Seducing the Art Student
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It had been another busy day at the office. I was sitting at my desk in the bright open-plan office I had at Michelson Accountancy and Tax Consultants, Inc. in downtown Philadelphia. It was May already and the weather was heating up. The office was crowded with people as people wanted to finish up their work, since it was Friday afternoon and the weekend was coming. Tempers were flared and I wasn’t really in the mood for any more stress and I couldn’t think of anything but the end of the day and the time I could get out of here. My desk was covered with papers, plus a desktop computer, a laptop, a desk calculator, a telephone, my cellphone and a potted plant. Just then, the mainline phone rang once.
“Who’s this now?” I said, irritated. I picked up the phone. “Bridget Cashman, Marketing Manager.”
Marcia, the receptionist, answered. ” Bridget, David Griffiths on line one.”
“What does HE want? OK, put him through.”
The line clicked. “Hi, Bridget, this is David. Listen, I won’t be able to get the new logo to you by Monday morning. Something’s come up and our firm’s been inundated with new work, so there’s a backlog.”
“Oh, really?” I said, sarcastically.
“We think we can clear it by Wednesday, so estimated time of delivery will be Wednesday afternoon earliest, possibly Thursday morning.”
“WHAT! I need that new logo — I’ve presenting it to the CEO at 10:00am on Monday!”
“I’m sorry, Bridget, but we’re unlikely to get the new design finalized until then because it needs to be signed up by my superior and he’s away until Tuesday at least.”
“Oh, great! Thanks for nothing! This is the third time you’ve done this to me, David!”
“It’s all these new contracts -“
“Oh, so, your firm prioritizes new customers, while old customers have their stuff relegated to the back burner until you can get around to it, yeah?”
“It’s not like that, Bridget -“
“It IS like that, David — you just admitted it yourself. Your company is so eager for new customers, yet it’s the fact that you just don’t care about old customers that you have to keep getting new ones. Let’s face it, David — THAT’S IT, ISN’T IT!”
“Bridget, calm down -“
“Don’t tell me to calm down. Your firm has screwed us over so many times already — delays in deliveries, wrong specifications, endless pointless meetings about tweaking designs — HOW DIFFICULT IS IT? It’s just a simple logo! Why can’t you ever deliver?”
“Bridget, I -“
“No, forget it! That’s it! I’m speaking with Purchasing first thing Monday about your company’s contract and request to cancel it.”
“You CAN’T deliver, you CAN’T meet expectations — what am I supposed to tell the CEO? What can I show him on Monday?”
“Well, I -“
“Right, I’m canceling this order. I’ll talk to Purchasing about your contract on Monday but as for this logo, cancel it. I’ll find someone else.”
“Who’s going to deliver at such short notice?”
“OBVIOUSLY NOT YOU!” I paused for thought. “I’ll find a freelancer. There are plenty around and they’re probably cheaper.”
“What about quality?”
“I don’t think you’re qualified to speak on that, David, huh? Cancel it. I’ll confirm it in writing later.”
“Oh, Bridget -” He sounded crestfallen, but it was his own fault.
“Sorry, David, but you’ve done this too often. I can’t afford to wait. The meeting’s important and I must have something to show. Now get off this line because I’m busy and I can’t spend all this time talking. Catch you later.” I hung up.
Stuff him. David Griffiths was just another middle-aged, bearded, overweight, misogynistic know-it-all trying to screw me over. I had a sneaking suspicion that he was doing this because he didn’t respect me. Griffiths was mildly well-known in the industry locally and could do some good work but he always seemed to do it for clients who just happened to be male. Nobody seemed to have trouble with him except me, and I would have ignored it if it hadn’t been for that story in the paper about him feeling up a pole dancer at an after-party event for a contract signing between the company he worked for and a major new client that had just set up in town.
I sighed. It’s Friday, I’m not in the mood and I want to go home. What time is it? 3:30, according to my watch. An hour and a half to go.
Five o’clock came and I couldn’t wait to get out. “See ya, guys!” I waved to my staff as I slung my coat over my arm, grabbed my handbag and left.
“See you, Bridget! Have a great weekend!” cried Mark, one of the guys in my department.
“Thanks!” Then out the door I went, thank goodness.
Outside the building, I hailed a taxi to my apartment. As I was being driven along, I sat on the back seat and had a think about what Griffiths said.
Bummer, I would need to find a freelancer fast. I had spent the remainder of the afternoon at work Googling possible freelance candidates, in between the one hundred and one other things I had to do. I hadn’t found much but had been intrigued by an art exhibition going on at the local community college Escort Şişli tomorrow morning, starting at eight.
I quite like art. I got sort of interested when I was younger, after taking an art minor during my Bachelor’s degree, before giving up the subject when I had done my Master’s. Since then, I had been working on my career, working my way up through three marketer positions for various local firms before getting this job for Michelson’s at thirty-three. Now I was Marketing Manager and making a decent salary.
I’m thirty-seven already! I’d celebrated at a really nice Italian restaurant two months ago with my staff, and there had been some questions about when I was gonna settle down. I had joked at the time that they were starting to sound like my mother — ‘Bridget, dear, why don’t you get yourself a nice boyfriend before it’s too late?” The fact was, I had had a few high school crushes, maybe three or so, then four or five non-serious boyfriends during college, then a semi-serious brief thing that lasted four months during my Master’s. Since I was twenty-four and finished my studies, I had been on eight or nine dates with a variety of guys. In my twenties, they had been fun, party animals, but basically shallow, with no conversational skills, drinking too much and being useless in bed.
When I hit thirty, I became super-horny all of a sudden. I was too old by then to care about looking like a “good girl”, so had hung out in bars now and again, which had led to some one-night-stands and short-but-exciting flings with totally unsuitable men, all beer, pizza, muscles and tattoos, who had pounded me senseless in bed before leaving in the morning. That had been a short-term fix, yet once I had achieved a management position at work, I had focused on work, perhaps a little too much, since I had neglected my workouts, eaten convenience food and had now piled on some pounds. My once-lithe frame was fleshy and out of shape, which did me no favors in the romance department, plus once I had hit thirty-five, guys had avoided me, figuring that a woman of my age was gonna be all “tick-tock-tick-tock” and want to settle down at lightning speed, with a ring on my finger, a house and three bratty kids. Huh!
The taxi pulled up outside my brownstone, where I had a small apartment on the third floor. I paid the fare and made my way inside and upstairs. Turning the key in the lock, I walked inside with a sigh, dumped my handbag on a dining table chair and headed for the bedroom.
Stuff it, let’s take a shower — I’m tired. Looking in the closet mirror, I saw a tired, 37-year-old woman, with long, straggly blond hair; my longish face had two big, brown eyes and a medium-full mouth, painted with a reddish-brown lipstick. I took off my navy-blue suit jacket and impatiently yanked off the scarf. I undid the buttons on my blouse and ripped it off my torso, revealing a slightly damp, beige bra. I felt slightly sweaty as I reached around the back to unclip it. It fell to the floor, revealing my fleshy 34D breasts. They had lost their shape from how they looked in my early twenties, had perhaps move southwards by about an inch, but they were pleasingly large, the wide areolae surrounding my small, nub-like nipples smooth and light pink compared to the expanse of white flesh adjacent to them. Removing my skirt, I stood in my underwear, which was also beige (I like matching bra and panties — not matching looks cheap, I think). My stomach and abdomen was soft and squashy but no muffintop or love handles yet, thank goodness. My thighs were slightly thick, but that was good because my legs were long and still elegant. I viewed my body in the mirror. Not great, but not bad, either.
Heading for the shower, I stepped into the bathtub, yanked the shower curtain across and turned on the water. It was luxurious and refreshing, as I lathered the shower gel over my body. My fingers slid across my breasts and nipples, and I was surprised to feel a slight burst of desire. It was just a brief split-second, but it was simultaneously zingy and wanton. Suddenly desirous, I massaged my breasts, feeling them and mashing them between my fingers. I undulated my body, working myself up for several minutes, before my right hand ventured south. My neatly trimmed pussy felt soft as my fingertips stroked over my pubic mound to reach the nub of my clitoris. Impatient, I began rubbing it furiously, the desire I felt and pent-up frustrations of the day spurring me on. I wanted release, and my back arched and my mouth opened as I looked up at the ceiling. Finally, a burst of pleasure erupted, my thighs quivering as a bolt of pleasure shot up my spine. Briefly plunging two fingers into my pussy, I rode them for a few seconds as I took my well-deserved pleasure.
That done, I finished showering and got out. Wrapping a towel around me, I walked back into the bedroom and plonked myself down on the end of the bed. The warmth from the clitoral orgasm made me feel better and my head felt clearer and more at peace. When I was younger, I was more orgasmic and would stimulate myself Sultangazi escort for longer and with more abandon. That was a long time ago, though, when I was more confident about my body. Now, just a clitoral orgasm would do and I was too tired to bother doing anything else. I decided to make dinner, watch TV for a few hours, then get some sleep.
The next day was Saturday. I woke up at around 6:30am, ate some cereal and grabbed some coffee. I was scrolling through a news site, then remembered the art exhibition. It started at eight but I didn’t want to show up as soon as the doors opened. I had nothing else going on that day, so decided to get there at around 9:30. In the meantime, I did some laundry and pottered around the apartment. I thought about what I would ask when I got there. I needed to find a freelancer fast for the meeting on Monday, so once I got there, I would have to nail someone down by lunchtime. I figured if I could get whoever said yes to run up a few logo designs by tonight or tomorrow morning, I could have the final product done by late afternoon tomorrow. If necessary, I could pay the person cash, ask for a receipt, then put it through Accounts first thing Monday to get a rebate on my next pay packet. Great.
I grabbed a taxi to the community college. When I showed up, I saw that it was a large, stone building, with a lot of pillars and masonry, all Doric columns and faux-Greek alabaster urns with bushy plants cut into animal-shaped topiary. There were two wrought-iron gates, then a large courtyard behind, filled with about fifty or so people milling around, interested to see the artwork. I walked inside and stood in the courtyard to get my bearings. Some temporary signage had a list of different types of art and arrows pointing to different areas of the exhibition. Unsure where to start, I picked one and made off towards that area.
Over to the left, a large stone building with big, dark brown, wooden doors stood, eminent and imposing. Impressed at the architecture of the place, I stepped inside.
There was a large, open space, with students arranged in lines around the edges, sitting on wooden stools, with a collection of their artwork on canvas boards behind, complete with brief descriptions of each piece. In addition, each student was busy creating a new artwork on an easel in front of them, and I saw various members of the public discussing these with students.
I wandered around. Mostly, I saw oil on canvas, with a range of countryside scenes. I was particularly taken with an Asian-looking scene of a street with low housing, old brown roofing and yellow walls, with an old woman carrying a stick with heavy loads in front and behind her, plus an old 1940’s bicycle leaning up against a wall. A pretty, blond girl in blue jeans, white top and Wayfarer shades perched on her voluminous mane of hair sat on her stool in front of her art collection, busy painting a new picture on a canvas held up by an easel.
“Hey,” I began. “I really like that one there, the Asian-looking one.”
She smiled and turned her head to look where I was pointing. “Oh, yeah, thanks. That’s Hoi An in Vietnam. I went backpacking in southeast Asia last summer with friends and took lots of photos. I felt inspired to paint one when I got back because I missed the place so much.”
“Wow, it’s great,” I remarked. “Does it really look like that?”
“Yeah, it does! Hoi An was AMAZING. I wish I could have stayed there forever. It’s just so laid-back and chill. We had an awesome time.”
“Fantastic. Well, thanks.”
I moved on. Wow, yeah — traveling to Asia would be great — so wild, so fun, so much freedom. I felt a burst of inspiration. Hmmm, yeah! Why don’t I travel?
In another building, I saw a bunch of earthenware pottery. I wasn’t so interested, although I liked this one fresco with voluptuous-looking naked Greek women eating grapes on a couch in ancient Athens. I liked these larger-sized full-figured women in art. I felt like I could compete. The Venus de Milo had the same kind of slightly fleshy arm as I did, which made me feel good. In fact, I’m better than her, because I’ve got two.
There was also an exhibit of modern computer-generated artwork. Laptops bleeped and there was loud electronic music playing. I was interested and decided to spend some time there. Perhaps my logo could be here. However, a lot of the designs were kind of generic stuff anybody could see anywhere, and I felt somewhat deflated. I didn’t feel there was much imagination on display, plus the artists were all really nerdy-looking guys. After looking around this section for a while, I saw one design that looked semi-decent. I approached a skinny dweeb with a shock of curly brown hair, thick glasses, a V-neck sweater and brown trousers and shoes.
“Excuse me, could you tell me about that one?” I asked him, pointing at a large letter M in a blue and white design.
“Oh, yeah,” he said, uninterested. “It was done on my laptop. It’s blue and white. It’s made with Illustrator.”
“I see. Taksim escort bayan Did it take a long time to make?”
“Not really.” There was a pause.
‘Well, how long?”
“Oh, I can’t remember. I did it last year.”
I felt a sudden impatience. “Well, what if you made it again? How long would it take you with the skills you have now?”
“Oh, I’d never make it again. It was just a one-off.”
“OK, but what I mean is -” I stopped. “Er, never mind. Thanks, anyway.”
I walked off. Huh. Stuff that. Maybe the design was OK but I couldn’t work with a guy like that — he would drive me up the wall. Onward.
In the next building were watercolors. I had always thought that watercolors were rather ethereal paintings with really watery-looking shades of seascapes and fishing boats and stuff, but I was surprised to find that many of the paintings were in bright, vivid colors, and the topics and scenes were dynamic images of flowers, street scenes, portraiture and a range of others. Hmmm, this was a bit better, I thought. I wandered around, looking at various pictures. One young guy, about twenty-four, sat casually on a stool in front of his easel. I told him about what I thought of watercolors, how I always imagined them to be really light, watery hues, not like these bright images.
“It just depends on how much water you use. Less water means thicker paint, and different amounts can create a wide variety of palettes,” he explained.
I smiled. “I see. Thanks.”
He smiled back. Walking on, I saw many large paintings, some absolutely exquisite. These were great! I began to get lost in the scenes, spending time dawdling, gazing for long periods, occasionally minutes on end. Suddenly snapping to attention, I decided against looking gormless and remembered why I was here. It was now almost 10:30, so I’d better get a move on. Towards the back of the gallery I saw some smaller pictures. I really liked these. They were small, perfectly square, around six by six inches. They were studies of flowers, but just a single bloom for each, rather than any stems or leaves. They were painted looking down straight on one flower. There were roses, tulips, poppies, hydrangeas, sweet peas, bluebells and chrysanthemums, carnations and daisies. Each one was detailed, with minute shades of color, adding light and shadow to the artwork.
I turned to the artist. He sat on his wooden stool, just like all the others, with an easel in front of him. He was painting a woman and didn’t look too happy. He frowned and tried hard to draw her eyebrows. The palette in his hand was awash with a smear of dark colors, and I can see that he was trying to mix red and brown to get the correct shade for the woman’s skin.
“Ahem,” I coughed politely.
He looked up. He was fair of face, with a longish face, rather like mine, with blue eyes and an aquiline nose. He had blond hair, which was long and fell to his shoulders. His frame seemed medium build and, although I could see a toned bicep that showed he worked out, he wasn’t particularly muscled. He wore a white T-shirt, blue jeans and some white sneakers. He raised his eyebrows with a small smile. “Hi,” he said.
I turned to the flower paintings. “I really like these. They’re awesome.”
He smiled modestly. “Thanks. They’re the work I did in the first semester.”
“I really love the detail. It must have taken you ages.”
“I spent a long time studying up on watercolors. A lot of the students try to learn a bit of everything. So did I, but I liked watercolors best, so I decided to concentrate on them in my free time and learned them in-depth for my own amusement.”
“So are these for your studies or just a hobby?”
“Well, a bit of both,” he said. “Initially, I did them at home for myself, just to practice techniques. Then, about two-thirds of the way through the semester, my lecturer suddenly announced a competition on plant drawings and paintings, and I told him about what I had been doing so far and he agreed to let me submit what I had already done.”
“Wow, that’s great,” I remarked.
“Yeah, it was a stroke of luck, really.” He gazed at me.
I felt suddenly abashed at his attention, for no apparent reason. Ignoring this, I asked, “So what are you working on now?”
He looked downcast. “Oh, well, this semester, we’re doing human and animal subjects. I must admit, this is a whole new arena. I felt confident painting flowers and plants but I’ve found it challenging to draw or paint animals, and especially people. Look at this woman.”
“It’s OK,” I said. It looked reasonable enough. It was a picture of a woman with an umbrella, or perhaps it was a summer parasol. She was wearing a flowing white dress with black shoes and had long hair.
“No, see, I can’t get her body shape right. Look how the side of her body right there has kind of a bulge. I’ve tried so many times to draw her with a more svelte appearance, but I find that if I make her sides more concave, suddenly she turns into this pneumatic blond sex doll, really plastic-looking. See, look.” He grabbed a large sheet of paper, with the same woman drawn in pencil. Sure enough, he had drawn her with a more hourglass figure but now this made her previously average-sized bust look huge. She looked like a Playboy Bunny in a negligee, instead of a more pre-Raphaelite woman in a flowing dress.
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