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Dejeuner Sur L?Herbe Dejeuner Sur L?Herbe

?I don?t understand, Monsieur Manet, why would you think that anything has happened to this young lady.? The gendarme was finding it difficult to make any sense of what the gentlemen was saying but you got all sorts here in Gennevilliers. They come from the city with their strange ideas. Across the Seine. These Parisians were all the same. The gendarme did what he could to encourage the gentleman to explain. Small children were dashing around yelling, ?flic, flic, flic.?

?Officer, I was painting her picture, sitting here in the park??

?In the outdoors, monsieur??

?Yes, yes, here in the park, with these other gentlemen?

?It looks as if they are having a picnic.?

?Yes, of course, that was the picture.?

?You were painting a picture? Of a picnic??? The police officer tipped back his kepi, and looked sceptical.

?Yes.?

?In the open air??

?Yes.?

?And the young lady wandered off.?

?Disappeared.?

?As you say, disappeared. I don?t understand though why she should have disappeared. Perhaps she just remembered that there was something she had to do? Perhaps she met a friend? Perhaps she will return soon? You know what girls can be like monsieur? Why do you think that she didn?t just wander off??

?Officer, the girl was naked.?

?Naked, monsieur??

?Naked officer. That is why I do not think she ?just wandered off?.?

?Why were you painting a naked girl at a picnic with these men??

?That is not the point officer, the point is that the girl is missing and without the girl I cannot continue my painting.?

?Do not fear, monsieur. If you can rely on the Parisian gendarmerie to do one thing, it is to find a naked girl in a park.?

The F-111

Janine Schenk was putting the finishing touches to her latest work, ?SL?. She pulled the protective goggles from her eyes but left the filter mask in place as she peered intently at the painting?s minute details. A short blast from the air brush added a tiny highlight at the corner of the classic dished top of a 1972 Mercedes 350 SL. Each tiny flaw in the original?s paint job was reproduced in the painting. Every tiny fleck of rust in the chrome could be seen in the picture. Every detail was perfect, super-real in every respect.

She looked across at the print of ?The F-111? that hung on the wall of her studio and back at her own work. Rosenquist would approve, she thought.

Then the window came in.

Janine threw herself to the floor as bright blue splodges from a series of paint balls spat themselves across the picture. She gasped in horror as the stream of paint ball splatters edged across the floor of her studio, snaking towards her own leg and slamming painfully into her thigh.

Then there was the acrid smell of burning turpentine and linseed oil as a bottle with a flaming rag at its neck burst the other window, showering glass and flaming liquid all around Janine. She screamed as she leapt to her feet and fled the burning room.

The building was well ablaze by the time the fire service arrived. Janine sat beside the road, sobbing with relief that she was still alive and with pain at the loss of her work. She stared at the bright blue stain of the paint ball on the thigh of her overall. She looked up at the fresh graffiti sprayed in the same blue paint across the wall that faced her studio. One word. ?Pollock?.

Damn, she thought, it?s the Abstract Expressionists. That is going to mean trouble.???

Bridge Over A Pool With Water Lilies

They found the girl from the picnic hanging in a cocoon of rope beneath a Japanese bridge in a garden in Giverny, 80 kilometres away from where she had disappeared. She was alive, still naked, shivering in the cold, suspended inches from the surface of the water and the lilies that covered it. Wrapped in a knotted harness of Shibari complexity she span slowly as the gendarmes tried to pull her to safety.

Spray painted on the walkway of the bridge, bright crimson letters spelled out: ?Impressionists ? It?s time you saw the light.?? and ?Manet? Monet? What?s The Difference? Money!??

The Inspector of Police stared at the scene. It was clear that this was more than some petty criminal at work. He didn?t trust these artists. So emotional. So lacking in precise thought. Perhaps it was some feud between factions. The Academi? would have to be involved. More artists! He thought irritably. There was one man that could be relied on to look into this, though, even if he too was an artist. He would have to talk to Breughel.

Two of his officers had got a punt and were manoeuvring it under the bridge. The girl was squealing as they tried to lower her into the punt. In time they succeeded. Someone tossed a blanket from the bank to help keep the girl warm as they brought her ashore. Removing the girl from the ropes that bound here took an hour; each knot had been intricately tied.

The girl wouldn?t return to the park. The painting remained unfinished.

Manet felt discouraged. Seurat joked with him, trying to improve his mood. ?Surely you knew that impressionism would be no picnic.??

Blue Poles : Number 11, 1952

?Pollock?? Pieter Breughel was taking the opportunity to gather as much evidence as he could from the witnesses to the firebombing of Schenk?s studio. Janine was his first port of call.?

?That?s right,? said Janine. ?The one word. It must be the abstract expressionists.?

?You believe it is the work of them alone?? the quiet Dutchman quizzed the girl. She?d found somewhere else to work. She was sitting cross legged on the floor, her spray mask pushed down around her neck, her goggles up on the top of her head, a smudge of paint across her right cheek. Her paint stained overalls were unzipped slightly at the front. It was clear that she had fallen out of bed and pulled them on without bothering with underwear. He was finding it difficult to keep his mind on the job in hand. The air brush compressor was still humming behind her. She was drinking tea from a thick pottery mug. Funny, the Dutchman thought, I?ve never thought of an artist taking a tea break.

?How can I know?? she said. ?Abstraction still has many adherents.?

?These expressionists are too few. There must be others. Cubists perhaps? Futurists? Maybe, at worst, a grand coalition of modernists.?

?Could they hope to defeat the traditional? Surely they realise that the cause of abstraction is lost; that representational art is all that matters? Even the surrealists have embraced Dali again.?

?Perhaps, perhaps not. The D?jeuner kidnapping points to those who resent the early representational roots of impressionism, don?t you think??

?Yes, I see what you mean. But has your own work been attacked? Surely they would see you as a leader for tradition??

?They may think that the day of the Flemish painters is gone; that we have lost our influence. I surmise that they only attacked Manet because his work remains representational in every respect even though others from his group have more in common with the modernists. Today representational art is the province of the pre-Raphaelites and super-realists like yourself.?

The door burst open. A man with expansive sideburns and wild eyes swept in. ?It is intolerable, intolerable!? he exclaimed.

More trouble, Janine thought. What brings Rossetti here?

?She has gone. It is the work of the modernists, I am sure. They know I cannot work without my model.?

?Your model??

?Lizzie. My model and my muse. I left her only for a moment. I am painting her as Guinevere.?

The phone rang, the Dutchman picked it up. ?This is Breughel,? he said. ?I see?. Yes, he is here. ? Of course. ? We will be there at once.? He put the phone down. ?That was the police,? he said. ?Outside the National Gallery, a grey box has appeared on the vacant plinth. They want us to advise them.?

?Advise them! Pa!? Rossetti spat. ?They have their own Critics, do they not? Can they not recognise cubism when they see it??

?Perhaps, but they thought we should attend. They thought you should be there.?

?Why?

?It is what is written on the box ? ?Medievalists!? it says ?Can You Not Think Outside The Box?? ? That is why they think you should see it.??

The three made their way to Trafalgar Square. There, on the plinth, was the featureless grey box. Perhaps a metre and a half on each side; it perched atop the stone plinth, more enigmatic than the sculpted stone on which it sat. The wording was formed from letters stencilled on as if the cube was some form of packing crate.

The police parted the crowds to allow the Dutchman and the others through. He peered at the cube. ?Break it open,? he called.

Two officers leapt onto the plinth. With crow bars they levered up the top of the box, sending splintering wood in all directions. ?There is a girl inside,? one of them called.

?I am not surprised,? said the Dutchman. They watched as the helpless woman was pulled from the box. It was Lizzie Siddal, still dressed in the costume of Guinevere but bound with straps and silenced with an elaborately embroidered length of cloth.?

Freed from her bonds, she fell sobbing into Rossetti?s arms.

The Abduction of Rebecca

Janine had been standing in front of the picture for almost half an hour. It was a rare opportunity to see one of Delacroix?s greatest works. She had wanted something to take her mind off the events at the studio and the exhibition was achieving all she had hoped for. On loan from the Metropolitan Museum of Art, the picture dominated the room in which it hung. In spite of its muddy muted tones, it managed to convey the violence and desperation of the kidnapping vividly.

Janine looked closely at the way in which the artist had rendered the scene, the way in which the helpless girl lay, apparently unconscious, across the back of the horse in the grip of her dark skinned abductor, the energy and animation in the abductor?s horse. It was fascinating.

She heard a man?s voice behind her. ?Good morning, Miss Schenk,? it said, quietly and politely. ?Please don?t turn around and please don?t make any sudden move. If you wish for no harm to come to yourself or to this picture, please move to the exit to your right.? As if to emphasise the risk to herself and the painting, she felt the prick of a knife blade against her arm. She did as she had been asked.

The exit led from the gallery into a deserted corridor. Janine heard the door slam behind her and almost at once felt herself grabbed. She tried to cry out but before she could a sweet, sickly-smelling pad was clamped over her nose and mouth. The more she struggled, the quicker she inhaled whatever it was on the pad and she felt herself slipping into unconsciousness.

Her last recollection was of her knees buckling beneath her as she slid to the hard wooden floor of the corridor and dark oblivion.???

? 2006 Freddie Clegg

Dejeuner Sur L?Herbe

?I don?t understand, Monsieur Manet, why would you think that anything has happened to this young lady.? The gendarme was finding it difficult to make any sense of what the gentlemen was saying but you got all sorts here in Gennevilliers. They come from the city with their strange ideas. Across the Seine. These Parisians were all the same. The gendarme did what he could to encourage the gentleman to explain. Small children were dashing around yelling, ?flic, flic, flic.?

?Officer, I was painting her picture, sitting here in the park??

?In the outdoors, monsieur??

?Yes, yes, here in the park, with these other gentlemen?

?It looks as if they are having a picnic.?

?Yes, of course, that was the picture.?

?You were painting a picture? Of a picnic??? The police officer tipped back his kepi, and looked sceptical.

?Yes.?

?In the open air??

?Yes.?

?And the young lady wandered off.?

?Disappeared.?

?As you say, disappeared. I don?t understand though why she should have disappeared. Perhaps she just remembered that there was something she had to do? Perhaps she met a friend? Perhaps she will return soon? You know what girls can be like monsieur? Why do you think that she didn?t just wander off??

?Officer, the girl was naked.?

?Naked, monsieur??

?Naked officer. That is why I do not think she ?just wandered off?.?

?Why were you painting a naked girl at a picnic with these men??

?That is not the point officer, the point is that the girl is missing and without the girl I cannot continue my painting.?

?Do not fear, monsieur. If you can rely on the Parisian gendarmerie to do one thing, it is to find a naked girl in a park.?

The F-111

Janine Schenk was putting the finishing touches to her latest work, ?SL?. She pulled the protective goggles from her eyes but left the filter mask in place as she peered intently at the painting?s minute details. A short blast from the air brush added a tiny highlight at the corner of the classic dished top of a 1972 Mercedes 350 SL. Each tiny flaw in the original?s paint job was reproduced in the painting. Every tiny fleck of rust in the chrome could be seen in the picture. Every detail was perfect, super-real in every respect.

She looked across at the print of ?The F-111? that hung on the wall of her studio and back at her own work. Rosenquist would approve, she thought.

Then the window came in.

Janine threw herself to the floor as bright blue splodges from a series of paint balls spat themselves across the picture. She gasped in horror as the stream of paint ball splatters edged across the floor of her studio, snaking towards her own leg and slamming painfully into her thigh.

Then there was the acrid smell of burning turpentine and linseed oil as a bottle with a flaming rag at its neck burst the other window, showering glass and flaming liquid all around Janine. She screamed as she leapt to her feet and fled the burning room.

The building was well ablaze by the time the fire service arrived. Janine sat beside the road, sobbing with relief that she was still alive and with pain at the loss of her work. She stared at the bright blue stain of the paint ball on the thigh of her overall. She looked up at the fresh graffiti sprayed in the same blue paint across the wall that faced her studio. One word. ?Pollock?.

Damn, she thought, it?s the Abstract Expressionists. That is going to mean trouble.???

Bridge Over A Pool With Water Lilies

They found the girl from the picnic hanging in a cocoon of rope beneath a Japanese bridge in a garden in Giverny, 80 kilometres away from where she had disappeared. She was alive, still naked, shivering in the cold, suspended inches from the surface of the water and the lilies that covered it. Wrapped in a knotted harness of Shibari complexity she span slowly as the gendarmes tried to pull her to safety.

Spray painted on the walkway of the bridge, bright crimson letters spelled out: ?Impressionists ? It?s time you saw the light.?? and ?Manet? Monet? What?s The Difference? Money!??

The Inspector of Police stared at the scene. It was clear that this was more than some petty criminal at work. He didn?t trust these artists. So emotional. So lacking in precise thought. Perhaps it was some feud between factions. The Academi? would have to be involved. More artists! He thought irritably. There was one man that could be relied on to look into this, though, even if he too was an artist. He would have to talk to Breughel.

Two of his officers had got a punt and were manoeuvring it under the bridge. The girl was squealing as they tried to lower her into the punt. In time they succeeded. Someone tossed a blanket from the bank to help keep the girl warm as they brought her ashore. Removing the girl from the ropes that bound here took an hour; each knot had been intricately tied.

The girl wouldn?t return to the park. The painting remained unfinished.

Manet felt discouraged. Seurat joked with him, trying to improve his mood. ?Surely you knew that impressionism would be no picnic.??

Blue Poles : Number 11, 1952

?Pollock?? Pieter Breughel was taking the opportunity to gather as much evidence as he could from the witnesses to the firebombing of Schenk?s studio. Janine was his first port of call.?

?That?s right,? said Janine. ?The one word. It must be the abstract expressionists.?

?You believe it is the work of them alone?? the quiet Dutchman quizzed the girl. She?d found somewhere else to work. She was sitting cross legged on the floor, her spray mask pushed down around her neck, her goggles up on the top of her head, a smudge of paint across her right cheek. Her paint stained overalls were unzipped slightly at the front. It was clear that she had fallen out of bed and pulled them on without bothering with underwear. He was finding it difficult to keep his mind on the job in hand. The air brush compressor was still humming behind her. She was drinking tea from a thick pottery mug. Funny, the Dutchman thought, I?ve never thought of an artist taking a tea break.

?How can I know?? she said. ?Abstraction still has many adherents.?

?These expressionists are too few. There must be others. Cubists perhaps? Futurists? Maybe, at worst, a grand coalition of modernists.?

?Could they hope to defeat the traditional? Surely they realise that the cause of abstraction is lost; that representational art is all that matters? Even the surrealists have embraced Dali again.?

?Perhaps, perhaps not. The D?jeuner kidnapping points to those who resent the early representational roots of impressionism, don?t you think??

?Yes, I see what you mean. But has your own work been attacked? Surely they would see you as a leader for tradition??

?They may think that the day of the Flemish painters is gone; that we have lost our influence. I surmise that they only attacked Manet because his work remains representational in every respect even though others from his group have more in common with the modernists. Today representational art is the province of the pre-Raphaelites and super-realists like yourself.?

The door burst open. A man with expansive sideburns and wild eyes swept in. ?It is intolerable, intolerable!? he exclaimed.

More trouble, Janine thought. What brings Rossetti here?

?She has gone. It is the work of the modernists, I am sure. They know I cannot work without my model.?

?Your model??

?Lizzie. My model and my muse. I left her only for a moment. I am painting her as Guinevere.?

The phone rang, the Dutchman picked it up. ?This is Breughel,? he said. ?I see?. Yes, he is here. ? Of course. ? We will be there at once.? He put the phone down. ?That was the police,? he said. ?Outside the National Gallery, a grey box has appeared on the vacant plinth. They want us to advise them.?

?Advise them! Pa!? Rossetti spat. ?They have their own Critics, do they not? Can they not recognise cubism when they see it??

?Perhaps, but they thought we should attend. They thought you should be there.?

?Why?

?It is what is written on the box ? ?Medievalists!? it says ?Can You Not Think Outside The Box?? ? That is why they think you should see it.??

The three made their way to Trafalgar Square. There, on the plinth, was the featureless grey box. Perhaps a metre and a half on each side; it perched atop the stone plinth, more enigmatic than the sculpted stone on which it sat. The wording was formed from letters stencilled on as if the cube was some form of packing crate.

The police parted the crowds to allow the Dutchman and the others through. He peered at the cube. ?Break it open,? he called.

Two officers leapt onto the plinth. With crow bars they levered up the top of the box, sending splintering wood in all directions. ?There is a girl inside,? one of them called.

?I am not surprised,? said the Dutchman. They watched as the helpless woman was pulled from the box. It was Lizzie Siddal, still dressed in the costume of Guinevere but bound with straps and silenced with an elaborately embroidered length of cloth.?

Freed from her bonds, she fell sobbing into Rossetti?s arms.

The Abduction of Rebecca

Janine had been standing in front of the picture for almost half an hour. It was a rare opportunity to see one of Delacroix?s greatest works. She had wanted something to take her mind off the events at the studio and the exhibition was achieving all she had hoped for. On loan from the Metropolitan Museum of Art, the picture dominated the room in which it hung. In spite of its muddy muted tones, it managed to convey the violence and desperation of the kidnapping vividly.

Janine looked closely at the way in which the artist had rendered the scene, the way in which the helpless girl lay, apparently unconscious, across the back of the horse in the grip of her dark skinned abductor, the energy and animation in the abductor?s horse. It was fascinating.

She heard a man?s voice behind her. ?Good morning, Miss Schenk,? it said, quietly and politely. ?Please don?t turn around and please don?t make any sudden move. If you wish for no harm to come to yourself or to this picture, please move to the exit to your right.? As if to emphasise the risk to herself and the painting, she felt the prick of a knife blade against her arm. She did as she had been asked.

The exit led from the gallery into a deserted corridor. Janine heard the door slam behind her and almost at once felt herself grabbed. She tried to cry out but before she could a sweet, sickly-smelling pad was clamped over her nose and mouth. The more she struggled, the quicker she inhaled whatever it was on the pad and she felt herself slipping into unconsciousness.

Her last recollection was of her knees buckling beneath her as she slid to the hard wooden floor of the corridor and dark oblivion.???

? 2006 Freddie Clegg

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“I stole one of your paintings, Artie,” confessed Mavis as she looped a hand through my arm. We’d started the day with her as my model for a new composition. I guess I had ulterior motives. I wanted Morgan to experience prolonged eye contact with Mavis. The two had been getting along incredibly well, but both Annette and I had held Mavis’s eyes for an hour or more and the effect had been profound. I’d done the same with both Annette and with Morgan, but I wanted this last loop closed. I’d...

Art Teacher

As I step into the art room at my school my nose is assaulted by the foul smell of sulfur, “Oh, what the hell is that?” One of the more annoying kids in my class says pinching his nose. The art teacher, Mr. Hart walks up to the front of the classroom, “Sorry about the smell the janitors can’t figure out what it is, anybody who wants to can go somewhere else as long as you don’t disrupt any classes.” Most of the class, the ones who only took it because they thought it would be an easy A,...

Art Feasible

After my divorce I moved back to a little town in Florida that I haven’t been to in about ten years. I was looking for a clean start on life again away from my ex who now lives a little over four hundred miles away. I think that will be far enough so that her and I won’t run into each other occasionally. By the way, my name is Peter, I am sixty years old, five foot six inches tall, salt and pepper hair, about fifty pounds overweight and have a sexual appetite greater then what I did when...

Art Part Two Ch 09

Art, part two. Ch. 09 Dr. Lisa and Art find a possible new beginning for him. Suddenly Heidi said, ‘Well hello ‘Lees’, you’re late.’ Lisa from somewhere behind me said, ‘It doesn’t look like I was missed. Heidi, you and I need to talk.’ When I sat up the two women were looking at me, so I said, ‘OK, I’m out of here.’ What else was there for me to say? Then it dawned on me I was still naked, ‘Heidi, where are my clothes?’ ‘They’re up in my workshop. Grab one of my large T-shirts in the top...

Art Part Two Ch 10

Art, part two. Ch. 10 Art has a frightening experience. Our next stop was a hair salon where apparently they had both male and female customers. A majority of the customers and attendant’s were little people. I don’t see the connection between height and hair, but maybe it’s just a matter of being more comfortable among their own. Lisa must have called ahead, because we’re led immediately to an open chair. Lisa went into a discussion about what she wanted for me and I was left out until the...

Art Class

bisexual - mfm - anal - bottom bitch - pantiesDavid LaValle was the type of guy that everyone gravitated to. Handsome, out going, talented, confident, sexy. Not macho sexy, just good looking soft-spoken, mysterious sexy. Our sophomore year at college in Vancouver we ended up in art class together. For all his magnetism he gravitated to me. He was a wiz at art & drawing; I struggled. He could whip out drawing after effortless drawing while my efforts were slow, plodding &...

Art Subject

Well, here I am. Redder than a tomato. I'm getting stared at by the whole art class. Some are already doing portraits of me and others are waiting. Miss Arania, the art teacher wanted to do something totally crazyand different for this semester's art exhibit. A plan was hatched, we all agreed to stick to the plan and not backout. The whole class was excited. All the guys in class got together. we lined up and drew straws from a can. Unfourtunately, I lost. There was some cheering fighting...

Art SomethingChapter 5

School started Monday and I made it out the door on time. That was partly because Annette offered to drive. It was okay for me to be late—I didn’t care—but, like with Fay, I wouldn’t make Annette late. People noticed us. We held hands as we walked from the parking lot to the school and she gave me a soft kiss before we went inside. Inside the school, of course, there was no kissing and no hand-holding. People still looked at us as we found our lockers. My face was hot. “It’s too bad we don’t...

Art SomethingChapter 10

I didn’t get up to paint. How could I even consider leaving Annette alone in my bed? I was vaguely aware of Dad peeking in and quietly closing the door in the morning. I’d made sure we had a sheet and blanket over us. I just stared at the treasure in my arms. “Was my bare butt sticking out when your dad looked in?” Annette whispered. “No, my Lady. I made sure it was covered.” “You could uncover it now, if you want.” We pushed the blanket down and lay naked in each other’s arms. I was hard...

Art ProjectChapter 9 Models

My session with Dee was as close to the opposite of my session with Susan as we could get. We went to Kendra’s room after our last class and she was dancing around like she had to go to the bathroom. I let Kendra get her ready while I had my back turned. Dee had taken off her bra and hid it so I wouldn’t see her underwear. Go figure. Then she’d pulled her t-shirt up over her right shoulder, but kept it pulled down over her left breast so tightly that it was still tucked into her jeans. When I...

Art Appreciation

Mike had never thought of art galleries as a place to meet women. Hell, Mike thought about art galleries as little as possible. The Vallejo/Frazetta exhibit at the Tucson Museum of Fine Arts was a rare exception to the rule. Mike enjoyed fantasy-oriented art, and Vallejo was his favorite artist. There would be paintings by other, lesser-known artists as well. Mike made plans to check out the exhibit. Mike wasn't really comfortable in the three-piece suit that he had dug out for the...

Art ProjectChapter 4 Houseguest

We had Monday and Tuesday classes Thanksgiving week. That meant Fay had only one day of class since she had no classes on Mondays. Annette kissed me at the door of Lib Arts and I went in to sit beside Kendra. We didn’t even hesitate anymore. If I got to class first, Kendra just walked over and sat beside me. If she was there, I sat beside her. And it wasn’t always in the same place. Other students in our class usually arrived after us and decided which seats to take if we were in ‘their’...

Art and Artists

The woman didn’t just enter the restaurant where I was having lunch, she swept into it, filling it with a sudden infusion of energy. She walked up to the table where the two ladies she was meeting had been sitting – she was fashionably late – greeted them warmly, then headed to the ladies room. I couldn’t keep my eyes off of her as she walked by my table. She was probably around 40, a little taller than average with a trim, but curvy body that was well-displayed in a pair of tight blue jeans...

Art Deco Part OneChapter 2

'Sorry to bring you here before taking you to the apartment we've found for you, only I wanted to quickly introduce you to the girls. As soon as we're done I'm going to make you comfortable at your new residence, and let you have a nice sleep. Tomorrow you're invited to a barbecue at my house'. He was overwhelmed, both by her hospitality, and by the way she was allowing him into her life. He didn't know at that point just how involved he was to become with the women he was about to...

Art CriticChapter 2 Modeling Contracts

It took two weeks before Dee came to the studio to pose for us. I was surprised that Kendra managed to persuade her to model for all three of us. Dee was the most body-shy person in our class. The first time I’d drawn her nipple, she only pulled her shirt up high enough so I could see it without seeing anything else. She even hid her bra so I wouldn’t see that. She described it as a liberating experience, though, and the next session, she simply removed her shirt and bra and sat for over an...

Art Part Two Ch 02

Art, part two. Ch. 02 Art and Suzanne get ‘comfortable’. When I looked up at her face she was giving me a wicked grin so it looked like it was time to ‘get comfortable’. She said, ‘Come over here and let me unbutton the back of that dress.’ She’s been dressing and undressing me since I started to wear young girl’s clothes. She says, ‘They never look right when you put them on and Maria complains that she’s tired of picking up after you when you take them off.’ There’s no way I’m going to...

Art Part Two Ch 07

Art, part two. Ch. 07 Dr. Heidi shows Art how he can be one of her dolls. The room Heidi led me into was in the front of the house and included an elevator to the garage level. Where the first room is a table top workshop, here the equipment is larger and floor mounted. There’s even a small jib hoist above the work table. Heidi said, ‘I’ve had some inquiries about making larger dolls, your size or slightly larger. I have a lot of work to do on developing a lightweight skeletal structure and...

Art History Class

For my first story, a experience that happened in my last year at school (before Uni). I was still a virgin at the time (17). Names have been changed, but it is based on true events which happened a long time ago. I have taken some poetic license but mostly it is true. I was sitting in a darken room with about 20 other students watching a projector slide show of 20th Century art. Our teacher Mrs Ingley, I suspect, was a bit of a sex addict, because she showed lots of nude pictures and painting...

Art of Deep throat bondage

Deep throat is an acquired art. Not many know how to do it right. 99.99% give cheaters head. After doing a massage, i like giving deep throat Only to a Man, who can appreciate what i was doing, first. Second that had the stamina to complete the task, not take all day to cum, and third could repeat himself at least minimum 3-4 times in 2 hours. When i take a man into my throat, its an art, i like to first lick all around the head, the underside, the foreskin, then the crown, and finally inside...

Art class

Caroline and me had been pals for ages, our parents were friends so we had spent a lot of time together as k**s and a friendship had developed.This long hot summer may be our last together as I was off to Uni in the autumn and Caroline was hoping to go to art school.We used to spend a bit of time together when our parents were at work, just hanging at her house and listening to music and the like.Today Caroline seemed to have something on her mind, she was a bit shy as if she wanted to say...

Art Class Part II

In my fog-hazed mind, I stood in the aid room at school trying to recap what happened just a few minutes ago in the art class. I could still see the large visible wet stain in the crotch region of my pants. The end of my dick was throbbing, not quite in pain, but in enduring ecstasy. I had to admit the best sexual experience for this boy virgin. Walking was a bit uncomfortable because some of the hairs on my thigh stuck to my pants due to the cum that had run down my leg. I didn't just have...

Masturbation

Art History

Being a guy aged thirteen is hard, all hard, especially my dick, all day, every day. I have a total boner every minute I'm awake and it's even harder whenever I'm at school around Tammy Robinson. She's got the nicest set of boobs of all the girls I know and, thus, she was at the top of my list. We were sitting next to each other during the mixed part of the sex-ed class and I kept taking glances over her way noting that she seemed to be taking special interest in the subject matter. I had...

Art Pour Lart

The room had a Japanese emptiness. There was no desk, just a square of low seats around a beautiful, deep red rug. Against one wall stood a lacquered oriental armoire. A lonely bamboo bush reached almost to the ceiling. A petite woman stood waiting for her before the square of seats. She wore a kimono-like dress. It confirmed the oriental blood behind her intensely black eyes. "Please be seated, Brigitte", the woman said in American English. Then she took a seat herself, right next to...

Art Class

I can still remember my friend, Chaz, talking me into signing up for life drawing class. “Come on buddy,” he said, “it will be great. Three hours a week of looking at nude women. Throw in a few beers and it would be a party!” I laughed at his attempt to sway me, but truth is he didn’t have to work that hard. I had been thinking about taking an art class next semester, and this one fit the bill nicely. The first few weeks of class were cool, but not the party that was promised. Most of the...

Art CriticChapter 5 Emerging

That wasn’t the end of our problems. It wasn’t the end of the blackness or depression or anxiety or panic. It didn’t heal the rift between Annette and Morgan. It didn’t bring us all back to the same bed. It gave us a ray of hope to hang onto. Annette continued to live with her parents and Morgan continued to sleep in the guestroom downstairs. Annette returned to our group at lunch and took me home each evening. On the weekend, she returned to the studio to do her reading and writing. Morgan...

Art CriticChapter 10 Color

My eyes. I don’t know if I was getting used to seeing my black and black world or if I’d simply lost hope of truly regaining ‘normal’ vision. As spring approached, I saw more and more color. Living things have color. I saw a brilliant red cardinal pecking at a green leaf. They were redder and greener than I remembered. I saw daffodils and tulips getting ready to bloom. And people. Nearly everyone I met was clearly visible, though some were a little more muted than others. Life was color...

Art ProjectChapter 10 Exhibition

“The countdown has begun,” Zen said as she faced her webcam. “I promised something truly unique tonight and you have to participate to make it happen. We need 2,500 tokens to get it started. We’d like to start the show in thirty minutes so there is still light in the window. You’ll want to see our Dolly silhouetted in the window before the artist arrives.” Her computer chimed and a message popped up on screen. RagsToRiches just tipped Zen 150 tokens: Come on, guys. I’ve been looking forward...

Hartstein A Hartstein StoryChapter 2

Paul was deep in thought as he reread the last two pages over again. It was ten after eleven on a Tuesday morning. He had been writing since six, and had two pages that were almost right to his way of thinking, when he heard the mailman approaching his front door, and then saw the letter drop from the mail slot onto the wooden floor. A letter not a bill? I don’t usually get letters ... and it’s too thin to be another rejection slip. He put it out of his mind and finished reading his work for...

Hartstein A Hartstein StoryChapter 4

Paul caught the last train back to Danbury that night and on arriving home went right to work on his novel. During the train ride he had worked through a knotty problem that had prevented him from moving forward. Now sitting at his PC, he was amazed at the clarity with which he saw the problem’s solution. He finally went to sleep and dreamed restlessly about Carol and their sexual romps. He woke at dawn and after making a pot of coffee worked on the novel until his belly began to growl; at...

Hartstein A Hartstein StoryChapter 5

With everyone trying to recover from the avalanche of sex that the four had launched, Jim went to the kitchen and without asking, made everyone a much stronger drink, double shots of tequila for the girls and double scotches for the guys. Celia, nude except for a Tee top she’d thrown on after her watching Paul fuck her friend, and occasional lover, Joanna. Both men remained nude, while Joanna had a towel draped across her lower extremities. It wasn’t long before a second round was needed,...

Hartstein A Hartstein StoryChapter 6

Illustrated version available on request – The Author Celia’s Story Celia sat cross-legged and covered her pussy with a towel so as not to distract her listeners from the story she was about to tell. Joanna followed suit although not sitting cross-legged, she simply sat demurely, or as demurely as one can while nude and neither Jim nor Paul could see her privates without becoming very obvious about it. Celia cleared her throat and began: “I grew up as a shy, submissive, quiet girl who...

Hartstein A Hartstein StoryChapter 7

The Roomate Although he didn’t know it at the time that was the last time he would see Joanna. Three weeks later, Paul had finished a rough draft of his novel and took the train from Danbury into Manhattan to meet Carol for lunch. On this occasion, Carol went without the black wig having had her blonde hair styled for the occasion. Under the London Fog raincoat she wore a dark blue business outfit, jacket and skirt with a white blouse. This time the blouse was fully buttoned and Paul took...

Hartstein A Hartstein StoryChapter 8 New Friends in the City

This picks up where Hartstein ends, it’s a year later, and Paul is working with the editors on the finalization of his novel. Carol is no longer the leading editor working with Paul and it seemed that each day brought someone new into play as the many details of finalizing a novel before publication begin to overwhelm him. But he was buoyed by the fact that he now had a publication date and his world was spinning faster and faster with each passing day. The work and its many ramifications...

Hartstein A Hartstein StoryChapter 9 Friends in the City

It only happened because of what was said at the party a month before. Paul had joined a group of four women and the subject of bondage came up. “Have you tried it?” Marti had asked. After some less than adroit verbal fencing he had replied, “I think it depends on the woman. Some would never do it, some put up with it for their partner, and some are really into it.” “But what about you?” the one called Callie asked with arched eyebrows. “Okay,” Paul said raising his voice for the first...

Hartstein A Hartstein StoryChapter 11 Fit to Be Tied

Twenty-three year old Callie Monahan was enjoying the warmth of a spring day in the 70’s. Callie was blonde, blue eyed, beautiful, slutty and seldom wore a bra, preferring the looks her breasts received from the men she passed by while walking or running in Central Park. A former high school cheerleader, she was more than aware of her good looks and used them to her advantage. She had always dated whichever boy was the current season’s sports star and was not above popping open an extra...

Hartstein A Hartstein StoryChapter 12 Jaded

The following afternoon while working on his new novel, Paul paused and took out the card that his former roomies girlfriend, Jade had given him the previous night. It was a plain embossed business card with her name and number on it and nothing else. But it was her words that kept coming back to him. “I’ve heard things about you. Good things. I’d like it if you called that number. This Tuesday works for me, say around seven.” He smiled and slipped the card into his wallet, got up and as he...

Art School Daughter

Author's note: Customize variables and start game mode for the full experience: Challenges, items, and choices to unlock new branches. Can you impregnate your daughter and her 3 friends? Work still in progress, currently 2 girls available - more to come. All girls depicted are over the age of 18. My first story so please leave feedback and ideas in the forum: http://forum.chyoa.com/threads/art-school-daughter.741/ It was a late night at the office again, but you've grown familiar with this...

Incest

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