Menage A Trois Ch 06

I awoke early the next morning, about 5:00, with a nasty headache from too much whiskey the night before. I staggered to the kitchen and washed down three ibuprofen with a full glass of water, thinking that I should have done that before I went to bed. Instead of going back to bed I made a pot of coffee and sat down to think about my day, trying to make a checklist. Lets see I thought, I know I've got an appointment downtown at Wendover's Gallery. That's at ten, and I need to put together a portfolio to show the gallery's owner, Howard. If I'm going down there, I should also drop in on Rachel at the bookstore and see if she's still talking to me. I've been kind of ignoring her since the Rocky Road and Three Stooges evening.

But there is something else I want to do, and it's more important to me now than anything else. When Sandy told me last night that she was wearing nothing but a pair of black pumps and a string of pearls, it burned an image into my mind that I have to draw. I've seen her like that before, and it's always been wildly erotic to me. I pour a second cup of coffee and walk to the studio. I can shower and fix breakfast later I tell myself, and it won't take anytime at all to put the portfolio together.

Three and a half hours later it's fast approaching nine o'clock. I have five finished sketches of Sandy wearing nothing but the pearls and her high heels, and I like them all. The best I decide is one in which she is sitting in an arm chair, with one leg thrown over the arm of the chair and the pump on that foot dangling from her toe. Her pussy is fully exposed and looks aroused (I know that feature will be clearer, maybe even the focal point when I do the drawings in pastels). She has the string of pearls pulled up and hanging from her mouth as she uses a hand to push her long blonde hair aside. The look on her face is telling the viewer to come closer and have some of what she is offering. The sketch just drips eroticism.

There is another in which she is standing looking over her shoulder at the viewer, again toying with the pearls with her mouth. I like this one because the pumps and her pose accentuate her long sexy legs and her tight ass.

Another sketch is limited to her upper body. The pearls hang between her tits, and half her face is obscured by her hair, but her smile again beckons the viewer.

In a final sketch she is slouched in the armchair, her legs spread obscenely. Her head is thrown back and her face contorted on the edge of orgasm. One hand is pulling a leg wide and the other is holding the end of the pearl string, which is emerging from her shining cunt. She is pulling it up so it grinds against her slit and then bumps her clit, one pearl at a time, as she slowly withdraws it. As I look at the sketch I can imagine her withdrawing the string and gasping as each separate pearl slides over her clit.

Realizing I'm late, distracted by the erotic story told by the last sketch, I jump from my chair and run to the bedroom for a change of clothes. Shower, shave, and breakfast are out. I dig around in a closet and find a big portfolio case, rush back to the studio and slip eight or ten sketches and pastels into it, with no particular thought about what I am selecting. I have produced so much over the last ten days. I can't take it all, but I am running out of time, so I just grab a few with no thought as to what they are or how they relate. My mind is still mainly on images of Sandy in her pumps and pearls—images that I have not yet drawn.

Fortunately, our apartment is not far from the subway, and the 7th Avenue Line would take me all the way to 14th street without changing trains. The bad news was that it was past the rush hour schedule, so I wound up waiting fifteen minutes for a train. I walked into Wendover Galleries about ten minutes late. I'm not sure I can explain why I was so stressed about an appointment with a gallery owner to explore selling erotic pictures of my wife and her cousin, when I wasn't even sure I wanted to sell them. Contradictory, but there it was.

To my surprise, Lisa stepped out from behind a desk to greet me. She was dressed much more conservatively than her bartender clothing—a dark suit, the skirt cut just at the knees, her white blouse open just a bit at the throat, enough to display a short string of pearls. She wore a dark jacket that matched the material of her skirt and conservative three-inch spiked heel black pumps. Her outfit was almost exactly what I had imagined Sandy described herself as wearing the night before, except, of course, Lisa was wearing a bra and panties. At least I assumed she was.

Before she could even speak, I was jabbering an apology for being late, blaming the MTA, a tradition in New York where everything, including the weather, is blamed on the MTA.

"Relax, Steven," she said. "Howard isn't even here yet. He is always half an hour late. Would you like some coffee? Did you have breakfast? We have some pastries."

Her voice didn't sound like bartender Lisa either. Much more cultured, an Upper East Side accent, and somehow the tone seemed a bit lower. How did this woman go through this transition every day?

I looked at her for a moment in silence trying to decide if this was really Lisa. Finally I spoke, "Coffee. Oh yes, coffee would be good, and you're right. I didn't have breakfast."

"Great. They're in the workroom. Let's go back there and get your drawings on the wall for Howard to look at, and then we can have coffee and a pastry." Her tone and style were very professional.

She turned to lead me out of the display floor and then she looked up the spiral staircase to her left. "Sarah, are you here?" A tall, stunning black woman, her skin a creamy chocolate, appeared at the top of the stairs. She was dressed just like Lisa, but the dress was a bit shorter, and she was obviously several years younger.

"Yes."

"Can you mind the desk for a while. Steven here and I have some artwork to put up in the workroom for Howard to take a look at."

"Oh absolutely, Ms. Chambers. I'll be right down." She had a lovely English accent, from Jamaica perhaps. As she walked down the stairs, two things stood out. First, the artist in me saw the contrast between her chocolate skin and the stark white walls of the gallery. It was stunning. I had spent my life learning about the use of color and this was a perfect combination.

The man in me noticed that unlike Lisa, Sarah's dress had a long slit cut up one side, showing a long stunning leg.

"Steven, this way," Lisa said, reclaiming my attention.

"Oh right. I'm coming." I followed Lisa through a door into a workroom behind the gallery. The walls, like those in the gallery, were a stark white. There was a large wooden worktable and some framing materials and equipment, although it was clearly not a full frame shop. The lighting focused on one wall, obviously the display wall, but there was still no shortage of light in the remainder of the room, especially over the worktable. In one corner there was a small table with a coffee urn and a box of pastries (From Angel's coffee house I wondered? Well, at least from the same commercial bakery likely located somewhere in Brooklyn). Against the wall opposite the display space there were several comfortable chairs with a small table next to each.

"Finding Sarah a little distracting, are we?"

I laughed. "Yes, she is a little distracting. But then I suppose that is why you keep her around here."

"That and her MFA from NYU. Believe me, Steven, she knows her stuff. Besides, last time I checked, you already have more women to deal with than you are comfortable with. Let's look at your art."

Ouch. Put in my place. Had it coming, I guess.

I walked to the worktable and opened the portfolio case. As I opened it, I realized I had no idea what pictures I had put in it. I had been so distracted by the work I had been doing this morning that I had just grabbed pictures and filled up the portfolio case. God, what had I done? This was a big opportunity, and I had not paid any attention to it.

As I spread out the pictures, Lisa stood silently behind me. There were twelve in total—five sketches and seven completed pastels. The sketches included one of Sandy that I had done just this morning. Not my favorite, but still a good drawing, I thought. As I looked at what I had brought, I thought, okay, not so bad. I'm not embarrassed by these. The pictures included the sketch of Sandy's orgasm that first night with Rachel between her legs, a pastel of Rachel's face as she climaxed the chicken soup night, and others that I felt good about. But what would Lisa and her husband Howard think? This wasn't anything like showing Lisa my pictures on an iPad in a dark bar.

When they were all spread out on the table, Lisa stood and stared, finally softly saying, "Oh my my," almost under her breath.

After a bit more silent staring at the pictures, she said, "Get yourself a coffee and a pastry and have a seat while I get these up on the display wall. Howard will want to look at them up there where the light is as it will be in the showroom."

"Showroom? Did she say showroom? Does this mean she likes the drawings?" I asked myself. Then, as I sat down with the coffee and a pastry I badly needed, I reminded myself not to get ahead of things. Howard was the gallery manager and he hadn't seen anything yet.

As Lisa stretched to hang the drawings, I noticed that she really had very attractive legs—legs that I had never seen in the bar. The more I saw of her, the more I liked the idea of using her for a model. There were other thoughts that crossed my mind, but I dismissed them. She might be in an "open marriage," but I wasn't. Besides today was about business. Still, they were great legs.

Once the drawings were all up on the wall, Lisa stood back and looked again at them. Then she walked to the display room door and called out, "Sarah, come in here. I want you to see these. We'll just leave the door open so we can hear anyone who comes in."

Sarah walked in. Some women totter about on their high heels, but I swear, Sarah's walk was more of a slink. She moved with a seductive grace. It was extraordinary. She ignored me, her focus intently on the pictures. She paced back and forth looking at them from different angles, moving with the grace of a large jungle cat. Eventually she turned and looked at me, "Are these yours?" Her accent and her style gave the question an intimidating tone.

"Yes."

"Where have you been? I haven't seen your work anywhere." Her attention was focused exclusively on me.

"Huggies," I said.

"What?"

I've been working as a commercial artist for most of the last 20 years, drawing Huggies and a host of other products—whatever someone would pay the agency for. A year and a half ago, I got laid off. I drew these over the last couple of weeks."

"What were you doing before you took up drawing these?"

"Oprah and Judge Judy."

Sarah made an ugly face.

"You're right. Daytime TV is dreadful," I responded.

"These aren't," she said, nodding towards my drawings. "They're stunning."

That was when Howard walked into the room. He was tall and lanky, probably in his mid-to-late forties, his salt and pepper gray hair neatly trimmed. He wore a grey wool tweed suit with a vest. The toecaps on his black shoes had a gleam that would make a drill sergeant envious.

"Hello everyone. What's stunning, Sarah? That's not a word you use often." He, too, had a British accent, but his differed from Sarah's Jamaican dialect. His was more clipped. Upper class London, if I had to guess.

Sarah nodded towards my drawings in response.

"Oh, I see. Oh yes. Very interesting." Then he was silent for a long time as he paced the room, his arms folded across his chest, staring at the pictures. Sarah and Lisa more or less faded into the background as Howard worked. You could have heard a pin drop in the room.

Finally he turned to me. "Are you the artist?"

I nodded in response.

"And I suppose you want me to make you rich and famous?"

"Not necessarily," I said, somewhat taken aback by his abruptness. "I mean, I suppose rich and famous would be nice, but that isn't the reason I brought the drawings here."

"I see. And why did you bring the drawings here?"

"First because Lisa asked me to, and also because I was curious."

"Curious?"

"Yes. You see I've been an artist all my life, but it has been exclusively commercial art. A couple of years ago I got laid off, and I haven't found another position."

"He drew Huggies," Sarah said, interrupting my explanation of my presence.

"Oh, you're the Huggies man Lisa has been telling me about."

Yes. Well, in any case I recently began drawing this series," I said gesturing towards the wall, "just to see if I could still do something that wasn't commercial. I'm curious as to what someone like you would think of them."

"Well, I'll tell you, . . . Steven. It is Steven, isn't it?"

I nodded.

"I think I could make a good deal of money for both of us from these drawings and more that you produce in the same style. I think these are very saleable. Do you have enough more so that we could put on a show?"

"Whoa. Not so fast. I'm not sure I want to sell them."

"Oh Lisa," he said turning to his wife. "Did you bring me another artist who can't bear to part with his little darlings?"

"That's not it," Lisa said. "Steven, can you explain."

"The redhead is my wife's cousin, Rachel. She owns the bookstore around the corner from here,The Black Cat."

"Yes, I know it," Howard said interrupting.

"I haven't asked her, but my guess is that Rachel would be thrilled to have her picture spread as far and wide as possible. That just the way she is."

"Okay, and the blonde?"

"That's my wife, Sandy."

"She gorgeous," Sarah piped up, earning her a look of disapproval from the boss.

"Yes she is, but she is also a partner at KPMI. You may have heard of them. They are one of the big four accounting firms."

"Oh, I see," said Howard catching on to the problem immediately. "She is concerned that her stuffy partners and clients might react adversely."

"We had a brief discussion about it earlier this week, but it was by phone. She was in London. She hasn't even seen these pictures yet. For that matter Rachel has only seen some of them, and most of them don't feature her, at least not in any identifiable way."

"Hmmm . . . I see," he said appearing somewhat lost in thought. "Okay, okay. I understand where we are now. So, just to answer your basic question, I think your paintings are lovely, just lovely, and I would like very much to have an opportunity to represent you in your introduction to the New York fine art world. I assure you that these painting would sell, easily in the low five-figure range, and more if an initial show is as successful as I think it will be."

I stared in shocked reaction to his assessment.

"So let's bundle your drawings back up in your portfolio case, and you can go talk to Sandy and Rachel and we'll see where we are. I can tell you that if they aren't comfortable with this, I can find you other models to work from. But I do like the chemistry I see between the two of them. Are they lovers by chance?"

"Ahhh . . . yes," I said with a bit of obvious discomfort.

"I thought so. The chemistry between them is so nice." The fact that my wife's lover was her cousin seemed not to faze him.

"Well, thank you so much for bringing these in. Unfortunately, I have to go now, but please stay in touch, and let us know how things work out with your models. Sarah, please take down the drawings and pack them into his portfolio case for him. Oh, can you give Sarah your contact information so we know how to reach you, just in case you stop hanging around my wife's bar."

Lisa owned the bar? That was news. I had assumed she just worked there.

Howard continued issuing orders, "Lisa, can you join me in the office upstairs? We need to discuss next month's show."

I stood and shook hands with Howard and then, with Lisa in tow, he strode out of the workroom.

Sarah began carefully taking the drawings down from the wall and placing them alongside my portfolio case on the workbench. I sat back sipping the last of my coffee enjoying my view of her legs and tightly clad ass. "Just perfect," I thought to myself. I wondered if I could get her to pose for me.

As she carefully placed the last of the drawings in the portfolio, she turned to me and asked, "Enjoying the view?"

"Excuse me?"

She walked to the coffee table and poured herself a cup and then walked to me and refilled my cup all in silence. After returning the coffee pot to its table she turned and leaned against the workbench, her beautiful brown legs stretched out before her.

"I asked," she repeated, "Whether you enjoyed the view? You were seriously ogling my ass."

Busted, I thought. "What I was really wondering is whether you would like to model for me?"

"Ahh. And that's all you were thinking about?"

I smiled. "Mostly. I am human after all, and you do have a lovely backside and lovely legs." I was slightly shocked that I would talk to a woman I had barely met in this way.

"Thank you," she said, apparently unconcerned that a more or less total stranger would be so free in his admiration of her appearance.

"As for the modeling, . . . well, I don't know. Would it have to be like these?" she gestured towards the drawings in my portfolio case.

"It's what I draw, unless you would rather I made you look like a Huggies package."

"You're not shy," she said in her Jamaican accent, "about asking a girl to strip down to her nothings and then to masturbate for you." She didn't really look or sound offended.

"No I'm not which is kind of surprising to me because a month ago I would never dreamed of doing this, but you're very beautiful and I've recently discovered how much I enjoy drawing beautiful naked women."

"Well, I'm flattered Steven, but not today. I've got other things to do."

"No problem," I said. "I do too." . . . "but do think about it. I think you might enjoy it."

"Yes those ladies certainly seemed to be enjoying themselves and each other," she said with a lascivious smile. "But tell me something Steven, just to satisfy my curiosity. Are you gay?"

I looked at her for a moment. "Oh far from it," I said. "Not even bi-sexual. What ever made you ask that question?"

"Oh it's just that most men who ask me to take my clothes off want to fuck me. You want to draw me."

"Well, please don't take offense. I'm sure I would love fucking you, but right now I've too many women who want to fuck me, and I may be in need of a model willing to pose in the nude for me without objecting to the sale of the resulting drawings."

"I see," she said.

Then we stood and she handed me my case and shook my hand. Her handshake was warm and firm and I felt her fingers caress my wrist as she withdrew her hand. She turned and walked through the door to the gallery, saying as she left. "Yes Steven, I'll think about it. I'll definitely think about it." She departed with the same slinky walk she had used on her entrance, only this time the view, from behind, was much better.

Moments later I was out on the street carrying my portfolio case and headed for Rachel's bookstore. When I got to the bookstore, the closed sign was hanging in the window and the lights were out. I was just about to dial Rachel's number when my iPhone buzzed with a message from Sandy. It went to Rachel and to me: "Got out of London early. Just landed JFK. I have to make a quick stop at the office. See you both at our place in two hours. We have lots to talk about."