SexyText - porn stories and erotic novellas

Esme and the Artists

Esme and the Artists

Author's Note: In this world, all characters are 18 or older. There are no unplanned pregnancies. STDs don't exist. Any mention of a specific product doesn't constitute an advertisement or endorsement, and I have no financial connection with the manufacturer or any retailers. I acknowledge beforehand that naturalists don't make the same connection between nudity and sex that "textiles" often do, but this is a Literotica fantasy after all.

This is a standalone story that continues Esme's naked adventures. Esme's Rambles tells of her discovery of and subsequent naked rambles in the English countryside. Esme Goes Narrowboating continues her adventures on the canal system. I have taken the liberty of including some places and events from those previous adventures. If you haven't read those stories, I hope this one serves as an invitation for you to do so.

Several of my previous stories have referenced and used famous artworks as inspiration and jumping-off points. I got the idea of using artwork as an element in this story from The Red by Tiffany Reisz. In this story, Esme becomes involved with artists, their professors, and patrons. I've had to be careful because I don't want the reader to assume Esme is a slut, but her sexuality leads her to multiple situations where she does the best she can to get what she wants.

This story is the second time I've referred to Manet's Olympia. I hope readers will understand and are inspired to look up the artists and their works mentioned in this story. Any comments and suggestions are always appreciated.Esme and the Artists фото

I do not speak or read Japanese. Thanks to Wikipedia for providing a translation.

I'm still looking for someone willing to preview and edit my stories before they are posted.

*****

With the number of watercolour societies and photography clubs exercising their right to roam in the English out-of-doors, a chance coming together was inevitable sooner or later. During a summer ramble on a delightfully sunny 25° day with high wispy clouds decorating a vast blue sky, Esme and her naked companions emerged from a wooded copse into a meadow that swept upward before them in a gentle rise to a broad, rounded summit, there, along their route and occupying that summit, was a widely spaced cluster of folks at easels, some standing, some sitting. When the artists noticed the ramblers, a few quickly put their brushes behind their ears and took up pencils. Esme knew she had been photographed on previous adventures. She may have even made it onto the internet, but her likeness in pencil sketches or watercolours would be a first.

It took the walkers some minutes before the groups merged at the crest. As "hellos" and "nice-day-for-its" were being tentatively exchanged, Esme dropped her small rucksack off her shoulders, stretched her arms up and out, and lifted her face to the sky. As she relaxed to take in the view, she could hear the rough scribbling of the nib of a pencil put to paper and looked to see a middle-aged fellow nearby who was sketching in the bound diary propped on his lap. He was looking at her with penetrating intent and enthusiasm, ignoring the larger pad mounted on the easel in front of him. Instead, he was peering around said easel, scribbling rapidly. His arm and hand movements suggested curves here, dots there, a dry swoosh as he put thumb or forefinger to the page to smear strokes on the page into shading. It seemed he took only seconds to fill one page and then turn to another. Esme stood still for a moment and gave him and the day a relaxed smile, unaware that, as far as he was concerned, she was posing. Just for him.

Esme was somewhere between 30 and 60 but wasn't about to reveal to which age she was closer. She was medium in all aspects of dimension. She didn't stand out as either tall or short. Her bust was of moderate size and, while nobly striving against gravity, her full breasts were a bit more relaxed than up and perky as they had been while in her slimmer youth. She liked the way they swayed and wobbled as she walked. Her sensitive, puffy gumdrop nipples still puckered delightfully in a range of circumstances, from light breezes to prominently engorged embarrassingly emphasizing her naughty thoughts. On those occasions, she also tended to blush.

Esme noticed the artist's scrutiny and, with her suddenly prominent nipples leading the way, she closed the short distance between them. Against the backdrop of murmured conversations all over the hill, she queried him, "Hello, might I see?"

"Oh. Yes, of course."

On the easel, a pastoral watercolour landscape was taking shape. There was the little village with its church tower nestled among the buildings capping the next hill over. A meadow was populated with sheep. A tractor was mowing in a field of tall, light brown miscanthus. Brushstrokes of blue supplied the sky and, across some of the expanse, a dry brush had left the white paper to show through, suggesting the sparse clouds. She glanced at the open page of the sketch diary on his lap. There she was. Ovals and arcs marked her proportions. Curves and recurves, some with little points capturing the shape of her pendant breasts, divergent folds of flesh on her chest forming her cleavage, others representing arcs for the curve of her derrière, the junction where it met the back of her thighs. Her navel and belly, mons, and the top of her slit were all captured in quick, simple strokes.

"Oh," she exclaimed.

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have taken the liberty without your permission. I must say, however, now that you are here, you are much more inspiring than the landscape that seems suddenly mundane and that will likely be sold for only a few pounds for charity at the next village fete."

"No, no. That's all right. I've never thought of myself as a model."

"Well, you should. Rubens, Klimt, Mucha, would all have clamored to have you pose before their canvases. I'm Eric." He stood and extended one hand while gripping his pad with the other.

"Esme."

"Esme. Unusual," he said, playfully suggesting he was interested in more.

"I much prefer to avoid the full moniker my parents bestowed upon me. It was burdensome in my younger, student days."

"Understandable. I was always dubbed 'Eric the Red.' I became a graphic designer and moved to another parish before I could stop being a Viking. Never rampaging. Now, with my hair tending toward white, I'm Eric the Professor of art at a small, private university in London."

They, of course, conducted the standard "and you" conversation. Esme didn't get into her sexual diversions while answering Eric's questions about her naked adventures. Her unembarrassed candor made it clear to Eric that she had no qualms about her public nudity.

Learning she was from London, Eric asked, "Could I interest you in posing for an upcoming live figure studies class?"

*****

The art classroom was arranged as a shallow amphitheater. Wide platforms stepped down on three sides of the room to a stage area, which was furnished with a low-rise podium in the center. A high wooden stool sat on the floor next to a back corner of the podium. Floor-to-ceiling windows occupied the south wall. For afternoon live figure studies classes, the windows were covered with translucent shades to provide uniform illumination without starkly contrasting shadows. At the back corner of the stage was a folding privacy screen behind which a door opened onto a small dressing room and loo marked with a faded "WC." The other corner had a door marked "Supplies." A dozen students with pads mounted on easels were arrayed around the terraced floorspace.

Eric announced Esme, then continued, "Tonight we have a unique opportunity to sketch a more vintage, real woman than usual. As always, there will be a series of quick poses, and we will have a couple of breaks. I'll be wandering among you to offer comments and suggestions. Esme, we are ready when you are."

Esme emerged from behind the screen that hid her from the students and mounted the small podium amid the class. She slipped off her robe, draped it over the stool, and turned to face the class. Always before, she had been confident while naked in public for her own personal reasons. She had never before been a model, never felt she had to meet the expectations of others. What she initially felt was a rush of embarrassment. She felt suddenly shy, old, and out of place, much like Phryne exposed to the jury in Gérôme's painting. Unlike the young woman in the painting, Esme felt acutely aware of each of her inadequacies. Her exposed chest was vulnerable; maturity had relaxed her breasts. It was obvious to her they were not as perky and firm as they had been when she was younger. She cradled one breast in the crook of her elbow, supporting the weight of the soft flesh that under public scrutiny, she was suddenly certain drooped too much. Her hand cupped her other breast, shaping it into an enforced plump roundness. Her nipple peeked between her splayed fingers. As of now, it just lay there, a flat dimple in a circle of darker flesh. Her weight was on one leg, and the other, bent inward slightly at the knee, hid her sex.

When she looked around, instead of the shock or pity that Phryne's nudity seemed to invoke in her jury, Esme's student audience was enthusiastically looking and sketching. Esme's attention was attracted to one young woman in particular. She watched the student as she alternated between viewing and sketching. Esme enjoyed her past dalliances with women but had never considered a campaign to bring about an encounter. When the artist looked up at her, it wouldn't be subtle, but Esme felt like winking. She did. The next time the woman looked, Esme sucked in her lips, wet them, and relaxed her now glistening mouth. The third time, Esme squeezed the nipple peeking between her fingers, teasing it to tumescence. The artist shifted her gaze down to Esme's breast and quickly up to focus on Esme's eyes, then back down to her pad, a slight blush colouring her cheeks.

Eric, the professor, had been wandering among the students, whispering comments as he moved around. He called "Time! Can we use the stool for the next set?" A student took Esme's robe from the stool and hung it over the corner of the folding screen, then placed the high four-legged stool on the podium.

Esme had overcome her initial shyness and self-perceived inadequacies and was now completely comfortable with her nudity in the studio. She shook her hands, lifted her arms, twisted her torso to stretch, and then settled into another pose, this time casually seated. She rested one cheek on the stool with her foot on one of the stretchers between its legs. One hand rested along the top of her raised leg, and the other in her lap, covering her mons. Her middle finger relaxed gently hiding the ridge of flesh that could otherwise be visible between the folds of her outer lips. Most classical and Renaissance art displayed the female form as smoothly absent of genitals. She wasn't sure how far into the more explicit realms she could go. She decided that teasing was part of the game of artist and model.

Eric approached. "May I touch you?"

Esme nodded, "Yes."

Eric adjusted her chin up and turned her head to face a bit off center. It just so happened that he turned her to look directly at that same young student. He pushed her shoulders back to straighten her posture. He moved her hand down, so it cupped her knee and pushed that bent leg open slightly. Finally, he looked at her intently and ran his fingers through her hair, fluffing it to his satisfaction. He looked down at the hand in her lap where her finger covered that otherwise explicit revelation. He flashed Esme an enigmatic smile and stepped aside.

Esme again focused on the young artist. When the woman was looking, Esme would move, but only a tiny bit so as to not disturb the pose. She might open her leg a small fraction more to reveal her crease, then slowly close off the view. In her lap, she would lift her thumb, forefinger, ring, and pinky fingers ever so slightly and then with her middle finger suggest a light tap on that concealed ridge of flesh above her hidden clitoris. The artist stared and then looked to each side in wonderment that her companions seemed oblivious to Esme's teasing.

After several more poses, it was job done for Esme. The class applauded, thanking her while she donned her robe. She walked among the students, looking at herself in all those varied perspectives and styles. On her rambles, she had been among naked peers. All their flaws were just as exposed and politely accepted and ignored as were hers. Here, in the class, she was more than ever on her own, the only one in the room who was naked and everyone was looking intently at her. She knew she was several decades older than the students. Her belly was no longer flat. Her breasts, although full and round, hung lower than years ago. As she viewed the sketches, she saw the flaws for which women often criticize themselves when looking in the mirror, but were here captured on paper in stark lines and subtle shading, she accepted again that they were there because she was undeniably older, more matronly, and, to her eyes, rendered as powerfully beautiful. She had never seen herself through the eyes of others. Her rambling clubmates, like Harold, Beth, and Ray, had seen all of her, informally and intimately, many times. Just being looked at while rambling was different from being intimately examined with artistic intensity and subsequently rendered onto paper through the interpretive lens of others. It wasn't explicitly sexual, but she felt sexy about what she saw. The sketches and portraits showed her relaxed, comfortable, and smiling. She realized she had been unnecessarily nervous and critical. Any flaws were her unique character. Regardless of whether she was rambling naked with her older friends or posing in front of young students in this studio, she was who she was, and that was okay.

"The class really appreciated your confidence and candor. Would you be willing to pose again? With a male partner?"

"Yes."

"I need you to take your time to think about this request, and for you to be sure about participating. There will be intimate contact between you and a nude male model."

"Yes. It's for art and scholarship. I'm okay with that."

As the classroom emptied, Esme looked around and spotted the young woman at whom she had, well, purposefully directed her teases. She was taking her time, idly packing away her sketchpad and charcoal pencils. Curious, Esme stepped over and greeted her.

"Hello. I'm Esme. May I?" She said, indicating the sketch pad.

"Samantha, uhmm, Sam. Sure," she introduced herself hesitantly.

Esme flipped through several pages of sketches. She didn't know which ones the professor had observed and commented on, but there were several intimate studies: an obviously erect nipple clasped between two fingers, the flesh of her breast bulging between the other spread fingers; a detail of her hand, the middle finger pressed onto the puffy flesh of her mostly hidden cleft; the curve of her waist and hips; a portrait, a mischievous and expectant look on her face.

"Sam, would you mind waiting while I dress. I'm thirsty. Would you accompany me for coffee or drinks?" Esme said, surprising herself. She was very aware of her moist sex and her erect nipples rubbing against the fabric of her robe. She wanted to open her robe, take Sam's hand, and press Sam's fingers between her legs. Not knowing what the answer would be and anticipating Sam's response made Esme both nervous and excited. If Sam said no, it wouldn't be the end of the world, but...

"Yes." Sam blushed as she whispered her assent.

Esme and Sam had a glass of wine and a salad al fresco at a local bistro. When Sam got around to asking Esme about how she felt about posing nude for a class, Esme offered up a few anecdotes of her naked rambling, bike rides, and narrowboating. She avoided revealing any of the more intimate details of her exploits. In short, Esme explained she was confident with her body, and public nudity didn't bother her. Yes, the class was different, and she had to get used to it. And, no, she had never been to a nudist resort. Sam asked so many questions that Esme almost invited her along on an upcoming naked ramble but thought maybe it was too soon for that, and she should hold that thought until later.

*****

When Esme next entered the classroom, in addition to the students setting up their sketchpads, she saw Eric talking to a rather fit young man. Eric motioned her over. "Esme, this is Jamie. Jamie, Esme is your partner in today's session."

Esme was pleased that Jamie, obviously another uni student, looked at her with a happy glint in his eyes. He had already disrobed behind the privacy screen in the corner and was wearing a plush terrycloth dressing gown with the sash tied at his waist. Esme stepped behind the screen into the WC and undressed. She had forgone a bra and her knickers to avoid the imprint of any elastics on her skin. She slipped out of her loose dress and hung it on a hook. She unrolled and donned the plush and freshly laundered robe provided on a handy shelf, just as if she were at a spa. As she re-entered the classroom, she heard Eric explaining to the class...

"Throughout millennia, the male nude often depicts athleticism or heroics while the female nude represents fertility or adoration. In Western art, nudes were represented mostly either solo or in groups as wrestlers or frolicking muses. Breaks from these traditions, like Manet's Luncheon on the Grass, were considered shocking. Paintings of nude males and females together did occur in post-Renaissance Western classical art. When they did, many times the subject was presented as Biblical depictions of Adam and Eve, with fig leaves properly placed, or subjects and interactions drawn from Greek or Roman mythology as between nymphs and satyrs or the gods frolicking with innocent maidens. Fantasy sometimes intruded as in idealized depictions of slave markets and seraglios. Such scenarios won't be our focus tonight. First, we will have a tableau suggestive of the clandestine relationship between Guinevere and Lancelot. After that, we'll have a variation of the reclining female nude, somewhat in the tradition of Manet, Goya, Courbet, Titian, and others. Finally, we will have a re-enactment of Rodin's sculpture, The Kiss. We will be liberal rather than literal in staging the poses of our models." He finished and gave a high sign, summoning the models to the stage.

The stage was furnished with a low and padded rectangular divan draped with a white cotton sheet and pillows piled at one end. Esme hung her robe on a corner of the privacy screen and walked naked onto the stage. She turned and watched as Jamie dropped his robe. Esme drew a short, excited breath, smiled, and blushed slightly. He was a 20-something-year-old uncut male, maybe a footballer or rugger, whose body was sculpted in a fine suggestion of the most attractive of classical Greek statuary. His pubic hair was groomed, providing a counterpoint to Esme's bare mons. In her adventures, she had seen many men sans clothing and was pleasantly impressed; his member swayed arrogantly with his hips as he strode to the stage. Even when mostly soft, its uncircumcised length hung prominently over his sack.

Jamie and Esme were directed to mount the bench on their knees with torsos erect and to assume a full-body embrace of each other. Esme grasped Jamie, both arms draped over his shoulders, leaning her head to her right into the crook of his neck. She pressed her breasts and pelvis onto his solid body. Jamie rested his head, to his right, onto the corresponding crook of Esme's neck with one of his hands on her hip and the other grasping the full soft curve of her bum. There were many scenes in which Lancelot, in full armor, and Guinevere, in Elizabethan dress, had been depicted romantically entwined in the same pose. This time, however, the clandestine lovers were naked.

 

Esme could smell Jamie's hair and skin. She could feel him swelling against the apex of her sex and knew he could feel her nipples plumping into hard points surrounded by the softer flesh of her breasts compressed against his chest. Her thoughts at the moment were that she really shouldn't be getting wet or experiencing the tingling between her legs, but she couldn't help her body's response to feeling his cock against her, throbbing with his heartbeat.

He knew she could feel him and whispered, "Sorry."

"No worries," she whispered back.

Sam was to Esme's right and had a view of Jamie from behind. She winked subtly when she caught Sam's eye as the student looked from behind her easel.

Esme's mind wandered among odd topics while she posed unmoving, especially when trying to distract herself from what her body was doing. Her mind drifted to the American humorist, Allan Sherman, who wrote The Rape of the A*P*E (American Puritan Ethic). In the book, he ascribed the difference between men and women to the difference in the question about the possibilities of intimate activity that they asked themselves while looking in the mirror during their morning ablutions. To paraphrase, men asked, "Will I get laid today?" Women, on the other hand, asked, "Do I want to get laid today?" Esme, absentmindedly musing which question to ask and what might be the answer while she was pressed firmly against a demonstrably virile young man, decided that, while it might not be today, she was going to have her way with Sam. Those thoughts didn't help much or under the current circumstances. She had to deal with Jamie delicately.

"Time," called Eric. Esme and Jamie separated and relaxed. They both looked each other in the eye, nodded, and subtly smiled at each other. Having had the experience of posing nude before, Jamie hadn't achieved a full erection, but he was sufficiently engorged that he hung in a soft curve, the little slit at the head of his cock peeking out from his enclosing foreskin. Esme noticed his condition before he covered himself with one of the pillows. There was a little refreshment table near the supply room door, and she took it upon herself to get them each a bottle of water. She then ambled among the students and looked at their sketches as she worked out the kinks in her knees.

After a few minutes, Eric called out, "We need to get back to work. Danae, the Naked Maja, and the Venus of Urbino are all masterworks featuring a nude female in repose. Manet's Olympia turned the genre on its head by giving the model an assertive gaze, explicitly challenging the viewer. But he also implied his subject was definitely not innocent, but a temptress. In the 1860s in Paris, Olympia was a name often associated with prostitutes, possibly in response to Manet's work. Manet also included a black cat, thought to be a symbol of the profession, further cementing the subject's reputation as a courtesan. He had implicitly sexualized the image beyond the accepted norm of the time. Our next tableau will be a woman in similar repose, but for this project, we are going to include a male subject to imply a more intimate relationship."

Eric directed Esme to lie on the bench, head to the left, supine, then roll onto her right side to face the class. She propped herself on her right elbow, lifting her curving torso at a slight angle. He then stuffed pillows behind her back to provide support and directed Jamie to "spoon" her. He was to look over her shoulder and across her pendant breasts that draped at an angle across her upper body. Eric smiled when Jamie, of his own volition, positioned his left arm over her shoulder and cupped one breast.

"Is this okay?" Jamie whispered into her ear.

"Yes."

In response, Esme slipped her left arm from resting on her hip down into the space between them and hoped that maybe her subtle repositioning was unobserved. She carefully reached back and lightly gripped his growing member; its head resting firmly in her palm. She pressed her fingers along his shaft and nestled it between her cheeks.

Without awaiting a question, Jamie whispered a breathy "Yes." He rolled his body further over Esme, pressing closely and closing off any view of the space between them. She hoped that as far as the class knew, the two models seemed to be jostling their positions for comfort. Esme looked directly at Sam again.

With everyone sketching and Eric walking among the students, Esme began to subtly massage Jamie's cock as if she were milking it. It grew with her gentle manipulations. His breath, at first sped up, and then acquired a deep, controlled rhythm as he concentrated to maintain his composure. She could again feel the throb of his heartbeat, but this time, he was fully erect. She pressed him deeper into the crevice of her bum, his pubic hair tickling her. She was wet with her own arousal, but being mischievous, she wasn't looking to cum. Yet.

Eric called time. Esme sat up, Jamie's condition effectively hidden behind her body. When she stood, he took the opportunity to roll onto his stomach. Esme walked behind the screen and into the WC. She sat on the little bench under the row of coat hooks, opened her legs, and began enthusiastically fingering herself. She pinched and rolled her nipple, remembering the warmth and press of Jamie's fingertips on her breast. She heard the door scrape open and looked to see Jamie watching her, his wants and needs as evident as his erection. The class be damned. Esme stood, turned, and bent at the waist thrusting her bum and swollen pussy at Jamie and directed him with a raspy whisper, "Fuck me."

With a single thrust, he filled her as deeply as he could reach. She gasped in relief and pleasure as her passage stretched to accommodate him, but as he stroked himself into her, she realized that she wasn't going to have time to climax during the short break. She pushed back and stood. He slipped out of her. She turned, dropped to her knees, and looked up at him. Esme saw his consternation turn to eager anticipation as she gripped the base of his member and positioned it so he could thrust into her mouth. He didn't need more invitation than her open mouth.

She pulled him into her mouth with each stroke. She could smell her arousal and savored her taste on his swollen member as she fellated him. She gently massaged his balls, also taking the opportunity to rake her nails gently over the loose skin on the back of his sack. As the skin got tighter, he grew even harder in her mouth. Esme took satisfaction that she had driven him this far. She wanted him to explode and wasn't interested in taking her time. She suckled his bulbous head while licking his frenulum. She felt him swell, signaling the quick inevitability of his release. She took him to the back of her throat and with his first spasm, she drew back so she could swallow his salty, umami discharge. When he finished, she sat back, wiped the corners of her mouth and lower lip with thumb and forefinger, and then her whole mouth with the back of her knuckles and fingers.

She was wet and still felt that pleasant stretch of her lips and vagina from his enthusiastic attention. Jamie had been taken care of, but she was not yet satisfied. For now, Esme was okay with that. The feeling of her being on the brink meant consummation of her fun would "cum" later. As she dabbed herself dry, she was careful not to further stimulate her excited clitoris. It was a distraction, but she tingled as her random thoughts settled on the next step in her plan to have her way with Sam. Again, it's odd where one's mind wanders when the body is otherwise engaged.

Esme exited the WC, leaving Jamie on his own. Eric's gaze followed her as she crossed over to the podium. He watched her with a sly smile that she took to suggest he knew what she had done; had maybe given them a little extra time before he "called them to the post," as it were. The padded bench had been repositioned, so its long axis aligned with the sides of the class. When she sat on it, she was in profile to the front of the class.

Jamie strode to the bench with the oblivious arrogance of a youth confident in his nudity. He bravely embodied a complete lack of either shame or modesty. He was Priapus incarnate. Erect. It was then that Esme noticed another glint in Eric's eye as he tracked Jamie sauntering across to the stage. While Eric's look had exhibited an artistic appreciation of Esme, she saw his admiration and longing for Jamie.

Eric directed Jamie to sit on the opposite side of the bench from Esme and scootch close to her, so that their legs and hips touched. Eric lectured, "The Kiss is a marble statue showing Rodin's interpretation of lust before the tragedy that separated the lovers involved. It depicts the adulterous relationship between Francesca de Rimi and Paolo, the younger brother of her husband, Giovanni Malatesta. Giovanni discovered their perfidy and murdered the two lovers. The story is famously told in Dante's epic poem during the visit to Lust, the second circle of Hell."

Eric gave more directions to entwine them appropriately. Esme leaned across Jamie with her right arm, bent at the elbow to support her, and lying along the top of his thigh. His back straight, her left arm on his shoulder and across his neck. His right arm extended to her naked hip. His left arm was assisting to support Esme's head, fingers lost in her hair. Finally, they were to lean in and almost consummate the eponymous kiss.

As the class started sketching, Esme realized she had her back to Sam, who had a view of her right arm resting along Jamie's thigh. She wasn't sure what again inspired her to be naughty. If she had taken the time to think about it, it might be that she succumbed the soup of endorphins swirling through her brain in response to the tingling memory of her pussy with Jamie's cock lodged in her. It required only a tiny shift for her to grasp Jamie's erect member. Her mouth turned up slightly in a smile at his surprised gasp against her lips. She began curling her fingers along his length, teasing him again with light strokes. Her grip was gentle enough that her fingers brushed along his length lightly stretching his skin that was still moist from being in her pussy and mouth. She slowly manipulated his foreskin down, exposing the sensitive head. With a complete lack of modesty or shame, her aromatic breath drifted inescapably between them. She could smell his cum like a musky sea breeze and taste her essence that she had licked from his member as she mouthed him. The young man was breathing shallowly and huffed quiet groans that vibrated his lips in time to her gentle strokes. She was having her way with this young stud. He was inescapably hers for the moments they were bound in the pose. He knew he was owned whispering "Oh, shit," full stop.

She didn't want to fuck him but wanted him to lust after her. When Eric called "Time," Jamie pulled back and did what was to her inevitable for the horny uni student whose dick had been in her hand.

"Let's go to my room and finish this," he quietly and firmly stated, casting a predatory glint at Esme's exposed body.

Esme thought about that question: do I want to get laid? She knew the answer was no. "Jamie, you are a beautiful young man and have an unrivaled cock. I liked you inside me. Thanks ever so much for the invitation, but not tonight," she said with a woman's full unspoken power of "never" behind her words. She certainly didn't want to finish the evening in a dorm room or student apartment and had other things, well, one person, on her mind. She also knew, as she looked around the room, that Jamie wouldn't have to worry about going to what, she assumed, was a dingy student abode alone.

Esme grabbed her robe and began circulating among the students and examining their work. The sketches, each from different angles, artistic perspectives, and styles, all caught aspects of both the sensuality in Rodin's original sculpture and the raw sexuality personified by the two live models. In particular, Sam had captured the curve of Esme's back and her pendant breast punctuated by her engorged nipple, the rounded flesh hanging prominently in the space between their bodies. As Esme flipped the pages of Sam's pad, browsing her work, she noticed a small, rough sketch in the top corner of a larger composition. There, hidden in the blurred shadows of charcoal shading, was Esme's hand, fingers wrapped around Jamie's protruding cock. Sam reddened; she hadn't intended anyone to see that.

Thinking the revelation might well work in her favor, Esme dropped back the page that she had lifted, concealing the more explicit work. She wanted to plant an idea and then just nudge Sam in the right direction. Nothing threatening, so she asked, "Sam, you know I like to ramble naked. It's a wonderful way to spend a day in the countryside. Would you like to join us?"

Sam squeaked, "Me?"

"Yes. We will have a great time. Or, how about you spend some time with us on the canals on our boat?" Esme didn't say it but wanted to imply that while she and her friends might be naked, no one would push Sam to do anything.

"Okay, the boat maybe," Sam responded timidly.

*****

It was early on the Friday afternoon before a long Bank Holiday weekend. Beth and Ray were each enjoying a pint in the back garden of a canal-side pub in a quaint rural hamlet. They had moored the Crane's Roost there to take advantage of the Elsan disposal and water points. They had also picked up a gas bottle and visited the local Tesco for some supplies. And, of course, there were the cool libations on offer to patrons in the shady pub garden. They spotted Esme and her young guest and signaled the barmaid for two more pints. Introductions were made. The four companions boarded the narrowboat and cast off from its moorings. After about an hour's chugging along in the stately manner of such craft, they found themselves in the open countryside populated only by crops and cows.

Ray was at the tiller. The three women sat in the forward well deck, the cratch covers having been removed and stowed to create a space open to the bright, sunny, 25° day. Esme stood up and untied her wrap dress, pulled it off her shoulders, and stood naked except for her sandals.

"I'm ready for wine. Anybody else?" She queried as she folded her dress.

Beth lifted her calf-length smock over her head. "While you do that, I'll take the tiller so Ray can get more comfortable, too."

Sam looked aghast as the bare bottoms of two naked women disappeared one after the other into the saloon on their errands. She hadn't thought about it and was shocked to realize they hadn't been wearing underwear while at the pub, which she reckoned was a daring state of affairs. Sam was taller, slimmer, and much younger than either Esme or Beth. As a budding artist, she had seen many live models and studied many artworks featuring nudes. This wasn't a classroom or a museum. She felt out of place in her modest, mid-thigh length jean shorts, cotton print shirt, and, of course, a slip-on bralette and knickers. Both ladies had obviously foregone foundation garments, their skin showing none of the wrinkled compressions left by such confining apparel. Sam couldn't help the self-deprecating comparison that she was much smaller on top than either of the two older women. Even though the older women's breasts drooped a little, they were still full, bouncy, and round. They seemed oblivious to their exposure. They just let their various parts wobble freely with whatever mind each part might have on its own. Sam noticed other details: the absence of tan lines; that Esme's pussy was hairless; and, that Beth was trimmed and groomed, her mons furry, but her pussy lips bare.

While Sam was contemplating the display, Ray popped up through the hatch onto the well deck, his flaccid penis and sack waggling slightly. "For dinner, we're grilling cumberlands and potatoes. We'll have a rocket salad with a light vinaigrette dressing. Sam, would you like your bap grilled?"

Sam stared at the deflated prick confronting her. She barely more than mumbled, "Well. Uhmm... Yes."

"Great!" Ray smiled and winked at Esme, who was making her way back onto the well deck.

Esme ducked through the hatch onto the deck, an open bottle of white wine in a frosty cooler and two glasses preceding her but not concealing her breasts, swaying in tandem. While in the cabin, Esme had donned only her sun bonnet. Sam's brain kept focusing on the nudity and that this wasn't a studio or classroom. They were outside, in open country, on the water, in the fresh air and sunshine. Like normal people, just naked.

Esme offered Sam a glass and served her a generous pour. She set down her own glass and poured herself some wine. With a crunch of ice, she returned the bottle to the cooler. She lifted the lid of a nearby storage bin and removed some towels. She spread one towel on the bench to sit on, set another beside her, and sat down.

"Sunblock?" came Beth's voice from the saloon.

"Yes, of course."

Beth brought the tube and her wine glass onto the deck. Sam again marveled that Beth was naked. The bare ladies were acting as nonchalantly as if they were seated under the pergola at the Pavilion Grill in Kew Gardens. Esme spreading the lotion over her naked body belied that setting. She paid special attention to her face, breasts, pussy, and the tops of her thighs.

"Beth, could you do my back?"

"Yes."

Esme turned her back to the hatch, revealing herself full frontal to Sam.

The trio spent the rest of the day imbibing wine and telling tales of their rambling and boating adventures. They queried Sam, asking about her art, training and aspirations. Sam told them of her visits to galleries and museums from Amsterdam, Prague, Florence, and Paris to Berlin, Paris, and London. Even to such non-artsy destinations for design ideas like the V&A in London. They didn't prod, encourage, or insinuate that Sam should join in their open flaunting of clothing conventions. They didn't suggest, "Wouldn't you be more comfortable naked?" They just went about the normal activities of the day navigating the canal, preparing dinner, and relaxing. In the nude, all the while juggling with Sam's sense of decorum.

The few times they met oncoming narrowboats or passed anglers on the bank, the ladies would casually drape a towel over their necks to cover their breasts. At the tiller, Ray would cover his lap with his towel. Nobody wanted to spoil the weekend with a visit by the local constabulary investigating a complaint. Sam came to realize that her hosts on the voyage were regular folks comfortable in their skin. She kept saying this to herself.

On Saturday, the boaters were awakened by a gentle rain on what promised to be another hot day. They decided to stay moored right where they were. By midday, the rain stopped, the clouds cleared, and the sun came out. They cast off and resumed their cruise. The craft being underway produced the only available semblance of a breeze. As the temperature exceeded 30°, it became more and more clammy. The morning's showers had not helped with the humidity.

The three women sat in the well deck, conversing and enjoying an early afternoon icy spritz. Condensation dripped off their chilled glasses. Sam was wearing a sleeveless cotton blouse, shorts, and, of course, what she considered to be those requisite foundation undergarments. Her sweat-stained blouse was damp under her arms and around the collar. She could feel sweat creeping slowly down her back. She felt soggy. Esme and Beth, however, appeared to be more comfortable. Their skin glistened and they seemed to Sam to be oblivious to the sweltering conditions. They had a little spray bottle and would mist themselves. Occasionally, a drip from their spritz would splash onto their breasts, the sudden chill causing their nipple to pucker. Even Ray at the tiller seemed comfortable with just an occasional "Oi! Another beer! Please?" Beth would smile and disappear into the boat on her errand of mercy.

 

Silently, Sam decided. "Excuse me." She got up and went into the saloon; she couldn't muster the courage to disrobe in front of an audience. Her fingers trembled as she unbuttoned her blouse. "Yes," she told herself, "I'm getting naked." She opened and shed her blouse, nervously folding and refolding it, wasting time as she heard her mother's voice in her head, "Samantha Marie! What are you thinking!?" As she pulled her clinging, sweat-moistened bralette over her head, she kept answering that voice with her own, "I'm getting starkers." She looked down at herself with trepidation.

Caught up in her thoughts, Sam hadn't wondered what was taking Beth so long to get Ray's beer. But, as she bent down to slip off her shorts and panties, she looked aft and saw Beth's back, buttocks, and the bottoms of her feet. She was kneeling in front of Ray, and by the rhythmic movement of her upper body, Sam realized she must have Ray's member in her mouth. Suddenly, she was not just nervous and sweaty, but Sam felt a tingle and a different, slicker wetness than sweat arising between her legs. She was suddenly worried about aromas. She didn't want anyone to know that she was becoming aroused.

Sam timidly stepped back onto the well deck and resumed her seat. Her achingly stiff nipples protruded from the centers of her puffy, light pink, crinkly areolas. Her entire body erupted in goosebumps as much from nervous excitement as from the now noticeably cooling breeze caused by the boat's progress along the canal.

Esme was happy. "Here, you'll be more comfortable sitting on this," she said as she handed Sam a folded towel.

Getting Sam naked was the completion of part one of her plan. The task had been accomplished without overtly suggesting or requesting that the shy art student get naked. Being tempted by example, she had done it on her own. Esme knew that Sam had conducted an intimate assessment of her body and Beth's. She didn't want to make Sam uncomfortable, but it was Esme's turn to compare. Sam was slender and fit, with a flat stomach, hips somewhere on the cusp between a young girl and a full-bodied woman. It was obvious Sam's small, firm breasts had never been employed for nursing. They seemed to almost glow in contrast to the surrounding darker areas of more often exposed skin. Esme discerned what might be one of Sam's insecurities; her breasts weren't the same size, but only slightly different. Her right nipple was slightly off center and pointed up and a bit right. Her left nipple was centered in what was a marginally smaller tit. Esme knew her breasts were slightly different in size and she knew these were likely sources of personal insecurities. She had faced similar self-doubts. She knew that lovers, whether male or female, would overlook these small departures from the often male-centric, perfectly symmetric feminine ideal. They would universally observe cogently, "nice tits." Sam was sitting somewhat rigidly, arms defensively crossed over her chest lifting those tits to maximize her cleavage, knees together, legs crossed at her ankles. An unruly tuft of dark pubic hair protruded from the tightly closed junction at the pale top of her legs.

Esme handed Sam the tube of sunblock. "You'll need this."

Sam still lacked confidence, but she accepted the lotion and began applying it, knowing she was being watched. She'd done it many times, in public, at the beach, spread the cream judiciously, sliding around and stopping at the margins of the comforting seams of those concealing suits. She'd never intentionally exposed her bikini area and certainly hadn't rubbed there in front of an audience. The world didn't stop spinning as she did so, even as she slipped her fingertips across the warm slick of her arousal. The boat kept chugging along. Conversations continued. Drinks were drunk. She wasn't an actor on a stage. Then, she extended the tube to Esme, who smiled as she took it. Sam turned around so Esme could coat her back. Those strange hands felt very good but took no untoward liberties. Esme tapped her on the shoulder. "All done." Things were normal.

When Sam turned around, Esme was refilling their wine glasses. Esme raised her glass to Sam and smiled as they toasted Sam's first foray into public nudity.

Esme looked at Sam with an undisguised assessment of the young woman. She said, "You are a striking beauty. I'm so happy you decided to join us." Sam knew she didn't mean only on the boat.

Getting Sam naked was a fait accompli. Next would come comfort and then intimacy.

"Here, just a second." Esme stepped into the saloon and retrieved a gift-wrapped box she had placed there earlier, guessing it might be needed should the necessity present itself.

Sam opened the box and found an intimate shaver and a selection of shave oils and soothing lotions.

"Beth and I didn't know how the weekend would progress other than that Ray and the two of us would be au naturale. I didn't know what you had at home, and I'm not suggesting you need it or anything. Whatever your preference is, it is fine, but should you feel like it, you might find those items handy. And, for such intimately personal duties, we're pretty sure you would much prefer a dedicated kit rather than something shared."

Sam blushed. She normally groomed her bikini area before heading to the beach, but she hadn't thought about that at all for boating. The way Esme had talked about her adventures, deep down, she realized she should have expected a clothing-optional weekend. Esme hadn't said anything about their plans except to join us and we'll cruise the cuts for a couple of days.

"You're welcome to come with us on rambles so you could work on those tan lines," said Esme, nudging Sam delicately to the next step in her plan.

*****

Eric called and invited Esme for a coffee. He was already sitting al fresco at Gail's bakery when she arrived. They entered and placed their orders. They caught up with some small talk, and then Eric made the pitch that Esme was sure was coming. "There is a form of performance art known as tableau vivant. Live models are posed to reproduce masterpieces of art, living paintings if you will. I'm working to showcase several tableau vivant installations at a charity exhibition. The event is a fundraiser for local artists but is not sanctioned by the University. It will be held at an off-campus gallery. The number of installations is limited. Attendance is by special invitation only, that is, select patrons with money to donate. I want to be clear; the installations will include explicit erotic forays into the arts. I'm planning a tableau based on Manet's Luncheon on the Grass. A nude woman appears in the foreground of a wooded scene seated next to a light picnic. She is gazing intently at the viewer. Two young men in suits behind her are engaged in conversation. In the background, a woman in a drape is bending over, looking at something while wading in a pool. Esme, you will be perfect for the foreground subject in this project. Are you interested in participating?"

Esme didn't hesitate, "Yes."

*****

Esme wore only a plush white robe tied at her waist when she introduced herself to the two students in tweed suits that she was going to be posing with: William and Mark. The art history majors were joking that they had grown beards and mustaches and had to wear toff gear specifically for this event and all she had to be was naked. Manet's picnic items of a loaf of bread and a spilled basket of fruit were updated for the tableau. On a groundsheet was a charcuterie plate with a selection of finger foods: biscuits, cheeses, cornishons, olives, nuts, sliced fruits, and, of course, thinly shaved serrano ham and salami. In addition, there was a silver iced cooler with a bottle of bubbly and three stemless wine glasses. The turf itself was an artificial green carpet.

Eric opened a digital image of Manet's Luncheon on the Grass and explained, "Esme, you will be seated, your right leg bent up at the knee, right elbow resting on the outside of your knee, and your left leg curled recumbent beneath you. William and Mark, you two will sit behind her in the middle ground where you are free to gesture and discuss whatever topics occur to you both, as long as you basically ignore your naked companion. I have taken some compositional liberties and chosen to place portions of the picnic items behind you, Esme, so that William and Mark will also have easy access to snacks and refreshments. Esme, you can look down at the picnic selections but try not to make eye contact with Mark or William. You two, pay attention to each other and don't spend time observing Esme. The schedule for the next several hours is that the three of you will pose in 20-minute shifts, then there will be 10-minute breaks between shifts. During the breaks, you are welcome to stroll around and observe the other tableaux. Esme, there will be another tableau that might well intrigue you. Should you become interested, you might want to miss a shift here at your picnic." Eric gave her a suggestive and cheeky smile but offered no other details or hints.

As she walked among the exhibits being set up, she noticed that each had an easel with a mounted print of the original artwork. That is, except one in a grotto that was surrounded by heavy black soundproofing curtains with two curtains currently tied back at the entrance. In front of the grotto, to one side, a covered panel was mounted on a sturdy easel, which she assumed was the artwork to be mimicked by the tableau. Inside was a padded elevated table with a skirt and brown and green rock-like sculptural additions along two sides that rose to a peak at one end. Near that peaked end, at the front corner, a smart tablet was mounted on a stand. The screensaver was scrolling through a selection of explicit Japanese shunga woodcut prints. The other installations seemed as openly straightforward as her picnic tableau, and Esme wondered if this grotto, with its unabashedly suggestive pillow book foreshadowing, might have something to do with what Eric had teased.

A man in full-service livery entered the gallery holding aloft a hand-held gong. He strode to the middle of the room, struck the gong, and announced, "Places all. We open in 10 minutes. Thank you."

Esme took her place, struck the requisite pose, acknowledged Mark beside her, and William sat opposite, then promptly ignored them as she gazed at the passing crowd. She noticed Sam passing through the crowd. She was wearing a brightly coloured, floral-patterned Tahitian pareo tied around her with a clip on her hip. In homage to Gauguin's art, her breasts were fully exposed and the slit on her hip was high and swirled open with each stride. When Sam saw Esme looking her way she winked and did a quick cheeky twirl in place, causing the loose fabric to billow open. Esme caught a quick glimpse of Sam's now mostly shaved mons decorated by only a little landing strip. Sam threaded purposefully among the guests, offering her tray of champagne flutes, some filled with brightly glistening liquid and lines of rising bubbles for distributing fresh libations to the guests with some empties having already been received in exchange. Esme took up her glass and tilted it toward Sam, and with a nod of approval, Sam discreetly smiled back. Esme saw Sam becoming more confident and having fun with her nearly naked self, and she was sure she could get Sam to take the next step in her plan.

Esme looked askance at William sitting across from her. The young man was trying to be discreet, but he was definitely checking her out. Her discovery of his indiscretion triggered her nipples to swell, attracting his vision to focus directly to her chest. Okay, let's play, she thought to herself. She drew her left leg, the one under her, back opening herself more to William's view. Manet's composition provided no guidance for her left arm and hand, so she took the liberty, between veiled nibbles of charcuterie or sips of champagne, to rest her hand on the inside of her left thigh or to brush across her nipple, sweeping off imaginary crumbs. Both gestures were made with the intent of attracting William's attention to her breast or fanny, continuing the tease. She didn't look down to see if he was erect. Regarding that as a win for her, she had plenty of time to check his condition at the break interval.

Break times were offset, so during her first interval, Esme, electing to remain nude while wandering among the exhibits and guests. With champagne flute in hand, she strolled among the other tableaux vivants. Courbet was represented twice: The Sleepers, an explicit lesbian coupling, and, to Esme's pleasant surprise, The Origin of the World. She really didn't expect to see a living furry pussy so blatantly on public display, but its exposition made her smile. Womanhood gloriously celebrated. Goya's Naked Maja was resplendently relaxed. Mucha's Moët & Chandon Crémant, offering posh bubbly, drew the viewer into an art deco glimpse of decadence and celebration. Klimt's Seated Woman Masturbating took the next step beyond Courbet. The model there had her fingertips resting at her hood and hiding her clitoris but seemed very careful not to make any noticeable strokes on her exposed sex.

Esme saw that the cover had been removed from the frame on the easel in front of the shrouded grotto. A placard identified the work as The Dream of the Fisherman's Wife, Hokusai's shunga woodblock print from the Edo period of Japan. The print presented a nude woman, head thrown back and body arched in ecstasy as she was being orally serviced by two octopuses. The larger cephalopod applied its fleshy lips to her sex as if sucking on her clit, penetrating her vagina, or both. Each of her hands grasped a tentacle, pulling the creature steadying or pulling the creature into her as she was serviced. One tentacle was draped over the wife's belly, its tip nestled into the open crease of her furred mons, flicking her clitoris. Another of its tentacles was wrapped around her arm and onto her breast, the tip circling and teasing her nipple. The smaller octopus was sensuously probing the woman's open mouth. Japanese kanji filled most of what would otherwise be the sky in the background.

Esme was captivated by muffled sounds emanating from behind the exhibit's shrouds that concealed anything happening in that grotto. A low, burbling voice softly narrated: "Your 'bobo' is ripe and full, how wonderful! Superior to all others! To suck and suck and suck some more." This explicit drone was accompanied by the distinct moaning of a woman being pleasured. As she ambled back to her picnic installation, Esme couldn't help but let her mind wander as she reimagined those moans and speculated about what they might mean. The wetness between her legs was almost to the point of maybe becoming a noticeable drip. She saw Sam with her beverage tray and stopped her to claim a cocktail napkin. She surreptitiously dabbed herself dry, wadded the paper, and dropped it back on the tray. Of course, Sam knew what she had just done, but no one else seemed to notice. Esme watched as Sam put the little wad of paper to her nose before stuffing it into a glass as if done so by a patron. The two women shared a discrete and intimate smile.

Esme continued to tease the two young men sharing the picnic tableau with her. They switched positions at each break, the one in front of her then would be beside her in the next interval. They quietly conversed on whatever might occupy students, including a few explicit and teasing tales of their sexual exploits, trying their best to regain the upper hand in the game of teasing. Their eyes freely wandered over her body, all diversions being contrary to Eric's instructions. She would tip her upraised knee out just enough that her outer lips would part, revealing her lips and the pink bud they surely saw were engorged. With that mostly concealed off left hand, she would sometimes lightly brush the soft flesh of her breast and cup it, offering the observing student her nipple. A few times, when the audience was sparse or looking elsewhere, she went as far as to pinch and roll that erect nipple. She didn't look her companions directly in the face, but her glances down and to the side confirmed their pants were often uncomfortably tight. Esme felt for their condition as she was not inclined to bed either of these two. Their relief would be either elsewhere or self-induced. She was winning their unspoken game.

The visitors to the exhibit were more obvious with direct, detailed, and appreciative observation of the tableau. Couples stopped to read the descriptive placard. Neither the ladies nor the gentlemen, each in all their formal finery, looked at the students. They scrutinized Esme, which was kind of the point of Manet's work. They would walk around to view the composition from different angles than that fixed on canvas by Manet. They verified she was, indeed, completely naked, sometimes taking the liberty of a not-so-surreptitious peek. Some of Esme's teases weren't hidden from their penetrating gazes.

Her exposure and teasing game distracted Esme. She was losing herself in fantasies of this and her other adventures. While posing, she tried to keep her expression enigmatic and challenging. During breaks, as she aimlessly wandered, never covering up, among the clothed guests and other installations, she found herself playing with more and more images in her head. If she could, she would stand center stage and slip her finger along the crease of her sex. Dip in. Raise the glistening finger to her mouth. Taste herself. Smell herself. Right there, where everyone could see her. She was naked in that carriage on the London Tube. Alone among all the passengers. All looking at her as she sat on Harold's lap, splayed open, facing them. Everyone had a full-frontal view of her nude body. Her breasts bounced as she repeatedly drove Harold's member into her. Her fingertips brushed her nipples. Her imagination elevated the sensation to phantom pressure. She moved that left hand to her lap, her finger twitching minutely as she imagined stroking her engorged clit she imagined being nudged by Harold's tumescent length as it was first exposed between her lips when she rocked back onto him. Then she engulfed him as he vanished into her receptive wet passage. The young woman from the grove appeared and knelt in front of the conjoined couple. She bent forward to place her lips around Esme's exposed clit, flicking it with her tongue and gently sucking as she had done. A mantra swirled in her head. Cunnilingus. The cunning linguist is lapping her tirelessly. Cunt licking. Esme imagined placing her hand on the back of the woman's head to encourage the ministrations deeper into her slick, wet sex. Right there would be perfect. The girl's delicate violin-shaped back undulated as the supplicant rhythmically savored Esme's essence. The valley between the round bum cheeks spread open to reveal the darker crinkly margin of that just out-of-sight nether orifice. The nodding head with its wiggly, penetrating tongue began to morph into Sam. Esme had completely lost conscious knowledge of the two students...

A touch on her shoulder startled her, interrupting her reverie. "Esme?" Eric was kneeling next to the tableau.

"Oh! Yes?" She blushed, trying to refocus and hoping he couldn't read her thoughts through her body language.

"We need your help."

"Yes?"

"We have a spot of bother with The Dream of the Fisherman's Wife tableau. The last model of the day got nervous and indulged in too much free bubbly. She's too drunk to participate. I don't have time to be delicate. I want you to finish the last interval as the model in that artwork. And, well, to be blunt, someone, a patron, a stranger, will be masturbating you."

 

"What?!"

"No. No one will touch you. Wealthy patrons have made big donations so they can operate a remote-control vibrator and watch."

"So, someone will be paying to Jill me off."

"Not you specifically. They paid for a special private interaction with that specific tableau vivant. Private meaning as clandestine and mysterious as we can arrange it for both the patrons and you with shrouds surrounding the installation."

Eric could not have known what was going on in her head or how much her thoughts had heightened her need for release. Esme let her body speak before her mind caught up. He was happily surprised when, without hesitation or requesting additional details, she looked at him and enthusiastically whispered, "Yes, I'll do it!"

Inside the shrouded grotto, a pink C-shaped Lush vibrator lay on the table along with a pack of wet wipes, a tube of water-based lubricant, and a hand towel. Sam was there, still topless in her flowery pareo and busy cleaning and drying the table. When she looked at Esme, she couldn't have known what Esme was just thinking, but Esme noticed that Sam's aureola puckered. The little puffy cones capped by her stiff nipples suddenly became the visual focus of her chest.

Eric explained as she barely listened, "The vibrator is new. We had to unbox it to charge it and pair it with the app. But you should probably clean it anyway, before you lubricate it. When we are done here, it is yours to keep. So you know, the app is a free download. Just in case, a dedicated remote-control accessory is also for you."

Esme didn't care. With her brain on autopilot, her body was in charge. She squirted a dollop of lube into her palm and rubbed her hands together to begin warming it. She coated the larger bulb of the little vibe. She knew what she was doing and pressed the button to turn it on even as she kind of heard Eric say something about turning it on. She checked that the little LED was glowing; all she needed to know. She palmed her slit, slathering lube over her outer lips. She spread them open, reached down, and slid the bulb into her. She didn't care who was watching but took inspiration with the hope that everyone in the grotto's small audience were.

She hopped onto the table and swiveled to place her legs into sculptured channels over the rock-like sculptures at the end of the table. As if it weren't happening already, then the weirdness happened. Eric and Sam lifted a silicone gel octopus and placed it over her crotch. The simulacrum had lips, as they arranged it, its weight pressed those gel lips against her own, pushing the vibrator snugly into her passage. She felt the smaller bulb of the external tail of the vibrator pressing snugly alongside her clit. The weight of a silicon octopus tentacle was draped across her. She barely heard Eric as he arranged the tentacle across her belly and curled it around her breast and nipple.

"Tell me when it's too much."

Suddenly, she registered a compressing pressure on her nipple as Eric fitted the engorged knob of flesh into a clamp hidden in the tentacle. Her sensitivity ramped up as he tightened it. He reduced the pressure of the clamp when she scrunched her face and sharply inhaled. The confining pressure had her attention focused, for now, on her breast.

The gong to start the interval sounded. Eric and Sam disappeared. She saw an older man with his arm around the waist of a younger woman step in as the curtain closed behind them. She closed her eyes when the vibration in her fanny diverted her attention to the ecstasy ramping up there. She was so ready for her release. Retrospectively, Esme thought it was most likely the woman who manipulated her so as put on a show for her man, getting him revved up without him doing any work. She was earning her trophy.

Just as in the print, Esme grasped the tentacles and pulled the octopus into her center. Vibrations crescendoed and diminished, dominating her sex and causing her to arch with compelling, ecstatic tension, then relax onto a pleasurable plateau.

Esme had unconsciously deviated from the strict pose of the tableau vivant; she pressed her hand first to her breast and then stretched her arm over her head, searching for a purchase that would serve either to pull her away from the omnipotent stimulation radiating from between her legs or push her wanting sex into its embrace. Each action gave her a modicum of control and propelled her into the approaching ecstatic release she knew was coming. She ducked her head and breathed into her forearm, shallow huffs as the tension pulsing through her mounted. Her controller deftly matched Esme's physical reactions with the vibrator's persistent nudges.

Not that it would have made her more aware of time had they stayed open, but Esme kept her eyes closed. A long moaning "Aaaah!" propelled by her diaphragm issued from deep in her throat. She shuddered and came. It was a shame the cephalopod mouth couldn't taste because those inert silicon lips were liberally splashed with her discharge. The smell of her arousal and release, a compelling aphrodisiac, permeated the little shrouded grotto.

When Esme opened her eyes, she saw the couple enthusiastically embracing, having set the tablet aside and abandoned any control they had over the proceedings. He was nuzzling the nape of her neck, mushing her chest with one hand, and the other was inside the low back of her dress, kneading her ample cheek. She was occupied rubbing the bulge in his pants. For her part, Esme took deep, relaxing breaths and let the post-orgasmic languor wash over her. Somebody removed the nipple clamp and the octopus. They placed a folded towel over her lap. She pressed it between her legs as she turned onto her side and drifted asleep. She awoke a short time later with Sam's light touch on her shoulder. The seascape sculptural elements had been removed, and she was covered with a robe.

"We need to finish striking this set. Would you like to shower?"

*****

Esme and Sam met at the Lahore Kebab House in Whitechapel. Being Halal, the eatery didn't have any alcohol on offer. So, by tradition, the ladies had first crossed the street to the Cobra bottle shop and carried in their beers. They nibbled and shared a selection of papadom, little grilled lamb chops, pilau rice, garlic nan, and sag paneer.

Esme wished to steer the conversation toward the topics of relevance to her intentions toward Sam by asking about the weekend on the narrowboat and what Sam felt and thought about serving champagne to the art toffs while nearly naked.

Esme proposed, "You know, traipsing around at a posh charity gala with your girls out is one thing. A cooling breeze in the sun enjoying a day out in the countryside, is another. Would you consider joining us on a naked ramble?"

Sam's demeanor still had a hint of prevarication as she answered, "I would never have considered the gala if that weekend on your narrowboat hadn't prepared me. Maybe a ramble would be fun."

"Well, you've already met Beth and Ray. You've seen them and are familiar. Full on naked." Esme didn't reveal she knew Sam had seen Beth orally engaged with Ray; Ray had seen her watching them through an open crack along the hinge of the hatch cover. "I'd love for you to meet Harold, Eddie, his wife, and the others. A good time is had by all. Did you know rambling is how I met Eric?"

"No," Sam exclaimed.

"Oh, no, he wasn't naked. Just me and the other ramblers. I distracted him from the more mundane landscape he was working on, and he switched to sketching me. All very flattering to this old gal who is losing the battle with gravity."

"No, no. You're wonderful. I just wish I had a smidgen of your shape, attitude, and confidence."

"How about coming along with us on our next outing? Beth and Ray will probably be there, so you won't feel a total newbie."

That is how Sam became part of the group. She realized that with the wide variety of what might be judged imperfections, everyone was comfortable with their own skin and with being in only that skin while in public. They were accepting and uncritical. Even as the youngest member of the group, they made sure she felt welcome and included.

Esme and Sam were strolling together, watching Harold as he scampered about, taking pictures and making those notes he would later share with his wife. Esme pushed their conversation to meander away from how nice the weather and scenery were to the topics of nudity for art and nudity in public. And, as for nudity in public, they discussed the many flavours of such behaviour. Stripping was judged to be strictly entertainment.

"Oh no! Couldn't ever do that," exclaimed Esme.

"Nor could I. No one would want to see me dance."

"It hasn't a thing to do with dancing. That's just stops on the way to the big reveal, and you have such a beautiful reveal."

"Thanks. You're so cute."

"Unless, of course, you are teasing a partner," suggested Esme.

When the conversation turned to the possibilities of being naked in unexpected locations among otherwise-clothed people, the tableau vivant exhibit at the gallery was discussed. Esme took the opportunity to confess.

"I wasn't naked then, but I once let someone paddle my pink canoe while on the Tube. To orgasm."

"What!?"

"Yes. I arranged to have a friend reach under my skirt and apply a vibrator to get me off in public. There was one fellow that I'm pretty sure realized what was going on."

"No..."

"Yes. We left the carriage before anyone else noticed or anything else happened."

These memories played into Esme's fantasies. She was getting wet. She knew that had Sam or any of the rest of the rambling party cared to look, they would see her erect nipples. She wasn't about to reveal Harold's role in her public misbehaviours, but she thought the time was ripe for other revelations, or maybe confessions.

"You know, beyond the feeling of being naked in the outdoors, like we now are, I like being naughty. Like on the Tube, I like the thought of people watching me. I enjoyed posing for the class, that tableau vivant, and well, I presume you were aware of what took place in that shrouded grotto?"

Sam reddened, "Yes. I couldn't do it."

"Eric asked you, too?"

"Yes. As soon as he discovered Marie had gotten drunk. I helped set up that exhibit."

"And you suggested me? You knew I liked to show off in public?"

"No. When I said no, it was like a light went on for him. He suddenly said, 'I know...' and left smiling. You know that couple doubled their pledged donation after your, well, you know."

Sam again reddened nervously, the flush spreading across her chest.

"Have you ever posed for a life drawing class?"

"No!" Sam was emphatic, but her eyes and body told another story. Her nipples swelled, betraying her excitement at the prospect. Esme's innuendos had Sam thinking about exhibitionism.

They were standing a little apart from the other ramblers. Esme took the initiative as she had with Harold. "Sam, I have a favor to ask on a delicate matter that requires your discretion. I want you to draw me."

Having done so before, Sam replied, "Of course."

"Outdoors, in a secluded glade. I will be nude."

"I figured that would be so when you asked. We're naked now."

"While I masturbate," Esme finally said it.

Sam stopped on the footpath and looked wide-eyed at Esme.

"Yes, I want you to draw me while I'm pleasuring myself." Esme had kept her voice low, but she caught Harold smiling at her.

"Pencil, charcoal, watercolor, oil. It doesn't matter. That's up to you. I have a setting in mind." Esme wasn't being fair. She recognized that Sam had a penchant for submission. She was a people pleaser and didn't want to be left out.

"Yes," Sam said as she looked around to see who was eavesdropping.

Harold was still smiling, and he winked at Sam. She suddenly knew who the friend was.

*****

Esme was sitting cross-legged again on a groundsheet in the shade of that same old oak along the footpath where she had been caught behaving in an indecent manner the constabulary would frown upon. On this sunny, hot day, Esme was naked except for her rambling ensemble: her broad-brimmed sun hat firmly seated on her head, a linen Liberty print scarf loosely knotted at her neck, and her trainers. Like a repeat visit to a favorite museum exhibit, the unchanged patchwork of farm fields stretched to the horizon, still divided by orderly lines of ancient trees. Wooded copses still lined streams and filled several valleys. The steeple of the village church pierced the horizon. Unlike her former visit and in deference to her promise to herself, this time she wasn't alone. Sam, also naked, was seated next to her.

Their hiking poles and rucksacks were propped against the tree. They were enjoying a lunch of Jamon Beurre sandwiches. Esme had opened a bottle of a slightly frizzante pignoletto; its refreshing acidic tang cut through the generous slather of butter on the sandwich.

With the bottle of wine finished, Esme and Sam gathered their accoutrements and ambled along the footpath. When she got to the faint path leading to the glade, which she considered adequately private, Esme said, "It's just through here."

*****

In the glade, Esme and Sam spread and arranged the groundsheet. Esme took a seat at one corner, leaned at an angle, her back against the trunk of a fallen tree, legs folded beneath her, knees together. She looked at Sam. It was a penetrating, direct, forceful look of passion and lust. Sam quickly snapped a couple of reference photos with her phone camera. Then, not quite knowing why she was simultaneously turned on and embarrassed, she took up her sketchpad and began.

Not so much in freehand art, but more in drafting and design, there is a tool, the "French" curve. The line of Esme's flank, from the inward curve at her waist, along the exposed edge of her derrière, to her thigh compressed against her calf, put the sensual line of that tool to shame. Sam had figured out Esme's game and she was okay with it. She knew she was going to be fucked. By a woman. Sitting cross-legged on the opposite corner of the sheet, she was acutely aware she was getting wet. Her desire was trickling out of her puffy, open sex. She wanted it. She also knew that Esme could see the wet evidence of her need. Sam wanted it that way.

Esme smiled and nodded. Her sparkling, commanding eyes flickered down to the want on display between Sam's legs. She looked back up and held Sam's gaze. As she did so, she straightened her back and lifted her knee. She opened her legs to expose her glistening sex, knowing Sam would have a difficult time looking away from her open lips. One hand slid down, two fingers pressed into the fold between her outer lips and the ridge of flesh that only partly concealed her tumescent clit. She squeezed her fingers together and began rubbing in a circular motion.

At the same time, her other hand cupped and squashed her breast. Her fingers found her nipple, and she gripped and pulled the stiff nub she found there between her thumb and middle finger. She rubbed and tapped it with her index finger. Unlike the conscious effort required to rub your head and pat your belly, Esme just lost herself in the sensations she was invoking, unconsciously propelling herself to orgasm.

Somewhere in the back of her mind, she heard a quiet whisper, "Not yet." The artist needed the model to hold a pose for some indeterminate time, long enough to capture the moment. She eased the grip she had on her breast. The fingers between her legs stopped circling and slowly slipped down until two were buried, knuckle deep, in her passage. She slowly slipped them in and out allowing the tension she had built directly stimulating her clit to edge away while still enjoying a gentler touch. She became aware of the squishy, slurpy noises her fingers made as they penetrated and withdrew from her cunt (right now, that's how she thought of it). She heard the scratching of charcoal on paper, the swoosh of Sam's fingers and palm against the paper as she smoothed the charcoal into space-filling shading. The charcoal rubbing melded with the sounds of the summer afternoon around them: breezes rustling leaves, crickets chirping, bees buzzing.

Esme began stroking and pinching her clit to again nudge herself toward release. She felt an electric anticipation, but not yet a compelling need to bring about that release. She was in control of herself and that shaded glade. She lost track of time.

Sam could see Esme's peaks and remissions; the cycling tension of her body, the arch of her back, her open penetrating stare, her half-lidded unknowing gaze, chin lifted, head nodding back. Each time, more curves filled the pages of her pad. Sometimes only a few lines, sometimes a fully realized and shaded curve. She wasn't touching Esme, but each stroke on paper felt as if she had warm, pliant flesh under her fingers. She didn't have to think much; she felt there was a direct connection between her vision and the paper. Ecstasy just transferred and appeared on the page. When was Esme going to cum? Would she? When would Esme summon her over so she could touch, taste, and smell the pleasure she was seeing? She wouldn't quit drawing until then, but as soon as that moment came, she knew Esme could do anything she wanted with her. She would comply.

Esme extended the two fingers she had just withdrawn from her sex to Sam. Sam knew. She dropped her pad and charcoal and shifted on all fours across the groundsheet. Esme touched those fingertips to Sam's lips, then gently stroked down, pushing her willing mouth open. The slick juice and fragrance flooded Sam's senses with an overwhelming lust to please the woman openly arrayed before her. As she suckled and cleaned the savory fluids from the fingers penetrating her mouth, Sam felt a gentle tug that directed her forward toward the apex and source between Esme's legs. The intoxicating musk of Esme's delayed arousal fueled Sam's pleasure. As the warm thighs on each side of her face guided her, she extended the tip of her tongue and reveled in the sensation as it contacted the swollen bud presented for her ministrations. She lapped, spread those lips open, and pushed her tongue into the heated passage glinting before her. Suckled. Kissed and flicked the engorged flesh. Inhaled deeply the aroma of pure pleasure. Her hands tucked in behind the knees of each of the spread legs. Sam didn't even think of touching herself, but knew she was going to explode in her own pleasure. Suddenly, the cunt her face was buried in shuddered, and the juices of Esme's spend flooded her face. She tried to lap, lick, and swallow as much as she could, but her quivering release impelled her to withdraw and collapse to catch her breath.

Supine, Sam wallowed in the waning spasms of pleasure from her orgasm. She didn't hear Esme rustling through her rucksack or realize the significance of her shifting around. When she opened her eyes, she saw Esme's sex descending toward her mouth, legs on each side of her head. As Esme gently brushed her swollen, protruding lips across Sam's chin and mouth, Sam felt fingers spreading open her slick passage. Esme shifted down, her breasts pressed onto Sam's stomach, and licked Sam from her mons down to her engorged nub. Electric tension permeated her body as Sam instinctively extended her tongue back into the slick, warm, aromatic flesh pressing into her mouth. Sam felt pressure as something slipped inside, filling her. Not fingers. She gasped. The firm shape held her open, stretched her around it, slipped deeper and deeper, then rested. She hadn't yet gotten over the surprise of being penetrated when Esme started moving the silicon toy slowly out, extending Sam's lips around it, then in, pushing them inward around Sam's clit. Withdrawn a little and then pressed back Esme controlled the faux penis all the while rocking herself against Sam's face. Complicated, but her body had taken over. No thinking involved, just sensation. Esme felt Sam writhing beneath her as the gentle fucking and intermittent licking and sucking pushed her closer to another release. Sam, having lost all volition, was just an extended wet tongue that Esme could rub against, a face to fuck. She was lost in Esme's folds, lapping the savory juices, inhaling the aromas that drove her to ecstasy. Sam came, her essence seeping around the faux cock lodged in her as her body quivered its release. The sight and scent of Sam's pleasure drew Esme back down to that creamy pussy spread before her. The hot wet flesh against her tongue and the taste triggered her shivering orgasm.

 

*****

Esme was sitting on a padded bench in the gallery. It was a curated exhibition at a private gallery, and she enjoyed watching the people stop to look at her. They weren't looking at her on the bench, but her likeness hung on the wall. The likeness she had loaned the gallery because she wanted people to see her. She observed one couple. The much younger woman, obviously his trophy, was clad in the requisite body-hugging low-cut formal black dress de rigueur for such exhibitions. Her dress, of course, was bespoke. Her diamonds were plentiful and sparkly. It was also obvious that his tailored tuxedo wasn't rented. She was leaning onto him; her one arm draped across the small of her older companion's back. His hand slid lightly across her bum. Esme saw her outside shoulder dip rhythmically and, as they turned to leave, she noticed the woman withdraw her hand from the front of her companion's tailored pants where she had been rubbing him to the hardness they would later share. She looked sheepishly at Esme, knowing she had been caught. Her eyes widened when Esme winked.

"Oh my! It's you, you are the model?"

"Yes," said Esme, taking ownership of her explicit exposure.

Esme took pride that she was older, rounder, and, yes, somewhat looser than the classical nude model. Sam had captured that, without compromise, but not photographically. Like many shunga prints, the work showed her unapologetically in the throes of ecstasy, impaled on her fingers, her fluids seeping onto the cloth below her. For most artworks, the model was a vehicle manipulated to meet the artist's expectations and convey that creator's message. For Esme, she had used the artist to accomplish her own goal. She unabashedly claimed her body and ownership of her sexuality. No euphemisms. Courbet's Origin of the World exposed a model, but the artwork represents Courbet's vision and challenge to his audience; her identity remains speculative. Esme was telling the story of her pleasure, her way. She felt good about herself and wasn't going to let decorum compel her to shy away from her joyous embrace of her sexuality.

"You are so brave. I could never do that," commented the woman.

"You should try it." Esme verbally issuing the challenge of pure ecstatic enjoyment and abandonment to the senses posed by the artwork.

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