John's art was compelling and whenever I visited his gallery I'd lose myself for hours, often sitting before a painting enraptured in its sheer beauty. The images went beyond erotic, transcended beauty, almost touching on divine. As blasphemous as it may sound, each and every image John revealed in his paintings was a religious experience.
As I wandered through the gallery I could watch as the most tender parts of a woman would flower in an amazing progression of images. I could savor the classic innocence of the tight slit nestled between wavy curls of hair, with only the slightest hint of the clit bulging at the top.
Wandering a few steps further, I could witness the emergence of longing with the curving pink lips opening to the light. The delicacy of flesh, the light, flowing curves turning outward, then suddenly inward could jumble the senses of any art lover viewing the work.
The next image might show the first hints of feminine moisture, the faint glistening as longing became desire. In the image the clit would begin to protrude, exposing its smooth tip to the possibility of touch. I could only ask myself, "Will it be a fingertip, a tongue or something more?"
After observing most of John's display, I stumbled across one set of paintings that simply took my breath away. The images were simply so stunningly exquisite, exotic and erotic that I felt a tingling completely through my body. Only when I spent nearly half the day studying the seemingly infinite appeal of what had to be the most beautiful pussy in the known world, I simply had to ask about it.
"John," I said, feeling dizzy from the exertion it took to draw me away from the voluptuous vulva, "I know you told me never to ask who posed for the individual paintings, but those in side gallery B are simply too incredible. I just have to know."
