The Maestro

by Leo Barton

  'I felt terribly frightened when I realised what he was trying to do, thinking that they would split me in two. He pushed and pushed until he eventually was able to enter me.

  'It was sensational to feel both men in me at the same time, as one slid a little way out, the other would thrust in. It felt like there was a fire inside me. The pace grew more and more frantic as the burning seemed to spread through me. In the growing certainty of my orgasm I ceased licking Laura, until she grabbed my head in a forceful grip, demanding that I did not forget her needs. Using the rhythm of the two men as they thrust inside me I managed to bring Laura to the brink of orgasm at the same time that I came.

  'I tell you, Linda, you must try having two men inside you at the same time. The fire spread and seemed to increase in its intense burning. I tried to fight my orgasm as long as I could, trying to prolong my pleasure, but in the end it was impossible. It was too much for the two men, watching Laura and feeling me coming. They shot their seed into me, my orgasm extending in the excitement of having two men discharge into my two holes. I thought it would never end. It was too brilliant, too sustained.'

  Here Maria's story seemed to trail to an end.

  'What happened afterwards?' Linda asked.

  'This is, I think, why they were so clever.'

  'Why?'

  'Because the next day they sent me home, knowing that they had instilled in me this craving for pleasure, knowing that I would seek to recapture the intensity of pleasure that I had experienced with them. It was such a shock to my system, to my whole being to know that so much was possible.

  'The next morning as I was crying in my room waiting to depart, Hugo came in to explain why I had to leave. My education was complete.'

  'It doesn't sound to me that their reasons were all altruistic, I mean, about just giving you an education,' Linda said, trying to bring a little realism to bear on Maria's rosy account of her seduction.

  'Linda, really, I am not so innocent, nor do I think I was then. They had taken their pleasure with me. For weeks they had been watching me, knowing how they were going to take me, how they were going to seduce me. No doubt, though I have never asked, they had plotted and planned together what they were going to do. I know that they were not just being altruistic but I also know that they gave me an education. They sent me back to the world with more awareness of the pleasures to be obtained from the body than I would have ever realised if I had merely stayed fucking eighteen-year-old boys.'

  'Why did you tell me all this, Maria?' Linda asked. She had been very excited by the story, but part of her had also been shocked by the way Maria had described how three adults had despoiled a teenage girl.

  'I told you Linda so that I could explain to you why I seek pleasure in the way that I do. It's why I call myself an explorer. And there is another reason...' Maria paused, became hesitant.

  'Why's that?'

  'Because I think that you are the type of woman who wants to experience more pleasure than you have. Oh yes, I am sure that your Sebastian is quite delicious in bed. I have heard it said.'

  'By who?'

  'You must ask Alfonso about that.'

  'But why can't you tell me.'

  'Because I promised I wouldn't, and I am a loyal person.'

  'But...'

  'No buts, Linda. Alfonso will tell you, but my point is Linda that Sebastian is only one man and maybe there are certainly things you are curious about that you have never explored with him, or maybe it is just variety that you want to seek. Something a little more experimental, perhaps. I watched you last night. I saw something in you that was unfulfilled. Is that true Linda?'

  'Maybe,' Linda answered noncommittally again.

  'I can promise you that you will enjoy yourself here in Barcelona.'

  'I hope so.' Linda's mind sped back to the thought of meeting Delgado.

  'Of course you will, mi carina, of course you will.'

  Chapter 5

  She saw Alfonso before he saw her. She had decided to take a coffee to calm her nerves before her meeting with Delgado. Alfonso was bounding along the road with his usual confident stride, his eyes focused straight ahead, distracted, so she realised as he came closer, by an attractive blond who was walking in front of him.

  Linda waved over to Alfonso from the shaded chair where she sat, but he was completely oblivious to anybody apart from the leggy girl he seemed to be trying to catch up to. He looked slightly disappointed when Linda, exasperated that her frantic signalling had not caught his attention, shouted over to him.

  It stopped him in his track. He gave one more wistful look at the girl in front before turning his full attention to Linda.

  'You look fantastic this morning, Linda.'

  'But not as fantastic as her,' Linda replied, her eyes motioning to the girl as she reached the statue to Christopher Columbus.

  'Who?'

  'That girl over there, the bottle-blond with the leather mini-skirt.'

  'Oh Olga.'

  'Do you know her?'

  'Know her, of course I don't know her, but I somehow imagined that her name would be Olga.'

  'You're incorrigible, Alfonso.'

  'I try to be.'

  After Linda had paid for her coffee they began walking in the direction of Barcelonetta, passed the newly developed port.

  'Modernism for modernism sake,' Alfonso had said critically.

  'Oh I quite like it. It certainly brightens the place up.'

  'Mmm,' Alfonso replied. 'I hope your critical faculties are going to be a little sharper when you meet Delgado.'

  'You make him sound like such a tyrant.'

  'You'll see.'

  'That seems to be your favourite expression at the moment,' Linda said jokingly, remembering how he had fobbed her off when she had asked him about El Attico.

  'You and Maria seemed to be getting on very well,' Alfonso said, a slight leer claiming his face as he asked the question.

  'She's a very interesting woman.'

  'And I assume you had a very interesting afternoon,' Alfonso replied, a ridiculously exaggerated emphasis on the word interesting.

  'Alfonso, I know what you are getting at, but all that happened was that we went for a swim, she talked a little about her past and then she drove me back to my hotel.'

  'Did you get the Hugo and Laura stuff?'

  'What?'

  'Did she tell you all the stuff about her education and how she was buggered by this man Hugo and his brother?'

  'You mean she lies?'

  'Ah, so she did tell you. No, Maria doesn't lie. I've had that story confirmed to me by very reliable sources. It's all true, I know. You're right of course, Maria is a very interesting young woman.' Alfonso took a dilatory sip of his cortado.

  'Why did you ask me if she told that story?'

  'Because I know she only tells that story to people she likes. I didn't hear anything at all for six months. You should feel honoured.'

  'Why is Delgado called Delgado? Doesn't it mean thin in Spanish?' Linda asked wanting to divert the conversation from the topic of herself and Maria.

  'Because that is his name.'

  'His second name?'

  'No, his real name is Marcelo Torres, although I've never heard anybody refer to him as anything else but Delgado. You know he is the son of the Torres, the painter.'

  'I'm sorry I've never heard of him.'

  'I'm afraid he doesn't seem to export very well. He was not very well known outside our native Catalunya. When Delgado started painting he was very much under his father's influence.'

  'I wouldn't have thought that Delgado would have been under anybody's influence.' She was thinking of the work that she had seen. What seemed fabulous about Delgado was that he did not seem to be one great painter, he seemed to be ten. Each new exhibition he gave seemed to be so radically different from the last, and even in one exhibition, Delgado seemed to have the ability to change his style almost at will.

  'I can see how you would think t
hat. So many of the people who have worked under him think he is fantastic. I mean that he has really changed their lives, at least as artists.'

  'Has he changed yours?'

  'Not yet. He hates my work, so he told me.'

  'So why do you put up with him?'

  'Because, Linda, it is very important to learn. Delgado might be a fake as a person, but as an artist, and more importantly for me, as an art teacher he is genuine. He's a genius. You'll...'

  'I know, I'll see,' she said, interrupting Alfonso before he could conclude the conversation with his usual gnomic incantation.

  Whatever Delgado was, he was certainly not delgado: thin. He was a giant of a man, well over six foot, with long, wavy hair parted in the middle, a wiry black beard flecked with silver-grey and a substantial girth. The white shirt he was wearing creased around each button of his shirt, creating glimpses of unseemly ovals of tanned flesh.

  And he had terrible eyes. At least that was how Linda thought of them after Alfonso had led her up two flights of stairs and into a brightly lit room where Delgado imposingly stood peering at her as Alfonso introduced him.

  The morning light streamed into an extremely large but still untidy studio. His pots and paints and easels and cloths speckled in an array of colours lay sprawled across a dirty wooden floor. The walls were painted haphazardly, a once brilliant white paint had patches of a blue undercoat still showing, and the general atmosphere gave an appearance of being unkempt that mirrored its owner.

  But the eyes, the eyes seemed the fulcrum of the room. They were dark brown and magnetic and seemed to hold everything they saw in its gaze, judging, querying and condemning. Linda wondered whether she was just imagining all this after everything Alfonso had told her about him, but she wasn't. They were eyes that Linda thought of as not just undressing her body but undressing her soul.

  She could feel her hands slicked with sweat, knowing that this had less to do with the burdensome heat than the presence of the maestro.

  'Mrs Powell, pleased to meet you,' Delgado said solemnly, offering his hand with a stiff formality. Linda noticed how incongruously soft they seemed, how slender the fingers were on such a towering and physically powerful looking man. He spoke English accurately but with a heavy clipped accent.

  'Miss Powell, encantado.' 'Powell' seemed to be pronounced with disdain.

  He sat down at a large table in the centre of the room, and gently, almost tenderly untied the lace of her portfolio, a quick glance motioning Linda to sit down opposite him.

  'You can go now, senor,' Delgado said quite severely to Alfonso. Alfonso cast an uncharacteristically tentative glance over to Linda, but Delgado looked at him again, the piercing eyes demanding his immediate exit.

  Linda watched Delgado as he flicked through her portfolio and then went over it again, flicking through some, scrutinising the pencil drawings, his face peering intensely at a sketch before relaxing to flick to another piece of work.

  There was something else about him, a strange sensation that she occasionally used to get when meeting friends of Sebastian that she had seen on the television, an eerie feeling of disjunction, as if she had met them before when she knew that she hadn't.

  After a few nerve-wracking terrible minutes, he turned to Linda, his face betraying nothing.

  'You are a critic, yes?'

  'Yes, I am.'

  'The senor tells me that you are a very good critic.'

  'Well, I don't know, I...'

  'I'm pleased that you are a good critic.'

  Linda had no idea what he was trying to tell her.

  'Because Mrs Powell, I do not feel that you are an artist.'

  She should have seen it coming. She had suspected that his criticism would be severe. She could not help it. Her head drooped. She felt as if her heart was sinking in her chest.

  'Oh,' was all she could say.

  'Yet, Mrs Powell, yet.'

  'Sorry?'

  'I do not feel that you are an artist yet. There is something here in the lithographs. You have the technique of course. You paint like a critic, though. It's very clever. 'Satyriasis'. But it is not great art. I do not believe in tricks and gimmicks that seem to be so popular in your own country that you critics seem to like so much.'

  'I don't understand what my being a critic...' Linda was bewildered. She waited for him to continue.

  'I believe that sometimes a great artist can be a critic, but a critic, great or good, cannot normally be an artist, not at least a great one. You could sell these of course. You might even reach a level of fame, but if you were successful, you know that it would be a fraud, a fake as much as if you copied the Mona Lisa. The tragedy is, Mrs Powell, if you don't realise this then there is little point for you to come and work here.'

  She looked at him, feeling her will diminish under his glare and the harshness of his criticism.

  'I have only one question for you.'

  'Yes?'

  'Do you think that this work represents the best that you can do, because if it is then I'm afraid that you are wasting your time? Tell me, Mrs Powell.'

  She knew of course that Delgado was right. He was right about the technique. He was right about the conceptual cleverness of some of her work. There was a difference between creation and criticism and she was aware of how too much of the latter could kill the former.

  'No, it's not.'

  'That is hopeful. You want to work here for some months?'

  'Yes.'

  'This is not a holiday, a way of filling in your free time. If you want to be an artist you have to forget criticism. You have to learn again. If you want a holiday go to the coast.'

  'I want to develop my art.'

  'We will see. Miercoles, nine o clock, there is a place for you in the studio downstairs. It is soon to be vacated. You will not like me, Mrs Powell. I always tell the truth. This may be old fashioned but I believe passionately in art. It is not a game for me. I do not believe in fun or entertainment. I will be hard, truthful, but hard. Do you understand?'

  'Yes.'

  'When the time comes I will tell you, because I am honest and because I cannot know for sure now, if you have enough talent, if there is anything more than technique. Do you accept my proposition?'

  'Yes.'

  'Until Wednesday then,' Delgado said, bringing their brief interview to a close.

  Having a drink downstairs with Alfonso, she expressed her fears that he had not liked her work. She told him almost verbatim what Delgado had said.

  Alfonso laughed. He is a good art teacher, but he is a terrible drama queen. Of course he's not going to say that your art is great, because if your art was great why would you need him to teach you? With him it's not the money, it's his ego. It is enormous. He must have thought that your work was very promising, because if he thought it wasn't he would have told you to go home, unless of course you gave him as much money as I do. You're a success, my dear, a great success.'

  The stress of her meeting with Delgado coupled by the brash early summer heat made Linda decide to take a siesta.

  Her work invaded her consciousness as she considered the merits and the demerits of each piece that Delgado had seen. She lay down on the bed and tried to sleep, but it was difficult with the noise that the air-conditioner made, but also her own restless thoughts agitating her.

  Eventually she fell into a light doze, dreaming of Delgado, a strange and perturbing erotic dream, that in her semiconscious state she could not and did not want to suppress. This was even more alarming, for when she had been speaking to Delgado she had not found him at all sexually attractive; but now in her dream, Delgado was staring at her body as intently as he had stared at her work. She stood before him in a white sleeveless blouse and a white diaphanous skirt.

  Delgado was kneeling down in front of her. There was nobody else in the room.

  'Lift up your skirt if you want to be an artist!' he commanded.

  Linda lifted up her skirt quite quickly.

  '
No, more slowly than that,' he said archly in his stentorian voice.

  She lifted up the skirt more slowly until Delgado could see the white of her panties. As she pulled the dress up to her waist Delgado's implacable face grew into a leer. He grabbed the skirt and lifted it higher over her panties revealing her flat stomach up to her navel.

  'Pull your panties aside,' Delgado said, and she pulled aside the gusset.

  'Stick your finger inside!'

  In the dream, Linda hesitated.

  'If you want to be a great artist.'

  Linda traced her finger along the ridge of her labial lips then to the inner darker pink of her vulva, slipping it in tantalisingly slowly while Delgado stared at her with those dreadful piercing eyes.

  In her half-sleeping state as she lay naked on the hotel bed she began to do in reality what Delgado had commanded her to do in her dream.

  She imagined Delgado's hand grasping hers and shoving it away, and still staring at the glisten of her love juice, jab in his own finger where hers had been, ramming it inside her hard and fast. His tongue then sought her labial lips before he took the soft, moist folds of flesh between his teeth and began to nibble on her, as his finger continued sliding inside her vulva frigging her slowly. She shuddered as he nipped on her engorged flesh with his teeth.

  His other finger slipped past her perineum down to her anus and pressed onto the taut aperture below until it had gained entrance. Two fingers now began jerking inside her in the haze of her dream, as she lay semi-consciously on her hotel bed imitating the actions of the fantasy Delgado.