When I returned from Germany in 1947, I was not the same woman who left two years earlier. I left as a widow struggling to make ends meet. Now I had something of a reputation as an art appraiser, a skill honed by my years in cataloguing and repatriating hundreds of pieces of artwork stolen by the German army during World War Two. That reputation opened doors to me that were formerly closed, and I took advantage of every opening.
Another, more fundamental change had occurred. When I left America, I thought my libido was dead. I was wrong. It merely needed awakening, and that happened as I told earlier. It was as an accommodating, if not aggressive, woman of the world that I returned. There was no shortage of young, horny soldiers stationed in Germany, and I never lacked for company. I would only bed the luckiest and most personable ones, and then only with the double protection of a condom and a diaphragm. I had no interest in pregnancy and, even though venereal disease was now succumbing to the new wonder drugs introduced by the War, I dared not risk getting infected, as it would have meant the end of my employment with the Army. I found to my surprise that many of my bedmates were virgins, although they would seldom admit to it, and it was my privilege to introduce them to the mysteries of intercourse. In return, I had a steady supply of nylons, candy, and wine.
When I returned, I was able to obtain employment at a large art museum in New York City, as a curator, appraiser, and restorer. It wasn't long before I was invited to a party of other denizens of the art world. It was a rather special group, as it specialized in erotica, and the parties they held were not your average soirees.
For one thing, they were held entirely in the nude. One was expected to disrobe the moment he or she arrived. And the men delighted in achieving and maintaining erections for the duration of the party. Women were encouraged to attain similar states of arousal. "Why look at erotic art, if you can't respond to it?" the party host would proclaim. But there was to be no direct physical contact among the partygoers, save for an innocent peck on the cheek by way of greeting or leave-taking.
The result is that there was a good deal of sexual tension but no release. We women took secret pride in providing the men with a show, as they took pride in displaying their hard cocks. And one could tell that the interests were not uniformly heterosexual; I saw many men admiring the other men's bodies, and found myself the object of many a woman's attention. We flirted with each other shamelessly, knowing that nobody would dare to break the taboo against touching, and that gave us license to be as wanton as we wished. There were many times when I arranged for a tryst with some of the more attractive men, and not a few women, after the party.
The other big attraction of the party was that a recently acquired work of erotic art would always be exhibited. This mostly came from private collectors who were invited to the party; the temporary loan of their artwork was their ticket of admission. In this way, we in "the trade" were able to see a great deal of art that would have been impossible to see otherwise.
The range of the art was usually fairly predictable ... the usual erotic sketches and watercolors, the statues of fauns and satyrs with oversized phalluses, some beautiful illustrations of passages in the Kama Sutra, and so on. I was often asked to give my opinion as to the provenance and authenticity of them, since these sorts of artwork are less likely to have their histories documented. My years in Germany were not wasted. Of course, I would have been delighted if that masterpiece I had seen in Wiesbaden, showing the seraglio with the four naked boys, ever showed up at one of these soirees, but it never did. I assume that it went back to the place from which it was stolen.
One party in particular was memorable for me. It began as the others did, with me arriving at the mansion of the host and stripping off my clothes in a corner of the main ballroom. I had learned to wear clothes that were easy to remove, and usually dispensed with a brassiere altogether. Watching the partygoers disrobe was part of the fun, with some participants making big productions of removing their bras or boxer shorts, but I took little pleasure in the performance, either doing or watching, so I wasted little time on it. That night, it was simply a matter of removing my coat, shoes, and skirt. I wore a sweater with no blouse underneath, which I doffed to expose my breasts. These were perfectly ordinary, except that they probably sagged more than they should and hung low on my chest. I knew that the men appreciated watching them hang and swing as I removed my panty hose and panties, and did not disappoint them.
Soon I was naked except for a string of pearls, my earrings, and a small watch. Then it was my turn to watch a newly arrived man, whom I'd never seen before, remove his own clothes as I lifted my breasts and smiled at him. The last thing he took off was his shorts, and my little show, combined with the naked flesh of the other women in attendance, had given him a head start on a hard-on, which he stroked to full erection as we applauded. It was an inch or so longer than the usual, and I knew that would be regarded with interest by the women there, along with several men who hoped that its owner swung both ways.
And so it went, with the usual flirting and lifting of wineglasses. The room was comfortably warm, and there was abundant seating. Like the other women in the room, I enjoyed masturbating in front of people and watching their reactions, and soon my labia were swollen and my clitoris peeked out from its hood. The man who disrobed after me was now staring at me with frank lust, and I saw a drop of fluid glistening from the tip of his penis. I pantomimed stroking it and kissing it, and watched it twitch. He smiled, and I smiled back. "It's nice to be appreciated," I thought. I noticed that he wasn't wearing a wedding ring and wondered what he was doing later that night.
Eventually, we came to the part of the evening where the artwork would be displayed. This time, it was a painting on an easel, hidden by a drape of velvet cloth. We all gathered around it as a middle-aged man with a paunch and a small but nicely formed penis was speaking. The man was Robert, and I'd had the pleasure of playing with that penis after the last soiree. Robert had used it skillfully, and his tongue and fingers were equally deft. As I listened to him, I caressed my wet inner lips and recalled with fondness his own lips on them.
"A friend of mine acquired this last month in Verona. It's not in any of the catalogues, so I'm hoping that somebody here might help me assess its value. My friend was told that it was Italian Renaissance, probably sixteenth century, possibly Florentine. I hope you like it."
He looked at me. "Olivia, you're the expert on Italian Renaissance. What do you think about this one? Have you seen anything like this before?" And then he whisked the velvet aside. There were gasps of surprise and admiration as the painting was revealed.
It was the picture of a young boy, perhaps twelve or thirteen. He was nude, seated on a small divan, with his legs stretched out before him and splayed wide. From the fine hairs of his crotch protruded an erect penis, elegantly long and curved, with a drop of pre-cum glistening at its tip. The boy was regarding the viewer with heavy-lidded eyes and plump lips that begged to be kissed. Unlike his crotch, his chest was hairless. The execution of the painting was absolutely flawless, with an unsurpassed mastery of light and shadow. The eye was inexorably drawn from the dark background to the rich velvet of the divan and finally to the brightest part of the painting, which was the boy's penis, bathed in a golden light so bright that the cock seemed to glow with an inner fire.
People looked at me, expecting the ready and informed opinion they knew I'd provide. For once, they were disappointed, for I'd been struck speechless.
It was surely what he had described it to be. And I had seen it before, but not with my eyes. I'd seen it in a dream, the dream I'd dreamt back in Wiesbaden after seeing that other painting, undoubtedly from the same master. The dream that opened once again the floodgates of my libido. The dream of the Italian boy Dominic.
I blinked. People were staring at me. I somehow managed to stammer out an answer to Robert's question. "I haven't seen this before, but I have seen another work in a similar style. This is unquestionably the same artist. And I doubt if you'll find this one in any of the indices, either. It's definitely fifteenth century, probably Florentine. What's it worth? Who can tell? An analysis of the brush strokes might give a clue to the painter, but it isn't signed, and the other one I saw wasn't, either."
After a few more hours of small talk, the party was over. As I was slipping on my skirt, the man with the long, slender dick came over to me and thanked me for my critique of the painting. "You seem to know a lot about Italian Renaissance art. I'd love to talk to you about it some time."
"How about tomorrow morning?"
"Wonderful! When shall I pick you up?"
I lifted up my breasts by their nipples and gave them a shake, while giving him what I hoped was a provocative smile. "How about right now?" His cock twitched.
.... There is more of this story ...