Message-ID: <20431eli$9903080700@qz.little-neck.ny.us> X-Archived-At: From: "Joanna De Brito" Subject: {Joanna} The Revenge of Edward Hopper (MF) Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d Mime-Version: 1.0 Content-type: text/plain Path: qz!not-for-mail Organization: The Committee To Thwart Spam Approved: X-Moderator-Contact: Eli the Bearded X-Story-Submission: X-Original-Message-ID: <19990308023108.3189.qmail@hotmail.com> Standard disclaimer: Over 18s only The Revenge of Edward Hopper by Joanna (joanna_de_brito@hotmail.com) March 1999 Copyright 1999 Joanna de Brito All commercial rights reserved. I hated Margaret Taylor. There was no denying it: I detested and loathed her. I glared as she walked down the corridor, my eyes flashing darts of fire as I watched her wriggling her ass from side to side through that slinky red dress. Damn her! At that moment I could have throttled her if only I knew how. "Hello? Miss Tompkins? Sally Tompkins?" The inquirer had caught me off guard. Realizing that my face was rather unwisely mirroring my inner thoughts, I swung round, trying to camouflage my sneer. As I turned, a camera whirred and a man with a ponytail and a lens confronted me. "Put that away," I demanded coldly. "I don't want my picture taken." He was very apologetic. "I'm sorry," he said, lowering the camera. "It becomes a habit after a while. Miss Tompkins?" "Yes," I acknowledged. "I'm Edward Hopper. The artist. I believe that I'm expected. I have an appointment with Mr. Murdoch." "Hm," I pouted, noticing that my boss, Mr. Murdoch did indeed have an appointment with a Mr. Hopper. "Would you take a seat?" I picked up the phone and dialed Mr. Murdoch's extension. "Mr. Hopper is here to see you," I said politely. I listened to his instructions, then replaced the phone on the handset. "Mr. Murdoch will be out in a few minutes," I said to his visitor. "Can I take your coat?" "Thank you." He unbuttoned his trench coat and shook it off. As he did so I took a closer look at him. Although I wasn't too sure about the ponytail, he was certainly very sexy, I thought. Broad and muscular, somewhat in the Tarzan mould. I tried to imagine him in a loincloth, then I imagined him without the loincloth. That was much better, especially as I was imagining him with a long thick erection. As I placed his heavy coat upon a hanger, I concealed a little shiver behind its protection. My training quickly cut in and the next question came automatically. My voice was sweet and professional as I asked, "Can I get you a drink? Tea? Coffee?" "Coffee would be nice," he said. "White. No sugar." I invited him to take one of the seats that were in front of the reception area, then I went to make him his drink. As soon as he was out of my sight I forgot all about the attractive Mr. Hopper with his gorgeous erection, and again focused upon Margaret Taylor and the viscous way she had just spoken to me in front of the whole office. It had been so humiliating; everybody had heard. I would become the scandal of the company, the target for every wagging tongue. Christ! It was intolerable and I was determined that somehow I would gain retribution against her. But how? How? I took Mr. Hopper his coffee, placing the tray on a small occasional table that sat in front of him. "Thank you," he said, with a friendly warm air. "You're welcome." "You don't like her, do you?" he asked in that same friendly manner. His question caught me off guard for a second time. "Who?" "That woman. The one that you were staring at." I sighed. "No," I stated firmly. "I don't." I wasn't prepared to admit any more to a total stranger. He took a sip of his coffee, and I began to walk back to my desk. His deep booming voice called after me. "It must be difficult to work with someone you don't like." I turned. "Yes," I agreed pithily. It was certainly difficult. I felt exasperated: I couldn't be rude to a visitor, but, at the same time, this was something I didn't want to talk about. "I had to work once with a woman I didn't get on with." He laughed as he said it. It was an evil laugh, a cruel laugh, and there was something behind it, an emotion, I guess it was, that caught both my attention and my imagination. "Still," he continued. "I probably shouldn't tell you what I did to her. It was rather mean." But I felt mean; I felt emotional: and I wanted to give vent to those feelings by doing something cruel and spiteful to Margaret Taylor. He had me hooked. "What did you do?" I asked eagerly. He laughed again, and it was a devilish laugh that filled me with hope. What had he done? Please, please, tell me! "She was my girlfriend," he said confidentially, moving a little closer. "We'd been going out for a couple of months when I found out she was two timing me. She was sleeping with a neighbor." "Go on!" I exclaimed as he paused. How could anyone cheat on this hunk? "Please!" I added mentally. "What happened next?" "I gained a very sweet revenge; it was cruel, but not physically so; it was mean, but oh, so beautiful..." He had stopped. The phone had rung. Damn! "Sorry! Please! Wait! Excuse me a minute," I apologized before rushing to my desk. "Murdoch Printers" I said into the mouthpiece. "How can I help you?" There was a woman at the other end; she wanted to know our fax number. Hell! Why couldn't she take it from our stationary? That's why we had it printed! Shit! While I was distracted, Mr. Murdoch came out and greeted his visitor. They shook hands and Edward picked up his coffee and followed Mr. Murdoch into his office. Damn! Damn! Damn! I felt as you do when a man brings you to the point of orgasm and leaves you hanging. What had Edward done? How had he got his revenge? I was eaten up by the need to get my own back on Margaret. Edward Hopper's talk had fuelled the lust within me; an intense loathing was now driving me onward. I could not go back. I had to hear what Edward had been about to tell me. Still, I comforted myself with the thought that he had not yet gone. He must come out from Mr. Murdoch's office and I would be expected to give him his coat. I waited impatiently, so impatiently. The minutes ticked by: fifteen minutes; half an hour. I busied myself without being busy. I could not think, or concentrate, or do anything at all because of the single thought that now consumed me. Revenge! I had to be around when Edward left. Sure enough, at last, here he was coming out, and as he shook Mr. Murdoch by the hand I quickly rushed for his coat. Mr. Murdoch noticed and was bemused at my keenness. "Mr. Hopkins isn't going yet!" he said by way of a mild rebuke. "He needs to look round. Perhaps you could do that for me, Sally. I've agreed to take six of his paintings. It'll help create a better image around here. But we need to decide where they should go." Heaven! Never mind the reason; he was leaving me with Edward. "What do you want to see?" I asked him, much too eagerly. He laughed. It was that same warm hearty laugh. "Just show me around," he said. "I'll let you be my guide." I led him into the boardroom first. We call it the boardroom, but it's really just a room with a table in which we hold meetings. I watched as he quickly looked round and made brief notes in a pad. "So you paint?" I asked, trying to reopen the conversation. "Pictures," he agreed. I waited for him to elaborate. When he didn't I inquired, "What sort of pictures?" "Nudes," he replied solemnly. "Naked women!" He held an earnest look as he scrutinized my face searching for a reaction, then suddenly his expression broke into that familiar broad smile. "No, well, yes, sometimes, yes I do. But, seriously, I paint whatever I'm asked to paint. Landscapes, buildings, portraits, very boring things most of the time, yet sometimes," he added with a mischievous grin, "even the odd nude." I decided that this moment of levity was my opportunity. His frankness gave me confidence. There was only one thought consuming me, Margaret. "So what did you do to get back at the woman that was annoying you?" He found that even more amusing, but now I found his humor infuriating. This was not funny! He was laughing at me; ridiculing me; I hated it. Not only that, but he didn't answer, which made me even madder. What was worst of all was that he could see how upset I was getting and he seemed to delight in it. "You must really dislike her," he said finally. "What did she do?" I hesitated, I should be cautious; I didn't know this man, I had only just met him, but my hatred was driving me; I needed his help. "She accused me of fiddling my time," I confessed. He nodded slowly. "I see. And were you? Were you fiddling?" I was evasive. "That isn't the issue," I replied angrily. "She had no right to interfere. It didn't concern her." "I see," he repeated. This man was making me mad. "What do you mean, 'I see'? She got me the sack. Next week I've got no job to go to. All because that woman stuck her nose into something that's none of her business." "Calm down," he said at last, his own voice totally unruffled. "I tell you what. Suppose I were to do you a favor and do to your lady, what's her name...?" "Margaret," I said quickly. "Suppose I were to do to Margaret what I did to my Debbie, what would you do?" I was confused. "How do you mean, what would I do?" "Would you have dinner with me, for instance?" It struck me that he was asking me to strike a price when I didn't yet know what I was buying. "I don't know," I replied. "What are you planning? You haven't told me." But he knew he had me hooked; he could sense it. "Would you have dinner with me?" he repeated insistently. I looked at him dubiously. Could I trust him? What was his game? I thought over the proposition. Hell, what did I have to lose? He wasn't bad looking; he exuded confidence and strength. Having dinner with this hunk wasn't going to be such a sacrifice. "I guess so," I said guardedly. "OK. So you would have dinner with me. What else? Would you pose for me?" he responded immediately. I was instantly suspicious as to his intentions and I obviously showed it. He laughed again. "I don't mean like that, you can wear what you like, you choose. But you have such an expressive face; it's just wonderful for me as an artist: it's so open. I want so much to paint it." "No undressing?" I insisted. "Only at your discretion," he teased. "Hmm. OK, then I would pose for you. But I don't think this is fair. You still haven't told me what you plan to do." "Neither shall I," he replied. "It will be a surprise: for you as well as for Margaret. But I promise you, the surprise will be worth it." ************************************************* Edward opened the door. "This better be good," I exclaimed. "I cancelled everything - I was going to the pictures tonight - to come over here. What is it that won't wait?" "Don't worry. It'll be good," came his smooth reply as he closed his front door and showed me into his studio. "Very good." The ever-present camera was still in his hand. He lifted it and snapped a shot of my angry countenance. It didn't get any less angry through the experience. "I thought you were an artist," I snapped, turning away from the camera. "Not a photographer." "I am," he agreed, a little sadly. "But first I take photographs; with my photographs I paint my pictures." The camera whirred again. "Stop that," I protested. "I told you before that I don't like being photographed." "Ah," he said knowingly. "But you also said you would pose for me." "But that was on condition that you did something mean to Margaret. And I haven't seen any evidence yet that you've done anything." "You are so untrusting," he countered, clicking the camera again. "When I promise something, I always deliver." I caught my breath. Then he had done it! I hardly dared to ask him the question. "What have you done?" I whispered. "As yet, nothing." I looked at him angrily. Was he trying to fool me? Or just to seduce me? "And, yet," he continued with scarcely a pause, "at the same time I have done everything. It is so perfect. Everything is prepared; it simply requires you to set the device into motion." That was exactly what I wanted him to say. I was spellbound; this man was using all the hatred I had centered upon Margaret to bind and captivate me. Please, Edward, my heart is bleeding: please tell me, I can bear the tension no longer. "What did you do?" I entreated him. He could see so clearly that I was begging. That broad smile disappeared and his voice was now deep and demanding. "Undo your blouse and I will tell." I blushed. Was this then just a joke? I was distraught; this was just a ruse to get me out of my clothes. "Bastard" I stabbed the word at him. "You promised. You said I wouldn't have to remove anything." I clutched my purse and moved toward the door. "And neither shall you," he explained calmly. Those words, his voice, they stopped me where I stood and I waited. I wanted to hear him, to be convinced by him, to believe him. Oh, I wanted so much. I didn't want to leave. My hatred of Margaret controlled and consumed me. "I don't want you to take anything off," he elaborated. "I just want you to undo your blouse." That was not enough. "Oh, yes," I sneered. "But we both know that would only be the first step. Then you'd want me to loosen or undo something else. I'm not stupid." "Of course not," he acknowledged. "And neither is Margaret. Yet I caught her in my snare. She is yours! She is at your mercy. Humble her; humiliate her; do with her what you will. You hate her, but how strong is that hate. Is it willing to pay my price? Will you bargain? I won't tell you a thing unless first you undo your blouse." I could not resist him; he had me hooked and he was reeling me in. I began at the top of the blouse, slipping the buttons undone. But I would not undress. I promised myself that. There had to be a limit; a price I would not pay. I would humiliate Margaret, but not at the cost of humiliating myself. But where was the harm in what he was now asking? He snapped furiously. He gestured that I should allow the blouse to fall open. I grimaced, but obediently pulled the blouse from my skirt. The sides gaped revealing the valley between my breasts bridged by my white lace bra; exposing the flat expanse of my tummy. He liked that. I could see that he liked that. "Ruffle your hands through your hair," he demanded. I paused, I was embarrassed, but still I obeyed. He took half a dozen more pictures, then picked something up from the side. At first I could not see, but as he held it out I recognized that it was a swimsuit. "I asked Margaret if I could take some pictures of her in this," he said as he held it out. "I told her it was for a picture that would be hung at Murdoch's, a summer interior. She didn't hesitate; she agreed at once." He gave me the costume. "Put it on," he said. "You agreed to pose. I want to take pictures of you, then I can show you what I've done and you can accept your prize." At the same time he handed me a piece of paper. "It's a model release form," he said to my quizzical glance. "Read it and sign it. It's quite regular." I shook my head, handing both the form and the swimsuit back to him. "You must think me very naive!" I said. "If you trapped Margaret with this.... Then you must have something devious up your sleeve. I know it." He nodded. "Maybe you are right; maybe you are wrong. How will you ever know for certain? Have you come so far only to back out now? There's only one way you'll find out what happened to Margaret. I want you in this swimsuit. It's quite decent. How badly do you want revenge? How badly do you want Margaret in your clutches?" I took both the model release form and the swimsuit from him. "Where can I change?" I asked meekly. He had me, but my words were sticky and coated with suspicion. "If you think I'm going to change out here! If that's what this is about...?" He laughed that same old disarming laugh. I recognized it now. He pointed to a door. "Changing room," he said. "And there's a lock on the door. You'll be quite safe." I followed his direction and found myself in what I would have better described as being a cupboard rather than a room. But he was right about it having a lock, and I duly turned the key. Maybe I fancied him, I wasn't yet sure, but I didn't trust him at all. Perhaps he had a two-way mirror, or a hidden camera. Maybe that was his trick, I thought. Maybe he was even now watching me in a monitor waiting for me to undress. The idea that my body could make him lust for me made me begin to lubricate inside. But what excited me the most was that I could tease him and then refuse him; I could arouse him and then deny him. Well, if he was out to catch a sneak peek, there was enough room in this glorified cupboard for me to do a beach job. I would change under my clothes. That would scupper his plan! I carefully lowered my knickers from under my skirt, then pulled them off and held them in the reflection of the mirror. You would have liked to see me in these, I thought. I think you would have been stroking your cock, certainly if I had let you see what was under them. I picked up the swimming costume and pulled it up my legs. It took some wriggling but I soon had the lower part in place. I bet you liked that, my dear Edward, I thought. I bet you like it when I wriggle. I unfastened my skirt and removed it, followed by my blouse, carefully keeping my back to the mirror, just in case! We don't want to excite you too much, that would not do, would it, dear Edward? Then I pulled up the top of the costume, and only when my breasts were securely under it did I unfasten and remove my bra. Now I could look at myself in the mirror. You haven't got the better of me, Edward Hopper, I thought to myself. Look at me; lust for me; you'll have to imagine what I've refused you. I looked at my reflection and admired myself in the swimsuit, twisting and turning to get a better look. There was nothing wrong with it. It was not too low on the bust or too high on the leg. It seemed entirely sensible, modest and one piece. It was predominantly red and floral with a hint of green: and it covered everything that should be covered. I looked at my rear: no different. I would have been happy to be on the beach with my granny in this number. I sighed. What are you up to, Edward Hopper? You are up to something; I smell it. And Margaret fell for the bait: delicious. I read the model release and shrugged: it seemed to be in order, so I wrote my name at the bottom and left it for him to collect. Feeling rather smug, I opened the door and went back out. Edward had turned on the floodlights and was adjusting the angle of an upside down umbrella. I was a little disappointed. He did not seem unduly flushed or excited. Had my performance in the changing room then been without an audience? I was now feeling less smug and rather more nervous. Why was I doing this? What was possessing me? Where was the trap? When would it spring? Did Margaret matter so very much to me? "Where do you want me?" I asked in embarrassment after he had failed to speak. He pointed to an area in front of the pair of floodlights and the upside down umbrella and I stepped unsteadily across and stood in the brightness. There, I took up a pose. "That's nice," Edward said through the murmur of the camera motor. "Yes, I like that. That's good. Hold it there." I couldn't believe this. What was I doing? I had come to find out about Margaret, I told myself. And I was behaving like a naive fool. I had found out nothing; he hadn't told me a thing. "Can you hold your breasts. Lift them, yes, push them together, that's it." The camera whirred again. For the next ten minutes I patiently reacted as he suggested poses: suggestive poses; I bent and stretched to his whim. I didn't tell, but I found it exciting, It made me feel sexy, feeling his attention, sensing his interest. His gaze was so intense that at times, although I knew I wore a modest swimming costume, the way he looked, the way he reacted, he made me feel very naked, and even more than naked. Finally it came; the proposition I had been expecting. "Supposing I were to ask you to pull down the top; just a little. You wouldn't need to take anything off; I would keep my promise. I just want to take a couple of shots of your tits. They're so sexy." I have to confess that for a moment I did consider it. I knew it would excite him and I would be able to haggle myself. But I held firm, and I shook my head. "Come on, stop bull shitting me," I demanded of him. "You've taken your pictures: now, tell me about Margaret. What's the deal?" He seemed to accept defeat graciously, though he didn't stop taking his pictures as he began to explain. "That swimsuit," he said. "You may have seen it advertised in the catalogues. It allows you to sit in the sun and get an all over tan." I nodded. I had seen them. "So what?" I asked. "The advertising blurb makes it clear that you can't see through the material, even when it gets wet." He grinned. "That's right. Even when it gets wet." The camera snapped again. "Would you open your legs a little?" he asked. The shutter clicked as I did so, the picture was taken. "Even when wet," he mumbled, his mind catching up. "But consider how it works. The material is colored with a die that reflects visible light but is transparent to ultra violet light. That's why you go brown when you lie in the sun." "So?" I didn't see his point. "So suppose I were to take some pictures with an infra red or ultra violet camera; a camera that uses light in the waveband in which the swimsuit is transparent. A lot of cameras can do that now." Both his camera and what he had said suddenly clicked at one and the same time. I knew that horror and humiliation were written across my face as surely as I knew that he had just taken a picture in which I was as good as naked; in which my legs were wide open and the moisture from my pussy was freely flowing. My legs snapped shut. "You mean I'm naked to that camera?" It was a statement masquerading as a question. I knew absolutely and without doubt that he had caught me in his trap. "Totally," he agreed. Yet perhaps all was not lost. "And you photographed Margaret in the same way?" "Yes." "Show me," I replied hoarsely. He had pictures of Margaret too. It was not a disaster. How I would use them! He sat me on his coach, still wearing only that floral swimming costume. He came over and handed me a small pack of prints. As I looked through them I expressed disappointment. She had obviously worn something over the costume, a white top; it covered her breasts. I could not see them, no, not even in a single picture. Neither could I see her face. "I don't believe it!" I exclaimed. "How could you take so many pictures and not even get one of her face? What were you doing?" "She was shy of the camera; she didn't want to be recognized," Edward explained. "She was not like you. Even though she was wearing both the costume and a top she remained bashful. But you can still tell that it's her. There's no mistaking it. And her pussy is as clear as anything." He took the pictures from me and began flicking through them, finally picking out one. "This is the one I was thinking of using," he said. Margaret was sat on the floor leaning against a bed. She was wearing the white top; there was just a hint of her cleavage and her pussy was clearly visible. "Can you imagine how embarrassed she will be when I paint this as a picture? Knowing that we both know she is the model? Especially if you were to remind her occasionally." "But Mr. Murdoch would never let you hang a picture like that; not at the offices," I protested. "Oh I think he would," Edward said. "You see, Mr. Murdoch has already told me exactly what he wants and exactly how much he's prepared to pay for it. I think a picture such as that would be well within his tastes." "Mr. Murdoch? I never dreamed... But where would you hang it?" I asked eagerly. "Somewhere where she would see it. Maybe where she would have to see it every day. Can you imagine that, to see it and know that it is her? And to know that all her colleagues know it too. She would find that so embarrassing, I know that she would. I'm certain that I would find it so." I looked up at him with a broad smile on my face. "Paint it," I ordered. "Do the bitch!" ********************************************************** It was my final day, yet I was looking forward to it, because it was the day of the unveiling. I couldn't wait to see Margaret's face when for the first time she saw Edward's picture and recognized herself as the model. The pictures had been hung; we all impatiently waited. They were displayed before us, with sheets hiding them from view. I looked over at Margaret; my heart beat so fast as I contemplated how she would react. One of these portraits was her: her pussy on exhibition. Edward came in with Mr. Murdoch. All the other directors were there, all the other staff. Edward caught my eye: he smiled, that devilish smile that had first caught my attention. There was menace in his eyes. He was talking, introducing his pictures. He reached for the muslin sheet covering the first picture. Margaret stepped forward. She took his hand. "This next work came from an idea suggested by my fiancee," he was saying. He pulled the muslin away and I looked at his picture for the first time. I was looking at the portrait of a woman. She was naked and abandoned; her breasts were thrust forward and her nipples were hard. There was a look of dismay mixed with horror on her face, as though she had just been told something terrible. She held her legs apart so that her pussy could be seen as being both pink and wet. We stared at each other for several seconds, this likeness and I: I could have been her mirror for her expression coincided so exactly with my own; nay, it was not just her expression: for the resemblance was uncanny; this woman and I were clearly but one. The Revenge of Edward Hopper by Joanna (joanna_de_brito@hotmail.com) -- +----------------' Story submission `-+-' Moderator contact `--------------+ | | | | Archive site +----------------------+--------------------+ Newsgroup FAQ | ----