Performance

If you’ve read my blog for a while, you will know that I am unnaturally addicted to my online writer’s group. Anyway, we’re having something of a game. A type of ‘tag’. Basically, one writer writes a first chapter, and the next writer has to follow it up. I was number two in the slot, and unfortunately I don’t have permission to reproduce the first chapter, so you’ll have to be satisfied with a synopsis.

TAG: CHAPTER ONE: The Gallery, by Nan Andrews:
In the first chapter, Gloria, an arts reporter, comes into the gallery where Ken, an art photographer, is preparing for an exhibition of his work. She looks at his work which are pictures of nude bodies, close-ups of parts and sees one where the model’s breasts are being cupped by hands. Ken tells her that the breasts are being cupped by the model’s own hands. Gloria opens her shirt, frees her breasts and copies what is being done in the photograph. She asks him what he thinks.

My continuation of the story follows:

TAG: CHAPTER TWO: Performance Art

Ken shrugged. “Well, I’m wondering if you make a habit of pulling out your tits for every artist you interview.”

Gloria stopped caressing herself and crossed her arms over her chest. “I beg your pardon?” Slowly, inexorably, a flush crept up her throat and onto her cheeks.

“As far as your tits go, they’re fine. But, quite frankly, I’ve photographed a lot of them in my time, and yours look an awful lot like all the others.”

“What the…Who the fuck do you think you are?”

“Look, don’t be offended. But you don’t seem to have done your research very well. I’m not your standard randy artist who fucks anything that moves.”

Gloria fumbled as she re-buttoned her blouse. It was clear she was both humiliated and angry at the same time. Her fingers shook as she tried to force the buttons through the filmy, silky fabric. “Oh, really,” she said in a bored voice. “So, what are you then?”

“I’m probably the only 40 year old virgin you know.”

Gloria looked up from her blouse. Her jaw dropped open and, for a moment, she just stared at him. “You’re joking.”

“No… I’m not. Promise.” Ken smiled.

She snorted, and shook her head. “Look, you don’t want to fuck me – fine. But don’t even bother trying to fuck with my head. That I’m definitely not into.”

“Pity, it’s the only kind of intercourse I indulge in.” Ken stepped aside and led her toward the door of the gallery. “So, do you still want that interview?”

Gloria barked a short laugh and shook her head. She walked out onto the pavement in front of the gallery, its front windows ablaze with light.

“Well, then it’s been nice meeting you, Gloria.” Ken held out his hand to shake hers.

She hesitated for a moment, and tilted her head, considering. Then she took his hand. “Actually, I’ve changed my mind. I would like that interview, if you’re still up for it.”

Something in her face made Ken smile. He’d assumed she was just another one of those pseudo art-critic groupies. He’d been sure she would stomp off down the street fuming. Her change of mind took him off guard.

“Let me just get my jacket, and lock up.”

Gloria waited outside on the pavement until he reappeared.

“So,” he said, taking her arm in his. “Now that you know I’m perfectly harmless, let’s go to my place. My apartment is just a block away.”

* * *

He let her into what must have been the neatest, emptiest apartment she’d ever seen. Gloria wandered into the vast, vacant space. It was white. Far, far too white, and his photographs hung on the walls like windows out onto a black and white world.

“Just moved in?” Gloria asked, shrugging off her jacked.

He took it in a very gentlemanly manner, walked over to one white wall, and dumped it on the floor. “No. I’ve been here for about six years. I just find material possessions to be a burden.”

Gloria raised an eyebrow. “Or maybe you just don’t sell enough photographs to afford them.”

“Perhaps. Can I get you a coffee, tea, drink?” He walked towards the far end of the space and switched on a light. A kitchenette, also white, became apparent.

“Um…what do you have in the way of drinks?”

“Well,” he called back, his head in an open fridge. “I scraped my pennies together and have a very nice bottle of white Burgundy. Will that do?”

“Sure.”

Gloria wandered around the room, looking at the photographs. They weren’t really windows ‘out’ to anything. They were windows within; a series of curves and crevices, skin and sinew. Body parts. The focus on the flesh, as opposed to the person, gave Gloria a little chill. “Where would you like to do this, then?” she called.

Ken walked to the middle of the room, carrying two glasses and a bottle. He deftly lowered himself onto the bare floor, settled the glasses beside him and began to pour. “Here’s fine.”

Gloria looked down at him. It had been years since she’d sat on a floor drinking wine. Shrugging, she pulled a small digital recorder from her purse, sat down and switched it on.

“Cheers,” Ken said, handing her a glass.

“Cheers.” She took a sip of the wine. Perhaps he had saved his pennies. It was a very good wine.

“So. Do we start?”

And so she started. She asked him about the latest exhibit, how his last one did, what he had planned for the future. Ken answered all her questions with good humour, filling her glass as it emptied. She began to feel the effects of the wine, having had no food.

A smirk played on Gloria’s lips. “Why are you still a virgin?”

Ken laughed. “Are you sure this for an art magazine?”

“I don’t know, but it’s what interests me. It’s what I want an answer to. You’re not an unattractive man… so…”

“You don’t believe it could be a matter of choice.”

“Not really, no.”

Ken stretched out on his side, his head balanced on his hand and smiled sheepishly. “So, doctor. What do you think the problem is?”

“Well,” Gloria started. “Maybe…Oh, hell. I don’t know.”

“Perhaps the problem is that I’ve never been properly tempted. By the right woman, that is. Wanna show me your tits again?”

Now that she thought about it, her little exhibition in the gallery seemed comic. She laughed. “You wanna see them again?”

“Sure. Maybe you’ll cure me.” He gave her a smirk.

Gloria drained the last of her glass and began to unbutton her blouse again. This time she couldn’t help smiling. She loved nothing better than a challenge.

“That’s nice. Very nice.”

“And the bra?” she offered.

“Oh, please. Would you?”

Pressing the little clip on the front, her bra popped open. Her ample breasts sprung free.

“Mmmm. Very nice. More.”

“Are you sure?”

“Oh yes.”

Cupping her breasts with her hands, she ran her thumbs over the nipples. Instantly they responded in the chilly air of the apartment.

“What do you think about when you touch them? Ken asked.

“Um… I don’t know. I think about sex, I guess.”

“What, specifically?”

“I think about…cock. Sucking cock. I think about feeling a cock head sliding back and forth over my tongue.”

“How does it taste?”

“Salty-sweet. Musky.”

“Do you suck it?”

“Of course.”

“Can you taste the first couple of drops of precum?”

“Mmm.” Even as she said this, she imagined the taste. Buttery, viscous, with an edge. The memory of the flavour made her tingle. Her cunt moistened as she savoured the ghostly tang. A small insistent pulse in her pussy urged her on.

“You get so hot, just thinking about it. Don’t you? Pinch them.”

“Yes.” Her fingertips rolled around her nipples and pressed them.

Regardless of how aloof Ken looked, Gloria could tell he wasn’t unaffected. He’d licked his lips twice in between sips of wine, and there was a definite bulge in his trousers.

“See,” she said, staring at his crotch. “You wanna fuck me.”

“No. I don’t.”

Gloria took a hand off her breast and leaned forward, pointing at his crotch with her finger. “Then what’s that?”

“That’s an erection.”

“What’s if for, if not to fuck with?”

“Masturbating without one is kind of pointless.”

Gloria shook her head. “I don’t get you.”

“You don’t need to. Touch yourself.”

Her lips pursed for a moment. “Do you want me to?”

“Absolutely. Spread your legs. Your panties are wet already. I can smell you from here.”

Hiking her skirt up, Gloria parted her legs, and reached beneath the hem. “I *am* wet. You’re right.”

“I have a very sensitive nose.” Even as he spoke, he lowered his head until his cheek was flat against the blonde wood flooring. His eyes stared between her legs, into the darkness. “Let me see,” he whispered.

Gloria eased her skirt up until the hem was above her hips. She looked down at the tops of her stay-up stockings, and the white expanse of thigh that led to her black mesh panties. “Can you see?” she asked, sliding her fingers over her cloth-covered mound. A little surge of pleasure coursed up her spine.

“Very well. But don’t be so demure on my account. You know you want to plunge those fingers into your juicy… what do you like to call it?”

“Cunt,” she whispered. Without looking, her fingers found the waist of her panties and burrowed beneath it, sliding like little knives into hot, melting butter. Saying the word out loud, she felt her pussy flutter, even before her fingers slid over her clit and into the deep, wet cleft.

“Say it again.”

“Cunt.”

“Mmm. You’re such a dirty girl. Not pussy, or twat, or vagina for you. Oh, no.”

The skin on Gloria’s cheeks felt burning hot. She took shallow, quickening little breaths. And below, her fingers found their rhythm.

“What are you thinking, dirty girl?”

“I’m thinking about fucking. Getting fucked.”

“How?”

“From behind. Bent over a table.”

“With that nice conservative little skirt of yours bunched up around your waist?”

“Yes…yes.” She was so close now. She closed her eyes, imagining the scene: the faceless man holding her hips, pushing his big, thick cock…

“Does he say anything?”

“No…” It was a whimper. Her legs began to shake with the tension of her oncoming orgasm.

“Who is he?”

“It…god, it doesn’t matter. He’s no one.”

“He just fucks you. Hard. Relentlessly. The table shuddering beneath you.”

“Yes! Oh, fuck!” Gloria moaned, her orgasm taking her over like a possession. She pushed two fingers deep into her hole and held them there, feeling the contractions suck at them. For a moment, she couldn’t move. She had a vague sense that her whole body was twitching, jerking. “Oh…yes, yes, yes.”

Her voice waned to whispers as the tremors left her, and she opened her eyes.

Ken was lying on his side, his gaze still fixed on her cunt, as a dark wet stain spread across the crotch of his nice cream linen trousers.

A small but insistent beep brought Gloria to her senses. It was the recorder. The batteries were dying.