Sensuous Stories
Authors: Keziah Hill
Sensuous Stories
By Keziah Hill
Published by Keziah Hill
Copyright 2012 Keziah Hill
Smashwords Edition
Table of Contents
Dutch Masters
She stood, trying to be reverent before the
pale, ascetic face. Brown eyes, whiskey colored hair, a vague
almost saintly stare. Several centuries had rendered him sacred and
worthy of worship in this dim, secular church. All of the men
looked like Charles II, staring off to some better place. Dutch,
protestant burgers, who, as a mark of success, commissioned artists
to render them immortal. They’d succeeded. The slow stream of
people filing past them in Melbourne, four hundred or so years
later, gazed at them adoringly, hushed and respectful.
Lisa stared at Abel Tasman and his family,
his wife round, smug and gleeful. She looked pleased he was about
to sail off and discover Tasmania and New Zealand. No wonder she
looked happy. A long sea voyage would be a break from seventeenth
century sex and childbirth. Although how anyone could be happy in
those long, full gowns with their stiff white neck ruffs was
something Lisa tried to understand.
“
They made women’s’ necks
highly desirable.”
She turned to the voice behind her and saw a
man staring intently at the portrait, a sneer on his face. It was
hard to see in the dim light, but ignoring the modern clothes, he
could have stepped from one of the portraits.
“
The eye was immediately
drawn to the neck. One couldn’t help but wonder whether the hidden
skin was pale and smooth, the neck swanlike and graceful. Although
in her case, the viewer was disappointed. Insufferably superior
isn’t she? And virtuous. After marrying Tasman she thought she’d
achieved all she’d ever wanted. Silly cow.”
“
You sound like you know
her,” Lisa said.
He flicked a stark, grey gaze over her.
“Women like that are eternal. They yoke themselves to men and suck
the life out of them all the time maintaining an air of
martyrdom.”
Lisa turned back to the painting, dismissing
him. Misogynist men she could live without. She had enough of them
in her life, even if she thought he was probably right about Mrs
Tasman.
“
I’m sorry,” he said. “That
sounds terrible doesn’t it? I’m not usually so judgmental about
women’s venality. Most of the time it’s perfectly understandable
and nowhere near a bad as men. But occasionally it irritates
me.”
He had a slight, indefinable accent. German
maybe, or Scandinavian.
“
She treated that child
terribly as well,” he said, indicating the girl in the corner of
the painting. She was a carbon copy of her step-mother and held her
hand up to accept the fruit in her step-mother’s hand.
“
How do you know?” Lisa
asked.
He shrugged, moving to the next painting. “I
read it somewhere. What do you think of this one?” he asked,
tipping his head toward a family portrait of Pieter Cnoll, his wife
Cornelia and their daughters Catharina and Hester. “She’s half
Japanese. Not uncommon. Her father was an official in the Dutch
East India company and her mother his Japanese concubine.” He stood
completely still staring at the family in the painting. “They were
devoted to each other,” he murmured, a sadness in his voice.
“
You know a great deal about
these people,” she said, drawn into conversation despite her
wariness.
“
My ancestors,” he said.
“The Dutch take their heritage seriously.”
He turned from the painting and Lisa felt
his gaze fix onto her with startling intensity. She stepped back,
not sure she wanted his regard. A slow, liquid burn slid up her
spine and radiated out around her breasts. To her mortification,
her nipples sharpened and pressed with irritating sensitivity
against her bra. He was handsome, certainly, but his eyes held a
predatory glint that Lisa didn’t like. Her stomach churned with
anxiety. No, she told herself, he’s just flirting. This is normal.
I don’t have to feel panicked.
She looked away, back to the painting and
was momentarily blinded by a vision of hands on her breasts. Long
fingers pinched her nipples hard and she felt a brief feather-light
kiss on her neck. She blinked then saw only the painting in front
of her. But her nipples hurt with the need for sucking and
soothing.
She glanced at the Dutchman and saw him
watching her with wry amusement. She had a terrible feeling he knew
exactly what she was feeling. When his gaze dropped to her breasts,
she knew he did.
Smug bastard. She moved away, across the
room to peer at some interesting and strangely modern looking glass
work from the Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam. Soon she was again engrossed
in the exhibition and forgot about the Dutchman and long, skilful
fingers.
Paul didn’t have skilful fingers. The
thought came from nowhere but lodged in her mind, along with the
realization he was a lousy lover and an indifferent partner. She
was with him because she didn’t know what else to do. Her therapist
was trying to get her to make a decision about her unsatisfactory
relationship, but Lisa was resisting. Why, she wasn’t sure. It had
something to do with stepping into the void, the great unknown.
Although if she was truthful, that’s exactly what she wanted. She
just didn’t know how to make the first step.
Maybe that first unknown step was what the
woman in front of her was contemplating. Vermeer’s “The Love
Letter.” The woman was holding a lute and the letter, looking up at
her maid apprehensively. The maid was grinning down at her as if
daring her to open the letter. Daring her to take a risk. She had a
lot more to lose than me, Lisa thought. I just lose being a couple.
Not much really.
She shivered suddenly, aware of a strange,
insidious tingle against her skin, this time at the top of her
thighs. Someone stood close behind her. When she looked down, hands
were lifting her skirt. Hands with the same long fingers that
pinched her nipples, were now inching across her skin and under her
knickers right into her wet centre. She should stop them, scream,
do something but couldn’t move. Didn’t really want to.
The fingers slid in and out of her, while an
arm circled her waist and pulled her against a hard body, forcing
her to open her legs wider for balance. When the fingers started
thrumming her clit, she closed her eyes, not wanting to see
everyone stare at her. Or did she? As she bucked and moaned, the
thought of some Toorak matron staring at her, made her want to
impale herself deeply on those long fingers.
Then her orgasm came, sharp and sudden,
releasing her from her passivity. She spun around ready to scream
and hit, but staggered into empty air. Not entirely empty. The
other patrons in the gallery frowned at her, as if her sudden
movement had disturbed their virtuous worship. Then they went back
to their adoration, the moment over.
Lisa stared wildly around her and saw the
Dutchman on the other side of the room peering at a bowl. Anger
ripped through her even though she knew he couldn’t have lifted her
skirt. No one could have. She’d had some strange hallucination
brought on, by what? She wasn’t stressed, life was a little dull
certainly, but not so bad as to drive her mad. She made her way
over to him not sure what she wanted to say, but somehow knowing he
must be responsible. As she almost reached him, he moved away and
disappeared into another room full of more paintings. She rushed
after him but lost sight of him.
She moved through the exhibition quickly,
almost running through the overheated rooms, searching for him to
no avail. She finally stood, feeling defeated and hot, and glanced
at the painting in front of her. Gerard Pietersz Hulft, Director of
the East India Company. Painted in 1654. It was him. She backed
away into a group of patrons who murmured with indignation.
Turning, she stared at their frowning faces and fled.
A week later she returned after a session
with her therapist and a better understanding of why she’d deluded
herself. It all had to do with transgressing the rules of her
strict Catholic upbringing. A prosaic and conventional explanation
Lisa thought, but at this stage one she latched on to with relief.
Any other explanation was impossible. Armed with this new
understanding, she wanted to go back to the scene of the crime, so
to speak, and have another look at the exhibition.
The gallery was crowded and still overheated
but her pussy moistened and stretched when she entered the dim
rooms. A longing for touch burned across her skin. She walk slowly
around, forcing herself to look at the paintings and not at the
people around her. The low, accented voice at her ear made her
jump.
“
You like these paintings
don’t you?”
“
What do you want?” she
whispered to him.
“
Want? I want to see some
ghosts from the past. Recall a life long since dead.” He turned to
her with the same wry amusement in his eyes. “What do you
want?”
“
To be left
alone.”
He smiled. “To be sure,” he said, bowing
slightly then disappeared into another room.
Lisa breathed in deeply and turned back to
the painting, trying to control her shaking. He’s just another
patron, no need to get worried. She moved to the long, wide bench
in the centre of the room, now crowded with exhausted art patrons.
One rose to continue his worship and she sank down, determined to
get herself together.
She closed her eyes and felt the hands
again, this time pushing her down onto the bench. Her eyes flew
open and she saw the Dutchman, naked, climbing onto the bench, onto
her.
“
You don’t really want to be
alone do you?” he murmured, as he pressed down onto her now naked
body. His erection was hard and hot against her belly.
“
What are you doing?” she
gasped, raising her hands to push him away, but instead pulling him
closer. She opened her legs and tipped up her hips, wanting him
inside her.
“
Giving you what you
want.”
He slid down her body, his long auburn hair
brushing her belly and the tops of her thighs and opened her legs
wider. She was stretched naked across the whole bench, which a few
seconds ago had been full of sitting Melbournians, with her cunt on
view to the world.
The Dutchman stared at her now wet and
aching slit then, kneeling on the floor at the end of the bench,
bent his head and took her clit in his mouth. He sucked it gently
at first as if wanting to work out what she liked. Then he flicked
his tongue quickly over the tip and she jerked.
“
No, not like that. Suck it.
Suck it hard,” she said.
He smiled up her at her then concentrated on
his task. Lisa propped herself on her elbows and stared down at him
as he used his lips and tongue to draw out her pleasure. She threw
back her head and moaned as he sucked hard, just the way she liked
it. Her orgasm was loud and long and she screamed when he pulled
himself up and thrust into her. Bending her legs back, he pounded
into her.
She turned her head to watch the patrons in
the gallery continue to move past them, oblivious to their
coupling. “You’re a ghost aren’t you?” Lisa whispered to him, her
body jerking with each of his thrusts.
“
Not exactly,” he said,
through gritted teeth. She was bent double now, her legs resting on
his shoulders as he continued to pump her hard. “I’m what you
want.”
“
And what is
that?”
“
Sex with no responsibility.
Sex that’s not what you usually do. You would agree, would you not,
that fucking a seventeenth century Dutch merchant in the middle of
an art gallery is not your usual sexual preference?”
She couldn’t answer as a wave of release hit
her. Her cunt contracted around the Dutchman who continued to
thrust into her spasms until he too, shouted out his release.
Lisa closed her eyes, savoring the feel of
his warm semen at the mouth of her cunt, then opened them when she
felt a hand on her arm.
“
Are you all right?” She
looked sideways into the face of an elderly woman. “You seem upset.
Here have a tissue.” The woman held out the tissue and Lisa took it
gratefully.
