Fledgling critic reviews artist’s best work.

During my last semester of college, one of my professors assigned a critique in my art history class. I knew everyone else would want to go to a museum or big-name gallery, so I chose to review an exhibit I’d read about that was being hosted in an obscure downtown salon. I was set on doing something different.

The exhibit I wanted to see was opening that Friday night, and I figured if I had to do the assignment, I might as well go on the night they’d be passing out hors d’oeuvres and wine and enjoy myself. I wore my favorite purple bandage dress and a pair of black platform heels, and I tucked a notebook and pen into my clutch so I could take notes when I wasn’t enjoying the high-class snacks.

When I arrived, there were a bunch of hipster types crowding around a couple of the works, but I saw that the paintings in the back were going unnoticed, so I made my way through the crowd to check them out. While a couple of the pieces at the front had seemed nice enough, the ones buried in the back were truly striking, and after I finished my glass of wine, I set it down and took out my notebook to start jotting down notes for my assignment.

I’d been back there for about ten minutes, and only a handful of people had trickled past. One of them stayed, though, and when the guy didn’t move from his spot next to me for a few moments, I turned to get a better look at him. The guy was hot, and he was watching me intently, his eyes following my pen as I finished writing.

He had dark, shaggy hair and a scruffy five-o’clock shadow, and his tight shirt stretched across his muscular chest. When he asked what I thought of the show, I told him it was good, but that I preferred the paintings in front of us over the ones that were getting all the attention. “They’re so pedestrian,“ I said. “If I turned in something like that in one of my classes, I’d be sent back to retake one of the intro art classes.“

He looked stunned, but he asked a few more questions, and I continued to answer honestly. We’d been talking for a few minutes when someone came over and told him that there was a patron he wanted him to meet. “He wants to buy half the show,“ the new guy said, “so you have to greet him.“

It was now obvious that the guy I’d been talking to was the artist, and I’d just put my foot in my mouth in a major way, insulting his work. Terrific, I thought, not only did I just insult a great artist, but now there’s no way I’ll have a chance at going home with him. I hadn’t even been thinking about finding a potential hookup when I’d dressed up for the art show, but as soon as I’d locked eyes with the artist, I was glad I’d made an effort to look good. And now I’d blown my chance. Oh, well. I still had an assignment to do, so I clicked my pen again and returned to taking notes.

After I finished viewing all the paintings at the back of the room, the crowd at the front had scattered a bit, so I went over to look at those pieces. I was nearly done when I once again felt someone standing very close to me. I glanced over and saw it was the artist again. The minute he realized he had my attention, he said, “I like your honesty.“ Then he added, “I have to stick around here a little longer, but after I’m done, do you want to go somewhere, get a real drink, and talk about art?“

Emboldened by his apparent interest, I replied, “Sure, but I’ve had enough art for one night. I’m sure we can find something else to do, though, don’t you think?“

While he continued to schmooze with potential buyers and critics, I looked around at some of the other pieces and filled up on fancy snacks and cheap wine. By the time the show was over, I was more than ready for the artist to whisk me back to his place so I could indulge in something a little different.

We took a cab to his apartment, talking about his paintings the whole way there. Once we got to his loft, all art talk — all talk in general, really — immediately ceased. Instead, we started to strip each other, him unzipping my dress and sliding it down my body. I tugged his shirt up and over his head. The undressing continued at a frantic pace until we were both completely naked, and then he led me over to the large sofa in the middle of the room.

He was about to seat me on the couch when I spun us around and instead made him lie back while I crawled on top of him. I leaned over to kiss him while I reached down to guide his cock between my thighs, and as my tongue pushed between his lips, his dick slid into my pussy. He was long and thick, much better endowed than the last few guys I’d been with, and when I lowered myself all the way down, I felt full to the point of bursting. Then I started to ride him.

His cock felt delicious sliding in and out of my pussy, and I especially enjoyed the sensations each time he bottomed out; he hit all the right places. When he started thrusting up against me, meeting my downward strokes, the feeling only got better.

I clutched the couch as I continued to pump up and down on his shaft, and he bent his knees to give himself more leverage so he could ram up into me more effectively. Each time our bodies slammed together, I felt a shock of pleasure race down my spine. We were furiously fucking each other, but it still wasn’t quite enough to get me off. I needed something more.

He needed something different, too, and after a few more minutes, he told me to get up. He stood and had me bend over the sofa’s arm, with my ass sticking out and my face buried in the cushions. Once I was settled, he got behind me and slid back into my pussy. He wrapped his hands around my waist, then started to thrust. He fucked me hard, and each pump shoved me forward a bit, making my clit rub against the upholstery and pushing me ever closer to orgasm.

I lifted my foot and put it on the edge of the sofa, then started thrusting backward more forcefully. I met him stroke for stroke, and in a few minutes, I was finally ready to climax. I was about to go over the edge when he told me, “I’m coming!“ and shot his load into my pussy. I felt each throb and pulse of his cock, which made my orgasm even more intense. By the time I calmed down again, I felt completely drained. I could barely hold myself upright, and the artist had to help me around the sofa so I could sit down again.

There was no way I was going to make it up to his bed, which was hidden in a nook that involved climbing a ladder, so we slept on the couch, and the next morning, we fucked one more time before I had to leave.

I never saw the artist again after that, though I’ve run across his work at galleries around the world. Each new painting is better than the last, and I can’t help but wonder if he’s learned as many new tricks in the bedroom as he has new painting techniques. Maybe one day I’ll find out.