Agatha's Art Project

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A student makes a little extra cash thanks to inflation.
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exwyz
exwyz
3 Followers

The ad was somewhat cryptic – "Must be broadminded". It was only an afternoon's work, and at minimum wage. But I was a student, I was broke, and beggars can't be choosers. I was the right sex – male; the right age - under twenty-five; and I was desperate enough to be up for pretty much anything, within reason. So I phoned, then and there, from my mobile.

The voice was young and female, with a crisp, cut-glass accent. She asked if I could come over immediately – she'd already seen several people, but hadn't yet found anyone suitable. The address she gave was only a couple of streets away, so I told her I'd be there in a matter of minutes.

The place turned out to be a rundown block of factory units. Number Seventeen, she'd said. Number Sixteen was a denture repair business, so the crudely-painted sign declared. Eighteen was unoccupied, all its windows smashed in. Sitting in the open doorway of Seventeen, sipping at a mug of coffee, was a person I immediately recognized.

I didn't know her name, but I'd seen her here and there around the campus, and I knew she was studying art. Petite and curvy, with short-cropped, fluffy blonde hair, and invariably clad in close variations on a uniform of long gypsy skirt, black Converse sneakers, a biker jacket and, under it, a T-shirt – today's was printed with Andy Warhol's Marilyn Monroe portrait - she had seemed aloof, unapproachable, unobtainable, far away on her own private planet.

I walked up to her, my stomach churning with trepidation, curiosity and excitement. I thought it unlikely that she would recognize me, a mere Mr Average at best, one of a thousand extras populating the background of her daily life on campus. So had she, of all people, placed that ad?

Glancing up at me, she poured away the dregs of her coffee. Her smile, warm and welcoming, contained not so much as a flicker of recognition. And no wonder. This was surely the very first time my existence had registered.

I told her I'd come about the job.

"Hi." She held out her hand and we shook. "Shall we go in?"

Inside, Number Seventeen was as bare as a minimalist stage set. White-painted brick walls, concrete floor, a heavy old office desk, a worn-out swivel chair with foam rubber erupting from a big jagged rent in the seat, a couple of switched-off photographic lights, a camcorder on a tripod and, arranged in front of it, an ancient, coffee-coloured sofa that belonged on a rubbish tip. On the desk lay an open laptop, a stack of plastic cups and two bottles - one of expensive water, one of cheap vodka - plus a plain white carrier bag containing a cardboard box which might have held a takeaway pizza, and lastly, curiously, a bicycle pump.

"I'm Agatha", she said. "And you are..?"

I told her my name. I'd thought of giving a false one, but I felt a curious urge to be truthful. Perhaps it was because I had a good feeling about Agatha, a strong sense that she was someone I could trust. And I would be having to place a lot of trust her, if she gave me the job.

"OK." Agatha leant against the desk. "As the ad implied – or should have implied – some nudity is involved." She spoke slowly, deliberately, measuring her words like someone accustomed to being misunderstood. "It's not porn. I know it'll sound like porn, but it's not porn. It's for an art project. I asked for someone broadminded. Maybe you didn't realise just how broadminded I meant, so I apologise if this is too far out of your comfort zone. OK?"

I nodded. "So those others weren't broadminded enough?"

"It appears not." Agatha shrugged. "Like I said, this isn't porn. Even though it does maybe ... overlap to some extent."

This was all fine and dandy by me. If Agatha wanted me to star with her in a homemade skinflick and label it art instead of porn, I would happily play along.

She eyed me earnestly. "So you'd be willing to let me shoot some footage of you having sex? Right here?" She indicated the tatty old sofa.

"You said you've seen other people, and no one else was up for it?" I found that very difficult to believe. She was offering money, for fucksake! How often in a lifetime did dream scenarios like this come along?

"You're the seventh I've seen today. Only one of your predecessors showed any enthusiasm, and he was seventy-four, well outside the age range I specified." Agatha ran her fingers through her spiky blonde boyish hair. Her wry smile reappeared. "I suppose you're thinking all of this is pretty ... quaint?"

I shrugged again. "What do I know about art? My subject's philosophy."

"So does that constitute a yes?" Agatha's eyes were full of hope, like I was her last resort. She was so cute, so huggable. How could I disappoint her?

She held up the vodka bottle. "I thought maybe a little alcohol might be of help. Sorry about the limited choice, but I'm doing all of this on a very tight budget." She took a plastic cup from the stack, poured me a generous shot and held it out to me. I thanked her and downed it, despite having no particular fondness of neat vodka, especially the dirt-cheap variety.

Agatha didn't bother with a cup, She took a swig straight from the bottle. Her hand, I noticed, was trembling, her eyes gleaming with excitement. Evidently she had been on the point of giving up, writing off the whole thing as a stupid idea. I was glad to be able to help. I'd had her down as way out of my league, too chic and exquisite, and unlikely to be impressed by some scrawny philosophy student who was perpetually strapped for cash.

"OK." Agatha switched on the array of lamps and nodded for me to sit down on the sofa. As I'd guessed, it was none too comfortable. The lights were hot, the glare unpleasant. I had to squint to see anything. Agatha grabbed the carrier bag from the desk, took from it the slim cardboard box and offered it to me. Food as well as drink? So thoughtful of her to have provided refreshments...

I froze, holding the box in my hands and staring down at it. Surely not ..?

It wasn't a takeaway pizza. Or anything at all to eat, except in a manner of speaking. It – or rather, she – had a name: SLINKY LINDA. She was made, according to the label on the box, from super-durable polyurethane, guaranteed for several years of sterling service. Although she was capable of withstanding a good deal of rough treatment, nonaggressive handling was recommended in order to maintain an optimum life cycle. She boasted a full complement of "three fully penetrable orifices (lubricant not supplied)" and "authentic vulval detail". She had been manufactured in China.

So Agatha wanted to video me doing it with a blow-up doll? And not even a state-of-the-art plastic partner, but a mere bargain-basement model. And not only literally, physically fuck the thing, but first of all manually inflate it. I'd wondered what that bike pump was doing on the desk.

"I'm sorry." Agatha already had the camcorder running, and was sitting behind it on the swivel chair, peering at the tiny screen. "I would've warned you, but I wanted to capture your initial reaction. So now I guess you're having second thoughts?"

Of fucking course I was having second thoughts. Was she some twisted sister who got off on seeing males humiliated? No wonder all the rest had turned her down.

On the other hand, if I spurned Slinky Linda, that would be the end of it. I'd be chickening out, letting Agatha down, plummeting in her estimation. No money. No more warm, friendly smiles. And almost certainly no further chance, at some happy future moment, of graduating from Agatha's good books to Agatha's bed.

"Well," I finally managed to say, "It's not every day you get asked to perform with a polyurethane playmate." I was quite proud of my eloquence, especially when it earned an appreciative grin from Agatha.

"You're concerned about who might see this?" She'd read my mind. "Well don't be. When the project's complete, no one will know it's you. We're talking animation. Heard of a technique called rotoscoping? Shoot live action and use it as a guide for the animated version." Agatha shrugged. "I'd prefer to draw from scratch, but my skillset doesn't encompass that."

Well, that was certainly a relief – and something I hadn't even thought about until she'd mentioned it. So my contribution to the project would be cloaked in anonymity. And yet some tiny perverse part of me reacted with a pang of disappointment.

"So shall we ..?" Agatha prompted.

I opened the cardboard box. Slinky Linda's huge blue eyes stared vacantly up at me. Her oversized rosebud O of a mouth was grotesquely frozen in the act of fellatio. Her skin tone was ethnically indeterminate (and "fade-resistant"). With her moulded black hair in the style of a 1920s flapper, complete with a funny little kiss-curl, she reminded me a bit of that old cartoon character, Betty Boop. Her body was neatly folded beneath her face, and she gave off a strong, plasticky odour, vaguely vinegary. Would I really be able to do this?

"Here." Agatha offered me the bike pump and trained the camcorder on me as I found Linda's valve – which doubled, ingeniously enough, as her clitoris. It took quite a bit of effort to get her fully inflated, and I was left with aching arms.

Anatomically, Slinky Linda left a lot to be desired. Her inhumanly conical breasts sported beetroot-coloured nipples the size of wine corks, and were set some six inches too high, just below her shoulders. Her swollen scarlet labia might have been transplanted from some much larger mammal. Vagina and anus were immediate neighbours, like the twin muzzles of a twelve-bore, with only a token perineum. Her thighs were scarcely thicker than her calves and – no doubt to the dismay of assorted fetishists - she was lacking navel, knees, ankles, elbows and ears. All in all, she called for considerable imaginative input on the part of any user.

Agatha was unfastening the camcorder from its tripod. "Just a moment." She lifted it free. "OK, now if we can lose the clothes ..."

I stripped off. Agatha grinned as she observed the dark patch at the apex of the great twitching tentpole in my underpants, and ordered me to pause while she momentarily zoomed in on it. "And now the pants?"

I complied, and my penis sprang out, thwacking meatily against my stomach. Agatha moved in closer with the camcorder. "I just love the way guys emit that little bead of fluid in anticipation," she explained, adding jokily, "Look, Linda – liquid lust." It was terrifically sexy, the way the tip of Agatha's tongue would come poking out to caress, in turn, the edges of her upper and lower teeth as she concentrated on getting the shot she wanted. This was all so surreal. Most probably the both of us, myself and Agatha, had something seriously awry inside our heads. Or this wouldn't be happening.

"Now how's about if we commence with some kissing?" Agatha moved in closer with the camcorder, panning along the length of my body as I took Slinky Linda in a romantic embrace, cradled her head and snogged away, probing her uppermost penetrable orifice, making a real meal of her for the benefit of the camera. It was like chewing a party balloon.

"Excellent!" Agatha murmured. "Now explore."

Agatha's lens followed my hand down to Sinky Linda's breasts, which offered scant sensual rewards, and on to her genitalia. Easing a finger into each opening – and confirming the manufacturers' proud boast that Slinky Linda was furnished with "ribbed lower orifices, front and rear" - I used my thumb to tease her clitoris/air valve while , upstairs, pressing on dutifully with the kissing offensive. Soon my tongue began to hurt. I was trying my hardest to get into the groove, psychosexually speaking, but my erection was steadily ebbing away, in direct inverse proportion to my increasing selfconsciousness.

"OK." Agatha lowered the camcorder, pulling a wry face as she saw that my hitherto thrusting manhood had finally given up the ghost and flopped back against my thigh like a comatose slug, a shiny trail of lubricant oozing from its sleepy pink eye. "Maybe we need ..." She handed me the camcorder. "If you could hold this a moment ..."

I took it from her and she squatted down, delved beneath her skirt and – my heart went hammering off at a gallop when I realized what she was doing – proceeeded to remove her knickers, wriggling them deftly down her legs and stepping out of them one foot at a time. They were a dusky greyish-pink in colour, edged with lace. I caught the unmistakeable smell of female arousal, and Agatha watched in amused awe as – boingggg! - my penis promptly resurrected itself as though in a speeded-up science film. So my antics had somehow succeded in getting Agatha's own juices flowing? I sat there basking in a truly colossal sense of achievement.

Kneeling down, Agatha looped a leghole of the knickers over each of the doll's feet and pulled them up to her waist, the sopping wet crotch leaving two glistenening smears along Slinky Linda's thighs. Lifting the camcorder, Agatha mouthed the word "Action!"

Spreading my legs, I turned Slinky Linda upside down and, as some rumbustious rake in Fanny Hill might have put it, employed her mouth as my scabbard. Bringing the doll's nether regions up to my face in classic 69 mode, I paused to inhale the rich aroma of Agatha's secretions, then licked my way along each plastic inner thigh. Through the stained, sodden cotton at Slinky Linda's crotch I sucked on her unique patent clit valve. The taste was pure Agatha. Within seconds I was shooting my load.

"Excellent!" As I disengaged from Linda's mouth Agatha moved in for a closeup, and I was gratified to get the briefest glimpse down the neckline of her T-shirt. She was braless, and her nipples were erect. (At least, I could vouch for the left one – presumably her right was in a comparable state of arousal.) "OK, cool," she murmured. "Now..." With her foot, she pushed forward the swivel chair. "On here?"

I relocated, the escaped foam rubber on the seat of the swivel chair serving as a neat, comfortable cradle for my testicles. Sitting Slinky Linda on my lap, I engaged her in a passionate snogging session, finding myself ingesting globs of my own sperm – not exactly a favourite flavour, but at this moment perversely enjoyable. To my delight, Agatha stepped in to lend a hand – actually, just an index finger - hooking the knickers to one side to facilitate access. Murmuring thanks, I slid Slinky Linda onto my battleworn but still game pork sword – I couldn't tell which orifice was the lucky one, they were so close together – and thrust away, working up a steady rhythm.

Agatha spun the swivel chair and around we went. Half a dozen revolutions and I was spurting again, less profusely this time, inevitably – I was getting unpleasantly numb and achey down at the coalface – but it was still sufficiently intense an experience to leave me trembling and gasping, revelling in an exquisite sense of dizzy triumph.

So absorbed was I in my reverie of self-congratulation that I failed to notice the arrival of another onlooker. It was only when I heard "Hi Agatha!" that I glanced up and saw a figure standing behind the photo lamps. "So how's it going?" the voice asked.

"Pretty good." Agatha put down the camcorder and killed the lights. "Just about done."

Still slowly revolving on the swivel chair, I felt my face blush crimson. And then I noticed something else. Sadly, something – a stray upholstery tack, or maybe her own quality issues, individual or generic - had caused Slinky Linda to lose air. Already, her skin was shrivelling and crumpling. Soon she would be little more than a mammoth condom wrapped around my worn-out willy.

Agatha introduced her companion. "This is Clare."

Clare greeted me with a sympathetic smile. I'd seen her before. She was tall and imposing, with wild red Pre-Raphaelite hair. She taught art, and was rumoured to be a lesbian.

Clare and Agatha kissed, and it was plain that they were lovers. Still, I held out hope that Agatha was bi - she'd soaked her gusset, had she not, watching me with Slinky Linda? But then again, I wasn't naïve enough to take that as proof of anything.

By now, Slinky Linda was more aged crone than nubile nymph, having lost, at a conservative estimate, around fifty percent of her firmness. I felt her slip slowly away, severing contact with my sausage as she continued to expire. it seemed foolish to go on holding what was now little more than an empty plastic sack, so I let her slide off me and flop onto the floor. The sight of her lying there stung me with an unexpected sense of loss, and I thought seriously about investing in a puncture repair kit.

"That was excellent!" Agatha gave me a peck on the cheek. "Care to come back tomorrow?" She turned to Clare. "So did you get it?"

Clare nodded and held something up. Another flat, square carboard package, like a pizza box. She handed it to Agatha, who examined it with amused satisfaction. "Cool!" She placed the box on my lap. Her eyes twinkled mischievously. "You up for this?"

I looked down at the label. STUDLY SIMON sported "three fully penetrable orifices (lubricant not supplied)" and was guaranteed capable of "authentic invasive action, with variable girth and extensivity ranging from four to nine inches". I didn't much care for his moulded moustache, 1970s sideburns and a fellatio-friendly mouth that was identical to Slinky Linda's, but ...

"Why not?" I said.

exwyz
exwyz
3 Followers
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3 Comments
AnonymousAnonymousover 11 years ago
Where's the sequel?

I want to read about Studly Simon!

Infl8oramaInfl8oramaover 13 years ago
Fun story

Definitely a nice example of a regular guy willing to go as far as he can to win the girl!

AnonymousAnonymousalmost 15 years ago
A bit of an odd story yet strangely interesting

Well written, but a little less sexy than the average story. What is Agatha going to do with the films? How much did the man get paid? Was Agatha a art tearcher also, or were these works "commissioned" by a private collector?

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