La Galerie Bleu
Dania had waited months for La Galerie Bleu to re-open its doors. Months, while the elegant old maison underwent a long-awaited renovation. Yes, at the time, Dania had supported the closure, agreeing with the other patrons that the place could use a fresh coat of paint, a new polish. The building was a little old and sometimes even a bit drafty; the remnant of a grander, more decadent time. What she couldn't have known was how much she'd crave to go back once those doors were closed, how much she'd think about the familiar comfort and escape into its roomy shows. Her Friday nights turned empty and slow, and when she had a date she had to take them elsewhere, and it was always disappointing.
La Galerie's renovation ought to have been completed in fourteen weeks. Then there were complications. Then there were delays, and a smattering of protests by neighboring businesses over "appropriate use" of the property. Fourteen weeks eventually became six months, and Dania didn't realize she could start to crave the place like an addict craves a fix.
Finally, they'd be opening again, and she could go and get lost once more in the fabulous, fascinating exhibits.
On the night of the re-opening, Dania didn't take a date. She wanted La Galerie to herself this time—though she'd technically be sharing it with dozens of other patrons. She wanted her own experience to be all her own. This time, at least.
The newly restored and refurbished salon already buzzed with excitement when Dania arrived. Couples, threesomes, foursomes, all crowded and chatted, nibbling hors d'oeuvres and sipping champagne, exclaiming over La Galerie's few foyer displays around them. Mostly, though, they socialized, and Dania had no interest in it.
She caught sight of a few familiar faces in the crowd, and even some of the artists she'd seen there before. She tipped a nod and sent a wave here or there, but more than anything she wanted to be away from the salon. She hailed a waiter, plucked up a flute of champagne, and slipped away into a quieter hall, past a sign that delighted her. The first new exhibit: actes solo.
She wasn't the only one in this section of La Galerie. Perhaps half a dozen pairs of guests dotted the circular room, seated on soft, cushioned benches, observing the artists at work. Here, though, they spoke in whispers, if they spoke at all. The whole space existed under something of a reverent hush: not silence, because of course there were the soft sounds of the artists, the quiet murmurs of guests from the other rooms, the susurrations of one young guest offering her opinion to another, or the voiceless little gasp of someone captivated with the performance. They all took the artwork in with a lush attention no one wished to break with the hard edge of words. As Dania slipped past the other patrons she spared a look at each, cheerfully studying them while they studied the art. A few caught her eye and smiled. One young woman—probably new to La Galerie—blushed bright red.
Dania's own grin stretched wide enough, she thought she might burst. It felt so good to be back...so deliciously, devilishly exciting.
She gave the pieces in the room a long, slow assessment. Somewhere, far off in another part of the maison, somebody was playing a harp, and the faint, lilting melody only just managed to reach them here. Her skin tingled faintly: not quite goosebumps, but it resolved into a good, deep-down shiver nonetheless.
Finally, she found a couch for herself, and took a seat across from one of the artists, settling in to enjoy his performance.
On an long ivory divan, a handsome man with dusky, tawny skin stretched out, completely naked. He might have been about ten years older than Dania. Long, dark hair the color of blued steel hung down, unbound, to his shoulders, but his cheek was smooth, as well as his chest, all the way down to his gorgeous, gleaming nethers. It gave him the look of a classic statue: the Dying Gaul, maybe, only perhaps in a very different set of circumstances.
One arm arched up, over his head; the opposite hand gripped his cock, slowly squeezing its way up the length before relaxing and releasing it. His rhythm was slow, self-conscious. He hadn't brought himself to full erection, but as Dania made herself comfortable before him, he opened one eye—a sharp, flinty gray, like his hair—and his mouth perked up into a lazy smile.
She returned the look. One tiny, unspoken acknowledgment. Then she took her eyes from his and instead studied the lines and planes of his warm, smooth body, reclining under soft, subtle fluorescents.
She saw him quiver. Laughing? Maybe. It passed, though, and as if her studious scrutiny called him to action, his cock came to attention. It seemed as languid in its awakening as he did, sprawled comfortable along the couch. She wondered if he felt her eyes on him, her gaze alighting on the straight, thick column of his naked shaft and bare, beautifully sculpted balls.
After their first quiet instant, she did not look at his eyes again. She watched his hand, instead: the steady, focused, familiar way he stroked himself.
Something about the way men touched their own cocks always stirred a deep, smug appreciation in Dania...she'd watched women play with men, watched other men play with men, but there was always some extra, intimate knowledge evident when a man took his own demanding erection into his own hands. It should seem obvious...and yet it was astounding, how clearly you could see it, in each example.
This man moved slowly, his fist loose around his shaft at first. She watched the head of his cock bob, stroked between the base of his thumb and his first two fingers. Some men also fondled their balls—or liked someone else to do it—but not this one. His other hand grasped the divan above his head, as if he meant to steady himself.
Soon after she'd given him permission to play on, simply by her presence, he began to roll his hips to the motion of his hand as well. Slowly at first, of course. This was a man who liked to take his time, and Dania appreciated it. He'd give her a long, luscious show.
Fingers wrapped a bit tighter. His strokes quickened just a breath, his cockhead sliding happily through his grip. Then he loosened his fingers again, returning to his first, more precise masturbation. She saw a tiny shudder run through his legs, and the next roll of his hips came with a little more force, a little more urgency.
Dania's own body warmed while she watched. A flush bloomed just under the flesh of her breasts, collarbone, and shoulders. Beneath her skirt, her own sexual desire began to stir, but like a careful connoisseur she let it simmer for the moment. The sight of her obedient, needful boy toy held her enraptured: she knew her attention had an affect on him, an electric effect if it was anything like her own feelings. She imagined every sweet caress, every long pull at his ready cock must well and pool with sexual feelings like sugar within him, intensified by the weight of her witness.
Stroke. Tug. A long, steady roll of tight fingers all the way down his now-adamant erection. At full-mast he made a beautiful sight: tense rigidity gave him a proud, tall cock, tight with its hardness, gleaming like that marble his ancient stone kinsmen had been sculpted from. As he pleasured himself he revolved his grip ever-so-slightly, turning a back-and-forth motion into a daring, beautiful twist. He started flicking the soft pad of his thumb over the glistening head at the end of each twist, and Dania's smile widened at the sound of his breath hitching as he did it.
It was making her quite wet. She took him in, watching him undulate and breathe, watching the waves of his pleasure shivering not just through his loins but in the flat planes of his stomach, the heavy muscles of his thighs. She wanted to answer his need with her own. Thoughts of joining his activities—not to touch him but to touch herself, sinking down onto her couch and bringing up the hem of her skirt to flash him wet, white panties before pulling them aside to show off her slick, pink cunt—tempted the edges of her mind. Some of the patrons did that, of course. Sometimes these displays of carnal indulgence turned into interactive displays, and the artist and audience might witness each other's mutual play. Dania didn't want that, though...not yet. She wasn't ready to come to his same level, trade her vantage to satisfy her yearning pussy. Yet.
"Harder," she said to him in a whisper. He said nothing in return, but his brow furrowed as his fist closed a little tighter around that burgeoning cockhead. He stroked with a deeper intensity, though still he was taking his sweet time to reach his peak. Glistening beads of pre-cum like dew seeped from his reddened head, and Dania broke her gaze for only and instant to close her eyes and imagine licking each salty drop from his skin.
Her artist uttered a short, halting gasp. She opened her eyes again to see he'd picked up his rhythm. Long strokes and deep, indulgent tugging now gave way to a more urgent pace. Steady, steady, slow, steady, steady, slow, and his cockhead popped up and down in his fist, growing wetter and slicker.
Dania settled deeper into her couch and smiled. She thought it must be a very feline smile, because she felt like a cat about to take the cream.
His thighs no longer rolled, but heaved. He could manage his composure but he wasn't playing anymore: he was fucking. He thrust and pumped his cock in his fist, and every hot motion made Dania swell with desire. She wanted to see the instant of climax: she wanted to see the tight clench of the big muscles in his thighs and ass, the shudder taking him, head to toe.
His cock. So flush and red and tight. His hips came up from the divan in a hearty bucking motion, and Dania closed her eyes again just one instant, just one, to imagine that hard, mean buck invading her, plunging that dauntless shaft deep into her soft cunt.
Her boy toy let out a low, strangled groan and fucked harder into his palm. She thought she could see it: that dawning stretch of slow realization that he was going to come, he was coming, and there would be no stopping it as his pleasure gushed up from deep in his loins.
Yes. There came that frozen second where he could only groan. His fist tightened around his cock, she noticed the tension in his knuckles. Then in a glorious quiver, the first hot stream of semen jetted up, wild and unsheathed. He came in sweet, strong spurts, arcing streams of cum escaping him with abandon, marking his own smooth belly, thighs, and the soft ivory fabric of the divan.
Dania smiled, and even raised her hands to give him a quiet, gentle clap. He looked up at her—she thought his cheeks had pinkened in his pleasure—and he wore a look of eager gratitude. Another wordless exchange. He rested his hand on one hip, bending on knee, and gazed at her in smarmy satisfaction.
Dania smirked back, but then she stood up, smoothing her skirt. With another sip of her champagne, she glanced once more around the actes solo exhibit.
She wondered what other new exhibits had been added to La Galerie Bleu.