The Art Beat

This is the story of an emerging visual artist with a unique technique and the young journalist tasked with writing a profile about her. It contains elements of reluctance, group sex, lesbian sex, masturbation, dominance, and a focus on orgasm and climactic pleasure. If that appeals to you, please enjoy.

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Emily McAfee has emerged like a comet onto the New York art scene. Largely unknown as recently as last year, auction houses now begin with six-figure prices tags when they start the bidding. Her work has been compared favorably to that of Jackson Pollack; however, her methods are shrouded in secrecy. The all-white canvases are works of ethereal abstraction. McAfee is truly sui generis, her work bearing little resemblance to anything that has come before, leaving the art world guessing as to how she achieves such transcendent results, and the notoriously press-shy artist has remained night-lipped on her materials and techniques. Until now.

Sarah leaned back from her laptop and reread the draft paragraph to herself. This has to be perfect, she told herself.

Sarah had been interning at the

New York Times

for just over a year. It was her first job out of college, where she'd completed a journalism major and edited her college newspaper, but she still felt completely in over her head. Despite her lack of confidence, she had still impressed enough senior editors to be given a solo assignment, and it was a doozy. She would be the first journalist ever granted an interview with the reclusive Emily McAfee. While the meeting was not for another hour, she was getting a head start drafting her opening paragraphs.

At least, she thought it wasn't for another hour until she caught the time. "Shit."

"Shit. Shit. Shit." It was now five minutes until the interview was supposed to begin, and her apartment was a 15-minute subway ride from the art studio where it would take place. She grabbed her bag and sprinted for the door.

Nearly 20 minutes later Sarah paused to catch her breath at the entrance to the studio. She rang a doorbell, still panting rapidly but slowly returning to normal. A woman answered the door. This must be her, Sarah thought.

The woman standing across the threshold from her was in her 40's. Sarah knew this from her background research but was caught off guard by this particular physical manifestation of her subject. Emily appeared both younger and older than her age simultaneously. Her hair had prematurely grayed, and she made no secret of this by allowing it to grow long and cascade down her back, across her shoulders, and down her chest. She also stood with a rigidity and immediately commanded attention with her presence in a way that only comes with the confidence of age.

Sarah felt small, over-young, and naïve in comparison.

Conversely Emily had the body of a younger woman and dressed it accordingly. Sarah had expected someone presenting like an aging artist hippie - a smock over baggy linen cloths, bangles and bulky jewelry, a rat's nest of tangled hair, old paint under her fingernails and staining her cloths. Instead the first thought that popped in her head was that Emily had forgotten about the interview, because this was not how a working artist dressed in the studio. A tight red dress intimately followed the curves of her body down from the low-cut neckline to the hem of a pencil skirt bottom around the knees. Below that she wore heels, the likes of which you only expect to see at prominent gallery openings. Not only were there not bulky jewelry items, but there were no accessories whatsoever - just the vivid red dress over luminously fair skin. The body beneath was hidden but appeared toned and tightly coiled like a snake.

The artist emitted something resembling a hiss as she stood quietly in the door, her eyes searching Sarah's form. What was she looking for?

"You're late, but I don't care." Emily turned and began walking into the next room. She continued talking, and it was clear that she intended Sarah to follow her in. Without being specifically invited, she felt draw into the studio space

"Just don't let it happen again and we can remain friends. I asked for you specifically, you know," wait what? "... and I suppose its easier to grant you patience than take the time to pick someone new."

They walked through a reception area and into a sparsely decorated gallery room.

"This is where I work." It was unlike any artist's workspace Sarah had seen. She'd initially mistaken it for a gallery room because it was entirely unpopulated by paints, supplies, brushes, reams of canvases, unfinished half-painted works, and all the other accoutrements one would expect for an actively used creative space. The light pouring in through an adjacent wall of windows was just about the only thing in the space, aside from a couch and a blank canvas sitting on the floor in the middle of the room. The walls and ceiling were white and the floor a slate gray smoothed concrete.

Emily sat on the couch and gestured for Sarah to join her.

"I will allow you three questions. Use them wisely, and quickly - I must return to my work."

"What are you working on right now?" Sarah looked at the canvas on the floor in front of them.

"It is a small, modest piece, specifically commissioned by one of my regular buyers. Nothing earth shattering, just an extension of the mode in which I have been working recently."

"What's next, anything more ambitious?"

"As a matter of fact, I have been thinking of tackling a larger scale project. In two days I plan to begin my largest piece to date. It will be the capstone of this era of my work, the culmination of my technique and a step forward into new territory for me. Now that's two questions; how would you like to spend your third?"

Sarah felt gut-punched. She thought they'd only been chitchatting informally before the interview began in earnest. She had no idea Emily was serious about the three questions and had no idea she was counting this trivial fluff towards the total. She reached into her bag and brought out her list of prepared questions, dozens of thoughtful, probing queries that she'd spent the better half of the past week working towards. She became so frustrated that she looked away and took a deep breath.

She felt warm, slim fingers grasp a hand resting in her lap, give it a squeeze, and then come to rest on her right thigh as Emily leaned towards her. Sarah cocked her head to the side and watched Emily slither a bit closer, balancing more weight on the hand atop Sarah's thigh.

"I'm sorry dear; you must not have known I was serious." Her eye contact was intense, piercing. She leaned forwards. The fabric of her dress was held taught between two anchor points. Beneath Emily's resting ass, it was held in place against the couch cushion. The neckline was pulled further away as she leaned forward and advanced her chest towards Sarah. The fabric was so taught that Sarah was concerned one or both breasts would break free. In fact, she thought she saw the halo of a nipple emerge into the light.

Sarah looked back at her list of questions, visibly frazzled. None of these would do. They were designed to build on one another sequentially, over the course of an hour of more of interview time. Fuck it, she thought.

"Can I watch you work?"

Emily leaned back, surprised, but her hand remained on Emily's thigh. Her eyes stayed trained on Sarah, asking some unspoken question and appraising her intently. The silence drew on uncomfortably.

"What I should do is say 'no,' inform you that your third question has been answered, and usher you back out onto the street to write your little article." She breathed deeply, arched her head back, and looked down her nose through squinted eyes, still searching for some answer.

"I... I won't write about your technique. I promise. Whatever it is that you don't want known, your secret sauce or whatever, I won't write about it. I'll tell my editors that I couldn't get anything out of you, and I'll turn in a bloodless piece that they'll burry in the back pages."

Emily leaned back in, the corners of her mouth upturned slightly into the ghost of a smile. "I worked in obscurity for years. People called me a talentless hack. I failed art school, you know, because I cannot produce representational art. Then I found my way. I made my breakthrough. I won't go back to how it was before. If you see anything and breathe a word of it to anyone..."

The statement remained unfinished, but Sarah filled in the blanks herself.

"I won't. I promise. You can trust me. I just.... I've admired your work since it first became public. I don't know why, but it speaks to me. I feel something when I look at it. I just want to know where it comes from and feel some of whatever it is that you feel - feel that passion that drives you to bring such beauty into the world."

"So be it." Emily abruptly stood up and clapped her hands three times. Three men walked into the room. "You stay where you are," Emily told her, the voice changed, more authoritative. Sarah remained on the couch, as told, and watched as the three men and Emily stood around the blank canvas that rested on the floor, maybe 15 feet from where Sarah watched.

"We are all here," Emily spoke theatrically to the room at large, "to create art, to bring meaning and beauty into the world." She began pacing a circle around the men, who stood in a circle around the canvas. "We speak not of what transpires here today, because the art speaks for itself. Am I understood?"

"Yes," the men said in unison. This clearly was not the first time they had acted as assistants for Emily's art.

Emily ceased her pacing and looked directly at Sarah. "Am I understood?"

"Yes," Sarah intoned. The word came out of her unintentionally, as if Emily had pulled it out without her consent. Sarah wondered what would happen next. Where are the art supplies? Why does she need three assistants? Why does she even need one of them, with the art being as minimal and sparse as it is?

"Who will be first? How long has it been for each of you?" Emily turned her attention back to the men.

"Four," said one.

"Seven," another.

"Good boy," Emily replied.

"One," came the answer from the last man.

"Then you it is," Emily clasped the shoulder of the man who had said 'seven' and circled to stand behind him. The man's eyes remained fixed ahead.

They were standing perpendicular to Sarah; she watched them in profile. Sarah continued to watch as both of Emily's hands snaked around his waist and unbuckled his belt. The top button of his jeans was opened,and the zipper pulled down. His hands remained at his sides as Emily slid his pants and briefs to mid-thigh, revealing his manhood. It wasn't erect but appeared in the process of filling out and advancing. Still behind him, Emily reached around and took him into her hand. She held the hand in place for some time. From her seat, Sarah could see blood coursing in, filling him out even further. Without any motion whatsoever, just the grip of her hand around his cock, Emily brought him to full attention. Once at his peak, Emily began drawing her hand out and back. Her hand pulled down all the way to the base, the foreskin pulled back to showcase an engorged purplish head. Then it ascended his shaft, drawing that same skin over his head and creating a friction that rolled his eyes into the back of his head. The motion repeated itself, slowly, back and forth.

Emily maintained a look of dispassionate concentration. Sarah snapped out of a trance that had come over her as this unimaginable scenario had unfolded. What was she watching? She was here to observe the creation of world-changing art. Instead all she saw so far was the beginning of a strange, public hand job.

The hand began pumping faster, though it remained methodical and purposeful. Emily peaked her head around the side of his arm, looking directly at the handiwork of her own appendage and gazing beyond.

"I need you to really fill out the middle, OK? Can you do that for me?"

"Yes ma'am."

"Don't overshoot it like last time. I want those corners to remain blank. That's the whole point of this series."

"Yes. Got it. I'll do better this time."

Sarah could tell his pulse was beginning to race now, with the quickening of Emily's hand. Her own heart was racing as well. She became aware of the adrenaline pumping through her in this moment, watching the scene unfold. I should walk out; I should leave, she thought. But she remained. She accepted the lurid excitement that she felt and remained seated.

The man started nodding his head. "Ok. Ok."

"Five. Four. Three." Emily was counting down to something. "Two. One." At 'one,' the man drew his hips back and Emily angled her hand down, still pumping away. She pointed his cock towards the canvas like a gardener preparing to water the flowers, and he then flowed forth quietly with streams of semen falling across the blank canvas at his feet. He did as he'd been told; his jizz filled out the middle of the canvas nicely, Sarah though, just as the artist had planned.

The man sighed his relief, and Emily removed her hand. She turned to Sarah, still stationary on the couch, raised a finger in a shushing gesture and said, "remember, not a word." Sarah furrowed her brow but still managed a brief, curt nod of acknowledgement. What the fuck is happening, she thought.

"You're next," Emily said to another. "Go ahead and do the honors for me." This one did not stop at just pulling his pants down low enough to release his penis. He disrobed completely, socks, shoes, pants, shirt, and stood looking rather pleased with himself, hands on his hips, cock completely erect.

Not all the previous man's "paint" had made it to the canvas. Some had dripped down the back of Emily's hand. She walked over and ran the back of her hand across this one's cock. She coated it in the cum of the man to his right. Emily used this as a lubrication of sorts. She ran her hand all along him, spreading the cum over every part of his length. Then she stroked him. Audible wet noises filled the room as the ridges of her fingers glided up and over the ridged head of his cock and then ground back down again, producing the slick clicking and clacking of a wet handjob.

"From you, I just want a drizzle. Let it fall from above and explode like a plump raindrop on the sidewalk. Hold back on any velocity."

"Yes. I can do that."

As the buildup to this second cumshot was unfolding, Sarah allowed her mind to wander. She wanted to leave, but she felt rooted to the spot, as if she'd sprouted actual roots and those had integrated into the furniture and floor around her. So this is how Emily achieved her distinct effect. This is why it was unlike any oil on canvas works that had preceded it. Because it was cum on canvas. There were no paintbrushes or implements of application or the sense of artificiality left behind by these tools. The cocks were the tools; the organic integration of source of production and introduction to the world was made manifest in her work. This is why they radiated life and drew audiences around them. Because they contained the literal seeds of life.

These thoughts should have repulsed Sarah, but like the completed works themselves, they drew her in. Sarah considered herself something of a prude. Her college boyfriend had wondered aloud often whether she was asexual. The handful of other sexual partners with whom she'd had fleeting relationships all departed disappointed, as had she. Now that she thought about it, this was the first time she'd ever actually seen semen. In her experience it had just remained in condoms, then neatly deposited in toilets or trash cans without further notice from her. Once it had ended up in her mouth, but she'd never laid eyes on that load, and that was the last time she would ever allow a prick in her mouth again.

None of those men, boys really, had ever brought her to climax, much less given her enough pleasure worth coming back for. She was pretty sure that she might have had an orgasm one time about a year ago, when she spent nearly two hours one afternoon straddling a pillow and pleading for her body to release. It reached something like a crescendo, but she felt there should be more to it. She convinced herself that it had been an orgasm and that those things were either overrated or just weren't for her.

Sarah's thoughts returned to the room and the current moment. Her eyes dwelled on Emily's body - the way the muscles of her arm rippled beneath her skin as her beating fist increased its power, the way her torso gyrated in time with the pumping, churning like a washing machine element. She was an impressive specimen, all porcelain skin and taught muscle.

Sarah's hands subconsciously gravitated to her stomach. She grabbed hold of a rim of bunched-up fat that had been squeezed into an outpouching over the too-tight waist of her shirt. Ugh, she thought. She hated her body. Men sometimes complimented her. Occasionally she caught others looking at her as they passed on the streets of Manhattan. She assumed there must be some intrinsic value, but she saw none of it.

Grunts pierced the room and interrupted Sarah's self-flagellation. "Three. Two. One." Her eyes darted to the penis receiving Emily's imminent attention just in time to watch it dribble, exactly to Emily's specifications, little falling puddles of semen onto the emerging work of art.

As she squeezed out the last few drops, she turned to the third and final man and said, "Get on your knees at the corner nearest you. I need you angled crosswise from there." He dropped to his knees then dropped his pants and began stroking himself in anticipation of her. Emily came behind him and also knelt. She must have known something about his preferences because she was more specific about how she approached his extraction. Her left hand wrapped around its side and began tugging at his balls. Her right hand grasped his cock tightly and accelerated rapidly.

Immediately he panted, moaning theatrically. His body shook and within a minute Emily was counting down again, "Five. Four. Three. Two. One." He added himself to the canvas, mingled with the others. His body shook and bucked as he committed himself within Emily's hand.

"Thanks boys, I'll take it from here." The men left out the door they'd come through. Emily picked up the canvas and, holding it perfectly level, brought it before Sarah. "What do you think?"

Sarah opened her mouth, but no words came out. She choked on her inability to respond to this inconceivable situation.

"I'm sure you're wondering how I complete the pieces. Obviously I can't just hang this on the wall; the cum would just run right down and ruin the effect. I apply a glaze of my own invention that seals everything in place. I'm going to step into the other room and apply the treatment. You stay here and I'll return."

Sarah didn't notice Emily leave. She also didn't notice when Emily returned. She was in shock, made delirious by what she had witnessed, and the roots still held her in place.

"Here, drink this." Emily handed her a drink, and the briefly noted that it tasted like a significant volume of tequila as it slid down the back of her throat. "My apartment is right above the studio here. Follow me, and let's talk." Like the men before her, Sarah did as she was told, compelled by Emily's authoritative bearing. Without a word, she followed the artist, mirroring every footstep from behind. She was ushered to a sleek, modern, but ultimately uncomfortable chair across from Emily. She took no notice of the room around them, lost in a confused haze of sensation.

"Tell me what you're feeling right now."

"I... I don't know."