I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been this excited. Don’t get me wrong, working at Galerie D’Art on exhibition nights was always interesting and often fun, but of all the events I’d attended, nothing had ever made my little heart sing quite like the Art de l’erotique exhibition.
My chest tightened at the thought of Lorn Moulin, strutting around my workplace. Just thinking his name did funny things to me. The man was a living legend. He was easily the greatest erotic artist of our time, and he was French! Charisma, looks, talent, a ‘drop your panties and leap into my bed’ accent… he had it all.
From what I’d been told by Li – the girl who did the event bookings – he had a golden tongue to go with his golden touch, and I could well believe her too. Willa – our crazed, slightly eccentric boss – rarely allowed erotic artists to exhibit their work in her gallery, but as closed off as she was when it came to nudity, not even she had been able to say no to Moulin.
Moving slowly so Li didn’t catch me, I peered through the glass of the office door. He was out there somewhere, making sure all his pieces were displayed correctly, but I couldn’t see him. I could see a picture of him though, and my eyes lost focus as I stared at his lovely face, framed by that famous shoulder length brown hair. It set his blue eyes off perfectly and…
“Are you stalking that picture again?”
If I’d been a cartoon character, my bones would surely have leapt from my skin with fright. Blinking to clear my vision, I turned to face the other girls in the room, meeting Li’s accusatory expression with the best show of faux innocence I could muster.
“Not gonna work, Genny,” she laughed. “You need to cut that out right now. I won’t believe you’ve forgotten what Willa said.”
Not believing that was sensible, because I could remember Willa’s tirade word for word, spittle spray for spittle spray. She’d overheard me gushing over Moulin as we’d cleaned up the place so we were ready for his arrival, and she may have seen me kiss his picture too. Twice. What had followed hadn’t been pretty, but it had involved screeches about my dismissal, amongst other things that probably wouldn’t hurt me as much as having no income would.
A sharp rapping brought me out of my momentary reflections, and I wriggled in my tight pencil skirt. Li was still giving me the side-eye, but it wasn’t she who had knocked. It was Michelle, and she looked about as impressed with me as Willa had when she’d caught me smooching the artist’s bio board.
“Don’t be a liability, Geneva,” she said, pursing her lips and clasping her hands beneath her huge boobs, hiking them up a bit with a quick jiggle of her arms. She always did that when she was feeling bristly.
“You can’t afford to lose this job, and I can’t afford to have Willa angry with me for vouching for you. If you’d been anyone else I would have said no, but your mother and I…”
And that was my attention gone. Lecturing me when Lorn frigging Moulin was in the building was a waste of her breath, and that was something Michelle really couldn’t afford to do. Not when she was the same age as my parents, and probably Moses too.
Somewhere behind me, out in the gallery, I heard raised voices, then someone clapping. I peered over my shoulder to see the bespectacled face of one of Moulin’s flunkies staring through the glass. Even though she knew I could see her, she rapped on the door until I pulled it open.
She looked me up and down, before gazing at the four women behind me. Her eyebrow quirked, and I wondered if she was having the same thought I had when I’d first clapped eyes on the others. We were kitted out the same flesh toned skirts, matching tight tops, shoes and stockings. We reminded me of a negative version of an old Robert Palmer video.
The flunky clapped again and announced, “It’s time.”
And that French accent is totally fake, I thought, following behind her.
Out in the gallery, there was silence. I could see dozens of people through the tinted glass doors, but inside it was empty. And when I say empty, I mean Moulin was nowhere to be seen. There was plenty of his people about though, and they were all straightening paintings, picking and plucking at sculptures, and moving the low hanging lights this way and that.
Li had warned me of this. She’d said that Moulin rarely put in an appearance at his own exhibitions, he usually set things up then left his staff to it. I sighed, imagining him sitting in a hotel bar somewhere, throwing whiskey down his throat and worrying about his creations.
Burying my disappointment not only at his absence, but of not having laid eyes on him at all, I grabbed a tray laden with champagne flutes, mustered my best, albeit artificial smile, and faced the doors.
People poured in from the cold night, some heading for the sculptures, others for the paintings, but most made a beeline for the bubbly. Rich women gasped in mock shock at Moulin’s work, while their husbands leered and smirked, one or two getting told off by Willa for playfully patting the sucked in cheek of a metal woman who was in the middle of blowing a headless metal man.
Outwardly, I was all polite smiles and professional detachment, but inside I was a mess. I’d been looking forward to this day for weeks, and now I was so deflated I was wishing myself anywhere but at the gallery.
“It’s beautiful, no?”
I raised my eyes to the woman who had spoken and cocked my head. She motioned to the sculpture that separated us, and I realised that she’d assumed I’d been staring at it. That was a good thing, I supposed. It would have been bad if she’d realised I’d momentarily zoned out.
I nodded, casting my eyes on the sculpture I was saying I liked, but in truth hadn’t even looked at. It was one of the three new pieces that Moulin had produced especially for his only UK exhibition.
Made, like most of his work, mostly from metal, this one was even more pornographic than the blow job sculpture by the door, or even the acrylic couple indulging in strap-on anal sex by the back wall.
Two female figures were perched on a plinth, one of them on her back, the other between her parted thighs. The nipples of the one staring at the ceiling were long, razor sharp spikes, and her finger nails, which curled over the sides of the plinth, matched. Her face was contorted, her mouth open wide in a delighted O, thanks to the efforts of the foot long mechanical forked tongue of the woman between her legs.
The fingers of the kneeling woman’s right arm moved slowly in and out of her companion’s vagina, and I let go of a surprised yelp when a loud cry came from a speaker above my head, and a fount of water sprayed from the orgasming woman. The fucking statue had squirted. I couldn’t even do that!
The flesh and bone woman watching with me laughed delightedly, and sidled around to stand beside me. I could see she was already drunk, and I held my breath against the wave of souring alcohol on hers when she leaned in to whisper to me.
“They say he only makes things like that happen for those who catch his eye,” she said, pointing at the ceiling. I glanced up, and sure enough, there was a small camera. “I’ve seen many of his mechanical pieces come alive, but never for a woman. Moulin prefers to surprise men with his naughty little devices. I don’t know if this is your lucky day or mine.”
Plucking the last flute from my tray, she winked and walked away.
The rest of the night rolled on like every other exhibition night before it. I served champagne, shook my head in affirmative or negative nods wherever necessary, and did my best to ignore the crude comments from some of the younger richlings who had tagged along with their parents to see what they referred to as ‘all this wanky shit that pervy old artist puts out.’
There was something else I was having to ignore too, and this wasn’t as easy. The gallery was getting warmer and warmer as the hours passed, and everywhere I looked, there was erotic imagery. Sculptures of woman on man, man on man, woman on woman, abstract paintings of orgies and sexual torture abound, and the air was filled with muted moans and muffled cries, and the slapping of wet skin on wet skin…
Never had I been so turned on, and I couldn’t do a damned thing about it until the night was over and I reached the quiet confines of my temporary room at my parent’s house. It was killing me, and I was convinced that the drunk I’d spoken to earlier in the night had been wrong. It wasn’t Moulin at the controls of the sculpture’s mechanisms – it was Willa. She’d disappeared too, and it had to be her triggering the actions and sounds every time I passed anything capable of movement. Nobody but she could be that cruel.
Finally, just as I thought I was about to lose my mind, the doors closed behind the last guest, and silence fell. Glancing around at the faces of those who remained, I could clearly see that everyone else was as hot under the collar as I was. Even Michelle was looking a little fidgety, and I yawned to conceal my smile.
Li poured herself a glass of bubbly and addressed no one in particular. “Willa has spent most of the night upstairs, but she left about half an hour ago,” she said. “Don’t think it’s a free for all though, because she left a list of who is to do what. It’s here on the table, so grab a drink and see what you’ve been tasked with.”
I was the last to move. The others all congregated on the drinks table, but I had no desire to get there in any kind of hurry. I was a beer girl, so the champers wasn’t a draw, and I already knew what Willa’s list would say. Beside my name would be one word, and I didn’t want to see it, because that one word would be toilets, and I hated slooshing out the poop deck.
Michelle waved the paper of doom in my direction, then sipped from her glass. When I didn’t move, she rolled her eyes. “It’s not the toilets this time, Genny.”
Oh please, I thought, dragging my feet across the tiled floor and rolling my eyes right back at her. Like I’d believe that! Willa hated me as much as she hated sex and sunshine and humanity, there was no way would she give me anything more than the worst chores in the place.
Snatching the paper, I pursed my lips.
“Told you,” Michelle smirked.
“Oh man, you’ve got to be kidding me!”
For the first time ever, it didn’t say toilets, but I wished fervently that it did. Nobody liked going upstairs to disconnect all the sound equipment, because it was dark and terrifying, and probably haunted. Three people had broken bones up there, even though the health and safety people had certified it completely hazard free.
But my name was beside the job, and there was no talking my way out of it.
I passed through the office, cringing when the door at the back whined and creaked as I pushed it open. The stairs protested under my weight, and a cloying smell invaded my nostrils. It was a strong lavender, but with a sharp, underlying stench of ammonia.
There was a soft glow at the top, and I imagined Willa sitting up there, happily pressing buttons and cackling at me as the sculptures downstairs had come to life. Rounding the partition at the top of the stairs, a movement caught my eye and I froze, hand on the wall. Butterflies exploded in my stomach as the movement became a shadow, which slowly became a man.
All I could do was stare. Of all the people I would have expected to be there, Lorn Moulin was the last. He hadn’t been in a hotel bar, he’d been right here in the gallery the whole time.
The way he was looking at me made my skin prickle. His hair was longer than it was in the promo pics downstairs, and the orange glow of the weird lanterns he’d set up around the room made his eyes shine in such a peculiar manner.
Clasping his hands behind his back, he gave me a faint smile. “Geneva,” he said.
How I stayed upright I don’t know. The way his mouth moved when he said my name, and the very sound of the word rolling off his tongue made my clit twitch. I tried to make my own mouth work, but I couldn’t think of anything to say. I’d envisioned our meeting so many times, but it hadn’t ever gone like this. I’d imagined myself fan-girling, stammering, and even fainting, but I hadn’t ever thought of this moment and imagined myself struck dumb.
Minutes passed, and Moulin just stared at me, his expression giving away nothing. Just as I was about to attempt speech, he moved. Walking slowly toward me, he reached out one hand. His fingers stroked my arm, and I shuddered.
“So smooth,” he mumbled. “You wax your arms, yes?”
He stroked my shoulder this time, and his gaze turned curious.
“Are your legs and… other places, as smooth as this?”
Again, I nodded, and I may have blushed a bit too. I’d always hated body hair, and ever since I’d turned seventeen, I’d waxed everything south of my neck. It hurt like a bitch, but I was happy to suffer in order to look and feel the way I wanted to.
Moulin mumbled something in French, then snapped his head up. Our eyes met, and I was sure I’d died a little.
“Would you like to work with me, Geneva?” The urgency in his voice was catching, and I found myself nodding, agreeing before I even knew what he wanted.
“D-do you mean m-model for you? You want to p-paint me?” I stammered.
I’d never been shy about my body. I mean, I was an art student, so I’d done nude modelling more than once and it had never fazed me, but the idea of doing it for my hero was giving me the shakes.
Moulin’s hair swished when he shook his head. “Model?” he sniggered. “Anyone can be a model, Geneva. All bodies are beautiful, after all. What I want you to be, is my canvas.”
Canvas, I thought. Is he saying he wants to…
“I don’t want to paint you, I want to paint on you,” he clarified before I even finished the thought. “Your skin is so smooth, so flawless… you’re the perfect canvas. Will you say yes?”
Would I say yes? It was a no-brainer really. As soon as I began to nod, Moulin gripped my arm and led me to the other side of the room. The lamps were brighter there, and I could see he’d already covered the floor with a tarp.
I peered around, trying to find the robe that I would wear until he was ready to begin, but there wasn’t one. Thoughts exploded in my head when the zip on the back of my skirt lowered, loud in the silence. It looked like I wasn’t going to be undressing myself either.
Moulin pushed my skirt to the floor, then peeled the stockings from my legs. I was watching him, so I saw his little smile when he inched my panties down and revealed more hairless flesh. I couldn’t hear anything for my own heartbeat pounding in my ears, but I knew by the heave of his chest that he’d inhaled deeply, and I knew by the way he licked his lips that he could smell my arousal.
Embarrassment tried to rear its ugly head, but I pushed it aside. Lorn frigging Moulin wanted to paint me! There wasn’t an emotion in the world that could have made me ruin this.
Tingles ran over my skin every time his fingers touched me, and that happened many times. He stroked my sides when removing my top, and skimmed my spine when unhooking my bra. I could feel him breathing on my neck when he pushed the straps down my arms, and once I was naked, he gently kissed my cheek.
Standing exactly where he’d left me, I stared at the two small screens on a table by the wall. I guessed this was how he’d watched for people passing by his creations, but that’s not what I was seeing now. Not on both screens anyway. One was showing the flunkies placing the works in crates and boxes, but on the larger screen, what I was seeing was me. It was a still from earlier in the evening, taken while I’d stared unseeingly at the squirting lesbian sculpture. Moulin had been watching me all night.
The tarp shuffled beneath my feet and I knew he was back. He was shirtless, and I came closer to acting out my imaginary faint than was comforting. Raising my arms in front of me and slightly to the sides, he placed a long pole in each of my hands, resting my palms on the tops.
“Don’t lower your arms,” he muttered.
What came next shocked me, and every emotion known to man flooded my body and my mind. Moulin was rubbing cream into my skin. My calves, over my knees, up my thighs… his strong fingers kneaded my butt cheeks and my hips, and by the time he reached my neck, I was having to work hard to keep my breathing steady. My lungs wanted me to pant, but I remained in control.
A minute later, the source of the ammonia was made known when Moulin rolled a trolley onto the tarp. He wasn’t planning on painting me with paint, he was using latex!
Scraping his hair back, he secured it with a band, eyeing my body all the while. He pursed his lips, cocked his head, and after another minute or two, I was rewarded with that famous, lady killer of a smile.
He grabbed a roller off the trolley and dipped it in a tray of emerald green paint. He started at my chest, working his way over my shoulders, down my arms, across my stomach. I shuddered when he rolled the soft sponge over my nipples, biting my lip to smother the groan his responding smile seemed intent on dragging from me.
Once he crested my hips, I could no longer watch. He was painting my thighs, but I could feel one finger brushing slowly up and down my vulva with each pass of the roller. I didn’t know what surprised me more: the fact that he was doing it, or the fact that I was allowing him to.
If he’d been anyone else, I would have slapped his face and walked out. Was it his looks that were making me let this happen? Was it his cheeky smile? Or was I just one of those grasping women, who let fame and money dictate who did and didn’t get to touch her pussy? Whatever the reason behind my behaviour, there was a more pressing question burning in my mind. That question was, was this about art for Moulin, or was it about sex?
I gasped, and so did the artist. I watched him watching me as his finger slipped back and forth over my clit. Nine times out of ten it would take me half an hour to come like this, but I had a feeling that, if he kept going just as he was, I’d dissolve somewhere within the next few minutes.
Moulin was famous for being a tease though, and with a little chuckle, he stopped, and began painting again.
I stood there, propped up on my posts for a long time, letting him feed me with grapes between coats of latex. Once the third coat had dried, he fiddled with a machine that had been stashed in the bottom of the trolley. It was an airbrush.
Moulin took his time, switching between different shades of green and blue, sticking his tongue out in the sweetest way whenever he reached a tricky bend or a curve. Many people would have ended up bored, standing so still for so long, but he didn’t let me even relax, never mind tire of it.
Whenever I started to slump, he caught my eye and held my gaze while he rubbed my clit, or sucked my toes. He even kissed me once or twice, and the taste of my own juices on his tongue kept me alert and loaded with anticipation. I had no idea how this was going to end, but I was looking forward to finding out.
After more than two hours of spraying, Moulin shuffled back on his butt and considered me. He had his legs spread wide, and I could see how hard he was through his pants. Noticing where I was looking, he shrugged and grinned wryly.
“It’s been with me since the minute you walked into the building at three this afternoon,” he announced.
I tapped my posts on the floor and said, “Are you finished with me?”
Moulin’s grin faded, and he shook his head. “Not by a long chalk,” he whispered. “But first, I need to make you shine.”
Alone again, I considered checking myself out in the mirror I knew was behind me, but I decided against it. I had a feeling he wouldn’t want me to see before he was done, so I didn’t even look down.
Moulin was very light on his feet, but I knew he was back. The sound of a cap popping behind me gave him away. I couldn’t help but laugh when I saw he had a buffing cloth in one hand, and a bottle of lube in the other.
Being gentler than I would have thought a man capable, he smoothed the cold gel over my painted body, and buffed over and over until he was satisfied. Only then did he turn me around to face the mirror.
The woman reflected back at me was a vision. Reptilian scales covered every visible inch of my body. The only place that was still me was my face, but the bright red spots on my cheeks and the lazy slits of my eyes were as alien to me as my second skin was.
“You’re living art, Geneva,” Moulin muttered. “And everything that lives changes.”
His long fingers wrapped around my right nipple and pinched. He rolled and pulled gently until it was pointed and firm, then without warning, he snatched his fingers away with a sharp click. I felt my skin pull, and my nipple harden just a little more, and my eyes widened at the patch of brown tipped, white skin in the middle of all the green.
Turning me around, Moulin guided me to my knees before him. I didn’t hesitate. My lips parted, and his cock pushed into my mouth, sliding further and further in, not stopping until I gagged. He pulled almost all the way out, then slid back in again, but not as deeply as he had before.
I clamped my lips around his shaft, drawing in my cheeks, dragging my teeth along the long length of him, and flicking the tip each time my tongue was close enough. When I peered up at him through my lashes, I could see he was watching in the mirror, his eyes fixed on the snake-woman he’d created.
Before long I was lost in him, whimpering when I tasted the first drops of pre-cum leaking from the tip of his cock. I wanted him to spin me around and fuck me, but at the same time, I wanted to keep taking him down my throat again and again until I drew his climax from him.
Confusion made me falter when I found myself on my feet and alone, but before I could react to his absence, Moulin was taking my hand, leading me further onto the tarp.
Dumping his pants on the trolley, he lay down on the floor and motioned for me to follow. His cock was on end as though it was waiting for me, and as soon as he’d finished rolling the condom on, I sank down on him. He was as thick as he was long, and the stretch made me moan louder than I ever had before.
Flattening my hands on his chest, I rode him, feeling him filling me up, his cock sliding in and out slowly. His hair had escaped its tie, and was fanned out around his head, looking for all the world like a tarnished halo. Male beauty had always been my weakness, and I rode him harder, lifting almost all the way off before slamming back down again.
Reaching out and snagging my nipples, he squeezed, getting harder and harder until I hissed in pain. A triumphant smile flashed across his face, and I realised that this was what he wanted. He’d turned me into a snake, and he wanted me to move like a snake while I fucked him.
So I stopped bouncing and started to grind instead, rolling my hips, undulating exaggeratedly until he was groaning beneath me. My eyes rested on my stomach, and each move of my hips made the painted on scales shift and sparkle in the glow of the lamps. Moulin’s fingers dug into my skin, tearing the latex away piece by piece, his breathing getting faster with each strip of white he exposed.
A torrent of guttural French blasted forth from Moulin’s mouth, and the next thing I knew, I was on my back with my knees somewhere near my ears, and he was driving into me.
“Si parfait,” he panted, letting me hook my legs around his waist so I could rock my hips against him in counter rhythm to his thrusts. “Si parfait, me belle femme. Si bon, si serre, si belle, si parfait!”
Given the way he’d shuddered against me as he’d cried out in his native tongue, I was convinced he’d come, but I discovered I was wrong when he reared up, dragging me with him. I was on my knees once again, opening my mouth and eagerly accepting his cock inside.
He leaned over me, slipping the tip of his finger into my ass and pulling, making me arch exactly how he wanted me to. The latex stuck to itself wherever my body folded, and little tears and tugs pulled all over my skin, making me feel as though my lover had a hundred hands, each of them dedicated to pleasing me.
My pussy was aching and pulsing, missing that thick cock already. It was my turn to rear up now, and pushing him onto his back and straddling his thighs facing his feet, I held onto Moulin’s shins and bounced my hips, letting him watch me fuck him, feeling that wonderful full feeling that would take me to the edge.
Moulin thrust up, just once, but hard, and one of his hands delivered a sharp crack across my ass. I gasped, shocked more by the sound it made than by how it felt, then yelped when he dragged me up his body. Grasping his cock with one hand while balancing myself with the other, I stared at a tray of spilled green latex, racing closer to orgasm every time Moulin’s mouth formed a seal around my clit and he started to suck. He was scraping his nails over my ass cheeks, and even though it stung, I loved it.
“Geneva!” he growled, and I knew what he wanted.
The growl turned to a groan, and just as I started to come around his tongue, he let go in the back of my throat.
We lay exactly as we were for what felt like a lifetime. I listened to our quick pants become deep, sated sighs, until my knees started to protest, and I needed to move.
Moulin followed me up, silently picking bits of latex from my skin, smiling every time he caught me staring at him. “This would be so unpleasant for you if you didn’t work hard to keep your skin so smooth.” He stood back and looked me over. “All of the body parts people will see once you are clothed are now clear, but the rest will need showering off.”
My heart sank a little. Was he sending me away already? I don’t know what I’d expected to happen once it was over, but I would never have dreamt it would be a brush off.
Handing me my bra, he stepped closer. I tried to take it, but he held on, twining his fingers through mine. “Like I said, you’ll need to shower when you get home so you can get the other bits off.”
“I heard you,” I croaked.
Moulin blushed, and scratched his stubbly chin. “Would you like some assistance? With the showering, I mean?”
You could have knocked me over with a feather. The brush off made more sense than this! “Y-you want to come home w-with me?” Damn, and there was the awkward stammer!
“You’re an art student, Genny,” he laughed. I liked the way the shortened version of my name sounded in that lovely accent too. “You know that no artist is ever going to give up his perfect canvas once he finds it.”
Tucking a strand of hair behind my ear, he lowered his voice to an intimate hush and added, “But in this case, the canvas has to be willing. Are you?”
What else could I do but nod?
Walking through the darkened, empty gallery, I cast a glance at the artist’s bio board and smiled a private smile. Not only had I finally met my idol, but I’d become his muse too.
I locked the door and took the hand Moulin held out to me. Artists were fickle creatures, so I knew it wouldn’t last, but I’d make sure that, once it was over, not even he would be able to deny that, together, we’d been a masterpiece.