museum, but all sized for a girl at puberty and not
for an adult woman.
I thought back to one of the many conversations I'd had with the old
lady, in which she told me how the pictures came to be painted.
"My mother had been in service, you know, Rachel," she had said. "I was
packed off to her former employer, Lady Leonora Bagshawe. l was sent by
train - always a steam train, and they are romantic too in their own
way, aren't they?" I had nodded, but she was in full flow: "I always got
picked up in a pony and trap by her gardener, Old Trevenneth, and he
would hardly grunt more than a word on the way. The pony usually farted
a lot!" She tittered at the recollection. "Anyway, I knew what would
happen when I got there." She'd told me several times before, but it was
always told a different way, and I loved to hear it. "Old Lady Leonora-
she was a famous artist, much in demand as a book illustrator. I
remember reading books she'd illustrated, children's classics mostly.
Boys and girls - mainly girls - getting into adventures. Ha. Just how
many girls got tied up in them, and so did I as a model! And often they
showed their knickers! But she drew and painted for her own amusement as
well. She often drew in pen and ink, but was an expert in watercolours
and oils. They didn't have modern paints then, you know, or such a range
of colours."
I was waiting for Great Aunt to tell me what lay in store for her in
that house. "I was going to be stripped off and measured up. Then her
seamstress would alter all the clothes that had been made for me. I
loved feeling the fabrics, lace, satin, silk, little ribbons and bows. I
loved the fabulous underwear. Sometimes I wore silk camiknickers, you
know, the one-pieces - you call them teddies now, don't you? Oh, it was
so convenient with the button-up crotch under a dress! All of a sudden,
I had smooth silk stockings to wear. The first nylons came out then, and
I wore those too." Then, Great Aunt Philomena would list all the
dresses, frocks, skirts, blouses she wore, and in graphic detail the
undies, and what they felt like on her skin. She'd always finish along
the lines of "Oh, how I loved those clothes. I felt like a rich girl,
instead of the scruffy child I was at home. Of course, I knew I couldn't
take anything home with me to wear it: my schoolfriends would taunt me,
mock me, in that grubby northern industrial town where I lived.
Everything was grey there ..."
She'd inevitably lament the poverty of her childhood, and how nasty her
schoolfriends could be if she displayed any eccentricities so she could
never tell them where she'd been or what she'd done, or particularly
what she'd worn. I knew that she would then describe the purpose of all
the dressing up. "Lady Leonora would draw or paint me for her book
illustrations. And then, when that was done, we would go down into the
gardens or the lonely private cove, or into the bathroom or my bedroom,
then I would undress completely, and then she'd paint me. She always
tended to give me the hint of breasts instead of my flat chest, and
pinken my nipples - and almost always, paint me from the front. She'd
always ignore what my genitals looked like - you're not embarrassed by
that, are you Rachel? - and then she'd draw me with one of those divine,
pert, hairless little slltties..."
At that point, I'd always correct her. "Vulva, Auntie, vulva."
She would always look shocked, and say "But that's such an ugly word,
isn't it dear?" and carry on to walk me round the portraits, and
describe each one. Apart from the fact that there were only six, she
treated each as if it was an Icon or other religious work to be
worshipped in turn.
"Just take this one, Rachel darling. I'd been in a blue silk party dress
all morning, with silk knickers underneath, but after lunch we walked
down to the cove, and I stood naked in the sea for hours." She stressed
the length of time it had taken. "The sea was flat calm, so it looked
like a millpond." Next on the circuit was the one that wasn't full
frontal, showing her bare, boyish, bottom, set near a small pond in the
woods, looking as if the figure was contemplating wandering in, but had
stopped, bent over and was perhaps testing the water or picking a flower
with her feminine cleft all too obviously exposed. Then there was the
other painting from behind. In that one, the girl lay on her stomach on
a bed reading one of several books. I couldn't see what the one she was
reading was, but the others were classic boys' books: Treasure Island,
Rob Roy and Ivanhoe. There could be a secret message in that, but for
the fact that the subject had one leg bent at the hip, and her genitals
clearly showed that she was a girl, notwithstanding the appley, boyish,
buttocks. The fourth was perhaps the most explicit of the lot, where the
pubescent ballerina practised at the barre, naked but for ballet shoes
and rather revealingly posed. "I fell over three times!" she said. "Of
course, I never really looked like that," she'd say, "Just something
like - but I wanted to. Oh how I wanted to look like she painted me."
To be perfectly honest, those bottoms bothered me. They bothered me as
well when they were taken in conjunction with the last two. In those,
the subject was intended to depict a girl with her first period. In one,
she lay back on the bed, legs apart with a trickle of blood spreading
into a stain on the sheet, but she was asleep, with a pained expression
on her face. In the other, the subject - the young Philomena, as she
said - stood with one leg up on the side of an old-fashioned free-
standing bath, already filled and foaming, and the subject was examining
herself, catching the blood in a linen handkerchief. When I first saw
them, I didn't understand, but after my first few periods, I did, and
sympathised with poor young Philomena - I found the whole business hard
enough to come to terms with. And I got more bothered when I got to know
the paintings better, as in the first, a carefully posed hand and in the
second, the corner of the handkerchief, was strategically placed, and
the paintings were ambiguous: they might as well be depicting a recently
castrated boy with his penis concealed. That gave me shivers, as by then
I was having regular sex, and I knew that my husband-to-be valued his
testicles, and so did I.
I asked my parents why, if Lady Leonora was so prolific, that there were
only the six oils left. My mother knew something of the answer.
"It all happened at the start of the second world war. The Army
requisitioned the manor house for coastal defence, and Leonora moved
into a small house in the grounds. It was crammed from floor to ceiling
with sketchbooks, and framed and unframed artworks. Some officer burnt
the main house down - smoking and drinking in bed - and eventually, the
ruins were bulldozed. It's a caravan site now. Anyway, Lady L was
distraught, had a stroke and that was the end of it. Some of the
artworks were too raunchy for the tastes of the age, and they were
burnt. There was a big scandal that had to be hushed up, of course,
something that was thought to be perverted and nasty. Great Aunt
Philomena showed up, and all she could rescue was a suitcase full of
dressing-up underwear that she just left to Petronella, and those six
canvasses. She was working in a publisher in London, and that's where
she acquired the books she left to Richard. It was wartime, and she
struggled to get down to Cornwall to save what she did."
"I always wondered, of course," I replied, "Now that you tell me of the
scandal, it all drops into place. Great Aunt Philomena was a boy, the
old girl femininized him with the clothes, and painting him as a girl,
and he went on to be a trannie. Those two shown him after he was gelded.
It's plain, isn't it?"
"Oh No, Rachel," said my mother, "The transsexual was 'Lady' Leonora!
They couldn't do the operation then so I suppose you could call her just
a cross-dresser. No-one guessed, and poor old Philomena was traumatised
to find out! So much so that she never admitted the truth. The family
thought that they had been putting their daughter in the hands of a
pervert, and that was nub of the scandal. But 'Lady' Leonora was living
out her dearest wish with Philomena, to have been born a girl, and she
did it through her Art. By the time you were a regular visitor -
Philomena loved you, you know, as you were like the girl in the
paintings when you were younger - she was going a bit gaga, and
sometimes she even mistook you for her younger self. At the end, she
thought you were the subject of the paintings, and that she had painted
them herself."
Madison
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