When I met Reginald, how my life changed! We became lovers the first night we met, and the best of friends within a week after that. He had that combination of traits that so many women want, yet so few find: self-confidence (but without a shred of arrogance), a ready wit, and unfailing consideration of my wants and needs. There was nothing we did not share with each other, and soon I found myself moving into his apartment. Within three months, we were engaged. I still called him "Dom" and he sometimes called me "Contessa."
It was amazing to me how rapidly he fit into my world of naked soirees featuring erotic art. Since we were now an "item," he had free access into that world, and often graced the parties with his beautiful body and quick intelligence. And after a few hours of naked flirting with all and sundry, we were primed for a "quickie" the moment we returned home, followed by several hours of lovemaking. Sometimes we were joined by another woman, and once by another couple, for a night spent in everything but sleep.
It was shortly after one of these soirees that I received a telephone call from, of all people, Professor Corrigan, who had worked with me in Wiesbaden. The connection was not good, but I was able to make out his voice clearly through the crackle of the wire.
"Mrs. Wright, do you remember that picture we had in Wiesbaden ... the one with those four boys? In the bedroom?"
I laughed. "How could I forget? And -- you won't believe this -- I have another painting by the same artist right here in my bedroom! Not signed, but there's no mistaking it as the same artist."
"Is it ... you know..."
"Erotica? Absolutely. But with different subject matter, if that's what you mean."
"Amazing! Well done! But I called about something else. You remember what those boys, or rather the girls, were doing in that picture?"
"Collecting semen for paint?"
"Yes! Well, I've come across some tempera works that look like they've been made by that process. Again, no signature, but much the same setting ... male nudes in various stages of repose and sexual ... excitement ... in seraglios. Some female nudes, as well. There's one that has some notes on the back, and the handwriting matches the notes I told you about earlier, the ones supposedly from the ... the 'facilitator' ... the woman in that picture. So I think they're the real deal."
"Where are those temperas now? Have you still got them?"
"Alas, no. I had to return them to the owner. He's a British art collector. Rich as Creosus. Lives on an island of his own in Greece, with his wife and children. I think he owns half of it."
"I'd love to see them!"
"That's what I was calling about. I told him about you. He wants you to see them, and he's willing to pay your airfare back and forth. And you'll be staying with his family, so there really won't be any cost to you."
"I probably can't authenticate them, if that's what he wants. No provenance..."
"I told him that. But you've done tempera, right? If these were actually done by that process -- that recipe -- you'd know what to look for, right?"
"I honestly won't know until I see it."
"Well, if you want, the offer's there. And this bloke says to bring a friend if you like."
Well, an offer to fly to Greece, all expenses paid, doesn't come along every day, so I grabbed the chance and told Dr. Corrigan to make the arrangements. Dom and I had already planned on taking a trip on his orchestra's annual summer break, And so it happened that, about a month, Dom and I were in a seaplane over the Adriatic, approaching one of the many islands that were strewn like pebbles across the face of the sea.
We were met at the dock by Mr. Arkwright and his wife. I was to learn that he'd made his money in various wartime industries, and he'd parlayed it into a fortune by investments in Mediterranean shipping, African diamond mines, and American electronics firms. Nigel was in his early fifties, as was Elaine. They both had a bit of plumpness, but it looked good on them, and there was no mistaking their overall physical fitness, once they removed their clothing. Yes, they were nudists, and stripped the moment they were inside their estate.
"You're free to do so as well," Elaine said. "I gather from Dr. Corrigan that you've had some experience with nude socializing."
"However did he know about that?"
"Well, your little parties are no secret in the art world! Word gets around."
"I guess it does! But the complication here is that our crowd equates nudity with eroticism. I don't know how Dom will react to it."
"The same way men do everywhere, dear. But if you wish, we can provide robes for you."
We gratefully accepted the offer and were provided with soft cotton robes, although our hosts continued to be nude. I found myself looking at Nigel's cock more than I probably should have. It hung limply down, its cap completely covered by foreskin. I was used to seeing erect cocks by the dozen, but it was a novelty to see one flaccid, swinging free, and I found myself grinning at the sight; Elaine noticed my interest, and grinned, too. "They do look a bit silly when they're soft, don't they?" she whispered into my ear.
Within an hour, I was looking at the temperas, and there was no doubt that these were from the same hand that painted the other two masterpieces. There was the same confident eroticism in the hard cocks and heavy breasts and voluptuous forms and rich brocades. And there was a luminosity to them that far exceeded any other examples of that medium that I'd seen. One in particular was striking. It showed a girl just entering puberty, with small breasts and only the slightest tuft of hair at her crotch, lying on her side and facing the viewer. One finger was pulling a cunt lip aside slightly, exposing her clitoris. There was the slightest trace of a smile on her face, as if she was delighting in exposing her clit for the first time, or perhaps from pleasuring herself. What arrested my interest were the vibrancy of the pink pigment used on her lips, nipples, and clitoris, which not only seemed to glow but to change color slightly when the painting was tilted. On the back were the notes, in Italian, reading "Beatrice at thirteen. Last sample from Luigi before the change."
"Did Dr. Corrigan tell you anything about how the tempera was supposed to have been mixed?" I asked.
"About the semen?" Nigel replied. "Oh, yes! It was the first I'd heard of it, but it seems possible."
"To be honest with you, I've done a lot of tempera, and seen a lot more, but nothing that looks like this. If only we knew more about the process! But it's not something we can research."
Nigel and Elaine exchanged a meaningful glance. Then Nigel said, "Olivia, that may be possible."
"Well, we have a son..."
The room fell quiet as the implication dawned on me. "You don't mean..."
"Quite. Would you be up to it? Elaine has a full artist's studio on the premises, which we would put at your disposal."
I thought furiously, trying to remember the details of the collection process. "How old is he? If he's too old, it won't work."
Elaine spoke up. "Dr. Corrigan mentioned that. Derek's just now started to ejaculate. The laundress noticed it on his sheets last week, and told me."
"But how do we collect it?"
Nigel smiled. "The same way they did before. Would you be willing to give it a go?"
"I have your permission? To 'seduce' your son?"
"Our permission, and our blessing. All in the name of art research, of course."
"But this has to be totally consensual. I need your son's permission, too."
And we asked him that evening. Derek was a handsome boy, with the gangling look that such children have when entering puberty, as if he had lately inhabited a different body and was unsure about what it would do at times. He had brown hair, thick on his head and wispy at his crotch, and deep brown eyes, and full lips. Somehow he looked pure Greek, even though both his parents were English. Since had been a nudist since infancy, he saw no reason to conceal his genitalia. His penis was circumcised, unlike his father's. It looked impossibly small on him, although thick enough even though flaccid.
Nigel began the discussion as we ate our desserts. "Derek, you mother and I know that you're masturbating now. Don't be afraid..." he added quickly as Derek's eyes opened wide even as the rest of him seemed to suddenly shrink. "It's perfectly normal. Every young man does it. Ordinarily, we wouldn't even bother mentioning it, but we have a big favor to ask you."
He told Derek about the mystery of the tempera recipe and made the proposal in short but graphic terms. "Mrs. Wright would like to make some experiments in re-creating the recipe, and needs your semen to do it. Would you be willing to help her?"
Derek thought a minute, and then nodded. "Will you be giving her your sperm, too?" he asked his father.
"No, son. Once a boy is well into puberty, the semen doesn't react properly any longer. Or so I'm told."
The boy smiled. "Well, you won't know that until you try it, won't you? As a control, sort of."
Nigel laughed. "That's the spirit! If Mrs. Wright wants it, she can have it! Of course, she might prefer collecting sperm from her own young man."
"Livy, you can have as much as you want, in any way that you want," Dom said with a grin.
"Well, that would seem to make the most sense," I mused. "From a research standpoint, that is. But I think I'll ask Elaine to take Nigel's 'sample' for me. And another thing. If we're going to be this intimate, it's 'Livy, ' not 'Mrs. Wright.' Understood?"
.... There is more of this story ...