The Education of Taylor (The Erotic Diary of a Beverly Hills Woman Book 1)

by Rev Mel

  Chapter 2 The Art Gallery

  It was just another invitation, one of the countless. It read, “Come explore art like never before with Rathbone.” Little did I know what the night had in store for me. Beverly Hills was in an uproar waiting for Rathbone arrival and just wanted to stay home and wait on Alan yes, Alan and I have been seeing each other for a while now and would meet at my place and make love all day and enjoy our obvious passion behind closed doors. I knew I would not run to Alan at Rathbone debut. Alan was not into galleries like I was. So I knew it’s safe to go out and be seen and that I would not run into Alan and his other half. Alan would by art but only for investments as he had some wonderful pieces as I was able to go his place once to view them and to view others things like his pool and sauna.

  I wanted to go casual this evening so I wore my taffeta tabby black blouse and black lambskin straight legged pants from Lafayette 148 at Saks Avenue. I put on my new Salvatore Ferragamo flat riding boots. I opt for the casual look and feel this evening. I knew I would be standing a lot at the gallery and socializing with friends and onlookers. Pulling my hair back into a tight ponytail and adding just a hint of makeup I was ready to go.

  The Rodeo gallery was simple and bright. The artist of the evening was Rathbone, a French Expressionist painter who was making his debut in Los Angeles. Walking into the gallery, I was greeted by the curator and noticed my many friends and associates admiring the imagination that Rathbone seemed to possess. I liked what I was seeing and tried to find Mister Rathbone to congratulate him and I walked in a smaller room that was down a long hallway as two people walked out of the room saying” I just love that painting and how he capture her.” They looked me strange as they walked out and I smiled at them and enter the room. The room was dark except for one light on a painting hanging on the far wall. Walking over I looked up at the painting and I was taken back. The sounds from the other room faded and I was drawn to this painting.

  I could not believe what I saw. There before me were my eyes staring back at me. It was I on Rodeo, hanging on that wall in this well-known art gallery. The painting had my eyes, even the same brown hue with a flicker of gold running through them. I could see the look of lust and want in her glassy stare. I knew that look, a look of desire. This beautiful piece of artwork was me. But how? Who was the model that posed for this painting? She looked just like me. Her lips parted the same way that mine do when I am sexually aroused. I could almost see her tongue seductively tasting her upper lip. Her full lips beckoned a kiss upon the canvas. Looking at her, I could feel her passion and lust. Looking on the canvas, a tidal wave moved through me. I felt exposed. It felt as if I took my clothes off in front of total strangers, had been seized, stripped and raped in this public gallery. My throat constricted and my face began to blush. I hoped that no one else could see what I saw in her. I was torn wide open for the world to see. When I looked at this beauty of a woman, I knew her soul and she, in turn, knew mine. I could not hide from this feeling as I was drawn to her in a hypnotic trance. A current traveled between her and me; there was no escape from this torment.

  Who was the famous Rathbone? Why did he paint me, I mean her, in this climactic moment? I scanned down to the lower right-hand corner of the painting. There in black paint was his name, Rathbone. Rathbone rang through my mind. I looked at his signature and felt each swirl of his paint brush. I was in agony; my body throbbed with excitement. I knew that Rathbone was famous for his erotic paintings of women. How did he paint me? Why me? The questions kept flooding through my mind. The perception of an artist and his model was shattering. How could this be? I would never have modeled for this painting.

  I looked back up at the face. I could see the slight cheekbones and the edges of her jaw, tracing her graceful face. The color of her skin was very pale with a touch of olive. You could see a light blush in her cheeks from being aroused. It was so soft-looking that I longed to touch her, to feel her softness between my fingers. The color of her skin was just like mine. I shivered with delight. Down her neck, I saw a small mole on her left side. I wanted to trace my fingertips down the curve of her neck and down to her full breasts. Her breasts were full and taut. The color of her nipples was a light rose. I could see the texture of her nipples. They were hard and protruding toward me as if I had just sucked them in a hot fever. They were like my own. I wanted to put my tongue on the tip, taste them, and feel her soft flesh. I could feel my nipples getting hard through my silk blouse and linen jacket. I was struggling against my clothing. My blood beat hot, I was becoming unhinged. Waves shot through me. It made me visibly quiver. I outlined her body with my inquisitive eyes. I could feel myself getting wet and becoming quite aroused. I could not pull myself away from this Rathbone painting.

  My eyes lingered for a moment more on her luscious breasts, growing intense as I traveled farther down her curves to the hollow of her flat stomach. I searched low to expose her vulnerability. Lower and lower I went, leading down to her pearl of womanhood. The artist’s brushstroke looked like he anointed her with oil paint at each stroke. He worshiped her with his brush. Rathbone’s detail of the soft folds that her velvet lips made -- you’d think that he was making love to her with his brush. Her skin glistened with dew. Around her clitoris, I could see that her lips were swollen and moist as if they were touched lightly by the artist’s mind. Each brush stroke was an exquisite work of art. The woman in the painting even had droplets of sweat clinging to her pubic hair.

  Her Venusian mound tangled with her strands of silky hair. You could almost feel the strands being caressed. I wanted to touch her unfolding lips and taste her wet, ranging clitoris with my searching tongue. I would love to watch her come to the pleasure of an orgasmic explosion. I could almost taste and smell her sweet nectar. I could feel the rapid beat that my heart surrendered to. I wanted to cry out in anticipation. Looking at her in awkward silence, feeling as if I were suspended forever, my juices overflowed with pleasure. I wanted to embrace her as she clung to the gallery walls.

  My thoughts wandered further and further. My mind full of illusion, I could see the studio and smell the oil paint that lingered through my senses. I glanced around. There I was, in the artist’s studio, where he took pleasure in painting nude bodies that take you to a point beyond reality. I found myself sitting in a high-backed wicker chair. It was draped in a royal blue silk sheet that covered my body. I could feel it tracing my torso. The touch of silk brought back fantasies from the past. It was electrical and very sensual. One arm lazily hung over the chair’s arm, fingers pointed slightly outward, as though they were reaching out for my artist. The other arm was pulled back, overhead, while it danced through my blonde, sun-streaked hair. The cool air caressed my bare shoulders as I looked down at my naked yielding breasts. My nipples yearned to be squeezed. They felt like warm, throbbing fruits that were ripened for the picking.

  The chair was slightly tilted, arching my back. My left leg graced the cool floor. My toes pointed out in a relaxed position. The right leg was pulled up over the other arm of the chair. I had my legs slightly open, feeling lost and vulnerable. The rapid beat of my heart grew more intense as I sat there with my frail membrane open, the deep thatch between my legs exposed. I felt bashful yet curious, suspended forever in timeless solitude. My blood was pounding with desire and excitement, barely able to breathe with anticipation.

  I went to move when I heard a low voice cry, “Assume the position!” I could not move. I sat frozen. Whose voice had I heard? I tried to swallow to relax my throat. I wanted to move away; in fact, I wanted to run. There I sat in the nude with my legs opened as waves of an urgency shot through my unfolding lips. I was beyond the point of no return. My thick mane and protruding lips were wet with sensation and delight. I was struggling against the force of desire.

  Slowly, I glanced in his direction. There he stood making love to his canvas. His brush took long, lingering strokes. I could feel them on my body. It made me quiver at each movement. I sat there tr
ansfixed, watching his body move to the stroke of his brush. I was in awe at the degree of intensity of his concentration as he laid each layer of oil paint upon the canvas. Aware only of the strokes his brush made, he continued to paint, sending waves of electricity to my yearning body. An unexpected feeling hit me when he looked up and our eyes met. This powerful, muscular man smiled with lips that could melt a block of ice. A desire uncurled inside of me. I shuddered in passionate sensation. I looked at the tautness of his body and felt a wave of supreme intensity between my legs. He stared into my eyes. I moved not an inch. His eyes demanded my attention. They were riveted to mine. I was suspended in time. He then moved towards me while our eyes were in constant contact. His lethal body lingered in front of me for what seemed like an eternity. I could almost taste his salty flesh and smell his delicious aroma. The pleasure of having him so close made my sensual desires grow intense. My body felt alive. Our breathing filled the air. From afar, I could feel his heat. The air between us crackled with electricity.

  Here before me stood a primal man of sexual desires. His well-developed chest was straining against his tight jean shirt. I could see his nipples pushing to escape. The air was so thick you could smell the lust. Ripples of excitement shot through me. He bent down from his slender waist. Eye to eye, we searched each other’s, souls. Closer and closer he came. Our lips touched; it was electrical. I felt a rush flow through my body touching every cell. His lips enveloped mine. The heat grew between us. His breath mingled with mine.

  We entwined our tongues with our mouths. I yearned to feel his tongue touch my other set of moist, wanting lips. As if he shared my thoughts, he pulled his lips from mine. This god-like man planted his full lips on the curve of my sensitive neck. Waves of pleasure swept over me. I ached to be touched even more. A warm tingling glow spread throughout my riveted body. I felt his tongue flip back and forth on my bare heated flesh. He then traveled down to my shoulder. The heat of his tongue slowly wandered down to the center of my heaving breasts. It was like his tongue was his paint brush and I was his canvas. He painted me with his full, feverish tongue. Each stroke touched the heart of my soul.

  My breasts ached to be sucked and begged for relief as my nipples grew in anticipation of his lips. He brushed my nipples with his lips and then his tongue, which arose to the touch of his tongue. The excited artist made small circles around my nipple causing waves of pleasure to run through my breasts down to my moist, parted lips. He took pleasure in each lick, teasing my hard nipples with his skilled tongue. His lips and tongue traced the curve under my breasts, tasting the softness of my flat stomach, working his way down. My exquisite lover traveled through my folds and crevices.

  I saw the top of his bandanna-covered head search further down to the deep canal between my legs. His hot breath on my quivering entrance made me squirm with delight. In one quick motion, he thrust his lips onto my swollen clitoris, tasting my sweet juices. The broad tip of his tongue lightly moved around the hood of my throbbing clitoris. I felt the tip of his nose pressing lightly on my mound. He was breathing in the aroma of my womanhood. His tongue continued to probe my unfolding lips. I made low, soft moans as he licked the center of my quivering pearl. He was suckling like a baby trying to feed his hungry mouth. My pelvis was pulsating. We rocked to the rhythm of urgency. Waves of ecstasy came over me. I was at the peak of my sensation.

  Quivering unforgettable, his tongue’s motion focused on my dripping wet clitoris. He licked harder as if it were a ritual of tasting his queen’s nectar. I could feel spasms as the heat increased, rising to the surface. My breath became rapid. I was floating in the electricity of his tongue. I was no longer here on this earth. I had completely succumbed to his power. Shaking in ecstasy, blood pounding, pelvis moving uncontrollably, a rush of wetness swept over my heated open box. I moved with his tongue and lips. My body burned as I cried out in pure sounds of release. Silky wetness oozed from my warm place as exquisite tremors erupted. Long low moans slipped from my being. I surrendered my soul to him.

  I was in a timeless void, suspended forever in the moment as the waves began to subside. My flower had peaked and come to full bloom. I lay motionless, my body wet and hot as if it were flowing lava. Uncomfortable silence overtook me. The spell was broken. I recaptured time. Opening my eyes, there she was before me, staring at me with my brown eyes. She was still hanging on the gallery wall. I could not deny myself my sexual wanting and I now remember Rathbone was from my past and how he painted me with such beauty.

  Looking around to see if my excitement had been noticed by other patrons, a faint image grew near. It was a man, a beautiful man, who was reeling me in like the hunter does his prey. I could not speak.

  “I knew you’d come,” he said in a French accent.

  “Emanuel?” I said. It seemed to be the only word I knew.

  “Yes, my sweet love. I’ve dreamt about you forever and now you are here”.

  I did know this man as Emanuel from my teenage days. I felt so close to him as I craved his touch. Looking back I remember the summer in France with my family at the age of 16. It was a summer that I shall never forget. He uses to spend hours drawing me as we would meet at the beach in secrecy. At that time I wanted to be with him forever I thought I was in love. He was a young man that I would have lost my virginity to but my parents put a stop to it. They sent me home when they found him in my room drawing me with my top off. My father was in a rage and pulled Emanuel up by his shirt. I watched the buttons fly off the shirt and thought that my father was going to kill him. I have never seen my father lose his composer and strike out at someone.

  I learned at that moment that I could really hurt my father and I knew I never wanted to do this again. What I did was wrong in my father's eyes and my mother never let me forget that I hurt my father. So I was a good girl and made sure that no one would get close to me again.

  All of this past memory came rushing back as I push past the tears of seeing Emanuel. It was really quite amazing that he was standing here in front of me after all these years, Rathbone was Emanuel. He held me close and I looked up at the painting and understood why he painted me. The painting was a part of my past and I knew I had to have it, so I bought it

  Chapter 3 The Telephone Booth

  We entered the restaurant through the alley, just one block west of Rodeo. Pausing at the reservations desk, we could see that the restaurant was humming with excitement. While we waited for our table to be prepared, we were led over to the bar by one of the owners. He always greets us with a warm smile and friendly welcome. We ordered drinks and sat at the bar, watching the room through the reflection in the mirror behind the bar. Every table was filled. The waiters and busboys were busy running about.

  I spotted my date’s former business partner sitting at the other end of the bar with his date, a redhead. I could see his hand gently gliding up her skirt. Michael, my date, resigned from his partnership two years ago to start his own company because his partner's divorce, womanizing, and drinking had put a strain on their business. Michael was barely able to get out before his partner bankrupted their business.

  I smiled as I watched them. They were your typical December-May couple. He was old and rich and she was young and hungry. Watching them, I was becoming turned on as their excitement for each other grew. Her eyes were an intoxicating blue. I could see that Michael’s ex-partner was getting quite stimulated. Throughout the conversation with Michael at the bar, I too was becoming quite aroused and inspired as I watched them in a sexual frenzy. I love to watch others becoming sexually stimulated in a public place. Unfortunately, Michael is much too proper to act like that. He thought it was disgusting that they continued to fondle each other well into our next round of drinks. In his eyes, he showed that he wanted to leave. I never understood Michael and his snobby attitude. He is never in the mood to let his hair down and just have fun. Sometimes I wished that Michael would show some of his boyish charms by breaking free from his inhibitions, but I knew that
it was not in him. I have been dating Michael for about 6 months on and off. He was a lawyer that took it all far too serious even in bed as he never showed his sense of humor but at times he was so very sweet.

  Shortly after our second round of drinks, the maitre d’ guided us to our table which was lit by romantic candlelight. While walking through the crowd, I nodded hello to the people that I knew. I was enjoying this restaurant with all the people mingling about. The room seemed warm and festive.

  As we ordered, I had a funny feeling, as though someone were watching me. Turning to my left, a familiar face surprised me. My heart stopped beating and sank to my feet. It was Alan and his wife, with another couple, sitting in a booth at the far end of the restaurant. Alan was glancing directly at me. Our eyes locked onto each other as he peered my way. I could see in his eyes that he was not very pleased with me as his jaw locked tight and there was a rage on his face. Knowing Alan knew my date, a business rival, I could see the rage in his face. Alan, shaking his head slowly, continued to watch Michael and me as we discussed his business plans for the future. I looked at Alan’s wife, who was oblivious to her husband as she carried on a conversation with the other couple. No one at his table noticed Alan’s change of expression on his handsome face.

  I sat there wishing I were elsewhere, as his eyes penetrated me intensely. I hated seeing Alan with his wife. Dining with his significant other made the room seem so cold, I wanted to fade away and become invisible. If Michael found out about Alan and me, it would be a disaster. As a blush washed over my face, I could feel the ice from Alan’s eyes staring. Trying to concentrate on Michael, I looked deeply into his eyes and prayed that mine would not betray my wounded heart. Then my worst fear came true. Michael mentioned the fact that Alan was in the room, as his face filled with hate. I knew that he knew Alan and I was told both sides of their story of their partnership fallout in the early that year yet the hate in their eyes told it all.