I've never met a person before or since like The Art Collector. His devotion was exactly what I needed, but had never known I wanted. To be worshipped. To be idolized. Exactly on my own terms. For everything I was to be perfect for him, even my cruelty and caprice.
The whole thing started the night of my opening, when all the critics and esteemed members of the art world were there to see and be seen. It was a sticky humid night, but the air inside the gallery was cold enough to harden everyones' nipples. The women all had freshly shaved legs and were wearing backless dresses that showed considerable devotion to the God of Barre. The men were all wearing bowties that would've delighted Newland Archer and all smelled like woody aftershaves. The faces of these people were only capable of emotions within a narrow spectrum from mild dismay to moderate satisfaction. Everyone was incredibly rich and incredibly fearful of something...maybe the impending class war which we were all promised was coming soon? Hilariously, my own recent commercial success was happening because I'd scared these people into thinking that my validation was their salvation.
The joy I felt of being recognized and feted was immediately undercut by my close proximity to these ghostly resource sponges. But I digress. The gallery was vibrating with ohhhhs and wowwws and the show was "going well", but I was incredibly nervous. I really just wanted it to be over as soon as possible so I could slink back into my studio, smoke some weed and masturbate. But first I had to endure this environment for another hour.
I passed the time by sitting on the floor in the corner of the room, and behaving poorly. I was wearing a short leather skirt that framed my ass perfectly, and my long legs took up almost half my body. With my tattooed arms wrapped casually around my knees, I spread my legs spread apart, first a little bit so it was almost unnoticeable, and then a lot so you could see my soft inner thigh and purple silk panties that crested from my asshole right up my mound.
The reactions were amazing — who is that crazy lewd woman in the corner with her legs open? Is she...does she know...? I smiled to let them know that yes, it was me, yes, I was aware, and yes, they were in my space. I sneered in an explicit way that told them they were here because I had to invite them, and not because I wanted to. The only part of the experience I actually liked was just sitting there, exposed at my own art show, and no one being able to do a damn thing about it.
"That's The Artist," I kept hearing them whisper, pointing at me in a manner they thought was discreet. They stared, the women narrowing their eyes and elbowing the men, the eyes of the men darting back to my pussy whenever possible. I'd glower back at them.
"Love your work," a woman in a tight bun said. She was being introduced to me by the gallery owner. I didn't move from my seat on the floor, staring up at her. "It's so honest. How did you conceive of it?"
I thought for a moment, putting on my "thinking" face. "It came right from my vagina, actually," I responded, with utmost solemnity.
The woman smiled. "Oh that's interesting...how so?"
"What do you mean, how so?"
"How does your sex —?"
"You mean my vagina?"
"Yes, your vagina. How does it inspire your work?"
"Well, I just ask her what she needs, and she usually tells me. And then I put what she needs on display for all you people."
Right on cue, the woman laughed heartily, so glad to have secured an on-brand anecdote from the show. I heard her repeat it to her husband, who also guffawed.
***
I'd just about had enough when a guy in a fancy charcoal grey suit and intense blue eyes approached me. He was alone, clean-shaved, somewhere in his 50s, about 20 years older than me, with a suave salt and pepper widow's peak and medium-length hair perfectly coiffed. He seemed like an executive type of some kind, and I noticed he kept wiping his hands on his suit pants. He was surprisingly nervous and sweaty. It was clear from his posture that he didn't feel entitled to my attention the way the others did, a quality that was tremendously arousing.
"Hi," he said, in a steady, sincere tone. "It's a true honor to meet you, Artist...I...I have a deep appreciation for you."
I sized him up. "For me or my work?"
"For everything that you are."
I couldn't help but be a little stunned.
"I'll do anything for you," he persisted.
"Anything?"
"Anything. Just tell me what to do."
I was pretty drunk and over it at this point, so I leaned over and told him to go to the bathroom, jerk off, and collect his come in his wine glass. Then I would take the sample back to my lab to analyze it, and let him know if he was worth my time. I said it seriously, but with room for him to interpret it as a joke if he chose to. Something in his body told me he was looking to be obedient to me.
I guessed right. His eyes lit up and he looked positively thrilled to be serving my whim. He bowed his head slightly, and left. I'd only taken three more sips of my wine, when he returned, beckoning me towards the corner of the gallery.
"Here you are," he said, pulling a champagne flute quarter full of semen from inside his jacket pocket. "I hope it's acceptable to you."
I squinted hard at the flute, inspecting its contents with the unsparing attention of a chemist. I held it up in front of the recessed light above me, looking back and forth between the man and his semen in haughty judgement, sharing my thorough process with gallery guest passerby to achieve maximum humiliation and embarrassment for him. He was utterly transfixed by my actions, his emotions bubbling right on the surface. He was achingly vulnerable, and achingly hot.
I put the flute down on the ground. "I've analyzed the contents of the sample," I whispered in his ear, gradually lowering my high-heeled boot upon the glass. "And I see absolutely nothing remarkable here."
His breathing became labored, as he heard the glass slowly crunch under my heel, its viscous liquid spilling out. I continued.
"And now my boot is covered in your disgusting specimen." So quickly, he ripped off his silk tie from around his collar, dropped to his knees. "You can't do anything right, can you?"
He began wiping his come from my boot. "Good boy," I purred. "I hope that's your most expensive silk tie that is now ruined with your inadequate ejaculate." Each wipe was so delicate, it felt like a caress. "I'll need new boots, because I will never wear these filthy ones again."
He rose. "My sincere apologies, Artist. I will rectify the situation."
I reached over and unbuttoned the cuff of his dress shirt, exposing his forearm, and then took an eyeliner pencil from my blazer pocket and wrote my number on him. He kissed the spots where my hand had touched his arm.
"Thank you," he said softly, and hurried away.
***
The brand new version of my high-heeled boots arrived before noon the next day. They were delivered to my studio loft with a note, "Dear Artist, My sincere apologies. I hope these are to your liking. And, also, that you'll permit me to visit you again. - The Art Collector"
I'd never considered this type of arrangement before, but intuitively understood and respected his submitted devotion to me. Where else in the world is an artist to find complete appreciation of this kind? It made me so horny, the thought of the top of his head moving back and forth as he dutifully scrubbed his come off my boots in the cold public space of the gallery. So I spent the day naked, smearing dark green paint on my breasts and ass so that both areas were wet, and then cleaning my hands enough to plunge them deep into my aching pussy, teasing my clit with paint-splattered fingers that were rough like a man's, sticking my thickest paintbrush in my asshole while I did it, genuflecting before my work, shaking with each new orgasm that rolled its way through my body. That afternoon, I painted with vigor and control, driving the paint into the crevices of the canvas with reckless abandon, completely dominating the white space in ways that I hadn't before. Soon the loft became hot with me. I was elated.
When I heard the buzzer, I was a little startled, but I had a feeling I knew who it would be. I buzzed him up without asking. I put on my new boots, my skirt from last night, and a leather jacket.
"Hi." He was standing at the door to my loft, in the same charcoal suit from the previous day, with a freshly-pressed dress shirt. He held a gorgeous bouquet of two dozen red and pink roses out to me.
