My S1ster rsquo s Gangbang Chapter Six
- 3 years ago
- 234
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Sophie and I have a great life. We compliment each other in every way, and are the envy of our circle of friends, who can’t believe that two so dissimilar personalities can co-exist in a harmonious relationship such as ours.
Sophie is an artist of some note, having had works accepted into the Archibald (The most prestigious portrait prize in Australian art) for the past five years. While she hadn’t actually won the major prize, her works were very well received and chosen for display.
I am a writer, also of some note, having progressed from the ranks of a hack Journalist to a serious writer of fiction. My detractors have said that this was not a major culture shift for me. My works have made the best seller lists on a regular basis, and while they have never been nominated for the Booker or any other Literary prize, they have provided me with a comfortable enough income to the point where I no longer have to prostitute my literary talents to please the media tyrants.
What made our relationship work so well was that we had, from the very beginning, both accepted that our talents needed space and alone time. That’s not to say that we didn’t intrude from time to time to look at each other’s work in progress and comment on them, it’s just that we realised that the creative energies sometimes needed a time free of distraction. There were even times when we shared our distraction free time, walking along the beach near our home, with no physical link binding us together, just our spiritual and creative links being fed and nurtured in that individual and collective solitude.
That we got together in the first place was something that you would more likely expect to read in a work of romantic fiction. It should never have happened, but was meant to be.
I drove up to the front of the main building at Montpellier, an ‘Artiste’s Community’ run by Giles Featherstonehaugh, (pronounced ‘fash-en-oo’, don’t ask me how you can get from one to the other) a self-styled arts promoter and entrepreneur. It was famous for being the temporary home to many of this country’s artists, authors and poets during the summer months when the cities sweltered. It was positioned on a headland overlooking the Pacific Ocean, and was cooled by the sea breezes that blew in every afternoon. It was an idyllic setting, and its fame had reached the point where one had to be invited to attend.
I hadn’t been invited because of my literary talents, my Editor had wangled an invite on the basis of me writing a ‘puff piece’ promoting the community as the pinnacle of artistic life. The artists etc. knew that they had made it when the richly embossed envelope containing the invite slid through the slot in each of their letter boxes.
‘This has got to be a hot-bed of drunken debauchery,’ He, my Editor said. ‘Find out what you can, sniff around and wriggle out what actually goes on there. Rumour has it that Giles only invites young and pretty women as his female guests, women that the men there would greatly desire, and that he test-drives them personally before letting them loose on the paying customers. If these rumours are to be believed, this place is nothing more than a high priced, high class, artistic brothel.’
These words were resonating in my mind as I walked into the cool foyer to be greeted by Mandy, the very pretty ‘receptioniste de jour’. ‘Good morning sir, welcome to Montpellier, what is your name?
‘Michael Grantham.’
‘Ah yes, we have you in bungalow 27. I will let Giles know that you have arrived.’ She picked up a phone and minutes later Giles wafted in followed by a heavy dose of ‘Obsession’.
To say that he was flamboyantly attired would be understating the situation. His brightly printed caftan in tropical hues flowed around him like a cloud. Around his neck was a red bandana, on his feet hirachi sandals and on his head a top hat painted in bright colours and sporting a long stemmed red rose that sprouted from the hat band. ‘My good man, how nice to see you, welcome, welcome. Let me show you to your bungalow, come, come, mustn’t dally old chap, we have a gathering of the masses, perfect timing for the intro.’
He turned and strode towards the side door and a long covered walkway. I had no option but to follow him. ‘Over there is the swimming pool, attire optional by the way. Down there is the Common room and Dining hall, and down here is your bungalow.’ He glanced at the key to see which number it was, and lengthened his stride. Reaching number 27, he opened the door and led me in. ‘The bedroom is through there.’ He said, pointing to a doorway. ‘The bathroom is at the end of the corridor, and the kitchenette is in the corner over there. There are supplies for cups of tea, you have a choice of green or herbal, no coffee allowed, and there is no alcohol in the fridge, only bottled water and juices. We do have organic wine with our meals, but spirits are strictly forbidden, as are drugs of any sort.’
‘Looks great. It’ll do me good to get away from the rat race and the temptation to drink too much coffee.’
‘Dump your stuff and follow me. I’ll introduce you to those here. You may know some, but there are a few up and coming artists that are not widely known, yet. But they will be, otherwise they would not be here.’
I dumped my bag on the bed and scurried after him. We reached the Common Room to be confronted by a rather heated discussion in progress. ‘I tell you that this modern art is a cop out.’
‘That’s McKinley Laird, a traditional portrait artist who’s works closely imitate a photographic portrait.’ Giles whispered to me.
‘Take Jackson Pole-axe.’ McKinley’s deliberate mispronunciation of the name did not pass un-noticed. ‘His work looks as if he just stands back and throws paint at the canvas, there is no structure, no rhyme or reason to it. A total mish-mash that can be interpreted in a squillion different ways. The money that the National Gallery spent on ‘Blue Poles’ would have been better spent supporting the local arts community.’
‘People.’ Giles called the meeting to order. ‘I would like you to meet Michael Grantham, he has joined us for the next month. While he is here he will be undertaking two important works for me. One is to write a piece on us as a community of artists that will tell the world around us about the excellent concept that we are developing here. Secondly, he is writing his ‘magnum opus’ under my patronage. I have been advised by his agent that he needs to get right away from the pressures of his world and concentrate on this work. The potential is there, he just needs the space and time to realise that potential. So one and all, you are to make him welcome. Now let me see, who shall I appoint as his mentor?’ He glanced around the room. ‘Ah yes, Sophie, you will be perfect in this role. Don’t just stand there child, come, come, and introduce yourself.’
From the look that she gave him, it was obvious to me, if not everyone else, that this was a task that she had no intention of carrying out. She walked over to me, her hand held out. ‘I’m Sophie Cantrall, your chosen mentor.’ If the look hadn’t been enough to make her feelings obvious, the coolness of her tone certainly was.
I took her hand and was just about to tell her that I was about as happy with this arrangement as she, when Giles’ voice cut through the air. ‘What kind of welcome is that? Kiss the man Sophie, and that’s an order!’ He was close to anger, being used to having his orders obeyed with such a lack of enthusiasm was foreign to him. Or was there something else behind this?
I have to admit that he covered his tracks well. No sooner had his order been issued, than he burst into loud and prolonged laughter. ‘We will have friendship in this place or you can all bugger off!’ Apparently this statement was made on a regular basis over the summer, and no-one took any notice of it. This was all a part of the show that he put on for the paying guests.
As Sophie’s lips le
ft mine I whispered to her. ‘I’m not happy with this. Don’t get me wrong, of all the women here, I would have chosen you if asked, but only if you agreed. Let’s go outside and discuss this, and see if we can come to an arrangement that will satisfy his Lordship, and that we can live with.’
‘We’ll have to make it look good.’ She took my hand and we headed for the door.
‘That’s it, off with you and get to know each other!’ This was followed again by his raucous laughter. I detected a note of displeasure in his attitude to us leaving.
‘From the paint on your hands, I would hazard a guess that you’re an artist.’ I said by way of introducing myself. ‘What do you paint, landscapes, portraits, abstracts?’
‘Portraits mainly, that’s where the big bickies are, if you’re good enough that is. All that you need to do is to find someone whose wallet is as big as his ego. I have several commissions waiting for me when I get home.’
‘Is that why you feel that it’s beneath your dignity to be forced to waste your time associating with a literary hack like me?’
‘No!’ She looked directly into my eyes. ‘No.’ Her voice moderated itself. ‘It’s just that I don’t like the way that Giles was ordering me around, as if I was his chattel, to do with what he willed. And I don’t believe that you are a literary hack at all. I read your articles in the papers, and I find them thought provoking and often amusing. But I also feel that you are being shackled by editorial bias on many occasions. If the main purpose for you being here is to break free from those shackles, then I say go for it. If there is another reason for you being here, like to get the dirt on Giles, and his harem that he hires out to other men here, I’m not going to stand in your way. If you must know, he and I have had a disagreement about that. I rejected his advances and told him that I was here to recharge my artistic batteries, not to go to bed with him or any of his ‘friends’. He is not happy with me, which is why he ordered me to be your mentor. He is trying to force me to leave.’
‘I have a proposition for you.’
‘Oh yes, and what might that be?’
‘Only if you’re up for it mind you. How would you like to take the piss out of this mob of pretentious artists and writers?’
‘You’ve been here for what, half an hour, and you’ve already picked up on that. What exactly do you have in mind?’
‘I’ll make some comment tonight on a topic that’s under discussion, and I want you to jump in and ‘expose’ me as a Journalist and not a proper writer. Hopefully someone will make some comment about poetry. When you challenge me, I’ll come out with something that I wrote that is a bit of amusing doggerel. You of course will challenge me to come up with something deep and meaningful, not something that an advertising copywriter or a greeting card writer would write. I will come out with a piece of pretentious bullshit, that hopefully the others will be drawn to comment on. You will continue to badger me in the hope that Giles will have to step in and separate us. My feeling is that, when he calms us down, he will order us to kiss and make up, which, if you agree that you can oblige without throwing up, we will comply with, enthusiastically, very enthusiastically. That will probably piss him off no end.’
‘I think that I can stretch my acting abilities to that. You think that these people are a mob of pretentious phonies, don’t you?’
‘Present company excepted, yes. That guy that was waffling on, McKinley Laird, (a phony name if ever I heard it), about Jackson Pollack is a case in point, he was parroting someone else’s opinion and making out that it was his own.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘Because my father, who was an art critic for one of the major city papers, wrote that at the time that that painting was purchased. Not those exact words but near enough. He can’t be had up for plagiarism, but his argument was not an original thought on his part.’
‘But how is all that going to make Giles happy?’
‘It’s not, and it’s not meant to, but the lead up will. We will walk back in there as if we had been making love and have decided that we are going to be more than the best of friends. He will, on the surface at least, be happy that his plan to force you into a sexual relationship has been a success. But, having been rejected by you, he will get jealous of me having succeeded where he failed. When we have our little dust-up this evening, he will be happy that our affair didn’t last the distance. Then we will play our trump card. I will come up with a poem that I wrote that takes the piss out of pretentious poets. In the mean time, what I said about you being the one that I’d choose if I had the opportunity still stands. Not because you’re by far and away the best looking woman there, but there was something in your expression, when McKinley was crapping on, that told me that you think about as much of this mob as I do.’
‘You’re very right there. Everyone told me when I got the invitation that I should somehow feel privileged to get it, and it would do my career the world of good, and that if I didn’t come here Giles would crucify me. One simply does not refuse a Giles summons. That brings me to another point. Exactly why are you here? And don’t give me that crap about coming here to write a puff piece. You are here to dig the dirt, aren’t you?’
‘Are you going to blow the whistle?’
‘No, in fact if you want some help you can count me in.’
‘Okay, I’ll tell all later, but for now I think that we’ve had enough time to do what has been expected of us, shall we go back and face the innuendos of the masses?’
‘Wait a minute, we can’t go in there looking as if we’ve done nothing.’ Sophie mussed up my hair, kissed me more passionately than I expected, making sure that her lipstick (yes she was wearing some makeup) was smeared around my mouth. She then pulled my shirt out of my trousers at the back and left the shirt-tail hanging. ‘There, you look the part.’
‘What about you, you can’t go in there looking like a fashion model, we have to mess your appearance about a bit, don’t you think?’ I undid her blouse a few buttons and then did it up missing one button in the process. I twisted the waistband of her skirt a little, undid the clasp that held her hair in place, and she shook it out. ‘What are you like at sheepish grins?’
‘I think that I can manage.’
‘Good, let us return to the gathering.’
‘Ah, the lovers return!’ Giles stood and clapped as we entered the common room. ‘I wasn’t expecting you to come back so soon.’
‘If we’d stayed away any longer we would have been totally exhausted and not been able to participate in this gathering.’ Sophie told them. ‘Michael needed to take a break after his magnificent efforts.’ She hugged me and looked longingly into my eyes, a smile of satisfaction spread across her face.
‘You were the one that wanted to stop.’ I told her. ‘I could have lasted another minute at least.’ I kissed her. I held her chair out for her, and slid it under her as she sat, leaning over, I kissed her again. Giles was not amused at our show of affection.
When the gathering broke for lunch. Sophie and I sat together at the long refectory table. Giles was at the head, behaving for all the world like a feudal Baron, giving orders to the waiting staff, pontificating over the organic wine from his own vineyards. I didn’t think it politic to mention that I thought it was crap, it had all the qualities on the palate of a cheap vinegar, but everyone drank it and those who wanted to suck up to him proclaimed it an excellent vintage,
‘God, this stuff is ghastly.’ Sophie whispered to me. ‘I’ll have no problem getting this one glass to last the whole meal, in fact there’ll be some left in the glass.’
‘It is pretty bad, only someone with no tastebuds could think it drinkable.’ I whispered in return.
After lunch we all broke up and went our separate ways, except for
Sophie and I. ‘Would you like to se the portrait that I’m working on?’ She asked as we walked past Giles.
‘Can I? I didn’t think artists allowed anyone to see works in progress.’
‘We don’t like the subject seeing it, simply because the prep work looks a mess until the details are applied.’ Hand in hand we went off to the studio space that she was working in. There was a drop sheet over the easel to keep any dust or bugs off. When she removed it I saw, even though it was only the background and base coats, that it would eventually be a portrait of our esteemed host. ‘I’m having problems not turning this into a caricature.’
‘If you need the money you’ll have to curb your natural urges.’
‘How would you like me to do you?’
‘What do you mean when you say ‘do’ me?’
‘Paint your portrait. The other can come later, I hope.’ Her smile was as lascivious as I have ever seen, her meaning clear.
‘I say yes to both, not necessarily in that order, after all, we are supposed to be madly in lust.’ The look that I gave her was equally lascivious.
Sophie picked up a sketch pad and within minutes had produced a rough, very rough, sketch of a naked me with a raging hard-on at least twice the size of my real one. ‘Dream on.’ I said, ‘I’m sorry to disappoint you, but it’s not that big, not quite that big.’
‘I’ll just have to find out for myself, won’t I?’
‘If I didn’t know better, I’d think that you are enjoying this.’
‘I am. I came here because I had been summoned by Giles, and as I said before, one just doesn’t ignore a Giles summons. I came determined to do what I could to enjoy myself and stay well clear of Giles and anyone else who had ideas of getting into my pants. What I didn’t anticipate was meeting someone who seemed to have the same ideas about Giles as I do, and wants to stir the pot a little, and who I fancy, and would allow to make love to me if he wanted to.’
‘That’s very forward of you, and yes, I want to. I have been told of the reputation of these gatherings and how they inevitably end up as an orgy. That by the way is the real reason that I am here, to expose what goes on here. I noticed you as soon as I entered the Common Room and resolved to concentrate my efforts on you, especially as Giles seemed to take great delight in shoving us together. I gathered from that that you had rebuffed him, and he was going to make you suffer for that by forcing you to be my mentor, knowing that I am the least in terms of artistic or literary accomplishments. What he said about me writing under his patronage was so much bullshit, designed to make him look good. Everything about this place is designed to make him look good. What I am trying to get my head around is, how does he finance these little gatherings?’
‘I think that I might be able to help you out there. He has some very wealthy contacts who take delight in endowing the arts with loads of cash that they can write off on their income tax. Up and coming artists are invited to attend free of charge. While they are here they are introduced to these wealthy patrons who commission art works from these artists. These commissions, if the artist is good enough, will make them very wealthy. When they are subsequently invited to these gatherings, they are charged for the privilege of attending on the basis that they can now afford it. Over the next few weeks, as the time passes, you will be introduced to these wealthy patrons on the chance that one of them will commission a project.’
‘What would one of them possibly want of me?’
‘You will be presented as a well credentialed investigative Journalist who wants to branch out into ‘proper literary endeavours’, say a biography of a wealthy family, sanitised of course. We couldn’t have closets opened to reveal any skeletons now could we?’
‘How can I demonstrate my literary abilities?’
‘By making erudite comments in any literary discussion. How are you at poetry?’
‘Hate it actually, why? I don’t really, since I realised that the stuff that was rammed down my throat at school, mostly 19th Century English, isn’t the only poetry written, I have come to enjoy some of it.’
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