An Afternoon with Monet [F42 / M56] [Strangers/Anonymous] [Unprotected Sex] [one-night stand]
Some people went to the gym. Others the movies. For some they could sink into a good book and leave their worries behind. For her it had always been here, at the art gallery, where she found escape. The imagination and craft around every corner sent her curious mind into a frenzy of reflection and inspiration. She always left the building more hopeful and happy than she had been when she entered.
The new Monet experience had brought her back today. Purists called it a gimmick - the dumbing down of art by turning it into a theme park ride - but she wanted to know for herself. Really, it was just another excuse to spend time alone amongst a creative energy she never found elsewhere.
Despite the rain outside the gallery didn’t feel busy. She was grateful for this, as the energy of a packed room could distract her. She walked past the archetypes - the parents trying to hard with their bored kids; the art majors whispering criticisms to each other learned from AI or Reddit - until she reached her destination. She could hear birds, but the blackened doorway gave little hint as to what was beyond.
She stepped through the entrance and into a world of colour. The room was empty. Save for a long bench in the centre of the room. But it wasn’t empty. On the floors, walls, ceilings - everywhere around her projected was The Artists Garden at Giverny. But the images weren’t still. The flowers seemed to sway in the breeze. She heard the sounds of nature - buzzing bees and a wind chime a little ways off. This wasn’t her eyes gazing on a canvas - she was standing in the painting itself.
She found the bench and sat there, visiting the works of Monet. She swore she could feel the sand between her toes on the Beach at Sainte-Adresse. She felt unsettled by The Woman with a Parasol, who clearly saw the truths she tried to keep hidden. She stayed still, her senses alive, with each passing moment invoking a new emotion, new thought, new feeling.
She didn’t know when he’d sat down beside her. Her sense of time in this room was lost. But it was during The Water Lily Pond that she noticed the older man seated beside her. Well groomed and lean, he looked like he leapt off the pages of a men’s clothing catalogue. He noticed her stare and smiled back, and she saw his perfect teeth and chin dimple. The butterflies in the room were no longer just projected onto the wall.
She sat there, with this stranger so close to her, and tried to bring her mind back to her surroundings. But she was distracted. Her environment had changed. She was now sharing this experience with another. And as the art had inspired her creativity, he was now inspiring her imagination. But what she imagined felt improper. Uncivilized. Raw. The opposite of the impressionistic paintings that surrounded her.
Although she had initiated the movement, she still felt a jolt of surprise when her pinky grazed the finger on his hand resting beside him on the bench. He didn’t move it away. Their eyes met. She smiled bashfully. He took her hand in his. No words were exchanged as they sat there, but no words were needed to connect with each other.
They sat there, gazing around, as his thumb slowly stroked the back of her hand. With each stroke, she lost touch with the world of Monet, trading it for the growing desire she had for him. When their eyes met again she saw that he felt it too. It was then that she stood up, still holding his hand, and led him out of the room.
She had been to this gallery dozens of times.
She knew where they could be alone.
She knew where she could have him.
The moment she felt him inside her she closed her eyes and softly moaned. In her mind she saw colours dancing. And with each thrust, each bounce on his lap those colours swirled … first like silk dancing in a summer breeze, but building to a raging storm of neon and shadow. She clutched him to her chest as their rhythm intensified, her mind lost to rivers of colour rushing past as she felt the climax build inside her. She felt his warm release and freed herself to the moment, their beautiful agony shared in unison.
She kissed his forehead and dismounted her handsome stranger. He moved to speak but she put a finger to his lips, indicating silence.
She had never felt closer to art in her life. She would not let it be spoiled by risking the wrong spoken word.
Kissing him on the cheek, she walked away, wondering how she could bring more of Monet into her home….
(I like to write erotic stories! This was inspired by a personal follower request. Hope the group enjoyed!)