The invitation came one autumn morning. A crisp white card etched with rich black ink.
“You Are Invited To: Un-Still Life.”
“For your curiosity and consideration, we invite you to examine a girl on display. Cocktail attire. OoD members only. No guests. Clean hands and the ability to follow instructions. Arrive with this invitation.”
Knowing the curator I was sure it would be an interesting exhibit. Thus a month later I filed into the downtown gallery with two dozen others, most of whom were acquaintances.
The room was square, with freshly painted white walls. Like so many other gallery opens I had been to, it smelled of paint and wine and perfume. This time, though, the walls were bare. A large white cube shaped pedestal sat in the center of the room. The lights were soft, but focused on her, leaving the rest of the room in shadows.
She was on her hands and knees atop the pedestal, chin up, face forward. The lights were positioned to expose every inch of her skin.
We, the viewers, conversed and sipped our wine. We pointed out interesting bits and pieces of the exhibit. The soft tan of her skin, the freckles on her forearms and cheeks, the curve of her hip, her nape, her belly, her short dark hair and its somewhat severe bob. Especially popular were her lips, which were painted red, one of her only adornments.
We circled her. We compared her to other exhibits we had seen.
She had a generous bottom, thick thighs, her waist was somewhat thin, but her belly was slightly plump and hung down adorably.
“Like Madonna in the Lucky Star video!” Someone commented.
As we circled I noticed her face and neck were red. There was a slight but rhythmic tightening of her leg muscles, which made her body move a little, her somewhat small breasts jiggle.
I wished I could hear her thoughts. She looked frightened and exhilarated and embarrassed. She was exposed in such a complete way. She looked beautiful and vulnerable and brave.
After a few minutes, the curator entered and stood near the exhibit. She wore a finely tailored suit and held a long metal pointer. I moved back with the rest of the audience and watched and listened.
“This piece is in her late twenties. High libido, low morals, and an affinity for objectification,” she explained.
She then placed a hand on the pedestal and turned it slowly around so that the exhibit’s bottom was facing us.
Her ass was lovely, round, smooth, and between her thighs, the outer lips of her cunt were fat, shaved or waxed hairless.
“Note the way her sex is engorged. Her wetness visible even from feet away. You can even smell her,” she said, lifting his nose and sniffing.
Many others followed suit, though I didn’t notice any scent in the air.
“If you will take out your invitation, you will see that some have a red mark on the bottom,” the emcee explained.
I took my card from my jacket pocket and saw that it had such a mark.
“You have been selected to take part in tonight’s viewing, if you wish. Please queue up along this wall,” she asked, pointing to my right.
We lined up. I ended up third in the line and I felt far more anxious and interested than it seemed appropriate. I tried to keep a calm demeanor, but I wanted to get my hands on the girl.
We were calm and cool art lovers and intellectuals. This was a complicated performance art piece about objectification and the human body as art. I shouldn’t have had an erection, yet there it was. I hoped my blazer covered it.
“When I signal, you may come up to the exhibit, one at a time, and take a few moments to experience the piece tactically. Touch, squeeze, see how the skin reacts to your fingers,” the curator explained before giving the first person in line a nod to begin.
The two people in front of me on the queue were women. The first was an older woman with a severe bun and a sever face in a black pantsuit and round dark framed glasses. The other was model pretty in a short black dress with a white Peter Pan collar.
The first woman walked up the exhibit and put her hands on the girl’s back. She smoothed her palms over the curve of her spine.
I watched impatiently as she examined the girl’s hair, her ears, her bottom.
I was both desperate for her time to be up, and at the same time hopeful her time went on because that meant I would also have ample time to examine the artwork.
The woman pinched exhibit on her cheek, smoothed her hair, cradled her chin. She slipped a finger in the girl’s mouth and the exhibit sucked it greedily.
There were some murders from the crowd.
The curator cleared her throat and the woman examining the exhibit joined the audience.
The very pretty woman was next. She had a cold look about her, with long straight blonde hair and high cheek bones. Her lips were tight and stained matte red.
She walked around the girl without touching at first, then stopped behind her and placed her glass of wine on the girl’s back.
She walked around and bent low, whispering something in the girl’s ear. Then she returned for her glass and nodded to the curator.
The curator nodded to me.
I circled her. My desire felt restrained. I felt guilty about how much I wanted her, carnally not artistically.
I moved my hand forward, nervous to touch her, but drawn to her. I rested my hand on her shoulder finally, her skin far warmer than I imagined. I smoothed my fingers over her back, down her spine, to the curve of her ass.
I didn’t have much time and I wanted to feel all the parts of her all the softness and hardness and even wetness. I thought fuck it.
My hand slid under her, to her belly, which tightened at my touch, I liked the softness of it. It delighted me. I think I even laughed a little. Then up to cup her breasts, which were warm and firmer than I imagined. Her nipples were pebble hard as my fingers brushed over them.
There was a tension in her, like a coiled spring. My hand lingered on her ass for a moment, then I move back to her shoulder and finally I stood in front of her, my hand moving to her cheek.
She didn’t look up at me. She was shaking a little.
I felt something shift in the room, I wondered how much time I had, I moved around her again until I was behind her, looking down at her as. I felt bold and squeezed it, I wanted to hit her. I looked at the curator.
She smiled at me, knowing me, nodding.
“The gentleman may strike the exhibition but if he wishes,” she said graciously.
I squeezed her ass again, then my hand rose up and descended with a smack that echoes around the room.
I looked up at the audience and everyone was transfixed. I felt wonderful. A little performance of my own.
I only had a moment, I saw the curator walking to me. I let my fingers drift down, down between the girl’s thighs, and my middle finger met wonderful wet warmth that made me groan.
I made my way then to the back of the audience. My heart racing. My fingers to my mouth as soon as I was away from prying eyes, to enjoy yet another aspect of the wonderful display.