A friend of my father’s gave him a ticket to a private, after-hours tour at the museum, but my father had other plans, so he gave the invitation to me. I like art, but a gallery tour didn’t interest me that much. Still, when the night arrived, at the last minute I thought why waste the ticket.

I arrived at the museum just in time. A petite and very pretty young woman—at first I might have said she was in her mid-teens, but I later learned she was twenty-two—introduced herself to our group of eight. “Hello. My name is Julie, and I will be your guide this evening.” She had a sweet, pure voice, but she had a minor speech impediment so what she said sounded like: “Heh-wo. My name is Ju-wee, and I will be your guide this evening.” I found her completely enchanting—more than that, endearing, not just because of her looks or her voice.

She knew her stuff. Her observations about the art she showed us were not only on the mark, but interesting. Almost enough to distract me from her charms.

Some six or seven paintings into the tour, she took us to a canvas painted by the Swedish-American artist Nils Stellansson of a pair of lesbian lovers in embrace. For a moment, Julie seemed to be nonplussed. “Oh,” she said in her sweet, pure voice. “I thought this was wee-moved. As long as it’s still here, I might as well...” She regarded the painting for a few seconds more, and then she turned to face us.

“Damaged by a prudish, dare I say demented, may-twon with a stick of bwack cway-on. The scawwing is superficial, to be sure. West assured, it will be w’estored.”

She took another moment to examine the artwork.

“The swo-wen vuvas pwess juice-a-wee, but it is the dark, wide-open anus that dwaws our attention, compweeting the compwessed twi-angle of wi-wed wed mouth and sexu-wee spwayed fingers. Worth noting is the pih-wo-wee backgwound cwack—a small joke: the plump bottom at the top.”

A woman, a somewhat matronly looking woman, interrupted. “Excuse me, did you say ‘swollen lovers’?”

Julie took a moment to comprehend the woman’s question. “Swo-wen vuvas,” she repeated.

“Lovers?” the woman said.

In her sweet innocent voice, Julie said, “Cunts.”

My erection was instant and huge and profoundly embarrassing. As I was in the front row, only Julie could notice. And notice she did. Her eyes took in my groin with obvious interest. Then she looked into my eyes, and she smiled. Beguilingly innocent. Utterly lewd. I was in love.

By hanging back from the group, I managed to adjust myself before arriving at the next painting, called “Corked,” in which a naked young woman perches upon a birdcage.

Julie talked about the way the wan light penetrated the dark hollows, and it was not the painting but her voice, her body, her being that turned my mind to haze of lust, fostering the return of my erection, much to our guide’s amusement.

Three more paintings and we were done. While the group thanked Julie, I slipped away, returning through the previous galleries until I arrived at the one with the lesbian lovers. Up close, I confirmed my suspicions. A thin sheet of glass fronted the picture. I leaned low, peering into the heart of the woman’s anus when I heard: “There you are.”

It was Julie. I quickly backed away from the painting. “The reflection, um, I was just trying to see...”

“If you’re an asshole?”

Flustered and abashed, I dropped my eyes.

“Of course you aren’t. I was just being silly. There’s no reflection because it’s museum glass.”

“To protect the painting from crayon wielding matrons?”

Julie laughed. “I confess, it was my crayon. I did the desecration. It gave me an opening to talk about the art. A trick of the trade. But now I’m going to restore it.” Only now did I notice she was carrying a spray bottle and a soft cloth. She misted the glass and efficiently wiped it clean. She showed me the smudged cloth. “See, all restored!”

“Not westored?” I said. Then thinking better, but too late, I added, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude.”

“You mean wude,” she said, grinning at me. “Don’t mention it.”

“But why?” I couldn’t help asking. “Another trick of the trade?”

“Not entirely,” she said. “It happens when I get nervous.”

“But you’re not nervous now?”

“Should I be?”

“No.”

“Good.”

We stood there in silence. Her calm contemplation of me was making me nervous.

“Anyway, thank you very much for the tour,” I blurted, just to say something. “I enjoyed it. Lovely paintings. You have a lovely voice.”

“Thank you.”

“Everything about you is lovely.”

“You mean my dwess?”

“Yes, your dress, but I’m sure you would be equally lovely, even lovelier, without the ... dwess.”

“You’re very sweet to say. Would you like to see?”

“To see?”

“Whether I’m lovelier without the dress?”

“You’re teasing, right?”

“Right,” she said, but then she handed me the spray bottle of cleaning fluid and the soiled rag, kicked off her shoes, shimmied out of her dress, and stood before me, but for a pair of semi-transparent panties, completely naked.

For much of a minute our eyes held each other. Our eyes still locked, her hands went to her panties. She pushed them down and stepped out of them. “For you,” she said, “my juicy vulva.”

Julie and I have been together a week, mostly in bed, and we’re in bed when Julie says, “There’s something I have to tell you.”

I feared the worst, although what exactly that might be, I couldn’t guess. The first thing that came to mind was that she was pregnant, but it was too soon for it to be mine, and even if she were pregnant with someone else’s child, I’m not sure I would mind. But what if she were married? Or had some other lover, maybe one who was getting out of prison in a day?

“You should see your face,” Julie says. “Don’t worry, it’s nothing bad. At least I don’t think it’s bad. Maybe you will.”

“What?” I ask.

“Kiss me first.”

We kiss. The mystery of what she is going to tell me adds a certain spice to the kiss.

“Tell me now,” I say, after some minutes of passionate kissing.

“Fuck me first,” Julie says.

We fuck.

We are still fucking, slow and soft after Julie’s first orgasm, when she says, “You know that painting?”

“Which painting?”

“The one in the museum, with the two women.”

“Uh huh. Don’t tell me one of them was you.”

“No no. I don’t know who they were.”

“Okay, what about the painting?”

“I was there when they were hanging it, putting up the exhibition. The artist, Nils, was there too.”

“Uh huh.”

“Oh yeah, like that. Deep and slow. Ohgod.” Julie whimpers and abruptly her second orgasm arrives. I press deep, enjoying the shudders of her bliss. It would have been easy to come with her, but I knew if I waited I’d be rewarded.

“Whew!” she says, having caught her breath. “I love how you fuck me. I love how you make me come.”

“I’m glad. So you were at the museum and met Nils?”

“Yeah. He was very nice. I told him I liked his painting, and he said he might like to paint me someday, if I was interested.”

“Ah.”

“Yeah, so after that I started to have fantasies of him painting me.”

“What sort of fantasies?”

Julie smiles. “Naughty fantasies.”

“Such as?”

“Such as we’re in the museum, me and Nils, and the painting is on the floor leaning against the wall, and he tells me to lean over the painting with my hands braced on the wall. We’re naked, of course, or at least I am, and he starts brushing down my spine, starting at the nape of my neck and going all the way down, slowly, slowly, slowly. It feels so good, so exciting, and I know he’s going to go all the way down, all the way to my asshole, and that makes me more excited. So his brush is going down my spine, slower and slower, like it’s never going to get there, and I want it to get there so much. I’m going crazy wanting it.”

Julie sighs.

“Does it ever get there?”

“He stops just before.”

“So mean of him.”

“I know. But now his hand is on my bottom, cupping, just one side, and he squeezes me and pulls my butt to the side, stretching me and opening me. He pulls and pulls, and his little finger is right there, almost touching my asshole but not quite, and I’m so wet. You know how juicy I am.”

“I know.”

“So he takes some of my juice and he touches it to my asshole, coating it, and I think: he’s going to finger fuck my ass now, and I want him to do it. But then I think: he’s going to fuck his cock into my ass. And I want him to do it, I think, even though I know it might hurt. But I’m so hot. So wet.”

While Julie’s been telling me this, I’ve begun to fuck her harder. She stops talking and her eyes get that look that says she’s going to come soon. “Oh yeah,” she says. “Come in me now. Come in me. Oh yeah!”

I come in her. She comes with me.

Some minutes later I’m still inside her, softer, feeling really good. She’s smiling up at me. “I love how you make me come,” I tell her.

“I’m glad,” she says.

“So does Nils ever...? In your fantasy?”

“Oh, right,” Julie says. “No, he never does. The fantasy always ends before he gets a chance.”

“A shame. Too bad for him. So that’s what you wanted to tell me?”

“Kind of,” she says. “The thing is, last night I got an email from him. He asked if he could paint me.”

“What did you say?”

“I said I’d love for him to paint me.”

We’re quiet for a while.

“Are you upset?” Julie asks.

“I don’t think so.”

“Good,” Julie says. “I’m going to his studio this afternoon.”

It was very late when Julie came home. I was in bed, waiting for her, unable to sleep. The bedroom door was open and she stepped through, cautiously, then sprang onto the bed. She ripped the covers down and devoured my cock, sucking voraciously. She used her lips and tongue and mouth and hand and there was no way I could hold off. I came. She continued sucking, stroking, swallowing. At last she let me go. Some of my excess seed coated her lips and chin. She wiped it with her hand, licked it from her hand, and grinned. Kind of a “So There!” grin.