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CHAPTER 4: ARTIST AND MODEL
Introduction: The chapters of Hotbeds are supposedly written by an elderly man recalling his sexual adventures as a prep school teacher in the 1950s and 1960.
The second school was comfortable, yes, and everyone was pleasant, and there was no Madam to frustrate me. But there was apparently no prospect of sex, apart from those thrice yearly encounters with Irene. Yes, Gwen and Tony had hinted the art mistress might be available, but not only was she quite elderly but also she was hardly to be met with.
Her appearances in the dining-room were fleeting. She did not frequent the staff common room and scouting the house and grounds did not discover her. She was evidently busy in her studio, which, I soon learned, occupied much of the attic space, and combined atelier and accommodation. Apparently she mostly catered for herself and when not teaching was turning out works of art, some of which were collected periodically in a van.
What I had seen of her in my first term indicated that she was probably in her late fifties or sixties, very tall and slim, with a rather horsey face and closely cut silver hair. On the one occasion we came face to face she gave me a piercing glance out of pale blue eyes, accompanied by a little smile and a nod. I felt I had been seen through and summed up.
In my second term, however, I discovered she was in the habit of taking early morning brisk walks, as I observed from my window as I dressed. She was striding along the gravel path to the lake. Although it was February and chilly she was dressed in a short-sleeved shirt, navy blue skirt, white ankle socks and plimsolls, the forerunner of trainers. That morning she came to breakfast, but partook quickly of a couple of slices of plain toast and two mugs of hot water before hastening away. My immediate neighbour, the history specialist, a woman with whom I had been friendly and come to like, remarked, ‘We don’t often see our surrealist. Too busy, and not much interested in food. Mind on her art.’
‘Surrealist?’ I asked.
‘Oh yes. Great friend of Eileen Agar and Ithell Colquhon in the Thirties. Painted in all the styles there were between the Wars. Had affairs with men, like Augustus John.’
‘Was she well known, then?’
‘Quite well known. Still sells pretty well. Doesn’t teach full time. Some of hers in the Tate. Now and then has an exhibition. There’s one coming up in Guildford. I’ll give you the details. We usually go – come with us.’
So, naturally, I went with my colleagues to her show, and was impressed by the sheer variety of her work. There were atmospheric landscapes, portraits, complex abstracts, still lifes, and, especially interesting, nudes. The most exciting of these was an obvious reference to a Laura Knight Self Portrait.
This presents Dame Laura in the lower left quadrant, back to us, with head turned to show profile. The bulk of the picture is, however, a rear view of a nude woman, actually a sister artist, nice bottom akimbo.
My art colleague (AC), had echoed the format. With herself in the Laura Knight pose. The standing nude, face hidden, was also, surely, a self-portrait. This nude was long, lean, with close-cropped silver hair. And the bottom took my breath away. It was far from bulky, but its contours were perfect of its kind. The cheeks not only swelled out and down but looked as if they were so tightly touching that only a knife could be inserted into the cleavage.
My history colleague looked at me and said, ‘You’d like to see that, wouldn’t you?’
‘You’ve guessed my secret,’ I said.
‘Not much of a secret,’ she remarked, ‘You’re always looking at mine.’
A that point the artist came and stood behind us. She said with a wry smile, ‘All done with mirrors,’ and drifted away. And I did get to see that inflammatory bottom.
At the end of the summer term, almost everyone departed, leaving only a skeleton staff to clean bursa escort through. Even the gardener went on holiday. But AC stayed on in her attic, and, my parents being abroad, I stayed, too. And we began to meet about the place. Deliberately on her part, I hoped.
On the first occasion she said, ‘This is when I can get a lot of work done. It’s quiet and there are no interruptions. I get a good swim in the lake, too, without being overlooked. Do you like swimming?’
There was a hint in that, and I began to keep a look-out. And six days into the vacation I spotted her heading for the water, and, grabbing my trunks and towel, I hastened after her.
I came up with her at the dilapidated boat-house, to which she had the key. She gave me a grin and we entered. I noticed she was carrying a towel but no costume, and assumed she was wearing it under the usual outfit, though I was pretty sure her breasts were naked under the shirt. Without more ado, simply ignoring me, she stripped off the shirt, and was, indeed bare-breasted. Then she dropped the skirt, and was, indeed, naked under that. She took off the plimsolls and moved to the edge of the wooden platform, above the water, and stood poised for a moment, rising on tiptoe, and dived.
Evidently she was accustomed to skinny-dipping, and had no problem with nudity. As the self-portrait had suggested. So I rapidly stripped and followed her into the lake.
Of course, while we were swimming there was little to be seen, though when she forged in my direction her vigorous breast-stroke did reveal those firm bosoms through the clear water. But when we got out and stood naked together in the boat-house I felt a little awkward, though fortunately was not erecting. But she said, ‘You’ve seen it for real now. Not bad for sixty-four, is it? Now turn round. I want to see yours.’
I turned and she studied my bum. ‘Yes, I can use that,’ she said. ‘I need a model. Come to my studio with me. A spot of lunch first.’
This sounded hopeful, and I was having to exercise great control not to gaze at her pussy – or, rather, where there might have been a pussy, if we take that to mean pubic hair. Because her mons was hairless, and it was split by the vulval crevice extending up the pudenda. Her minge was like a little girl’s, though larger. Such a quim on a mature woman, bare and even virginal looking, was exciting, and touching. We dried ourselves and dressed.
Her attic suite was a series of inter-connecting rooms. Large, airy studio, packed with tables, easels, chests of materials and pictures on the walls, all by the boys. Little utility room. Storeroom, with racks of canvases. Bedroom with bed, chair cupboard and chest of drawers.
Over a frugal lunch she sketched her autobiography, which included a vast deal of travel and participation in numerous art movements between the Wars. But she showed no signs of nostalgia, and was more interested in her present projects, which included a Theseus and Ariadne sequence, in which the couple was to be largely nude, and for which I was to model Theseus. She showed me the already sketched Ariadne, a busty young woman, in a loose tunic, showing one generous buttock. The face was not yet drawn.
Then she said, ‘Get your clothes off, then.’
It seemed now quite natural to undress while she fetched a large pad and pencil, though it was strange when she touched me for the first time, pushing and prodding until the pose was right. The sketch didn’t take long and she told me to relax.
Then she said, ‘Now you’re naked there’s a question to ask you. Would you like me naked, too? You liked what you saw in the boat-house.’
‘I certainly would,’ I told her.
‘Right,’ she said, ‘But I must warn you I need a lot of attention, and I don’t want to start unless we can go all the way. Mine’s a chain reaction, building up till I reach the peak. So you’ll need to keep going and not let go.’
‘That sounds marvellous,’ bursa escort bayan I said.
She nodded and stripped. ‘I don’t wear underwear any more,’ she said. ‘My titties are pretty firm and I don’t leak any more. In fact, I’ll probably be rather dry. But we can take care of that.’
She led off to her bedroom and the sight of her bottom ensured that I was erect by the time she stopped me by the bed. She moved the pillow, so that she could lie down with her bottom on it. Then she opened her legs and motioned for me to get between them.
I bent forward to kiss her or her breasts, but she said, ‘I only do kissing with women. Men are for inside.’
So I focused on her vulva. The major lips had parted but the inner ones were tight shut, as if glued together. They were so neat, as if zipped up, as if there were no opening hidden within, and the clitoris was not visible.
‘Open it,’ she commanded, and gently I parted those delicate petals by placing my hands either side and drawing them like curtains.
There was a little sucking sound as they separated, as the seal was broken, which was so moving. The vulva was pale pink and though the entry was visible it looked almost closed, and so vulnerable I hesitated to go further.
But she bade me, ‘Try and go in,’ and I applied my cock-tip and pushed a little. ‘Hmm,’ she said, ‘Harder,’ and I forced in an inch.
‘Try this.’ She reached a bottle of oil from the bedside table, and I poured a little into my palm, withdrew my penis and coated it. ‘Into me, too,’ she instructed and I poured some oil into the upper end of her groove, whence it tricked down to the opening.
‘Now!’ she said, and I slid in a little way, more readily. She pushed towards me and little by little my cock sank home.
‘It’ll loosen up in a minute,’ she said, ‘Keep moving.’ And as I slowly eased in and out her lubricant slowly increased.
‘Now look at me,’ she said quietly, and I found myself gazing into those pale blue eyes, which were wide open. The only signs of age were round those eyes, crow’s feet and a hooding of the lids, but the eyes themselves were bright.
‘Keep looking. I need to see who’s inside me. And I want you to watch me all the way.’
As I slid in and out and held her gaze, my consciousness concentrated into an awareness that included not just her cunt but her whole being. After a few minutes she arched her back, palmed her breasts and drew in a long breath.
I felt the flexing of the vagina walls and her eyes closed for a few seconds.
‘Keep looking,’ she said opening them again with the out-breath.
I was still looking. I have always found it riveting to watch a woman’s face as she orgasms, all the way back to Denise.
‘Keep going,’ she said and I was only too happy to centre my living into the feeling of that tight, still not fully lubricated cunt, and the sense of her increasing pleasure.
Within a few minutes another spasm shook her. This time her eyes widened, clenched shut briefly, and opened, to check, I think, that I was still looking. I certainly was, because I was hoping that I would know from her eyes whether we had reached the ultimate orgasm.
Such concentration also helped me maintain the steady stoking of her vagina without losing control. It was essential to stay the course. I even began to abandon the whole idea of coming myself. Far more important to ecstatise this amazing woman to the limit.
So I entered a timeless world in which the sensations in her vagina seemed to transfer between it and my penis, and every few minutes they increased and sought relief in the pulsing of both her cunt and my cock, which throbbed and glowed in harmony, without ejaculation.
How many intensifying climaxes did she experience? I don’t know. Perhaps a dozen. Towards the end I knew we were nearly there, for tears appeared in her eyes, her lips opened and an expression of child-like wonder spread escort bursa over her face. Her whole body shook and shuddered, her back arched, her bottom lifted off the pillow, clenching and unclenching, and she let go a long, plaintive cry. And this time her eyes stayed closed as the tide of feeling flooded to the maximum, and slowly ebbed, because I had seen her all the way through.
As she lowered her bottom I reached under her to take it in my hands and I held it as it settled back onto the pillow. The feeling of the cheeks in my palms, while my engorged and now aching tool remained all the way into her, almost sent me over the edge, but some instinct had told me not to ejaculate, as was tempting, at her final orgasm.
When her eyes opened, she was smiling and looking into mine. ‘Now you,’ she said. ‘But keep looking. I want to look down into you inside me. Move now or I shall go dry. Give yourself into me.’
I pushed in and then slid a little way out, setting up a slow rhythm of marginal movement. She echoed the movement and I could feel her vagina becoming less slippery.
Looking into her eyes I felt as if she they were her cunt holding me and they were the walls of her cunt watching my penis swell towards coming.
‘Here it comes,’ she said. ‘I can see it. Give it into me,’ and as I thrust all the way and my sperm spilled into her, she said, ‘There! There! I can feel it.’ Her eyes blazed blue into me a long moment. Then I let myself down onto her breasts. She stroked my face and I gently squeezed her bottom.
We lay a while, and as her vagina dried and tightened, my cock, though shrinking, remained glued within her, and it was eventually a little painful for us both when I backed out.
Later, as we lay together and drank hot water, she said, ‘Gwen and Tony told me about you in London last Christmas. They spoke well of you, but I couldn’t think of you till now. Not with people about. It has to be all together, like that, or not at all. Especially as I haven’t taken a man for years and was out of the way of it.’
I tried to tell her how beautiful she was, how beautiful our coupling had been, but she put a finger on my lips. ‘I know,’ she said. ‘Remember I saw everything in your eyes, and you saw it all in mine.’
I wanted to part those quim-lips again, to spend the night with her, but she was spent for the moment and banished me with the promise of our being together again. But we were able to come together only twice more that summer before people returned.
When she summoned me in the autumn term I knew that was not the purpose. She showed me the Theseus and Ariadne painting. The couple are at the entrance to the Labyrinth. Theseus, stripped for action, is entering, holding the ball of string which will enable him to get out after he has killed the Minotaur. He is looking over his left shoulder at the girl.
She is looking at him beseechingly. Their relationship is brilliantly suggested. He is plainly thanking her, but has no other interest. She is in love with him, but knows it is fruitless. Her voluptuous bosom and one buttock are in view but he is not moved. The portal of the maze has a suggestive shape, being oval and with a ribbed architrave. He is entering a vagina, where he will combat a hugely male entity, product of an unnatural lust, but hers will remain virgin.
‘This is one of my mythology series,’ she said, ‘Aimed at a specialist market. You see I use a pseudonym. She’s for the Lesbians and men and you’re for the women and homosexuals, because you have a good arse.’
‘I know who the Ariadne is,’ I said. ‘She teaches history. Of course, you’ve changed her face, like you’ve changed mine.’
‘Don’t be getting any ideas about her. She may look sexual but she’s one of nature’s virgins. She doesn’t want women, either. I think she’s a bit of a narcissist. She doesn’t mind posing. Good bottom. I used her for my Europa, too. You should see what the Bull is doing.’
The next summer I was unable to stay on in the vacation, to my disappointment, and by the following summer she had retired and gone to live on the proceeds of her paintings, notably the special series, I suspected, in a cottage in Italy.
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