What I describe in this little tale would never happen, but I've seen stranger performance art in real life than what's detailed here, so... Anyway, it's ridiculous, and definitely geared for the big boob lovers out there, a reinvention of a scenario brought up in a previous story I wrote. Hope you enjoy!
And oh yeah, there's incest, but one might think this story is centered around exhibitionism. It's a slow burn.
*****
One hundred sixty-eight women, all "artists" (rolling my eyes) or models, had volunteered and arrived for Patrick Hennegy's latest project, what he considered would be his magnum-opus in his contribution to the art world. "I'm retiring after this," he threatened on several occasions. At the age of thirty-eight, I knew that was a load of crap. Artists say stuff like that all the time.
Patrick often used nudes in his work, much like Spencer Tunick or Marina AbramoviΔ, and this latest exhibition, being held at the Sampson and Lillith Museum of Fine Art, was no different. Patrick employed many mediums (poorly, in my opinion), from photography to sculptures, to living displays, sometimes a combination of all three. Unlike Spencer or Marina, I thought Patrick was a talent-less hack. He believed his themes pushed boundaries. I felt his gimmicks were overplayed, and sometimes just straight up exploitation, without any depth or meaning.
For instance, once he had fifty nude women lined up on a football field, twenty-five on either side. They stood on the sidelines, facing the field at evenly spaced markers, while an entire football game was played out. The women never moved unless they were bumped or run down by one of the team's players. This, of course, happened on several occasions, even when the poor players did their best to stay in bounds. This ridiculous excuse for performance art was Hennegy's best work to date. I won't even bother describing his less inspired garbage.
After busting my buns for the past month to ensure the museum's latest event would go off without a hitch, I had Winston Danley, the head of the board, reading me the riot act. It wasn't supposed to be 168 models. We were actually two models short. Next to Winston stood the always angry and irritable artist himself, Patrick Hennegy. I'd been putting up with his antics for almost a month, while he and his crew had been working on the exhibition in the west wing of the museum. It looked more like a haunted house maze than an art project, in my opinion.
Patrick and his crew had put up walls made of particle board throughout the four-thousand-square foot space made available for his exhibition. It wasn't so much a maze, rather than a route planned out for the guests, from beginning to end. However, some areas allowed access that circled back to other areas. One could effectively visit the exhibition as long as they desired, without being pushed out.
Considering it was made of particle board and would be packed with people, I spent the first two weeks of work on the project fighting with the city for a fire-code exemption. I then spent the next two frantically searching for enough women to meet Patrick's demands for this stupid thing.
"Amanda, you promised Mr. Hennegy you had 170 models ready for this event," said Winston. "We have a couple hours until the opening, and only 168 are here. You better fix this!"
Patrick broke in, "Miss Cummings, I simply will not allow this exhibition to open without the required tools."
I fucking hated his snide tone. "Tools," he was saying. What he was referring to was women. Nude women.
I knew becoming the curator and manager of the Samson & Lillith, one of the most prestigious private art museums on the west coast, would be challenging, but I'd successfully managed several smaller museums in the Manhattan area, following school. On my 30th birthday, I got the call from Winston Danley to come here. Had I known I'd be working directly with Patrick Hennegy, I may have passed on the job, regardless of the significant increase in income.
A large part of the job is overseeing and collecting works for the museum, but we also hold six special exhibitions each year. Hennegy's would likely be the biggest event this year, in terms of turnout and publicity. He was currently riding an undeserved wave of fame.
To date, Mr. Danley and the rest of the museum's board have been satisfied with my work, but this was the first time I was facing real criticism. "Winston... Mr. Danley... I cannot help that one of the models got sick. Bedridden, in fact. One of the others just backed out. Refuses to come in. I did have enough models, but this just happ..."
"Backed out?" he barked. "Aren't they all in contract?"
"Yes, but I can't make a sick woman get well, just because she signed a contract. The woman is in the hospital, and apparently, the other girl is willing to break the contract, fines be damned. We can sue her over it, but we can't put a gun to her head."
"Why didn't you think to retain back-ups?" asked Winston, as if he understood at all the struggle I incurred getting these.
When we first announced the project, many women, especially those who considered themselves artists and seeking fame in their own right, were eager to jump at the opportunity to work with Patrick Hennegy. It looked as if it would be no problem securing all the models needed, but without offering any pay for the work (Patrick insisted that paying the women negated the art form), it was difficult to find the last twenty or so volunteers.
We scavenged a few willing women from local art and dance schools, and also by reaching out to community theaters. Classifieds got a few bites, but most girls wanted compensation for their time. By the time we secured the entire 170 volunteers, we were scraping the bottom of the barrel. Frankly, I was shocked anyone would be willing to sign a contract stating they would be financially penalized if they backed out of volunteering, either before or during the event. Supposedly, it was all legit and legal.
It was just two days ago that we signed the last model, and only just in the last hour that when we discovered two of them wouldn't be making it. I felt Winston was being unfair to me, given the circumstances. I began to state that opinion when Rita barged into the office.
Rita Pollock is my secretary/office assistant and has been with the museum longer than I have, working for the previous curator for several years. She's a flirtatious girl with a busty figure like my own, only shorter,and a favorite among the staff and patrons. Now, I won't deny that my face and figure has likely benefited my career. Though my looks may have helped to open doors, it was the quality work that defined me. With Rita, not so much.
Barely adequate at her job, Rita would often sneak out for long breaks, or flirt with the help, and rarely took proper notes. I was sure it was Rita's physical qualities that were responsible for the board members' willingness to forgive her over any performance issues. She's an attractive redhead, with double D's on a small frame. I wasn't very fond of Rita, and she probably felt the same about me, but we tolerated each other.
"You two will have to do it," said Patrick, flatly, sounding bored. "The show must go on."
"Excuse me?" I almost yelled. "You expect US to be models for your art exhibition?" I looked to Rita for support, but her eyes opened up wide and she smiled. "That would be awesome!" she exclaimed.
"Frankly, Amanda, we don't have time to arrange for any other solution," said Winston.
"But I have to greet the guests when they arrive," I argued. "I'm the curator, after all. Patrick has his role, too. Certainly you can go without ONE person."
"Absolutely not," insisted Patrick. "You can greet the guests, do your little speech and then go off to your station. We will put you at the end of the exhibition. The tunnel exit."
My eyes about popped out of my head, but not from joy like Rita; from repulsion. I knew exactly the spots Patrick was talking about, where he wanted to place us. It wasn't a good one.
Maybe I should explain this "art" exhibit. As I already stated, it is comprised of a maze of halls and rooms. Models, however, do not fill the halls, only their body parts do. The entire exhibit has secret accesses, to narrow cavities and passages, that allow the models to be positioned on the opposite sides of the walls.
Along these narrow passageways and wall cavities are spots for the models to fill. Some are elevated, while some are low the ground, requiring a girl to be on her knees, or even laying on her side. Each spot has holes cut out of the particle board where the models are to push their beasts or asses through, and handles are fashioned where appropriate, so they can leverage themselves against the walls more easily. Still, for a three-hour event, it would be a grueling exercise for most of the women.
So imagine, as one makes their way through the halls and rooms of the exhibit, the only thing they see are body parts sticking out through the walls, all tits and asses. Some of the passageways even had ceilings to them, with models lying above, their breasts dangling above, like chandeliers over the visitors' heads.
No guest would ever see a model's face, nor would any model show more than just part of her body, either her tits or her ass. Still, Patrick insisted that all participants must remain completely nude during the event, even though they were behind a wall, away from the eyes of anyone. No clothing was permitted at all. Except, of course, by the patrons.
The holes Patrick and his crew had fashioned were rather small, too. This was by design, as Patrick didn't want "gaps" in the walls that would allow guests to see anything other than what Patrick wanted them to see. No shoulders, stomachs, or any part of the torso other than the breasts. No more leg or back than necessary, for the girls who had to flaunt their asses through those stupid holes.
We knew full well that as the girls went to their places, Patrick and his goons would have to assist some of them. It would require physically pulling their breasts through these tight openings in the walls. Save for the A and B-cup models, many girls would be subjected to such hands-on action. If I was going to be included in this atrocity of an "art piece", it was definitely happening to me, too. I have ridiculously large breasts.
I've considered reducing them surgically, but since they're still quite firm, I don't want to mess with them yet. I wasn't dating anyone at the moment, but my "rocket tits" seemed to please the previous boyfriends I've had. I always enjoyed showing off in private, but this was an entirely different scenario.
At the end of the exhibition, guests are to make their way through a twenty-foot long tunnel, but it's only about two feet wide. Overweight guests have a side exit, and have to skip this part, but anyone else goes through the tunnel. Unlike most of the rest of the exhibit, this area was extremely well lit. The walls, floors and ceilings were painted solid white, making it hard to judge just how narrow the space really was, and there were no holes cut out for any body parts, until the very end, just before the exit. On either side of the walls there, would be two pairs of breasts facing each other. Those breasts would be the only frame of reference in this blindingly white, but narrow tunnel.
