Art of the Flash
It had to be deliberate. She couldn't be sitting behind her little art-gallery desk, thighs apart, flashing her neat black panties at me . . . by accident.
The shape of the Manhattan art gallery was so long and narrow that, from my position in the doorway, the lovely woman at the desk was practically at the vanishing point in my field of vision. Nonetheless, her loveliness, even viewed impressionistically from that distance, was enough to make me stop in my tracks.
I'm quite the art lover--not to mention a mediocre amateur painter--and a woman, no matter how beautiful, is going to have tough competition for my attention if she's surrounded by breathtaking paintings. But this woman had already won that contest even though her gallery had some of the most engaging pieces I'd seen in many a lunch hour. I was fascinated by her rich black hair, creamy complexion and sensitive lips. From where I stood, I could not see the personality of her eyes, but I imagined pools of sharp, shimmering intelligence, infused with kindness and garnished with laughing eyelashes.
Her face was sensuous, but her outfit was crisp. An elegant black skirt suit; stockings; and . . . oh my. Nice black panties. Under the desk.
She had to know. She could not work at this desk all day, in the middle of a busy city, and not be aware of when her panties were or were not visible to the casual observer. This really mattered to me. Because, if it were an accident, it would not be polite to let my gaze linger there, or return there between paintings. If, however, it was intentional--as I supposed--then I owed it to both of us to make the most of it.
And then came the question of whether she sat this way all the time, exposing her pantied crotch to the world . . . or whether she had seen me come in the door, liked the look of me, and given me a special, personal treat. Naturally, I would like to believe that I have such an effect on stunning women. But, in all honesty, I couldn't remember the last time an art-gallery manager had flashed me. Was she an all-purpose exhibitionist, or was she my exhibitionist?
I suddenly had the exciting thought that this exquisite woman had been masturbating, alone in the gallery, prior to my arrival. I had interrupted, leaving her horny . . . and receptive. How I wanted to stroke those receptive panties.
I walked noncommittally toward her end of the shop and she said, "Good afternoon." And she looked at me with a mischievous expression that told me that, yes, it was deliberate, and, yes, it was just for me.
At this angle, I could no longer see under the desk. But the trade-off was well worth it, because her face was even more beautiful than I had inferred. With such a rare mixture of proportion and personality in her features, she looked like someone who should be immortalized in priceless paintings, not immersed in price-tagged canvases. Perhaps, I reflected, she moonlighted as a model. Had I possessed more talent in that direction, I would have loved to spend countless hours studying her transcendently-serene face and attempting to render it on a canvas. Even with great ability, I conjectured that I would fail to capture her . . . but what a pleasant way to spend hour after hour failing! I could, I told myself, spend days failing to paint the eyes alone--such deep, sympathetic, clever eyes, imbued with an arresting sexuality. Yes, I had the impression that this was the sort of woman who could discuss the fine points of art history and lewdly flash her underwear, or even her bare cunt, at the same time . . . and be passionate about all of it.
I walked even closer to the desk, wordlessly conveying the notion--a not-entirely-false one--that I wanted to get a closer look at a painting in its vicinity. When I stepped within six feet of the lady--my back toward her, as I made a point of facing the art--I detected a subtle, feminine aroma that encouraged me in my hopes that she was aroused by my presence, and had maybe even primed herself with her fingers before I had walked in.
After I'd had my fill of the still life that I had chosen as a diversion, I spun around and grinned at her.
"Nice," I said, in a tone of voice that hovered between public space and bedroom.
She blushed slightly. "Thank you. And I mean it," she explained with warmth. "The gallery works very closely with its artists, and so the compliments their paintings receive are personally meaningful to the woman behind the desk."
The woman behind the desk. The woman with sometimes-visible, perhaps daintily-moistened lingerie.
"Does the woman behind the desk always speak about herself in the third person?" I was taking a chance that she had a sense of humor. Except I wasn't really taking a chance, because I knew instinctively that those eyes held humor.
She smiled agreeably. "It depends what mood she's in." Excellent. Of course a woman like this could keep up with my banter.
"And what mood is she in today?"
She shifted in her chair--it was a discreet motion, but its power went straight to my crotch. "Hmm . . . a good mood, I'm deciding." Her gaze held mine in a gentle but determined grip. "Maybe a restless mood. A glad-to-have-some-company-after-a-boring-morning mood."
I glanced at my watch. "I wish I could stay longer, to enjoy the paintings . . . and the mood." I again found myself staring directly into those magnetic eyes. "I'll have to pay you another visit when I have more time." I hesitated. "Are you always the one minding the store?"
"Yes, I'll be here for you when you come back." She made another subtle movement in her seat, and I was certain now that she couldn't wait to plunge her hand into her black panties as soon as I was out the door. "In fact, perhaps you're free tomorrow evening." She picked up a cardstock handbill from a stack on the desk. She scribbled something on it, and offered it to me. I stepped forward to claim it.
"I thought you might like to join us," she said, with an emphasis on the word join. "After the close of business tomorrow."
I looked at the card, which advertised the kick-off to a special show featuring some of the contemporary Impressionist painters whose work was displayed here. In a joyful, artistic hand, she had written her name--Valerie--and circled the time, 7:00 p.m.
"I think I can make it," I said.
Valerie touched my sleeve. It was a gesture of girlish enthusiasm that was incredibly sexy in the context of her black suit and bustling desk. "I hope you will."
I had to get myself out of there before I impulsively sacrificed a full schedule of meetings to an attempt to get under that desk with those panties. So I took a perfunctory turn around the room, making note of the paintings I'd like to reacquaint myself with later, and then I drifted toward the door. I turned to look at Valerie, who was busy with some paperwork. Her knees were together now. But when my "See you tomorrow" drew her attention my way, I saw them open for me, as if involuntarily.
Walking back toward my office, I imagined Valerie's fingers within her lingerie, her hips rocking in her chair, her eyes closing in ecstasy as she visualized . . . me? My ordinary-looking face surprised me in a shop window reflection as the fantasy played out in my mind.
By the time I was ascending the elevator, it was obvious that I would need to get inside my own underwear for a minute or two before settling down to the afternoon's work.
As I danced in place in the bathroom, my trousers down to my knees, I could still smell her and see her panties clinging, so very invitingly.
***
At Her Opening
The gallery door was locked. This was obviously a private affair. I shielded my face from the glare of the streetlights and looked through the window. Right away, Valerie noticed me. She beamed endearingly and let me in.
"I'm so glad you're here . . . ."
"Max," I supplied.
"Welcome to my opening, Max."
I swallowed, because I had already concluded that Valerie was the sort of person whose choice of words was always intentional.
"Let me introduce you to my artists."
I teased her. " 'My artists,' eh? I notice that the woman behind the desk is not in the third person tonight."
Valerie laughed. "Well, for that matter she--I-- am not actually behind the desk, either."
The next hour was pleasant for all. I had the privilege of admiring the paintings I'd had to rush away from last time, and before long I found myself the proud owner of two of them. The artists bubbled over with enthusiasm in the face of my ready expertise and open wallet. For my part, I welcomed the opportunity to support their genius with my praise and my purchases. As for Valerie, her personal delight at my presence seemed to begin where her professional delight left off.
Nor was I remiss in admiring her. Dressed becomingly in a long peasant skirt and a bohemian blouse, she exuded charm and culture. A hint of lipstick and eye makeup emphasized the radiance of her face, and a drop of Chardonnay brought a pretty touch of color to her cheeks (Or was it my company?).
Though she successfully promoted the pleasant illusion that I had her full attention, it was clear that Valerie was no slouch as far as circulating, making introductions, and logging sales were concerned. As the event wound down and I watched her tally up the various artists' lists, I was pleased to note that my two acquisitions represented only a fraction of the evening's transactions.
Soon, even the artists had wished us goodnight, and I was alone with her. I didn't want to risk a faux pas by trying to segue her professional invitation into an intimate situation too abruptly . . . but then I remembered that this was a woman who had unceremoniously opened her legs at me.
"Congratulations," I began.
"Thank you," she said. She had been poised all evening. But now that we were by ourselves, she seemed a little shy.
"You've been so busy. You hardly had any wine." I touched her hand for an instant. Her glass, which had never been more than half full, was still a quarter full. "But we can rectify this. Would you help me assess Bordeaux I've been looking forward to sampling? I live just two blocks from here."
"I'll bring what's left of the cheese," she said smoothly.
***
The Lady Takes a Seat
Although I have a very comfortable living room, Valerie and I lingered on the chrome barstools in my kitchen, discussing art and travel and wine as we explored the bottle of Bordeaux.
After finishing her second glass, my guest cocked her head in the direction of the powder room. "I'll be right back. I need to go in there and . . . sit down for ten seconds." She smiled with a delicate flirtatiousness as she stood up and smoothed her skirt.
"Ten seconds?" I queried amiably, as I escorted her past the stove and refrigerator and opened the door for her. "You're quick!"
"That's what they say," she answered with a wink, and she pulled the door closed.
An instant later, the door re-opened. She couldn't possibly have been that quick.
"Umm," she said. "I don't suppose you'd like to accompany me?"
My throat went dry. I could quickly get used to Valerie's brand of private exhibitionism. "You're inviting me to watch?"
"Well, you won't really be able to see anything. I am wearing a long skirt, after all."
But I saw plenty. I saw a beautiful woman gather up enough skirt to expose some fresh thigh flesh above her stockings. I saw her produce black panties--a twin pair to the lingerie I'd met yesterday--from beneath the skirt. I saw her sit with elegance, looking as radiant and dignified as if she were posing for a portrait. Meanwhile the invisible mystery occurring at her underside made itself known only by the slightly-muted sound of falling water. And I was acutely aware that it was her bared ass and her unveiled pussy that served to muffle this sound. Though both these attributes were completely hidden from view, I knew they were right there . . . as evidenced by the displaced panties, the liquid soundtrack, and the faint but familiar feminine aroma that began to tickle my nostrils just as she was finishing.
Ten seconds later, we were back at the kitchen counter, polishing off the wine and acting as if nothing had happened, though the air was electric with the fact that it had.
***
Impressions
"Well, Max," she said with husky familiarity. "We've finished all the wine. I've been to the powder room. Now what?" Without waiting for an answer, she leaned in, closed her eyes, and gave my lips a succulent kiss. She tasted as vivid as the fruits in a masterly still life, and she smelled as inviting as a summer seascape. The wine on her breath was like the texture of a ripe peach, beckoning one's tongue. Without even thinking, my hands sought--and found--her chest, and she kissed me more hungrily as I fondled her through her blouse.
Now the kitchen had ceased to be the ideal venue, and we guided ourselves to the living room. There we stood like performers, interlocked before the inanimate audience of two loveseats and a floor lamp.
I didn't even realize how much of her clothing she was shedding while our tongues danced together. When she stepped back, her black panties were all that remained of her outfit. The blouse and long skirt were already at her feet, and, as she peeled the panties, her bra-less breasts swayed for me.
I scurried forward, cradled these breasts anew, and began to kiss their soft flesh, kiss after methodical kiss. "Valerie." Kiss. "You have flashed your black panties at me." Kiss. "You have said delicious, suggestive things to me and invited me to your party." Kiss. "You have encouraged me to join you when you bared your bottom in my powder room." Kiss. "And now you stand, naked as a painting and twice as beautiful, in my living room." Kiss. "I'm getting the distinct impression . . ." kiss ". . . that you're trying to seduce me."
"In the art world, we learn to trust our impressions," she answered.
As she spoke, she pushed my head down gently and began to paint my face, ever so slowly, with her juicy snatch.
Originally Published March 2007: Getting Lucky