Naughty Paris. Jina Bacarr

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СКАЧАТЬ This is art.

      Art? C’mon, a lifetime of Cosmo signals to me loud and clear this is sex, pure and simple. My juices flow and the fullness in my groin swells as I hear the old artist scuffling out front.

      He’s back.

      I hear him strike a wooden match. He’s lighting another stubby Gauloise cigarette. A wavy swirl of smoke snakes over the screen. Smoke has no effect on the man in the painting. He’s still smiling. Me? I cough.

      Not taking my eyes off this macho pin-up, I call out from behind the screen in what I hope is an I’m-just-curious voice, “I found a painting I like.”

      “Mademoiselle?”

      “The good-looking guy in tight pants under the black velvet drape.” I wet my lips. Ooh la-la.

      “Ah, you found Paul Borquet.”

      “Who is he?”

      “He was considered a genius in his time, mademoiselle. The painting is a self-portrait he did in his studio in Montmartre.”

      “I never heard of him.”

      “After his strange disappearance in 1889, the art world forgot about him. I covered him up years ago.”

      “Covered him up? Why?” I lean my hip against this lost artist. So close our thighs touch. I tingle. He has an electric charisma that transcends three-dimensional space. Or am I just horny?

      “The models spend too much time looking at him—” the old artist laughs “—and arousing themselves.”

      Even in the murky light, I can see why. The man is dark, dangerous looking, with a raw aura of lust about him that makes my skin crawl with ideas of back alley cafés, strong liqueur and sweat-drenched nights of passion. An erotic hero.

      My eyes travel down to the big bulge between his legs, confirming my suspicions. No doubt he has an ego to match. He’s handsome with chiseled, though slightly misaligned features, giving him a cocky air. He stands with his legs apart, his longish dark hair swirling around his open collar and contrasting with the musculature of his chest, visible under his white ruffled shirt.

      Looking at him starts a slow burn down in the unexplored area below my phony tan line. He makes me squirm. I remind myself he’s just a painting. Then a sneaky thought hits me. How would it feel to make love to him? Why not? After David gave me the heave-ho, a girl’s got to rev up her mojo even if he is a two-dimensional hunk in tight pants.

      I drape the black velvet curtain around my shoulders in a provocative swirl, letting it slide down my bare back, and wiggle my butt. I wonder what it would feel like to run my fingers over his chest, touch his hot flesh, then grab on to the mauve-colored scarf wound around his neck in a graceful swirl and pull him close to me. So close I can inhale his musky scent, then lean my cheek against the deep satin blackness of his cape slung over one shoulder.

      I feel my inhibitions rise up and escape from me like someone sucked the breath out of me with a long, deep kiss. French kissing. I can’t get the desire of wishing for a deep kiss from him out of my mind.

      I shudder. Sweat trickles down my neck. What am I doing? Making love to an artist who died over a hundred years ago? I am losing it. I should run out into the rain and let a good soaking clear my head.

      Flash! Lightning dances over the varnished ebony screen, making the surface shimmer. I flinch, turn my back to the painting. I won’t look at him. I won’t. Thunder echoes in my ears, as if Paul Borquet is daring me to look.

      I ask, “Was he an Impressionist?”

      “Paul Borquet was among the best, mademoiselle,” says the old artist. “Monet, Renoir, Toulouse-Lautrec, they all admired the young artist’s work. And his bravery.”

      I cock my head and sneak a peek at Paul Borquet. I know I shouldn’t, but I can’t help myself.

      “Bravery?” I ask. Okay, so he was a real alpha male. Interesting. Very interesting and just what I don’t need. Another stud who pops steroids like they’re purple M&Ms.

      “He died in a fire, mademoiselle, trying to save the woman he loved.”

      That’s cool, but I’ve had my fill of macho overkill. So why can’t I stop looking at Paul Borquet? I’ll tell you why. No cosmetic effect of darkness at play here. I know art. His work has energy. Vibration. He really understands color. His use of paint becomes a vehicle for the perception of light. He seems suspended, shimmering and vivacious within the frame of the portrait. There’s a snapshot quality to the work, a sense of immediacy and spontaneity as if he were here now in front of me, alive.

      “Paul Borquet,” I mumble, putting my thumb to my lips and sucking on it, wondering if he was as good in bed as he was with a paintbrush. A sexual hunger awakens inside me and makes me reach down into myself, way down.

      Wetting my lips, I imagine him naked. I slide the heated palms of my hands over my thighs, imagining the sticky, dewy liquid dripping from his penis, glistening. I savor this moment. The artist’s use of bold brushstrokes and harsh lines suggests a mad aggressiveness about his personality that excites me. Gives me chills, then makes me hot. Very hot.

      I keep my eyes riveted on the painting as I wiggle my hips, dreaming about how it would feel to have the paintbrush of this lost Impressionist sliding down over my belly, down between my thighs, then tickling me with its soft bristles. Running his fingers up and down my torso, lingering here and there, taking his time. Then licking me with his tongue, drawing his finger in and out of my pussy. In and out. In and out.

      I sway, shake, moan, barely keeping my urges under control. The strong smell of oil paint mixes with the sweet smell of my own desire as I move in time to music in my head. I swear Paul Borquet winks at me. I take one step backward, then a second. His eyes seem to follow me. A tremulous hunger swells up in me, aching to be satisfied.

      I bend forward, touching my breasts, squeezing my nipples, swaying my shoulders back and forth. Then I rub my pussy slowly, daring the man in the portrait to kiss me. I pretend I’m kneeling astride the lost artist, locking my legs slowly around his neck, his longish dark hair tickling the insides of my thighs as I press my soft mound on his mouth, brushing my body back and forth across his lips. A tingling vibrates between my legs. Melty, sweaty heat wiggles deliciously down to my pussy and a subtle, yet burning sensation flows through me as he tickles the sensitive button of my clitoris with his tongue.

      I squeeze my pubic muscles together. My pussy is tight and hot, though I haven’t come. I want him to fuck me. I want to clamp down on his cock as if it were deep inside me. I want to keep it there forever. My mouth is dry. I lick my pink glossed lips, then give out a low moan.

      Can I push the limits? Can I climax in my fantasy?

      I smile. No one can see me behind the screen. No one but Paul Borquet with his broad shoulders, bulging biceps, narrow waist and hard lean thighs. And, oh yes, his squeezable butt.

      My heart is pounding, pounding in my ears. I abandon all my sensibilities, grabbing the statue of the Egyptian god Min and holding it between my nude breasts, its firm erection nesting in my cleavage as I climax wildly, warm sweetness oozing in my cunt as melodic waves of pleasure hum through me, a seamless tapestry of buzzing and purring and sighs and moans weaving through the air, some breathy in tone, others louder, still others painfully ecstatic.

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