For Art’s Sake

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The story of how I met Christine still amazes me. Who knew the adventure I’d embark upon when the phone rang that Sunday afternoon?

“Is that Mark?” The voice was female, mid-twenties I guessed, but all business.

“It is.” I kept up the business-like nature of the call. “How can I help you?”

“You’re in my league at the tennis club. Would you like to play this week? I’m Christine, by the way.”

Under my breath I cursed my buddy Chad for getting me involved in the league. Not only was it his goofy idea, but at the last minute he pulled out and left me to deal with all the whackos who called trying to arrange pointless, or so I felt, tennis matches.

I tried quickly to think of a reason not to play Christine, but in the end I lamely accepted. We agreed on a Thursday evening match and I put the phone down cursing.

Of course, the obvious thoughts of Christine being a delicious creature who would be insanely tempted by my limited charms ran through my head, but reality kept me from getting too far into the relationship before we’d met. It wasn’t often the girl I met matched the promise of the voice on the phone—approximately never.

So… I turned up at the tennis club Thursday, straight from work and still thinking about the crap I’d left on my desk. I asked the girl on reception if she knew Christine but she didn’t, adding vaguely that she thought she might be a new member. I went off, got changed and went out to the court she’d booked.

Christine was sitting in a chair next to the net when I got there. She stood up and offered me her hand as I approached. “Nice to meet you.” she smiled.

Whilst she wasn’t about to be mistaken for Anna Kournikova, Christine had a pretty face, cute, short blonde hair and a nice figure. Her breasts were restrained by a sports bra but presented themselves nicely to my eyes as they formed pleasant curves on her white, body-hugging top. She wore white shorts, low-mileage tennis shoes and stood about 5′ 6″.

After a few pleasantries we warmed up with some gentle shots, she elected to serve and hit the fastest tennis ball I’d ever seen straight at me. Any thoughts I had about an easy match against a girl disappeared right there.

I’m no slouch with a tennis racquet but Christine was everything I could handle, and a bit more. I chased hard in the first set and only lost 6-4 but in the second I ran out of stamina quickly and plunged 6-2. Something about her matter-of-fact demeanor kept me from being ashamed at losing to a female, but I wasn’t proud of the fact, nor was I looking for a rematch anytime soon.

“That was fun.” She was barely out of breath.

“Yeah.” I tried to hide some of my panting. “You’ve played a bit then?”

“I used to play a fair bit.” She wiped her face with a towel and looked down at me while I tried to stem the flow of sweat from my brow. “I was state junior champion three times before college. I’ve just started to play a little again. It was nice to play against someone who can also play.”

Her last statement stunned me—that I was a worthy opponent!

“Well, anytime you’d like to play…” I offered, more out of courtesy than anything else.

“I’ve gotta run. I’ll call you.” she assured me, gathered up her things and headed off.

I didn’t think she would call, and I certainly wasn’t going to call her. She’d shown no interest in me other than a serve and volley game, and I wasn’t interested in another thrashing. It was no surprise that she didn’t call the following week, or the one after, but it was also strangely unsurprising when she called the week after that.

“Would you like to play again?” Her approach was again very formal.

Against my better judgment, I agreed. More than that, I offered to book the court… and started to think there was something wrong with me.

“Well, if you don’t mind coming out here, my parents have a court, and it’s supposed to be nice this weekend.”

We agreed on Sunday, I took down the address and noted that there weren’t many real estate bargains where her parents lived.

I imagined a long driveway, impeccable garden, nice new court, lemonade and maybe her parents looking on as their daughter whipped her male opponent’s ass. I was close enough to the mark.

The lemonade was Gatorade, the garden was huge and the house spectacular. Christine welcomed me at the front door and immediately walked me through to the rear garden, and the court. It was in perfect condition, surrounded by a 12ft fence and had a small refrigerator by the umpire’s chair, where the Gatorade was kept.

Today Christine was wearing black shorts and a pink top. Her hair was swept back with a band and she seemed more relaxed in her parents’ garden. She explained they were out of town and assured me there was no hurry to start as I fished in my bag for shoes.

I tried hard, but tanked again as she ran me all over the court, chasing shots that were too well-placed for me to reach. This time it was 6-3, 6-3 and I was more exhausted kadıköy escort than our first match.

As we sat in seats next to the refrigerator Christine told me again that she enjoyed playing with me, and showed no sign that it was really beating me that she enjoyed. Her demeanor was hardly “warm”, but I had at least started to enjoy being around her.

“I’m not good enough for you.” I laughed.

“Not true.” she dismissed. “I have to play really well to keep up with you. A couple of points going the other way and the result would be different.”

“You don’t need to be kind. I’m not ashamed of being beaten by a girl. You’re better than any guy I’ve played against in may years.”

“I like playing with men better.” She softened to a muse. “Nothing to do with beating them because they’re men, but I like how men try harder, because I’m a girl, if that makes sense.”

“Kind of.” I thought I followed the logic.

Initially we talked about her tennis past but her enthusiasm rose when she started to talk about her art studies and work. I saw her demeanor brighten for the first time. Her face became animated and her hands moved passionately as she talked about her painting and sculpture. Despite having little interest and no discernable knowledge of art, I enjoyed listening to her.

“I’d like to see some of your work.” I admitted, stretching my legs that had become tight after their exertions and now sitting.

Christine’s eyes lit up, and her hand gently grabbed my forearm. “Really? My studio is just over there.” She pointed to the detached triple garage that appeared to have a large workshop extension. “Why don’t you take a shower and I’ll show you around?”

She took me back to the house, showed me to a bathroom and loaded my arms with the biggest towel I’d ever seen. While I luxuriated in the soothing hot water she had a shower somewhere else in the house and was making sandwiches in the kitchen when I found her.

She’d changed into blue jeans and a lime green T-shirt. Her hair was still damp and as I looked over her shoulder at the food I caught the sweet aroma of her shampoo—something coconut. It was the first time I felt a desire for Christine, and I looked at her round butt cheeks with a new interest as she joked with me about not wanting tomato on my sandwich.

The difference was she’d relaxed. So far she’d been all tennis, but now that we were away from the court she’d come around and I was enjoying her company. As I checked out the new shine in her eyes, the gorgeous curve of her hips and her newly unrestrained chest, I began to wonder if…

“Are your folks out of town?” I might as well know what the logistics were… just in case.

“They’re somewhere in the Carolinas.” She screwed up her nose at the thought. I thought her nose looked sexy. “Dad has a boat down there. I hate sailing, so I’ve never been.”

When we were through with the food Christine stood up. “Ready to see my work?”


The daylight was starting to fade as we walked across the lawn to the door of her studio. The interior space was larger than I imagined, about twenty feet by thirty. Hanging on the walls were oil paintings in various stages of development. There were several easels with more paintings on, a few in-progress clay sculptures on the workbenches and art paraphernalia everywhere. There was a sofa, a sink and a coffee maker. Her paintings were landscapes, mostly summer scenes with isolated figures somewhere in them—a girl in a wheat field, a man in a park… The sculptures were more abstract, bold geometric shapes and barely recognizable animals. One sculpture was a hollowed-out TV with a screaming face in it. There was a large dust sheet covering one work, along the back wall.

I walked around and looked at her work while she followed me and offered a few nervous comments. I didn’t say much, not knowing whether it was any good or not, but her paintings appealed to my eye.

“I like them.” I nodded, continuing to browse. “What do you like to do most, painting or sculpture?”

“Thanks.” she said demurely and then paused to think about the question. “I like them both. Painting pays the bills but sculpture allows me to be more expressive. It’s harder to sell though.”

I laughed. “I thought artists didn’t care about commercial gain.”

Christine smiled playfully and knocked my arm with her shoulder. “Maybe a hundred years ago. These days we have cell phones, computers, and mortgages to pay.” She caught my curious look. “I only work here. I have an apartment. My folks let me use this place. Sometimes I think it’s so they can keep an eye on me.”

My mind immediately wondered why they would want to keep an eye on her, but that same eye was now looking at Christine with every opportunity. There was no doubting that now I’d been with her a while, I liked this girl.

There was nothing controversial, offensive or edgy about üsküdar escort any of the work on display—nothing to give me any clue what was about to happen.

I was drawn to the item under the dust sheet. Don’t ask me why, I was just interested to see it. Maybe it was my natural curiosity. It was the largest thing in the studio and the only thing covered. I walked up to the bench it was on, looked at it and then looked over to Christine.

She made a screwed-up face at me that looked reluctant, uncomfortable and playful at the same time. “You might not want to look under there.” she said simply.

I felt myself smile back, mischievously. “I might.”

She tried an outright distraction, walking away and telling me that a painting at the other side of the studio was the one she was going to work on the following day. I wasn’t buying that. I was still curious and now wanted to play. I stood by the covered object and waited for her attention to come back to me.

“Look.” she said reluctantly and slowly walked back to me. The tension in the moment was now almost tangible. “That’s a work-in-progress, and I don’t know that I’m ready to share it…”

“Why not?” My question was deliberately short. I was enjoying her mild panic.

“I’d rather not.”

“You make it sound like you’ve got a dismembered body under there.” I reached for the corner of the sheet. “Maybe your parents aren’t on a boat after all…”

“No, don’t, please.” she looked at me, to the dust cover and back to me. “It’s… it’s kind of embarrassing.”

Now I was hooked. I smiled wryly and nodded. I wondered what could be so embarrassing to an artist, checked the outline of the sheet again and looked back at the squirming Christine. Much as my curiosity was jumping now, I didn’t want to force her anywhere too uncomfortable.

“Okay. No problem.” I dropped the corner of the sheet. “You’ll have to ask me back though, when you’re ready to share.”

Christine nodded and continued to look at me, obviously weighing up the situation. “Look… if I show it to you… you won’t judge me or anything. It’s art, it’s… well, it’s… just art. Okay?”

I nodded and stood aside so she could unveil.

She slowly and carefully pulled away the dust sheet and revealed her work-in-progress. Before it came into sight, I could have stood there all year and not guessed what it was.

The base was a 3′ by 6′ sheet to timber, painted with a grid of dark city streets, a blue river and a park. Sprouting up from the cityscape were buildings of differing heights and shapes—every one of them represented by a plaster cast of an erect penis. There were at least 40 penises over the board, all different, grouped as high rises, and there was space for plenty more.

I swallowed, took in the sight and wondered what to say. “It’s… well, it’s nice.” I giggled nervously, understanding now why she might be embarrassed. I’d read of some groupies from the 60’s taking similar casts, but this was the first time I’d seen anything like the artwork before me.

Christine gulped, smiled awkwardly and waved her hand at the place I’d already mentally named “Cock City”. “It represents male domination of the city. It’s a commission from a Woman’s Rights group downtown. I submitted the idea to them and they liked it. This is the first mock-up. When it’s done it’ll all be cast in bronze.”

I liked the idea, and could see that it would work for the theme she described. I wondered where it would be displayed, but didn’t dwell on that thought too long. Another question had started tugging at me.

“Can I ask…” I began with an unsure tone, “how did you get all the casts?”

Christine drew in her breath like she was working up to an awkward answer. “I used models. I advertised in the newspaper for male nude models.”

My Sunday evening had taken a very interesting turn. “You put out an add asking for guys to come and let you make casts of their…”

“Penises. Yes.” Christine giggled for the first time in a while, the tension leaving her again now her secret was out.

She explained the process, describing how she made a mold with a silicone-based quick-setting material, made plaster “positive” casts from those molds. After the casts were dry she could then use them to make a final mold with casting sand for the final bronze versions. It would take her many more weeks to complete the work.

“And you’ll need a few more models.” I laughed. That part of the process intrigued me—technically, at least.

“I’m sure I will.” She hesitated over continuing, but stumbled over a few more words. “If I get stuck, maybe I’ll call you…”

I shrugged, trying to portray indifference, but probably failing badly. The air in the studio was suddenly sparking. “You should, if you need me. I’d be interested to see how the process works.”

It was one of those moments when anything could happen and you didn’t know what you actually wanted to happen. My heart rate was tuzla escort accelerating and adrenaline was beginning to flow into my blood. I studied Christine’s face for any sign that we’d overstepped a mark I knew nothing about. I’m not sure she knew if there was a mark either.

Her eyes met mine. “You want to do it?”

“Sure.” My bravado answered while I was busy trying to work out if this might lead to anything.

Christine started to work slowly, but gained purpose as reality came back to us. She pulled a few things out of a drawer and put an electric kettle on to boil, explaining that she had to mix the silicone gel. I stood around, wondering what I should do and what was going to happen. The anticipation was now crackling through me and my mind flitted around the questions of how this worked.

She asked if I wanted to back out and when I shook my head she took a deep breath and moved over to the sofa. She spread a large towel over the seat and indicated that I should sit down. The kettle was boiling by then and she poured hot water over the pellets she’d measured into a mixing jug. I sat and kicked off my tennis shoes—figuring for sure I wasn’t going to need those.

“We’ve got a couple of minutes.” she announced, obviously breathing deeply. “When you’re ready I’ll add some cold water and the gel will set in a few seconds. You want to lie down?”

I lay back on the sofa, still fully clothed, and waited for my next instruction. Christine didn’t wait though and quickly began to undo my belt. “I’ll, uh… get you ready.” she said, without looking up from her work.

When she’d pulled the snap apart and unzipped me I eased my hips off the sofa so she could pull them off. While not fully erect, the situation had been charged enough that I was most of the way there. Christine nodded at the sight of my bulging briefs. “Looks like you’ll be ready alright.” She eased my briefs down, paused to look at my cock and pulled the briefs down my legs.

Before I had much time to think about what would happen next, or worry whether I could maintain my hard-on under such scrutiny, Christine reached out, pulled back my foreskin and started to massage my cock. Her petite hands felt warm and firm against my growing member. “Uncircumcised—that’ll be nice on the piece.” I exhaled as she made a single stroke form the base to the head and leaned my head against the arm of the sofa. I smiled, thinking to myself that contributing to the arts never felt so good.

Christine brought her other hand up to cup my balls as she stroked me and squeezed my length with her fingers. Within a few seconds there was no doubting that I was hard and throbbing. This didn’t stop Christine putting in some extra strokes, and I wasn’t about to tell her to stop. I briefly wondered if this was how she paid her models for their… time, but it was difficult to concentrate on anything but the pleasure she was inducing.

“You feel like you’re ready?” she asked, twisting to smile at me, still working my cock. “To make the mold?” she added, like I might be ready for something else.

I had to clear my throat. “Yes. Sure.”

“Keep it up for me.” She grinned and stood quickly away.

I gave myself a few self-conscious strokes while she stirred the gel in the jug and then poured in some cold water. When she’d tested the temperature with her finger Christine lifted a polythene bag and started to fill it with the gel. She poured until it was about three-quarters full and then held it up to her face. It looked like a condom for a horse. “You ready?”

Walking back to me she explained that when she slipped the bag over me it would set in about thirty seconds. As my erection faded she would take it off, and we would have our mold. When she kneeled in front of me she retook control of my cock, apparently ensuring it was still fully inflated. “Thank you for this.” she said softly.

She was thanking me? Art rocks!

“Try and push it vertical.” she instructed as she brought the gel bag closer.

I pushed the base so I was standing as vertically as possible and Christine swiftly pulled the bag over me.

The gel felt warm, a little slimy and not too far from a “loose” pussy as I slipped in and she worked it to form tightly around me. I felt the pressure of her squeezing and a cooling sensation as the gel started to set. Christine didn’t look away from her work as she continued to ensure that all of my length had good coverage. “Nearly there.” she advised after a few seconds.

When she stopped working the gel her hand supported the bag and she turned to face me. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?” Her grin was all mischief again.

“No,” I agreed, exhaling, “It was quite pleasurable actually.”

“Time to think about your mother.” Christine quipped, looking away from me and starting to shake the mold from side to side. “Or whatever else you need to think about to get this off.”

After a few seconds of wondering if she would break my cock off at the root with her movements, the gel started to loosen around me and I slipped out—slapping onto my belly as she pulled the mold away. I looked down and ascertained that no damage had been done.

“It looks good.” She nodded and then she stood up and started to strip away the plastic bag. “I’ll be able to make a plaster cast in a few minutes, if you’d like to see it?”

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