She liked to visit the Fine Art museum on her days off. Wandering from room to room, taking in all of the delectable visual stimuli, whether a painting by one of the European masters or a Post-Modern abstract installation, she would smile to herself, and caress the sides of her thighs as she gazed at whichever work of human creativity she found before her.
She adored art. She lived for it. She wanted to see it, touch it, smell it, feel it, be inundated by it. Art made her swell, expand, breathe deeper. It excited her in ways she couldn’t put into words.
She knew what it felt like to make it, and was aroused by the thought of other artists feeling the same way as they created. She could feel herself trickling like a little forest brook… and was relieved to be wearing underwear today as it was absorbing the aromatic evidence of her sensorially-drenched arousal.
As she ambled about the various rooms of her preferred museum, she obliviously caught the attention of a man sitting in a far corner of the room, sketchbook open on his lap and a pencil in his hand. His dark eyes followed her as she criss-crossed the room, moving randomly from one painting to another, going towards whichever painting seemed to call to her.
As she stood in front of the painting he was sketching, he noticed her press her legs together and gently bunch up her skirt with her hand, pulling it taut against her right ass cheek. He wiped his brow as he watched her thumb stroking the bare skin of her thigh. He picked up his pencil, flipped to a fresh page, and began to sketch her curves as a bead of sweat rolled down the side of his stubbled face.
She heard the sound of his pencil etching, and turned towards him, regarding his furrowed brow and his clandestine work. When he looked up to take her in again, their eyes met, his dark as pitch and hers clear as quartz. He tried to cover his sketch with his hand, but her bright eyes were faster.
He could not read the expression on her face. Was it curiosity? Irritation? Expectation? Were her pupils dilated? He was perplexed because he was so used to seeing people as open books. She was a frustration to him, but one that he found more amusing than annoying.
He noticed her skirt had buttons going up from the hemline to the waist line. The bottom two were already unbuttoned. He found it a rather practical but very sexy design feature; he imagined possibilities with that skirt.
Though he was still trying to decode her, she could read him without any doubt: he was rapt. She had often fantasized of someone wearing that exact look while beholding her, and had never seen it until that moment.
It made her clench her secret parts, and push out an audibly laboured breath. He smiled at her blushing cheeks as he flipped to another fresh page, taking care to hide his substantial erection with his sketchbook.
She noticed it, but didn’t give it away. She tossed a glance over her shoulder to see where the security guard was; he was zoning out by the entrance on the other side of the room. There were no other patrons aside from the two of them, so she slowly started to unbutton her skirt from the bottom up. The last button was positioned right below her belly button. She left that untouched lest her whole skirt fall to the floor.
He glimpsed her floral print thong as she parted her skirt, and her legs. Another bead of sweat slid down the side of his face as she pulled her panties away from the overflowing wellspring at the appex of her ample thighs. His hand started to dance the pencil across the page, sketching out the shaded areas and rolling contours of her glistening sex. He couldn’t pull his eyes from her fluttering shell-pink petals as he translated her hidden beauty to the pages of his sketchbook. He could smell her swollen sea as it ebbed and flowed like waves of oceanic desire as she swirled her finger around and around that protruding node of ecstacy peeking out from under its hood.
His turgid rod pressed into his jeans, filling him with a desperate ache and an undeniable need to enter her, infiltrate her very essence, as she slipped her index finger between her honeyed pussy lips. Then she brought her finger to her mouth and licked it clean. His body spasmed and held in a groan as he issued the final strokes of graphite to the sketch. It was finished now. So was he. So were his cum-stained pants.
And now, so was she. She buttoned down her skirt, gifting him with a crooked mischievous grin, not once breaking eye contact. He dropped his pencil in his waking reverie, and leaned over to retrieve it. As he rose up, pencil in hand, he watched her swaying hips as she walked away, and he was frozen stiff with unyielding lust. He was too much of a mess to pursue her… but they both knew this would not be the last encounter.