Body heat (total)

page views:1 Publication date:2023-06-11 13:58:38

Diana and Delia are twin sisters: one a passionate, bold, and avant-garde painter; the other a reserved, conservative corporate manager. On the surface, they seem completely different except for their identical appearance. However, after entering the life of Jack, a great collector and successful businessman, they tacitly play a game of déjà vu, frolicking in a threesome of shifting roles and repeatedly probing their own deepest desires.

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Sweat dripped freely between her thighs, caressing her like an unseen lover. She couldn't imagine the sweat trickling down to her vulva, gathering there, hissing softly. She felt her whole body as hot as the steamy art gallery, yet the heat in the soft, peach-like crevice of her buttocks was almost volcanic.

"It must be this awful art exhibition," she thought wistfully. "This exhibition is enough to make a single, librarian nun's blood boil, let alone a poor, thirsty girl like me!" "Erotic Fantasy °° Deguer Collection Exhibition," the flashy brochure was far too ornate, but the word "erotic" made it seem more subdued. The collector was a complete sexual pervert, and also a connoisseur of art and erotic works. Diana had studied many nude works, so she knew that any work based on bizarre inspiration was likely to have two identities simultaneously. Diana had also had such inspiration, but she hid her results in her trouser drawer. However, Jay Chou-Diegel, the collector of these Rabelais-style works (Note: Rabelais was a 16th-century French satirist known for his vulgar humor), seemed quite happy to show his own masturbation archives to the general public.

The exhibition had everything: masturbation, successful masturbation, group masturbation, explicit depictions of intercourse, unorthodox and narcissistic works. It depicted every evil and perverse idea in the dreams of an extremely indulgent man.

"And perhaps it depicts the dream of a wanton woman as well," Diana thought, feeling somewhat uneasy, worried that someone might read her mind. Sometimes Diana did indeed like the feeling: the engorgement in her abdomen, the burning sensation in her private parts, the extremely sensitive clitoris. But it's no fun to feel this way alone, in public, with no apparent opportunity for relief. She took a sip of her drink, hoping helplessly that it would quell her thirst, but to no avail. She had an absurd urge to touch herself, right here, in the middle of the gallery, just to satisfy…even if only temporarily…this awful, painful lust. This nagging desire had haunted her ever since she told Jimmy their passion was over.

"It's all your fault, Diana," she told herself, taking another sip of her drink and trying to focus on the Mozart Trio playing in the background. Only an idiot or a masochist would come to an erotic art exhibition when their desires are unfulfilled and they're in agony. But what can you do when you've had a birthday and a good meal?

Delia was the one who should be here tonight; after all, the invitation was in her name. Having Diana come in her place was simply a way for the sisters to apologize. Apologies for not being able to spend their birthdays with her as usual.

Diana wasn't angry with her twin sister. She even felt sorry for her. Although coming to see the DeGail collection was a form of sexual suppression, it was far more enjoyable than having dinner with that vulgar and obnoxious Russell. Delia didn't know what she saw in him.

She weaved through a throng of chattering celebrities to the next exhibition hall, but almost immediately regretted it. She saw a floor-to-ceiling, full-color photograph of a man and woman having sex. And not one of those with cleverly arranged shadows, ethereal and beautiful. In that twisted steel frame, the man and woman were real, really making love, their wet, glistening genitals colliding violently, "and the exposed little cleft was right in the center of the photograph." "My God?" Diana whispered, taking another sip of her drink. Just as the cold, crisp taste filled her mouth, two thoughts crossed her mind. First, this was her third drink, and she was already slightly tipsy. Second, the photograph made her feel worse. Or better, depending on your perspective. Alcohol and sex were inextricably linked in Diana's mind, and suddenly she wished she hadn't broken up with Jimmy so hastily. She so desperately needed what they had shared; even if Jimmy was an unimaginative jerk, at least he was good at simple, intense, and sustained sex.

Driven by her artist's imagination, Diana placed herself in the image before her. She saw a slender, graceful woman with dark hair, dark eyes, and warm, apricot-colored skin. She was a simple woman with a good figure and a heart-shaped, delicate face. Her eyes were large and bright, and her naturally rosy lips were pouting, begging for a kiss.

Diana chuckled at her vanity, but still began to groom herself. She tugged at her thin black dress, from her slender waist to her soft, curvaceous hips.

If it weren't for the slightly tight bodice, she and her black cotton dress would have been a perfect match, ninety-nine percent. She'd known about the dress since she'd seen it at the market stall, but she still loved it and had to try it on. The stall owner, meanwhile, was peeking at her through the curtain of the makeshift fitting room. He must have known from the dress's cut that she couldn't try it on with underwear, and he knew he was about to have a free show to watch.

But for some reason, Diana didn't mind his staring. She was actually quite happy, because in many ways she enjoyed being watched. Especially by a seemingly clever, rough man like the stall owner.

However, she couldn't imagine that Delia felt the same way. Even in terms of taste in clothes. The old Indian cotton, with its frayed edges and sequins, was nothing like her sister's. A sudden unease washed over Diana, and she wondered if she should dress more like the woman who was supposed to be there.

Facially, resemblance was easy. She and Delia were identical twins.

And their resemblance was so unusual that even their parents sometimes couldn't tell them apart. However, their recent tastes in clothing and their mannerisms had become quite different, making it easier to distinguish them. On an occasion like this, Delia might wear elegant, pale gray, very Jeanmuir-esque clothing. Her hair would retain its natural shine, unlike Diana's large, tangled, and chestnut-colored waves. Furthermore, the rational Delia might drink Perrier mineral water and lime to avoid becoming incoherent—she would never drink alcohol, as staying sober seemed out of fashion.

Suddenly, Diana felt an unbearable urge to look at the bodies in the photographs and decided to look at other works. Perhaps there was something gentler, something that wouldn't make her feel so desperately in need.

But as she browsed the catalog, a very strange sensation enveloped her. The fine hairs on the back of her neck all stood on end. She saw a blurry, dark figure slip into her left field of vision without her noticing. She held her breath, and something ghostly seemed to reach out and caress her, slowly, very familiarly, like the slippery fingertips of an illusory man, slithering into her erogenous zones.

She looked to her left, extremely carefully and inconspicuously.

In front of the next display stood a man, intently examining the artwork. He was such a dark-skinned man, so sexually perfect, that he himself could be an exhibit. Diana controlled herself, refraining from staring at him greedily, and focused on her catalog. But once again, her inner eye struggled to begin "imagining." This time, however, she was thinking of him, not herself.

She gripped the gleaming booklet tightly until her knuckles turned white. She didn't know why, but suddenly felt like she had become an exhibit herself. It was as if the man was looking through her clothes, scrutinizing her naked body, though from any angle, he was actually looking at a brown sketch of a woman masturbating.

"You're fantasizing, Diana," she told herself. "He might not be anything special, or even interested." Yet, even as she said this, her skin grew hotter, and the blush that rose from her face and neck crept unnoticed into her genitals. Her awareness intensified, and her breasts swelled, appearing wanton and obvious beneath her overly tight clothing. She felt as if someone nearby was using X-rays on her body, enjoying lewd pleasure, because she wore very little underwear—due to her heat sensitivity.

Suddenly, she smelled herself. Although she had worn rose-scented perfume before leaving home, standing beside that shadowy figure only a few dozen meters away, she seemed to smell only of musk, sensuality, and sweat. A substance secreted by an animal to attract attention overwhelmed her faint perfume, and seemed to float around her like an invisible, courtship fog.

As stealthily as possible, Diana slipped out. The adrenaline rush made her dizzy; she needed a restroom or something to spray on some perfume and cool her body down. Only then would she have the courage to go back to her dark and destructive stranger. After another drink, and resolving not to chug alcohol again, she began to scan her surroundings. She didn't see any obvious signs to the restroom, but she did find a place to escape to.

The gallery was a rather irregular modernist creation, so others didn't seem to have noticed the terrace. Its height should have been enough to overlook the entire room. From Diana's current position, it was almost impossible to see the higher parts, but from the white, unremarkable terrace, the tops of many of the picture frames would be visible. Clearly, more artwork was displayed on the other side of the wall, so Diana decided to find her way to the terrace to explore.

It took her a few minutes to find the right stairs, but when she reached the terrace, the view was truly disappointing.

Yes, from there you could see the entire gallery and a noisy, well-dressed group of "art lovers," but the tall, dark, handsome man was surprisingly nowhere to be seen.

"See, Diana," she murmured, "he's gone. You should have struck up a conversation with him, but you missed your chance, you idiot." "Struck up with whom?"

The voice beside her was soft and gentle, with a cunning, husky quality. Pure sexuality, emanating from the human vocal cords, and Diana knew whose voice it was. Slowly, almost reluctantly, she turned.

Her initial impression of him wasn't as good as he seemed. She had already sketched a portrait of him in her mind, but what stood before her now was so perfect, a living masterpiece, far more beautiful and sensual than any of the works in this mad, inferior exhibition.

"Who are you going to talk to?"

Diana's vision was still black, but after a few seconds, all she could do was stare at his smiling lips, his large, dark eyes, his hands, his body, his crotch. His thin, dark eyebrows were raised in questioning and an attempt to please. And after what felt like an eternity, she regained her voice.

"It's you," she said loudly, determined to be her usual fearless self. He was the embodiment of pure lewdness, but she wasn't afraid of him. She wanted him—yes, urgently and certainly—but not fearfully. Though deep inside, a faint voice told her she should.

"Yes," she continued, turning away. In her panic, she blurted out whatever came to mind.

"'Flirting' is just a metaphor, but you seem to be one of the few people here genuinely interested in the exhibits. So I thought it would be nice to 'flirt' with you and exchange opinions. I'm an artist myself, so I'd like to compare my experiences with others… with others." She paused, a little flustered, realizing she was the only one rambling on. He, however, continued with his slow, tolerant smile.

"You're interested, aren't you?"

"Of course! That's my specialty." He flicked his finger mysteriously, the movement so elegant that Diana noticed his long, well-maintained fingers. Suddenly, she began to fantasize again, his hands deftly gliding over her body, finding her most sensitive spots, caressing her, bringing her to orgasm after orgasm. She could almost see his toffee-colored hands covered in her bodily fluids.

"Are you telling the truth?" she asked rudely, feeling that flush rise again, seeping back into the same place—the place that now yearned so intensely for this dark, unfamiliar man before her.

"Are you an artist yourself? Do you paint? Or sketch?" "No, unfortunately, I don't have much talent. I just appreciate," he replied, his eyes roaming almost crudely over her body. When their eyes met, she was stunned by a deep, azure gaze. It wasn't entirely due to the blatant desire, but rather her astonishment at the color of his eyes. Given his complexion, Diana had assumed he would have brown or gray eyes like hers.

The shape of his eyes was also unusual. On a Caucasian face, they were upturned and slanted eastward, almost like cat eyes. Their lashes were far apart, black, with a thin fold at the inner corner of their eyes. This mysterious man must have some distant Eastern ancestry, and his epicanthal folds, characteristic of people of East Asian descent, were the best proof.

His hair was also Eastern in style: glossy black, straight like water, pulled back into a ponytail. Its pure, unadulterated luster reminded Diana of a sealskin coat, but almost simultaneously, she revised her judgment. Seals were cute and playful, but this man was definitely not. He must be a shark or a king cobra, lurking, ready to strike or hunt, smiling and deadly. Suddenly, she knew she should be afraid of him.

"Me too," she finally reacted. "He must think I'm a complete fool," she thought, deeply dissatisfied that she hadn't made a good impression on him.

“Why don’t we get together?” she said, her words carrying no particular meaning, but her deep eyes seemed to be beckon her, as if she were asking him to undress and make love to her. “That would be wonderful,” he murmured contentedly, gesturing towards the painting that had just profoundly affected her.

“My God, this man is so unoriginal,” Diana thought as she followed him. “A sexually stimulating but unoriginal man.” This first-rate “Man in the Dark” stood like a statue before the gallery’s unremarkable white wall. This dark-skinned, handsome stranger was a perfect communicator in terms of technique and artistic conception, though upon closer inspection, there were some minor but noticeable stylistic differences.

He was really tall. If she were to measure herself at five feet seven inches, Diana estimated he was about five feet eleven inches. He was also very dark-skinned, not just with black hair, but with dark skin as well. His skin was smooth like polished wood, and that auburn hue was another testament to his Far Eastern heritage.

Was he handsome? Yes, but not in the usual, dull, traditional way. Her art-loving friend was a work of art in himself. His near-perfect features had only one small flaw: a thin white scar near his left temple, running from his eyebrow to his hairline. This, along with his upturned eyes, placed on a Western face, was so Eastern that it set a new and impeccable standard for masculinity. The same was true of his full, red lips and strong, high nose, though his nose had a very slight, playful upturn.

Almost instinctively, she looked down at his groin, wondering what his penis looked like. She wasn't usually superstitious, but seeing his long, slender hands and sharp nose, she couldn't help but imagine his penis must have the same characteristics.

Long and thin, the lewd glans would probe deep into a woman's body, caressing her. He wore tight black leather trousers, with a firm bulge in his crotch, which seemed to coincide with her fantasies.

He must have noticed she was staring at him…

He glanced at his leather-covered waist and swayed it upwards, slowly and infuriatingly. His smile was unclear, but it was a self-satisfied masculinity. Shamelessly, he was also appraising her, just as carefully and thoroughly as she had just done, perhaps even more so. Despite his undeniable handsomeness and sensual charm, Diana would gladly punch him in the mouth.

Men. All of them are arrogant pigs… even if they have good reason to be.

"Have you seen enough?" she retorted.

"No, not yet. But the night is still long..." The smile turned into a wide, radiant grin, striking Diana's abdomen and other more crucial areas. She felt a heat rising within her, a melting, a penetration.

"Come on, darling," he said, taking her free hand. "Let's look at something else. The best exhibits are all here, and you and I own them all." He was surprised that Diana smiled when their fingers touched, savoring the subtle sense of superiority.

"You're so warm," he said. Taking her hand and extending it, he examined it for a while as if it were a rare work of art. Then his fingertips began to caress her, from her wrist down to her bare shoulder. This long caress was so gentle and cool, so comforting. But she knew that to him, her skin was burning. "Are you running a fever, or is there something else?" His deep, azure gaze pierced through her, as if commanding her to answer that her fever was caused by him.

Diana didn't want him to succeed. "My body temperature is higher than normal. It's a family trait, it has nothing to do with you, if that's what you think." Noticing she was still holding a glass of wine, she raised it to her lips, preparing to bolster her courage.

But before she could drink it, her companion snatched it away and offered a toast.

"Then toast the hot, especially a hot woman," he whispered gently. He sipped her wine, his throat heaving sensually, before raising the glass to her lips, his cool rim touching her mouth, forcing her to drink it.

Diana's stomach seemed to churn. No man had ever treated her like this before; usually, they were somewhat afraid of her. But this unfamiliar, dark-skinned man had her completely subdued within minutes of their encounter. She obediently drained her drink, then stood there like a doll, waiting for him to quickly place the glass on the ground, stand up again, and lightly wipe her lips with his finger.

"What's your name, fellow art enthusiast?" His soft voice was far more influential than the wine.

"Dee…" she almost uttered, but a fraction of a second before she finished, alarm bells began to ring in her head. "Perhaps it doesn't matter, but after all, the person who should be here tonight is Delia!" "Dee," she answered after a moment's thought, "everyone calls me 'Dee.'" She wasn't lying; everyone really did call her "Dee," and Delia was also called "Dee." Especially when people weren't sure whether the person before them was Diana or Delia.

“Everyone calls me Jack,” her companion replied, wrapping his arm around her shoulder before she could stop him and turning her entirely toward the nearest exhibit. “So, Dee, what do you think of this one?” This “this one” was a terrifyingly beautiful oil painting, the best she’d seen in the gallery, and certainly the most unsettling. Especially now, here, and with this shameless Jack, who kept stroking her shoulder like a longtime lover.

The “low wall” depicted a masked woman bent forward against a low, white plaster wall, embraced by a broad-shouldered man with dark hair. The man’s rumpled jeans revealed his front zipper was undone, but otherwise he was fully clothed. The woman, in stark contrast, was completely naked from the middle of her back to her ankles. Her delicate clothes were mercilessly bound to her shoulders, and her shorts, wrinkled beyond recognition, were still draped over her feet. Her pale thighs and buttocks were streaked with pink, cross-shaped lines, revealing that she had recently been brutally whipped. She was handcuffed, and her slender wrists, crossed at the narrowest part of her waist, seemed to draw more attention than any other part of the painting. Whether she had been bestially raped or simply had sex was unclear. But it didn't seem to matter.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" Jack said behind Diana. His fingers roamed from her shoulder to her bare back.

She felt the cuff of his silk shirt brush against her softly, and then his hand slowly slid down to the curve of her chest, resting there like a feather.

Diana was struck by his touch and the smoky sound, but her attention remained on the painting. The woman's face was not clearly depicted, but she certainly didn't seem to be suffering. Conversely, her slender body felt so wonderful, and the marks on her white skin seemed more like symbols of pleasure than pain. The man she was having sex with was an insignificant figure—a dark, animalistic form, an appendage for a woman's pleasure, not a main character.

Yet, for some reason, that dark figure seemed somewhat familiar. She dared not turn around, but she could almost imagine that the long, dark figure was Jack.

The pressure of his fingers on her nipple roughly pulled her back to reality. He had pinched that swollen, erect nipple between his thumb and another finger, and was slowly and resolutely twisting it. Diana couldn't believe what was happening, or rather, what she had let happen, or worse, that she was reacting to it instinctively and naturally. Her hips began to sway slightly, the pinching of her nipple sending sensations to her lonely clitoris—that distant yet identical feeling.

"Does this excite you?" Jack asked. His warm breath brushed against the back of her neck, his other hand lifted her hair, and his mouth rested gently on her shoulder. She felt his teeth touch her skin, hard and deadly, then his tongue lightly brushed against her, and just as she thought he was going to bite her, he let go of her hair, moved closer to her, and enveloped the other half of her breasts.

"Does this excite you, Die?" he repeated, gently pinching and sucking her, now both nipples were between his fingers. She didn't know if he was referring to what he was doing now or to the painting, but she didn't really care. She heard herself sigh and answer "yes" to either question with certainty.

“Okay,” he whispered, then roughly thrust his erect tip between her buttocks, which were covered by cotton cloth.

Diana knew she should try to break free, but her body began to sway back to caress him, gripping his hardness with her hips, in a posture as rough as his. Underneath her thin clothes, she wore only a loincloth, and as Jack's penis brutally pierced her buttocks, she felt the rubbed, rolled-up fabric stimulating her anus like a rod.

She groaned, caught between two powerful sensual stimuli: his strong, skillful kneading of her sensitive breasts and the slower, deeper, more destructive stimulation of her buttocks. He now made her rock back and forth on him. She gasped and reached for her neglected crotch, just as she heard his devilish laughter reach her ears.

“Yes, Di, do it,” he urged. “Care yourself, you know what you want.” “That painting excited you, didn’t it? Caress yourself, caress your clitoris, I can hear your genitals pleading for your caresses… Keep going, caress yourself, do it!” His words and her thirsty body compelled her to do so. The scene was unreal, surreal, not of this world… in such an unusual sensual state. There seemed to be no need to resist him. She gathered her clothes, pulling them up to her knees, thighs, and even her abdomen, clutching them tightly to her waist, while her other hand reached down to her groin, under her crotch. Her labia were already open and ready. And her vagina was already hot, wet, and sticky.

“Are you wet, Di?”

Her legs went weak as she nodded, continuing to churn her viscous fluids.

“Let me see.”

She felt her genitals tremble under his touch, and when she raised her hands, waving them in front of herself and Jack, they trembled again in need.

“Taste yourself,” he commanded.

Her taste was spicy, salty, like the ocean, and as she greedily licked her fingers, she was surprised at how much she enjoyed it. She had tasted it before, but never with such relish, and never for a man.

“Now let me taste it.”

She reached down again, smeared some, and this time held it to Jack’s lips. He leaned forward, his chin resting on her shoulder, and as he inhaled, she smelled an intoxicating cologne scent—a floral fragrance that momentarily masked the aroma of her bodily fluids. She was wearing a lavender and lily-of-the-valley perfume, the scent so strong it was almost numbing, so she swayed back and pressed herself against him more forcefully, her buttocks splitting between his hard erection.

"Handsome," he said contentedly, then sucked on her fingers like a child. Diana was nearly fainting; she didn't know if he was praising her scent or the soft touch of her buttocks. She only felt his tongue moving strangely over her fingers, licking and twitching, as if mischievously mimicking oral sex.

"Look at that painting, beautiful Diana," he whispered, reaching out and pulling her hand back to her crotch. He guided her, letting her touch herself, pressing her fingers against her clitoris, while his own two fingers slid into her already overflowing vagina. "Look at that painting, isn't that what you want? Right here, with me?" He shook his finger, and she moaned softly, the sound echoing betraying them. At any moment, a curious person could turn the corner, climb into this currently deserted spot, and find a woman being violently masturbated while a man caresses her breasts and genitals.

This was too unusual. It was practically a hallucination. It had to be. She had only met this man a few minutes ago, and now she was stroking her body for him, rubbing herself at his command, enjoying this pleasure to please him… while his fingers were deeply inside her. She moaned beside him, her voice rising and falling. Her clitoris throbbed under his touch, pulsating with each touch, foreshadowing something even better to come.

"Isn't that right, Die? You really want it." His voice was steady but utterly triumphant. This brief but beautiful prelude had completely conquered her. "And what you will have, my lovely girl. Go over there and lie on that low wall, just like that painting." He moved his hand from her breast to her chin, lifting her face so she had no choice but to stare at the irresistibly alluring image. "Say yes, Dee." He coaxed her, bending his soft wrist, penetrating even deeper, further into her body.

Her heart, her reason, screamed, "No, break free, slap him and run away!" But she only heard herself whimper a weak, broken "Yes." There seemed to be no other possibility.

"Then, come with me."

She thought he would remove his hand, pull his fingers out of her body. But when he led her to the low wall without any change, she couldn't help but blush with shame… She was still being penetrated, still like a sacrifice.

After placing her against the wall, he manipulated her almost through her genitals. His thumb controlled her clitoris, applying gentle pressure and guiding her.

It was incredibly embarrassing, yet she responded involuntarily. The intensity of that response was something she had never felt in her previous, more equal sexual experiences. In relationships with men, whether through her cunning or her personal charm, she had always held the upper hand. But here, with Jack, she was always a hungry female animal he could play with at will. Nothing more than an object, a body, and a vessel for his pleasure. Never in her life had she felt so alive, so sexually craving. She was caught between his hand and his erection, and both ignited her.

"Lift up your clothes," he instructed as they reached the waist-high, white-painted low wall.

Below them, the guests continued their conversation and drinks, trying to ignore the erotic artwork on the walls—completely unaware that a far more horrifying live show was unfolding above them.

She was certain someone was looking up. And even if they could only see her upper body, the acts of lovemaking, the pushing and shoving, the throbbing of her body as she was penetrated—these were impossible to misunderstand. How much longer, she wondered wildly, could they keep quiet?

"Please, no," she pleaded, her voice already hoarse.

"Please, yes," he hissed back, his gentle, soft voice tinged with coldness. "Lift up your clothes, Di, you know this is what you crave." As he bent down, preparing to do it himself, she moaned in protest. But he still grasped her long, flowing skirt, hesitantly lifting it to her waist.

"Take it all off, Di."

She clumsily grabbed her clothes, trying to remove them all, embarrassed to find herself only wearing a tiny pair of trousers to cover her lower body. Now her seemingly smooth buttocks were fully exposed.

"So beautiful..." She felt a fingertip slide down one of her buttocks, slipping into her exposed crevice, then sliding out again, tracing her other, equally firm and full buttocks. Without any warning, his thumb suddenly hooked the elastic band at her waist and began to pull it down. In a few seconds, he had the stupid, useless trousers down to her knees, and with his own knee, he spread her legs, stretching that small patch of black lace into an obscene, elastic bridge.

In her inner eyes, she saw her own, satin-skinned buttocks, pale and naked, like the woman in the painting. There were no marks of whipping on her body, yet she felt branded in another way. This man's hands had touched her, his fingers had entered her, and in a mysterious corner of her heart, she knew she was no longer who she once was.

She felt a heat about to erupt both inside and outside her; her genitals were now naked and glistening with moisture. Her fluids, like honey, dripped down her thighs, and she could feel their slow, palpable flow as they traversed her skin. Jack, behind her, should be able to see it, clearly flowing down the smooth, winding inner thighs. She had never felt like this before, and she knew… though she didn't know why… Jack himself knew this too.

His steps were light, but she felt him drawing closer. His hands grasped her bare buttocks, squeezing them together as he had earlier squeezed her breasts.

"So beautiful,"

he whispered in her ear, squeezing the taut, elastic flesh, then moving it, slowly and rudely massaging it, causing her to lower herself in humiliation… and then reach orgasm with forbidden stimulation. The sensation reached its peak when he spread her buttocks wide enough to almost hurt her, and seemed intently observing her rose-like anus.

"So beautiful," he whispered again. The words were so vivid, as if he had touched that place, that small, trembling opening.

She knew the woman in the picture was being anally penetrated. It wasn't depicted in the picture, but her ancient female instincts told her. The same instinct told her that Jack knew, and he knew the painting's special origins... and that Jack wanted to replicate the scene in the painting, to bring it to life on this terrace.

"Oh! Please, no!" she gasped, but he was already too close, already unzipping his zipper: the sharp, piercing voice was practically a lewd threat. "Please, not like that, not here." As he leaned against her back, she was forced to lean forward against the low wall, needing one hand to support her weight as her other hand clutched her skirt. She could say nothing more, only a weak, cat-like meow, a scream of utter terror.

"It's alright, my dear Di," he soothed her. That gentle tone was more frightening than the shrill sound. "Not here, not now, but soon." She felt his penis slide across her soft crevice, teasing her trembling opening, fearful of his entry. He was so big, so slippery… that smooth glans, even she, someone who should have felt it cold, could feel its heat. Constantly and wickedly, the round head shamelessly probed her buttocks, and as it squeezed almost inside, it slid down her long, wet slit.

Yet, at this moment, she felt an irrational, regretful sting.

She had always been afraid he would have anal sex with her, afraid of the pain, even more afraid of losing her dignity; but now none of that would happen, yet she wanted it. Diana had lost her virginity some time ago, but suddenly encountering this stranger, this rare sight, this guy who seemed to have appeared out of nowhere, she wanted something new to give him.

Before she could even process what was happening, he had already grabbed her, forcing his long, erect penis into her vagina. Her soft hymen gracefully yielded to his burning, vibrant behemoth. She leaned forward, feeling dizzy and disoriented, only knowing that… after a long few seconds… some part of his body pierced in, in, in; the penetration was deep, sweet, and complete, just as his fingers had just crawled across her abdomen, probing her vagina, searching for her clitoris. Her flesh beside him throbbed with his touch, the walls of her body twitching, automatically caressing him. She suppressed her moans, gently reaching orgasm, and as he breathed contentedly in her ear, she felt the deepest, greatest pleasure of womanhood.

“You’re such a little slut, my dear,” he whispered, twisting his hips once more, then moving his fingers back and forth between her nipples. She tasted the blood that had just flowed from her bitten lip. His performance had been so wonderful; she shouldn't be so quiet, yet she couldn't, and shouldn't, make a sound. The people below were waiting for her to scream, waiting for her to moan in ecstasy, as he continued to tease her small clitoris, disarming it, flicking and pinching it until she helplessly swayed her hips in response.

He whispered behind her neck, calming her like a skilled groom soothing a restless pony. He was quieting her, whispering words of encouragement to comfort her, while his fingertips continued to apply oil to the areas that gave her pleasure. Diana

felt as if her body was about to disintegrate, about to melt into water. Tears streamed down her cheeks, sweat gathered in her armpits, cleavage, and groin, and her bodily fluids soaked Jack's penis, even flowing from her vulva, forming a slow, silvery stream that trickled down her thighs.

"I...I can't..." she whispered, her voice barely audible, only her intermittent gasps audible.

"No, you can, my dear." That was his answer, his fingers still trembling.

What still astonished her in her dazed state was that he had barely entered her; he had just penetrated to an unbelievable depth, stretching open her tight, clinging vagina in a way she rarely experienced, but after that first long, slow thrust, he stopped. Completely still, as if he preferred to savor her spasms.

“Yes, you can do it, Diana,” he repeated persistently. “I’m going to fuck you now, and you’re going to scream, shout, even yell.” He twisted his pelvis, and Diana had to pull down her clothes and stuff her hands into her mouth to prevent her from making a sound. He slid his hands down her waist, pulling her closer, and leaned over, then lowered their still-connected bodies to the ground.

Diana leaned forward, her elbows against the polished wooden floor, her sweaty face pressed against her forearms, biting her own flesh as Jack began to thrust forcefully and rapidly. Jack gripped her buttocks firmly, holding her in place, and whether he was touching her clitoris seemed irrelevant now. Every thrust, every slam, every pounding of his penis inside her deeply impacted every nerve.

Diana had reached a peak of orgasm, and it continued unabated. Her womb throbbed with the predatory rod that now possessed her, and she felt her soul invigorated, soaring freely. In that beautiful, almost crystalline moment, screaming seemed unnecessary. She was like a star floating in a silent galaxy, far removed from her swaying body and the dark force that, though ended, still lingered within her… On the other side of the vast universe, she heard Jack's soft cry and felt his penis throbbing inside her.

This was the first time she had truly felt a man ejaculate inside her, felt his testicles contract in ecstasy. Hearts from both worlds rushed back from the boundless universe, solely to give it their full attention. He filled her with overwhelming joy; his thrusting pleasure mingled with her ecstasy, creating a new kind of beast. She let herself sob and groan quietly, whispering foolish thanks to the intruder, even as his weapon continued to throb slowly within her.

After they separated, she imagined a scene: two clothed figures, passionately aroused on the polished wooden floor—the most lewd piece in the gallery, live sex, like a royal performance. She no longer cared to be seen or heard; in fact, as she struggled to her feet, she was astonished that they hadn't been discovered yet. She pulled up her trousers, disgusted by the wetness of her genitals. A mixture of bodily fluids and sweat made her feel like a capsized boat, and she could feel it running down her thighs. Her silly thin underwear was soaked too; she desperately needed a secluded place to clean herself.

Her legs went weak as she looked at Jack. He was leaning against the low wall, his leather trousers still zipped up, his limp penis still gleaming. Diana blushed involuntarily at the sight, then grabbed her backpack, which had been lying on the floor for a long time. The rustling of her skirt as she stood up seemed to startle Jack, who was still half-dazed from the afterglow of sex. But he said nothing, only a faint, conqueror's smile, which made Diana realize the evil she had allowed to happen.

"God, I must be crazy! I actually had sex with a complete stranger for a moment of pleasure… I'm such a slut, a whore, a sex machine that throws itself at me and is easily obtained.

" "I'm sorry…please…I'm sorry," she mumbled incoherently, not knowing what she was apologizing for, and she had already started running towards the stairs. She needed to find refuge, away from Jack's satisfied, mocking smile, but she knew it was impossible. There was no way she could find a place away from the stark reality of a penis still stained with her bodily fluids.

It took her quite a while to clean herself up.

Jack's affair would fade away as she cleaned herself up, finally flattening her trousers into a ball and feeling at ease, for her long skirt would conceal her sins: her still-wet vulva, her swollen labia, and the dried but still sticky residue of his semen on her legs.

Diana usually didn't need heavy makeup, but tonight it was a complete disaster. Her mascara was smeared all over her face, and her lipstick was bitten off. She spent far more time than she actually needed reapplying everything, slow and meticulous, simply to delay leaving this luxurious hideout and avoid facing the man who had just possessed her again.

But when she finally emerged, he was no longer there, no longer anyone to confront.

She searched the entire place, the corridors, and the main part of the gallery with extreme care. Several times she imagined seeing him—a thin figure, wearing a black silk shirt and leather pants—but like the exhibits themselves, it was just a fantasy.

That bastard, she thought, hating him as intensely as she loved his strong, dark physique. He's gone…he took me and then left me all alone!

The exhibition, having lost its most provocative works, was filled with obscene images and had lost all its charm. They still served alcohol, but Diana felt nauseous just thinking about it. She rolled up her catalog and slowly walked out into the hot night.

Standing on the sidewalk, pondering whether to take a taxi or the subway, she suddenly had a strange feeling…in this crazy, chaotic city, there was a man named Jack who had made love to her. She touched her lips. Recalling the excitement and joy of that time, she also remembered that during this wild process, he had pressed his lips against hers more than once, kissing her passionately.

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