Message-ID: <46572asstr$1076465406@assm.asstr-mirror.org> X-Mail-Format-Warning: No previous line for continuation: Wed Aug 14 16:30:23 2002Return-Path: X-Original-Message-ID: <20040210183534.82520.qmail@web21509.mail.yahoo.com> From: tara blackwood X-ASSTR-Original-Date: Tue, 10 Feb 2004 10:35:34 -0800 (PST) Subject: {ASSM} The Artist - Chapter 2 (1/1) (MF, cons, cheat) Lines: 527 Date: Tue, 10 Feb 2004 21:10:06 -0500 Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail Approved: Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d X-Archived-At: X-Moderator-Contact: ASSTR ASSM moderation X-Story-Submission: X-Moderator-ID: dennyw, hecate Copyright and Disclaimer: This story is copyrighted material. (c) 2004. All rights are reserved by the author, including that of publication. Posting on-line is only allowed when permission is explicitly granted by the author, and includes this disclaimer. Contact the author, Tara Blackwood, at tarablackwood22@yahoo.com for more information. Any comments would be welcome as well. The following is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any person, living or dead, is purely coincidental and entirely unintentional. WARNING: This story contains material with explicit and sexual content that some may find offensive and may be illegal in some regions. You must STOP reading if: 1. you are underage (below 18 in all cases or 21 in some regions), 2. this type of material is illegal under any circumstances in your region, 3. you are offended by explicit or graphic sexual content, 4. you are offended by profanity or graphic language. This novel is being posted chapter by chapter. Read previous chapters first, of course. Thank you and enjoy. TB. THE ARTIST - (chapter 2) (2) Blackmail. The word alone conjures up intrigue, visions of shadowy backrooms and lurid conversations far from the eyes and ears of everyday life. Seduction. Stir that magnet into the mix, and all but the dead will turn their heads. To try and hear the secrets that can never be theirs. Yearning to see what should never be seen. And in the darkest recesses of their hearts, dreaming the mysterious dreams that bear tasty and forbidden fruit. No one was there to hear or see, or to dream, as Arlene Leeson and Phillipe Cousineau bargained out the final terms of the sinister plot Arlene had just presented to him. Both laid out their cases why a fifty-fifty split was simply not equitable, considering their roles in the scheme. They both wanted more, much more. Arlene was the mastermind, the information provider, the introducer, and she let her young guest know that. "Without me," she argued to Phillipe, "you would not be here in the first place. Without me, this conversation would not be taking place." "Yes, dear Arlene," Phillipe responded, his voice soft and his enchanting eyes covering her like a glove. "But without me, you have no plan. We are both aware why you turned to me. Is it not because there is no one else who could do what you ask?" Arlene was seated behind her desk. Phillipe rose and circled it, walking toward her. She had seen him many times over the past year, yet still his spellbinding presence stunned her. She swallowed as he approached, determined to keep their meeting business-like. "Am I not correct, dear Arlene?" he said, staring into her eyes. "Do you know another man who might be capable of this?" Phillipe kept his distance, sensing her anxiety and the clear affect their new proximity was having on the elegant woman. Needing to regain some space for herself, she rose and walked around the opposite side of the desk and across the room to the window. Arlene knew he was right. There was no one who could perform like Phillipe. If she couldn't convince him, there would be no one else to turn to. She needed something further to bolster her case, and peering through the window, she found it. "Come," she said, motioning to the artist. "Look at them." The window overlooked Arlene's lecture hall. Along its walls hung Monet, and Renoir. Toulouse-Lautrec and Gauguin. Two huge Jackson Pollacks graced the entranceway. Along the stage, set upon easels, were some of the recent works of her guest speaker, the latest masterpieces of the great Phillipe Cousineau. The room was full, invitation only for Arlene's talk on modern art, and for her introduction of the city's latest wonder boy, who now stood inches behind her gazing down into the crowd. The two of them could not be seen from below. "One-way peeking only," Arlene informed Phillipe. The artist nodded, quite familiar with such things. He surveyed the room, attempting to pick out the four couples Arlene had spoken of. "There," Arlene said, motioning toward the front row, "in the purple dress." Phillipe's eyes went toward the woman, a thin, stunning blonde. Her name was Elizabeth Bax. She was thirty-six years old, Arlene had informed him. Wife of James, mother of John, Janice, and Nicole. The Baxes were filthy rich, family money made in cosmetics, passed down to them to do with as they wished. Even at a distance, Phillipe could tell Arlene had told him the truth about Mrs. Bax. He could see the beauty she had spoken of, the elegance of line, the intense femininity. He could see the beginning of the age lines around her eyes as well, attempts to cover them through surgery and touch-up not totally effective. "You can only fight time for so long. Isn't that right, Arlene?" Phillipe said, only partially disguising the fact that he was speaking not only about Mrs. Bax, but of his hostess as well. Arlene ignored the couched insult. "Quite beautiful, isn't she?" Arlene asked. "Quite," Phillipe answered. "I would love to meet her," he continued, answering Arlene's next question before it was asked. "I can assure you, my dear, that she'll find me...... interesting." "Is a fifty-fifty split agreed upon then?" Arlene asked, having abandoned any notion of getting a larger percentage. Phillipe thought deeply before responding. Though he found it easy to hide, Phillipe did not like Arlene Leeson. He found her not only obnoxious, but bourgeois. "I could simply do it myself," he said, knowing the rise that would get from her. She spun toward him quickly in anger, but maintained her composure. He was right, of course. "That wouldn't be fair, now would it?" Her eyes met Phillipe's, and locked there. He was hypnotic, and even a woman as worldly as Arlene was not immune. The longer she stared, the further away she was from the lecture hall. The longer she stared, the more she forgot. The longer she stared, the more she had to lose. Phillipe's hand brushed her hair softly from her shoulder, and he looked into her eyes, saying nothing. Their faces were inches apart. In that long, frozen silence, the young artist cast his spell. "God," Arlene whispered to him, almost hypnotized, "you're so beautiful." "Why don't you kiss me, then?" Phillipe answered vainly. It was Arlene who moved first. Her head tilted slightly and her eyes fluttered shut. She inched forward slowly. Urgently, Arlene needed her lips on this luscious man, needed them to touch his. Her mouth parted as it approached his, expecting contact, but her motion was met with words, and not his tongue as she had hoped. "Point out the others," he said matter-of-factly, teasing her as he turned away, leaving her terribly exposed and embarrassed. So quickly and so unexpectedly, this magnificent male had provoked her into wanting him, and hung her out to dry. Arlene's face flushed at his victory, and she felt like a jilted teenager. She cleared her throat as she tried to get her eyes back into focus on the crowd. Seated right up front, Phillipe saw the Singletons. They had purchased three of Phillipe's latest oils and paid dearly for them that night, Carol arguing at first with her husband, and then demanding when his protests continued. Henry had written the check in protest, and handed it to a man who had just given his wife the most potent orgasm of her life. Carol was different now, more distant from her husband. Phillipe knew he had changed her. She was thinking back no doubt, reliving their little secret, as she waited impatiently to see him again. "There," Arlene pointed, toward a sleek redhead in the rear of the room. "That's Judith Carlton." Phillipe stared at her. Like his first target, she was in her late thirties, and utterly delicious. The man beside her was graying, quite a bit older than she, totally out-of-place next to such a beauty. He looked comical as he took her hand and kissed her cheek, as if he were her sugar daddy instead of her husband. "It's amazing what you girls will do for money," Phillipe commented astutely. "Is that what makes up our audience here in New York, beautiful women who sell their souls for material? You would never see such odd couples in Paris." Arlene ignored the Frenchman's comment, and continued. "And there," she said, pointing directly below them at a woman she knew Phillipe would lock onto and strip naked with his eyes. "My, my," he said when he saw her. Her hair was midnight black, as thick and wild as the mane of a lion. Her face was incredible, deep northern Italian in its beauty. Her eyes were dark green and huge, her pouting lips full and pumped up with collagen. The lipstick was cherry red, vivid and thick. Her body was the most voluptuous Phillipe had ever seen. Hourglass, he could tell even as she sat, with huge breasts and wide, womanly hips, her waist impossibly thin. Her crossed legs in their black stockings were astonishing, her tight skirt well up toward the top of her thighs. She wore four-inch heels. The thought crossed Phillipe's mind to introduce himself to her immediately, but that time would come. "Roberta Luongo," Arlene said, pleased by Phillipe's obvious interest. "Mafia wife." Phillipe nodded, his intense scrutiny undeterred by that new fact. He looked at Roberta's husband. `Perfect,' he thought to himself. Mr. Luongo had arrogance written all over him, the type of man who was used to getting whatever he wanted, one unintroduced to pain, to humiliation. A man who was selfish with his possessions, and violently so. He was just the type Phillipe enjoyed cutting down to size, and the artist knew instantly what his most prized possession was. "Are you sure you want to get involved with this one?" Arlene asked. "We could limit it to the other three, if you wish." Mrs. Luongo, given the family circumstances, would be the one whose outcome was the most unpredictable. "I'm quite sure," Phillipe replied without hesitation, still staring at Roberta and her obese, slovenly husband. The dangers only added to the adventure for him, were just one more plus in his mind. The more difficult the circumstances of the conquest, the more his ego, his narcissism, were challenged. "There is the perhaps the most interesting of all," Arlene continued, pointing out yet one more of the amazing women that seemed to dominate the crowded room. "Her name is Claudine Southwick. Catwalk model. Doctorate in philosophy from Oxford. She is one of the richest women on earth. The perfect wife, the perfect woman." Claudine was from England, in her early forties, a full twenty years older than Phillipe. An astonishingly beautiful woman, she was married to one of the world's wealthiest men. Arlene explained to Phillipe that she was a model wife in every respect. Honest, loyal, faithful, and the perfect showpiece for her entrepreneurial husband. Having retired from the fashion world and with her doctoral degree buried deep in a trunk in the attic, she spent her time worldwide, running worthwhile charities in his name, most of which were directed at third-world hunger and the plight of unfortunate infants. Her reputation was beyond reproach, lily white. Often, her stunning face had graced the covers of the Times, New York's and London's, for her altruism. Arlene had astutely noticed how she buried herself in an endless assortment of hobbies, surely to relieve the boredom and inhibitions of her life, she had surmised. Mixed in with the philanthropy that reflected so well upon herself and upon her husband, her latest tangent of escape was art. Arlene had been certain she would be present at the great painter's well-publicized talk about Impressionism and its influences on his work. Phillipe stared at one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen. Everyone knew her face. It had highlighted most of the important fashion catalogues in the world at one time or another. He himself had seen it many times, lusted over it. Though a bit older, she was clearly more youthful in spirit than the other three. Phillipe moved across the room, leaving Arlene at the window. "Fifty percent will be adequate," he said, startling Arlene, who had convinced herself she'd be lucky to get forty. "Fair is fair." Having seen his prey, he was more than interested in their new game, and would have done it for free. "I've put the information together for you," Arlene said, her eyes directing his to a group of folders on her desk. "There are pictures, addresses, financial information, and some personal items about them, their likes and dislikes, and so on." "Come here," he said to Arlene, snapping the lock on the office door. His tone was no longer cold. Without warning, tenderness had returned to his voice. And passion. Arlene shook her head, still rattled by her previous weakness and determined not to show that same weakness again. "It's time for my lecture," she said, still by the window. "Do you have confidence in me?" Phillipe asked, his question soaked in conceit. He knew she did. When Arlene had picked the man who might be capable of seducing such beautiful and untouchable women, Phillipe had been her only choice. No one else would do. And now that irresistible man was here, with her, alone. In spite of herself, Arlene again began to feel the stirrings that she knew only a male like Phillipe could catalyze in a woman. From across the room, he had her burning for him. Arlene stared at his chiseled face, too beautiful to believe. His chocolate eyes were on her again, with the pull of a vampire. Never had Arlene felt such magnetism. His tall body, lean and lithe beneath his strangely-cut Italian suit, was the most enticing she had ever known. "How does it feel, Phillipe?" she asked, her voice trembling slightly, her knees weak. "How does it feel to know you can have any woman you want?" "Come," he repeated, raising his hand, answering her question that way. "Shall we seal our deal? Your audience will surely wait for you." Arlene, because she had to, went to him then. She had imagined it for months, and now that the time was here, she was unable to deny him. Down below, Arlene's husband was preparing her lectern, placing her papers where she had instructed him. As he followed her mandates, his wife moved in front of Phillipe. The artist placed his strong hands on her shoulders, pressed downward ever so slightly, and the conquered Arlene dropped slowly but willingly to her knees. Her husband looked up, awaiting his wife, expecting her to appear at the top of the stairs at any moment, but she would not be coming just then. Not yet. Business had been concluded, and there were other things she had to take care of. Other needs, needs that she could not control. Arlene slowly unzipped him, removed him with her hand, and took him into her mouth. (end--Chapter2) -------------------------------- Do you Yahoo!? Yahoo! Finance: Get your refund fast by filing online <1st attachment begin> <1st attachment end> ----- ASSM Moderation System Notice----- Notice: This post has been modified from its original format. 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