Categories:
Lesbian, Mind-control
Usual disclaimer
: All characters are above the legal age of consent i.e 18.
Intro:
this story is most definitely fictional, though may draw in some small ways from real events or from my favourite source, the telling of erotic tales and fantasies over dinner as we sit around my dining table with a variety of friends who all share a love of mind-control erotica. The stories that meld into this one tale are told through the tellers' voices, so sit back, make yourself at home. The art works described are real, as are the narrator's critiques which are sourced from the Shunga Gallery, a Dutch gallery specialising in erotic art and especially the Japanese style. I learned of their collections while sitting at one of our dinner events. Maybe you can sit at that table one day and add your tale...
The Gallery
I could hear her talking ahead of me as behind the tall, frosted glass entry doors of the gallery closed and sealed us away from the hubbub of the reception area. Her voice was so calm, almost still, like I imagined a geisha to talk when speaking English. She was showing her charges a huge reproduction of Katsushika Hokusai's The Adonis Plant from circa 1815. Quietly, one could say reverently, she announced, "This is Hokusai's The Adonis Plant, perhaps best known in the Western world as the artist behind the often-reproduced 'Great Wave off Kanagawa'. Many so-called art lovers would be shocked by his other works that are part of the Shunga tradition. Shunga, is a Japanese genre meaning 'spring pictures' (spring being a Japanese euphemism for sex) and they are erotic prints completed in woodblock and feature copulating couples with often enlarged genitals."
I watched her scan quite dispassionately the group of young women who I guessed (and later confirmed) were all in that finishing school phase that 18- and 19-year-olds go through. You know, giggly and at times silly in contrast to their womanly features and voices. I noticed the teacher's inscrutable expression was not matched by her delicate hands. Her dainty fingers were subtly stroking her outer thighs and at times her buttocks. Unusual for a Japanese woman, her pure white blouse was stretched and straining to contain large firm breasts with nipples that after a few seconds of those hands moving to gesticulate at the painting looked like they might cut through fabric. Again, that facial inscrutability was not matched by her body. Those teats were clearly attempting a break-out from their cotton prison.
"Look closely at the detail on the man's cock or 'chimpo' and the woman's cunt or 'man ko ' Japanese women of this time did not remove their pubic hair but left it, er, how do we best say in English? Wild? I expect you are all sporting Brazilians, am I right?"
I was shocked by her language. Perfect English with just a hint of Japanese accent - of course perfect with the Japanese slang - but those words!
The slang didn't faze her pupils, especially how she spat out the words 'cock' and 'cunt'. Only the assumption about them having shaven sexes and her amused look made some react. In fact, her smile was stunning as they burst into giggles, some turning even brighter red than they already were having been faced with such a huge depiction of raw, uncensored sex. Her eyes were darting around, seeking something out in the group. I saw it too, a cluster of the party who looked unembarrassed by what they were seeing and had their sketch pads out.
"Well done Emma, Geri, Zoe! All of you, follow their example and draw what you see. Take a part of the print and really focus in on the detail. See the technique the artist has adopted to depict this raw act of love or if not of love, of sheer fucking."
"God, do I have to draw his dick?" a tall, blonde American asked, disgusted.
"Yeah," said another with equal disgust, "Cocks are gross!"
That set off a whole cacophony of chatter amongst them, with their oriental teacher briefly nodding her head as if in approval. But it was what happened next that set off more laughter. The three who'd been first to get their drawing pads out, whispered to each other, giggled and then lifted the hems of their already exceptionally short skirts and shouted in unison, "I bet you'd all prefer to feast on these, especially you Gloria."
None of them had panties and all sported shaven pudenda with very prominent inner labia that were dark and noticeably slick, glistening under the lights of the gallery. They were laughing hard now, with their teacher joining in, though Gloria - who was clearly the American who hated dick - scowled at them. I felt myself redden, as I always did with something publicly overt and sexual, despite my own artistic efforts. However, I also felt a warmth and a hint of dampness in my pussy. As an artist I had seen many a model nude in my studio or baring all for my classes, but I was reacting in a way that surprised me.
And you know, the weirdest thing about this? Neither they nor their teacher seemed to care about the rest of the public. Well, that was my thought until I realised there were only two members of the public in the gallery with them: a tall, model-like woman whom I'd seen at a recent launch event for another artist, and me. It was as if we were gate-crashing a private viewing.
I'd received a card in the post, which seemed an old-fashioned way to distribute it. The invitation was addressed to me, 'Ms Georgina Eloise Cunningham-Grant'. How I hated that name. It gave away my privileged ancestry that I'd spent many years embarrassed about and had been avoiding by using the pseudonym, Gina Grant. The card was from 'Mystery Chemicals Ltd. Sponsors of the new Women's Academy of Arts, Laketown, UK.' The wording said:
* Mystery Chemicals Ltd has been scanning the internet for new, talented women artists that it feels it can sponsor. Your work has been reviewed by a panel of our experts and praised for its stunning representation of women's sexuality. The rawness of the work suggested to some of our panel that perhaps you had more to discover about yourself through your work and that your art was likely to flourish in terms of its expressiveness and creativity as you reflected more of your lived experiences.
Mystery wants to discuss an opportunity for you to become resident artist at the Academy. We wish you to come to an informal discussion this Saturday at our Academy's art gallery. We have an exhibition of art called 'International Sexuality: Academy Choices' that we invite you to explore before meeting the panel.
Please report to the reception desk at the gallery by 12.00 noon and bring this card. *
That was the point at which things really changed for me.
You see, I must admit I'm a shy, thirty-year-old artist who expresses her deep passions about feminism, sexuality, love and loss through my sculptures and bold canvasses. All through my childhood I was aware of being described at first as 'pretty' and then in my teens as 'beautiful.' Even as I write this account, I can feel the embarrassment I had experienced when people called me that, especially my own mother. I carried that with me all through my early life and then into college. My art reflected it all. The bold, sexually free woman with the firm 36DDs, slim waist, perfectly proportioned hips and firm butt was out there in my art. Yet the real one, the one not displayed on the wall, hid behind unflattering spectacles, baggy clothes and wore underwear a Mormon woman would have been proud of. No, come to think of it, more like an Amish. Dating men - and there had been very few of them - just seemed to confirm I was unattractive as I could never connect with them. They all just seemed to want to go to first and second base (as the Americans say). It was as if my large knockers were all they wanted. I was just the transport. Most of them grabbed on like they were climbing a rock face. To be honest, at the end of a date I felt used and bruised. If I could have sent my tits out on their own, I would have been happier. Stopping them getting to second base was easier. I just learned to develop thigh muscles that could crack a walnut and so kept that opening tightly shut. Not one of them aroused me in the slightest to 'open the door' as my mother had once called it as she talked in her increasingly bizarre way when repeatedly reminding me that sex was dangerous, dirty and messy even, but with a giggle, 'fun'. Dirty and messy? So much so I had nine siblings, all women now, who still lived on our family estate in the big mansion house. Seemed Ma loved the fun part.
On hitting 18 was when, like all my sisters before and after me, the age of blissful sexual ignorance ended and the beginning of ma's sex lectures began, which for home schooling were explicit in the extreme. Yet at the end of everything I learned nothing about love in a relationship but plenty about those 'dirty, messy fun acts' you could get up to with either sex. I'd been sheltered from all that on the estate. Men remained a mystery, seldom invited to the house despite many of their wives staying (often overnight), to the point where men became like aliens to me. Father was a stranger too, spending more time away than at home. If anything, I sensed mummy had used him solely for breeding. It was her money after all that kept the estates and houses running, with many occupied by single mothers and women rescued from prostitution and trafficking. She loved to be surrounded by women.
So, all this came out in my art. My college tutor - Miss Pringle - took a great interest in me. I used to love my tutorials with her as she would stand very close, her expensive perfume filling my nostrils with such strong, sensual smells. I always felt safe with her, even when she was so close while I sculpted or painted that I could feel her firm, large breasts pressed against my back or my arm, sometimes even a battle of the breasts as her magnificent curves pressed against the side of mine. I can remember to this day the gentle exhalations of her warm breath caressing my skin as she talked and encouraged me. Soft breezes tickled at my ear and neck when she spoke softly but with such urgent enthusiasm and my panties would dampen at times, just like they were doing the day of this interview. I just put it down to the sensual, floral aroma arousing me that permeated the gallery and reminded me so much of Miss Pringle. How naΓ―ve was I?
My mind drifted back to those times. I wondered what Miss Pringle was doing now and I found myself staring at one of the pictures focusing, like one of the young women was doing just ahead of me, on a twice life-size detailed depiction of an aroused and very hairy vagina. I was shocked by the thought that entered my head. 'I wonder if Miss Pringle's cunt looks like that?' I glanced around, as if I had said it aloud, scared that someone might know my inner thoughts. My skin immediately reddened but my panties were soaking. What was going on?
An almost imperceptible 'hiss' was emitted from the air conditioning duct above my head and the floral scent changed to another one that I vaguely recognised but could not pinpoint in my albeit limited memory banks of fragrances. There was something so familiar about it yet...
"Isn't this fascinating?"
