Art Gallery by Carol Queen (from More Five Minute Erotica)
Do you like your erotica short and sweet? So do we! And, if you liked Five Minute Erotica, you may want to put More Five Minute Erotica on your radar! Due out in December, Carol Queen is bringing us another collection of explicit shorts! (Fun fact: a sex therapist has written about using it with couples to get them talking!)
Check out this exclusive sneak preview by Carol Queen herself!
by Carol Queen
At the gallery everyone clutched a plastic glass of wine and moved around the room, communing with each piece of art: a sculpture resembling a medieval orrery with a fresh red apple speared William Tell-style, suspended in the center of the revolving bands; a solarized nude perched on a log over a forest stream; wild paint-gobbed canines looking like they’d leap out of the canvas howling with mad dog glee. One had a little red hard-on.
In the center of the gallery, a bed. Velvet ropes around it made a little fence to keep us patrons a distance away. We needed to be herded back because the bed’s occupants “ more the artistic focus than the bed’s tacky sheets, which threatened to come off the corners even before the couple climbed on “ needed room to move.
They had just walked through the crowd serenely. She wore cute lingerie which reinforced her look: strawberry blonde and pert, though if you looked again you’d see tattoos as evidence that she was really a girl from Bohemia, not next door. He had no body marks like this; he looked clean-scrubbed and, except for an arty haircut, wholesome and young like her. He wore boxers and socks.
If the gallery people got these two from the art school, they chose well, I mused as I held Robert’s hand and studied them. Maybe, already boyfriend and girlfriend, they had jumped at the chance to do something arty and naughty. They now lay together on the bed and talked to each other softly, laughing a little bit now and then, stretching into each other like red-blonde cats and starting to touch. Maybe the gallery people got them from craigslist, advertising for exhibitionists. But they didn’t seem in any hurry to take off their underwear. Maybe this was it, maybe this was all they were going to do.
They touched languidly and whispered. No clothes came off. One by one gallery patrons, including Robert and me, turned away; the other art was rather good, and we had yet to study one whole wall full of Surrealist works whose method I couldn’t quite discern: were those photos collaged with a computer program, then painted over? Fascinating.
Another sip of wine, and when we turned again, she lay naked and purring and he stroked now with more focus. I found his socks distracting, though her nipples promised to become the center of everyone’s attention soon. Certainly his, as he began to lick them, and as we all watched, it seemed evident they were the main thing for her as well: she arched her body up to get her small breasts into his mouth. One long arm behind her to support her in the feline arch, he used his other hand to knead her belly while he sucked. In her navel glittered a little jewel.
I saw his erection as soon as its shape formed inside the boxers. Plaid cotton boxers with a youthful cock inside: so American, so hopeful. And here at the gallery his hope and ours would be rewarded. She fished down the waistband to feel it and squeeze. She helped him pull the boxers off, his artistic material now fully revealed, and she handled his cock like she knew it already, so maybe the craigslist theory was wrong, or at least they had taken the opportunity to practice a time or two before the gallery opening. His cock lay tight against his belly, long and wide enough that I wondered, that slim little woman, would it fit?
Oh, of course it would. It fit in her mouth, at least. We surrounded the bed, pressing against the velvet ropes enough to make them sway. We gazed. A murmur of approval as he pushed her over, caught her labia between two fingers, bent down to feast every bit as avidly as he had on her nipples. She kept hold of his cock but sometimes seemed to lose her grip as his tongue moved incessantly. I stood close enough now, Robert pressed in behind me, to see his foreskin slide voluptuously up and down, though probably in too erratic a rhythm for him to be able to come.
Anyway, she came first. With little mews that escalated louder and louder, then began to subside.
As he flipped her over to enter her she pressed back against him and came some more, or at least made more sound, her cries bouncing off the gallery walls that usually housed such contemplative quiet. But we all stayed still, only a slight rustle and whisper to disturb them as they began in earnest to fuck.
The gallery-goers crowded around, I saw, whenever something of the tableau changed: when one of them began to pant, when they assumed a new position. Static movement, motion that did not change for stretches of minutes, arms holding him up in one position, hers curling around his back, hips tracing a restricted if escalating trajectory, caused the audience to move away. I could feel my attention loosening, my gaze traveling over the peach curves of their bodies to study that dog on the other wall. The artist had built the paint up so thickly it was practically 3-D; no wonder the dog looked about to leap toward us.
But a flurry of movement yanked my attention back: she keened again in orgasm, bending back into a salacious, almost helpless-looking yoga pose as he knelt between her legs, held her hips up to receive his fast thrusts, and did not seem to register at all the people surrounding him as he gazed down on her, breasts arched out, arms thrown back over her head and moving, too, with the power of the fucking, little jerky moves that reinforced what we could clearly see: she was completely, perfectly absorbed in her cunt, its sensations, the orgasm that radiated and took her.
At home in a bed his come would no doubt have followed fast on hers. We could all see how close he was. But it did not. Maybe he couldn’t help it, more conscious of us crowding around them than he seemed.
No one said anything, but one by one, two by two, we drifted back to the walls. Some of us really looked at the art. It had not seemed especially erotic at first, but now the arrow-speared apple seemed an allegory, the dog’s little erection a crucial part of the artist’s paean to animal energy. I did not so much as glance back at the bed until I heard the springs resume their creak. The sheet had come half-off by now. “They should have taped it down, I whispered to Robert, pointing. It made the tableau more realistic, on one hand: look, even the linens begin to lose control.
Raised over her, sweat beading up on his face, he gazed down into her eyes and she gazed up. Our presence again meant nothing to them, though if he had lifted his head, it would have been my eyes locked with his when he came.