by Limey Lady
‘Did you make all these?’ she asked.
‘Of course I did.’ Ronnie laughed gaily. ‘I’m an oils girl at heart, but that doesn’t exclude ceramics.’
She unlocked the front door, clicked a switch and ushered Angie inside.
‘Blimey,’ said Angie, confronted with a large hallway and an elaborate nude, just about covering her modesty with one gracefully poised hand.
‘It’s a Titian,’ Ronnie enlarged. ‘Well, to be precise it’s my copy of a Titian. The original is in Florence.’
Useless as she was at creating works of art, Angie had always been appreciative of finished articles.
‘It’s incredibly good,’ she said, mirroring her feelings. And it was. Angie could easily lose herself in any halfway decent gallery . . . especially if female nudes were being exhibited.
‘Titian did have a certain eye,’ Ronnie agreed.
‘No, really, this could be our blockbuster film,’ Angie gushed, enraptured by the brushstrokes. ‘Maybe we’ll be millionaires. Think along the lines of The Italian Job. A beautiful English artist makes the ideal copy. Then the loveable Cockney rogue has to swap it for the original against all the odds. And it ends up in a car chase through the streets of the biggest city in Tuscany. Maybe we could even get Michael Caine involved . . .’
‘I think he’s retired,’ said Ronnie, ‘but thanks for implying I’m beautiful.’
Angie blushed for a record-breaking second time in one day.
‘Right then, coffee,’ Ronnie went on. ‘Or are you taking me up on the offer of wine?’
‘I’ll join you with coffee.’
‘In that case I’ll set the percolator going. The living room’s through there.’
The living room was tastefully furnished but Angie took little notice of the décor; she was enthralled by the paintings on the walls. Oils with brushstrokes aplenty, they were mostly landscapes, with the odd seascape and portrait thrown in for good luck.
Brilliant; they were all brilliantly executed.
‘This is sort of a dumping ground,’ said Ronnie, re-joining her. ‘Painting in oils is a side-line of mine. I might never be good enough to copy a Titian with any great accuracy, but I’ll always be able to shift a few landscapes.’
‘Do you mean these are for sale?’
‘Most of them will be. I hang them in here and stare at them until I’m sure they’re as good as they’re going to get, then I ship ‘em off.’
Angie was impressed. ‘Do you sell many?’
‘I’m moving at least one a week. But that’s making me sound better than I am. I don’t sell direct to the public; I have a number of shops and small galleries who take my work. Then it’s not my problem, is it? Some are sold straightaway, some stick for weeks.’
‘Is that one the Peak District?’ asked Angie, indicating a vaguely familiar scene.
‘Yes, it’s Snake Pass. And it’s headed for a shop in Buxton, even though it’s not so local. Most of my outlets are in touristy areas. I’m a mercenary, you see. I paint the Peak District for Buxton, the Lakes for Bowness and so on. I’m away most of my weekends in the Peak District. During longer breaks I go further afield. That sea storm over there is Whitby in October.’ She laughed. ‘Summer holiday-makers like to see late October in Whitby, even if they do make sure they’ve headed for home before the end of August.’
‘I see your grounding in Economics shining through.’ Angie laughed with her. ‘But how did you make the jump to Art?’
‘I’ve always been arty. That gap year I mentioned was so I could go down to Newlyn and make use of the incredible light they get there.’
‘Where’s Newlyn?’
‘It’s in the far west,’ Ronnie said, ‘next stop Land’s End. Most folk prefer St Ives for the scenery and cobbled streets. But Newlyn is the real deal, light-wise.’
Not a lot wiser, Angie followed her into the kitchen and accepted a mug of finest Tanzanian.
‘It’s a lot harder for an unknown to sell her paintings in Cornwall,’ Ronnie continued. ‘The competition is relentless compared to everywhere else. Before I knew it I was living with a crowd of other young women, most of us failed fellow-artists. I suppose you’d call it a commune, or maybe a collective. We grew our own food, baked our own bread and made trinkets for tourists in our spare time: beads and rings, talismans, wicker baskets and so on. That’s what really gave me the idea of my latest side-line; not Economics but the need to have money so we could buy meat to go with our home-grown veg.’
Angie picked up on the “crowd of other young women” but chose to let it go . . . for now.
‘So you are a carnivore,’ she said instead.
‘Mea culpa,’ grinned Ronnie. ‘And you’re not the only one who knows Latin.’
Chapter Five
According to Ronnie, her bathroom was “the door at the top of the stairs”. When she got there Angie found she had a choice of three. The first opened into an artist’s studio. The enormous windows at the far end of the room were north facing and there were easels and canvasses everywhere.
Even in the darkness of nearly midnight she could see give-away outlines.
The impulse to snoop for more nudes was too much. Clicking on the electric lights Angie looked at the nearest canvas and wasn’t disappointed. It was of a naked woman on her back, her legs spread wide, a seductive smile on her lips. The next canvas featured a different woman in a similar pose, this time with two hands between her legs . . . but not to cover her modesty. No, that particular young lady was shamelessly parting her labia.
Was that a very forward model or the artist’s imagination? It was impossible to tell.
Clicking off the lights, suddenly wondering what she’d got into, Angie tried the second door. It opened into Ronnie’s bedroom. “Red” was the initial impression. She saw crimson covers on the double bed; fields of scarlet for the walls and curtains. In contrast the carpet and ceiling were white. That is to say the bit of ceiling that wasn’t mirrored was white.
Frigging hell . . . a mirrored ceiling!
There was another painting there too, hanging on a boxed-in chimney breast directly opposite the foot of the bed. Unable to stop herself, Angie went for a closer look, getting two nudes for the price of one; both female and in the classic sixty-nine position.
And they were so, so sensual.
Not much could be seen of the girl on top. She had a lovely curvaceous body, a mane of auburn hair and alabaster skin. Sadly, her face was obscured by her lover’s groin but even so she radiated beauty and sexuality.
So did the girl underneath. She also had a lovely curvaceous body but her long hair was straw blonde and her skin was nicely tanned. She was familiar-looking as well.
In fact she was Ronnie!
And how good must it feel to be tongue-lashed by her!!
Shocked and intrigued, Angie reverted to thinking of “the girl underneath” as “Miss Pearce”. It was her for sure; there was no doubt about that. She was unmistakable even with half of her face obscured by the pussy she was so avidly licking.
And her right breast, somehow escaped from the action and totally visible, brown nipple erect . . . well it was heavenly.
Head spinning, Angie located the bathroom and relieved herself.
‘Ah,’ said Miss Pearce when she finally made it back to the kitchen. ‘Back at last. And just in time; I’m ready to go.’
‘I could stay here,’ Angie said in an uncharacteristically timid voice. ‘Assuming no significant other is likely to drop in.’
‘I’m in loco parentis,’ Miss Pearce said with an air of finality. ‘Let’s get you home.’
*****
The Head of Art drove a reasonably new Escort Ghia. Yet again she went from one topic to another at lightning speed, but this time not quite taking Angie with her.
Angie’s head was filled with a roaring sound. Her body was doing weird things. Having a conversation was not a realistic possibility.
Well, okay, so maybe she
made interested noises in some of the right places. And maybe she put on a show of being attentive.
The roaring inside her head resembled gigantic waves crashing onto a beach, California most likely, but wasn’t there a seasonal monster in Newquay; one that ranked up there with the world’s best surf. A real freak of nature . . .
Miss Pearce would know, wouldn’t she, as a latter-day Cornish hippy.
As a woman who very obviously had sex with women.
Putting two and two together was easy to do. Half the school reckoned Miss Pearce was shagging her arty colleague, Mr Mills. Mr Mills, who insisted that his pupils all called him “Daz”, had all he looks of a Newquay surfer. Come to that, he wouldn’t have been out of place in Santa Barbara, Hawaii or maybe even Queensland.
Angie was certain most of her female schoolmates masturbated thinking about Mr Mills. She hadn’t done that herself because . . .
Well, because.
But if she’d ever been forced to masturbate thinking about a man, he would have been on the list.
The crash of incoming waves was growing ever louder. Angie could no longer hear Miss Pearce as she flittered hither and thither. Visual images replaced auditory input: Liz’s fingers in Suzanne; her current chauffeur under a pale, auburn-haired beauty, a delightful right breast escaped from the action and totally visible, brown nipple erect.
Oblivious to the fact it was already “tomorrow”. Angie couldn’t let the evening end so soon.
Oh no, no way, José.
Angie’s home was in a village about three miles from the centre of town. Bisecting the older woman’s one-sided chitchat, she asked her to pull over perhaps eight hundred yards from civilization. Frowning yet again, Miss Pearce did so.
‘Turn off the engine.’
‘Hey, who’s driving this thing?’
‘You are. You are totally in control. So turn off the engine, please.’
Miss Pearce turned off the engine.
Heart in her mouth, Angie moved in to kiss her one-time teacher.
Bugger, she’d reckoned without the seatbelt.
Hastily un-clunk-clicking, Angie moved in again.
Miss Pearce accepted her kiss but responded minimally.
Angie kissed her anew, putting more into it.
This time Miss Pearce responded warmly.
Suitably encouraged, Angie stuck her tongue into a hungry mouth.
Miss Pearce met it with bold tongue-thrusts of her own.
The enormity of what she was doing did and did not sink in. Most of Angie’s brain concentrated on the sensuous, swirling sensations of kissing. A tiny bit of it registered the fact that Miss Pearce was only the second person she’d ever romantically snogged.
And that Miss Pearce was, coincidentally, female.
Angie dimly supposed the racing feeling in her veins was an adrenalin surge. Whatever it was, it was hotter than hot.
Tongues squirming together . . .
Oh yes oh yes!
With trembling yet somehow effective fingers, she unfastened the few buttons holding together Miss Pearce’s blouse. A pair of big, bouncy and beautiful tits spilled out into her hands. It felt like catching a surge of pound coins after hitting the world’s biggest jackpot.
‘Oh my God,’ Miss Pearce gasped, ‘oh yes, oh yes!’
Kissing and licking those gems was better than winning any lottery. And sucking hard nipples was as big a thrill as . . .
Well, Angie was in no state of mind to make comparisons. Vaguely, she was aware that an eighteen year-old sucking on a woman in her mid-thirties . . .
Vaguely she reckoned it ought to be a comfort thing. Not right then, however. Oh no, right then it had nothing to do with comfort. Right then it was erotic, hot and the best thing to be doing in the universe.
Or universes, if there were more than one.
‘Oh my God,’ Miss Pearce sighed, her long, elegant fingers stroking through Angie’s short bristles (the almost non-existent stubble that passed for her “hair”). ‘Oh my God, Angie Baby, that’s so good.’
Suitably encouraged, Angie Baby stuck to her task.
Chapter Six
Twenty or so minutes of Angie’s enthusiastic tit-play and any reservations the older woman may have had vanished.
‘In the back,’ she said half-asking, half-commanding.
Angie made a clumsy attempt to clamber between the seats. Miss Pearce simply opened the driver’s side door and got in through the rear passenger door, naked from the waist up and patently not caring about any other road users. Not that there were any about. Cheeks flushed, Angie made to copy her.
‘Jacket off first,’ said Miss Pearce primly, before she could get in.
Shrugging off the denim jacket was easier than shrugging it on. Heart pounding, Angie tossed it into the back and joined her one-time teacher inside.
Miss Pearce kissed her immediately. Angie kissed back as though her life depended on it.
And she didn’t resist in the slightest at an upwards tug to her sweatshirt. In fact she raised her arms in compliance, rapping her knuckles on the padded car roof as she did so.
Shit, she thought, realizing she was wearing a very plain, very unsexy bra.
Miss Pearce didn’t seem to even notice the lack of lace. She deftly unhooked the clips and grasped Angie’s obligingly spilling breasts.
‘I’d love to paint these,’ she said before applying her mouth in a thousand and one interesting ways.
Being rational was becoming rather abstract for Angie just then. Before slipping into a trance-like state she did briefly ponder the word “paint”. Did Miss Pearce want to pose her as a nude and depict her as a big-breasted, mannish woman? Or did she want to physically paint her tits?
The idea of being physically panted was awesome. All those brushstrokes . . . the idea of dozens of individual, oil-laden camel hairs moving over her skin . . .
Worshipping Miss Pearce’s breasts had been a lifetime best. As well as sucking nips she’d ran the tip of her tongue just everywhere; over, under and all around.
Fancy having oil-laden camel hairs doing the same!
Oh yes, yes please!!
Except weren’t they really made out of squirrel hair?
At that moment in time Angie didn’t particularly distinguish between camels, squirrels or anything else. Miss Pearce’s tongue was darting about her as fast as her ever-changing chitchat, and the effect was nicer than nice.
Then, startling her, Miss Pearce took hold of Angie’s right wrist and pulled her arm up straight.
Shit! Angie had only ever shaved her pits once, and that had been years ago. Parts of Australian bush were better cropped than she was just now.
Not that Miss Pearce seemed bothered.
‘Lovely, lovely, lovely,’ she murmured.
Angie yelped as Miss Pearce’s tongue made contact low down her side, well below the hair level, and then slowly and sensually moved upwards, into deep undergrowth.