The art show had concluded. Two hours ago, in fact. Yet, conversations and connections between buyers and sellers, critics and curators, kept the gallery from closing its doors on time. Nevertheless, their exchanges were invaluable. One deal made after hours could be a boon for this gallery.
The night could not go on forever though. Soon the wine would be talking, and all things said would be forgotten—or questioned—in the morning.
Perle had, with professionally gentle ease, encouraged the lollygaggers toward the exit and finally ushered them into the dark city streets.
She locked the gallery’s front door and turned off the brightest, most obvious lights in order to appear closed.
Her mind was exhausted, and her feet were sore in the red Sarah Flint scarpin heels she had worn all day. Perle took off her shoes and carried them to the office in the rear of the showroom.
She shed her professionalism and intended to get a few minutes of rest. Later she would hear about the results and responses to the show.
Her throbbing and reddened feet patted on the wood-laminate flooring. Each step of her swollen feet sounding as if peeling from the cool floor.
Rounding a partial wall, Perle gasped at seeing a tall man. Her pumps clacked onto the floor and scattered.
“My goodness! I didn’t know anyone was still here.” She patted her chest. “I let my guard down too soon.”
The man stood with his hands in the pockets of his tailored slacks. His face was shaded sharply because the light was shining on the painting.
He slowly shifted his eyes from the artwork before him.
“Sorry to be here late,” he said dully.
By a tiny twist of his neck and the dull apology, she knew she had pulled him back into the gallery and, likely, to reality.
He had been staring at an unmemorable painting that was more of a wall-filler—a secondary piece. Of low-level quality compared to the others. Not done by a well-known artist or breakout sensation. It was homely.
The man straightened his striped tie and tugged the cuffs of his white shirt.
“I’ll go.” And he nodded slowly and politely.
Perle knew from his comatose movements that he had been somewhere else.
Viewers often were reminded of their past—of what they had done or wished to have done—or places they had visited—or wished they had visited. It was not rare. But this man had been brought back from a clearer, more real place than would a typical art lover or buyer who might have had a sunny memory flash worth chatting about.
“Did something about it strike you?” Perle asked.
“Strike me,” he repeated as if trying to comprehend.
“Yes, do you like the painting?”
He blinked. “I should go. Good evening, ma’am.”
He glanced at her bare feet and noticed that the heels had scattered across the room.
Perle scrambled to pick up her shoes, as his glistening wingtips began to clack on the floor.
He stepped away from the painting as well as the world from which he had just interloped.
While hopping on one foot to shove her other pulsating foot into the tight Sarah Flint, she stopped him from leaving.
“Wait.”
Perle’s voice echoed in the gallery and, as much, in her mind.
She finally stood upright—a professional again with both shoes on. “May I ask: are you a collector, a curator?”
“A private collector, yes.”
His mind had returned slightly to the now. He was speaking firmer.
She introduced herself. He gripped her hand strongly. “Alex Evans.”
“Do you tend toward any specific style, Mr. Evans, such as this piece?”
Perle moved directly in front of the painting. She tried to breathe in any remnant of the magic that had whisked a man away.
There was nothing for her. The painting had nothing. Only odd golden-amber paint strokes of a female form.
“You were admiring this,” she said, with a twinge of a question to keep him talking.
“Only looking at it,” Alex said dully.
However, he stepped next to Perle before the artwork.
His warmth emanated to her. A gentleness. Calm.
“This would not match my collection,” he said.
“Every collection needs a ‘black sheep,’ une peinture bizarre.”
“My collection is better without.”
“I saw it though. This piece had you captured. I don’t understand. I mean, I understand what should, and should not be, in a collection. Buyers aim to get just the right pieces. And I find many curators strict. To them, their art is a story of themselves.”
“Agreed.” He nodded.
“Just the same, many buyers will choose a unique work solely because it impacts them—stirs them in ways like nothing else. This one, it reminded you of something. That was so obvious.”
Alex shoved a hand into his pants pocket. His pant legs rose an inch revealing dark, thin-stripped dress socks.
His free hand brushed his square chin. “Good memories. Good to be taken to a quieter place.”
She turned to him to survey this intriguing man. “I am glad the memories were good.”
He didn’t move but seemed to slip away again.
Perle was beginning her sales pitch, convincing him why the art is necessary for the collection. This man’s countenance, however, paused her. She decided not to be a saleswoman, instead a woman who desired simply to know him on a deeper level.
She timidly asked, “Would you share what you were thinking about?”
He huffed like the request wasn’t real. Yet, he dragged his fingers through his dark hair as if questioning whether to share.
“Really,” Perle said. “I would like to know. Not for a sale. But as a person—as a human being with my own memories.”
Alex’s chest expanded and decompressed. “Michigan.” Then he went quiet.
Perle hoped there would be more.
“I was young—thirteen or so.” He gave a single huff of personal humor. He must have said enough. He quieted again until he excused himself. “You need to finish your busy day. Very good show.”
His abrupt end choked Perle.
“Hold on.” She touched his arm. It was very muscular. “You were thirteen,” she urged to elicit more.
He bowed his head as if giving in.
“We were near Green Lake—about 30 miles from Lake Michigan. It was summer, so I swam everyday—early in the morning and late in the evening.” He paused his story again. “You really want to hear this?”
“Yes, I do, of course,” she said.
“I remember the wooden dock that, to me then, went out so far into the water.”
He looked forward, out of the gallery, Perle noticed, like his feet were on that very dock and he could feel the rough boards on his soles.
“Diving, floating on inner tubes that got so burning hot in the sun.”
Perle watched the man closely. Her eyes taking in his details. How his lips moved and formed words. How his eyes had stared at the painting and then had broken away. How his face brightened—cheeks rising, eyebrows arching high.
“Went canoeing once until I didn’t tie the boat to the dock. Never saw it again.”
His countenance changed into a grin when mentioning the canoe.
“Ginger was my dog, a black Lab. My closest…”
He stopped his story, as if startled to reality once more. He looked at Perle. Her eyes were wide, caught up in an intriguing man.
His eyes were an autumn auburn.
She was drawn to his arched nose and heavy eyebrows.
“Continue, I’m listening.” Perle clasped her hands behind her and squared her shoulders.
He took a deep breath.
She thought he might be near a sensitive part of the memory.
He spoke contemplatively.
“I picked up the mail for a neighbor. It was my job—if you can call it that.” Then another momentary glance at Perle. It struck her—down to her sore feet.
He returned to his contemplation but with a lighter voice. “A little job for a kid to get a couple of dollars, you know, to buy ice cream cones. The homeowners were on vacation, so the place was always empty.” He took in another breath. “And there was a painting. A painting on the wall. It would do something to me.”
He stopped abruptly. His glance connected with Perle. That glance conveyed that he was startled to have said even that much.
A one-second embarrassed smile cracked his mouth. He reshaped his lips, nibbling a bit. He blinked.
“Thank you for the show tonight, Perle—isn’t that your name?”
“Yes, right, Perle.” She could not hold back her own wider smile. Her cheeks reddened. Even her forehead warmed.
Remembering her name. It was a normality, to be true. But this was no normal night. The simplicity of remembering her name struck so deeply. He knew—he remembered “Perle.”
When she came to reality, he was in the middle of a compliment.
“…art, promising painters—or artists, whatever they want to be called these days. I’m sure to see your name among elite curators and sellers in the coming years. Carve your niche, Perle. You’ll do well.”
She mustered a thank-you. “These events are not easy to put on. Lots of ‘big heads’ to bow to.”
He huffed in agreement. “So true.”
She noticed that he had become more of his public self, the one he felt most comfortable with.
Perle could think of nothing more to say.
He pointed to her feet.
“And I like your shoes. But please take them off. You’re hurting my feet.”
Perle did not stop herself before words spilled from her mouth.
“Only if I can hear the rest of your story.”
“Story?”
“Yes, Alex. What you began sharing.”
His shoulders squared and his back stiffened. “The rest, huh.”
“My bare feet for your memory.”
“Women are mean to their feet.”
“We so are. I’ve been in heels since six this morning. They’re swollen. My feet, I mean.”
Perle grabbed his elbow for balance and slid off each shoe. Her hot soles felt wonderful on the cool floor.
“Now you.” She raised the scarpin heels by two fingers as if proof that she had held up her end of the bargain.
“A sole for a soul,” he said. “I think I’m giving up more than you are. In a business sense, as an art buyer and dealer.”
“Well, my shoes are already off.”
She walked to a bench that was in front of a wide abstract painting by a young, wild artist who had flung paint and pasted papier-mâché to the canvas.
She turned to sit and saw his eyes were admiring her. She sat slowly to emphasize her female form. Without intention, she moved into a similar pose as the woman in the painting.
Alex shrugged. “I hate to say that the memory ends about there.”
“‘About there’ means there’s a tiny bit more. You owe me.”
He sat beside her, shaking his head.
“Okay. A kid, a thirteen-year-old boy and a painting of a mostly nude woman. An art buyer. Yeah, you get it. I can see on your face you know the story arc.”
She adjusted her expression at his words. “We all go through it. Every single person.”
“But,” he said, raising a finger, “most people do not share those early experiences with a beautiful woman he just met in an art gallery.”
They laughed lightly. Their laughter parroted throughout the room.
In that moment, Perle was amazed he called her “beautiful”. She was lovely, fashionable, fit. Nonetheless, a man, like Alex, using the description on his own terms had a completely different significance. It was similar to remembering her name.
Her hands balled up into her lap. “Thank you for the compliment.”
She noticed his rough hands and large knuckles. She thought back to her time being a thirteen-year-old.
“Do any paintings take you somewhere else?” Alex asked.
“No, no, n’uh-uh. My shoes are off. No stories from me.” She straightened her legs and twittered her reddened toes.
“So you get a pass because your swollen feet aren’t trapped in tight heels anymore? That’s not fair.”
She wagged her finger. “It was the deal. You said it, a sole for a soul.”
“And I also said I was getting the shaft on the deal.” He raised his heavy eyebrows. “Well, Perle, you’ve got my soul and you’ve got your soles. Deal’s done.” He stood. “Sorry it wasn’t what you thought it’d be.”
“Oh, there’s more. Definitely more. You didn’t let me anywhere near. But I’m going to let it go. A man like you may not want to share teenage, um, ‘enlightenment.’”
“A man like me?” His chin lowered and his brow tightened.
“Yes, like you, Mr. Evans. Distant, preferring to be alone. A guy, stern, who has never been pressured about himself. A man who yaks business to stonewall and deflect attention off himself.” Perle stood up with a wave of power behind her. “But I caught you.”
He stepped back. A clack of each shoe on the floor. But she came within inches of him.
“I caught you right in the middle of the act. Thirteen again and loving it. ‘Enlightening’ before that woman.”
His arms were trapped at his sides. He was silent.
She eased her power. Perle shifted her pointed chin from his shaded mug to the lapels of his silky jacket.
“Now, Mr. Evans, let’s make a new deal.” She let her fingers slide down the lapels to the buttons. She buttoned the jacket.
Unexpectedly, he grabbed her petite wrists. She gasped, startled out of her sensual movements.
Alex sounded raspy. “The deal is mine to make now.”
His grip felt like pythons tightening around its prey. Perle’s pulse zoomed in the grasp.
“A new deal?” she whimpered and then gulped.
He flung her hands to her sides and then put his right foot on the bench.
“Untie it,” he said bluntly.
Perle sat, shivering. She had to control her fidgeting fingers.
Alex leaned heavily on his knee so he could scour down at her.
The shoes had a scent of genuine leather.
She pulled loose the thin shoelace.
“Take it off.”
She slid off the wingtip. The sock was Southern Scholar.
He changed his feet.
“Now this one.”
She untied the left shoe and slipped it off, setting it next to the right.
He reset his right foot on the bench. “Roll down my sock.”
She started to raise the pant leg, but he stopped her. “On your knees.”
Her brow furrowed, but, with his glare and handsomeness, she shifted up the hem of her skirt and knelt.
She pushed the pant leg as far as it could go up his calf muscle. Finding the cuff of the sock, she, as ordered, rolled it down to his ankle over his heel and then off his large toes.
Perle placed the rolled-up sock in the shoe. Then she rolled down the other sock and placed it in the other shoe. Alex and Perle were together without shoes on.
Perle waited on the floor for Alex’s next order.
“Now, your soul,” he said.
“Mine? I …”
“Yours.”
Unexpectedly, a heavy pounding on the front door of the gallery broke the tension. Perle stiffened at listening to the continuous hard knocks. She was caught in an awkward spot.
They were out of sight so they could just not answer, but the hammering got louder.
“Perle! Perle!” came muted shouts. “Open up! Let me in!”
“I need to …” She pointed to the door. “It’s my intern.”
“Better go before she breaks it down,” Alex said plainly.
Perle reached for her heels.
His heavy hand landed on her shoulder. She gasped in surprised fear.
“Barefoot,” he said. “Go barefoot.”
She nodded unquestionably.
Perle unlocked the front door, and Sheila immediately barged in passed her.
The intern was so excited.
“Phew, you’re here! You didn’t answer your phone or respond to the hundred texts I sent.”
Perle held down Sheila’s flailing arms.
“How did you know I was here?”
“The light on in the office, back there.” She pointed over Perle’s shoulder. “Anyway, we got to talk. You need to sit down for this, or you’ll fall and crack your head open. To the office.”
Perle blocked her from going forward.
“You need to calm down first. I can’t let you in right now. So, what’s the news?”
“Someone bought the Meridian oil painting—the one with the papier-mâché that you don’t like! Sold for $200K.”
“Bought it tonight? Who, who bought it?” Perle asked.
“Don’t know yet. I’m waiting to hear back. I just had to tell you right away.”
Perle patted her chest, stunned. Such a purchase was unexpected.
Sheila grabbed Perle’s hand tightly, in a smaller python’s grip, compared to Alex’s. “Come on, let’s go! We got to celebrate. This is amazing!” Sheila shouted. “Where are your shoes?”
Perle turned away though. She knew Alex was behind the partial wall. He was waiting. She was on the verge of something more important than a painting’s sale—something she would never have admitted before an hour ago.
“I can’t go out right now. I’m, uh, finishing up a few things.”
Sheila twisted Perle back to face her. She held onto Perle’s arm while flailing her own free arm.
“Forget all that! A sale like this, it’s so big for the gallery—for your business. This is the beginning of your rise. Champagne, Perle, on me!”
“If I don’t get this paperwork done, though, it … it won’t get done.”
Sheila’s countenance toughened.
“I will do the paperwork tomorrow. Me. Right now, not knowing the buyer, you can’t do much more.” Sheila tugged her boss’s arm as she stepped to the door. “You’re coming with me. I’m not celebrating alone.”
“Okay, okay. Um, get us a table. I’ll be there in about an hour—maybe. I’ll text you before then.”
“Well, the first bottle of bubbly is on me. It might be gone fast.”
“I’ll pay for the second.” Perle nudged Sheila through the door.
“Reply to my texts, okay?”
“Yes, yes, sure, I will.”
“Hurry.”
“I will.”
“Remember your Sarah Flint’s when you leave.” She pointed at Perle’s bare feet.
Perle locked the door and caught her breath. Her mind and body needed to be steadied. She closed her eyes to recenter her senses. This amazing man was waiting. He had been near to baring his soul to her. They had connected. He had let her so far beyond his leathery skin. It was an opportunity she was not to miss out on.
Behind the wall, Alex was still barefoot and sitting on the bench. The mundane painting had caught his attention once more.
“Sorry about that,” Perle said. “She had some good news and couldn’t wait to share it. Young people nowadays.”
“I heard,” he said coolly. “Congratulations.”
His tone of voice had fallen back to dull and distant.
She shimmied her skirt up a little and knelt in front of him pleasantly.
“But, anyway, I want to know about you more. This thirteen-year-old boy who’s all grown up now.” She smiled, hopeful that Sheila hadn’t ruined what might have been.
“I told you, it’s your turn. Your soul for my sole.”
She gently picked up Alex’s heavy foot. Her fingers massaged his warm right foot. The heel and ball of his foot were callous. The under-arch was softer.
Perle giggled lightly as she began. “My first boyfriend was in sixth grade.” She focused her eyes on the foot in her hands. “I just wanted to stand by him, to be his girl. It was all to make my friends jealous, really.” The muscles in her arms flexed as she massaged. “There you go. My soul, as much as you gave me.”
He was silent, frowning.
She knew she hadn’t shared enough. She set down his right foot and began to press her thumbs against his left.
“Alex, no painting like this would have done to me what it did to you—or what you did to it,” she said. She pressed deeper against the under-arch. “You didn’t have to be specific to tell me what you did in that empty house. It was pretty obvious.”
She made a quick glance at his lap to convey her message.
He pulled his foot from her hand and leaned close to her face. He tightened his lock on her eyes. His authority emanated over and around her. She melted inside and desired to tell him more so she would please him.
“After a few experiences—one or two. I started to get more and more excited when my then-boyfriend would unzip and let ‘himself’ fall out of his pants. It was impressive. Not its size but the thing. Smooth and slowly getting bigger.”
Perle pushed Alex’s feet apart. She scooted between his knees. “Then, before it got too hard, he would smack my face with it. I’ve not been smacked that way in a couple of years now.”
She took Alex’s hands and pulled him to his feet. She pressed her palm against Alex’s crotch. “Feels good.”
She unbuckled his leather belt. Her throat was tightening, being turned on.
Like an attendant, she peeled down his slacks and his jockeys. Her face brightened when she saw the veiny cock with a bit of trimmed hair at its base.
With attention on Alex’s cock and her own swirling pleasure, she almost toppled to her side when he grabbed her hair. He yanked back her head, stinging the front of her scalp. In a moment, her cheek was hit with a thick cock. Then the other cheek. Next, the tip landed on her eye. There were thwops on her temples and forehead and on her throat. One swing hit her nose. It hurt, but it was her pleasure.
Alex slammed the cock multiple times on her lips and chin until she opened her mouth.
He drove deeply into it, gagging her unsuspecting throat.
He got a tighter grip on her hair and rocked his hips to shove himself into her mouth.
She gurgled, and, as he pulled out, she heaved for air. No stopping though. Not until he was done.
She stroked his wet, slobbery dick. She smeared her spit over her cheeks and chin.
The intense blowjob went on to her delight and his.
He groaned. He pulled out of her mouth to stroke.
Perle said, “I know what you did that summer. In the empty house. Let me be the woman in that painting.”
She dug her fingernails into his thighs. Her face raised toward the lights.
A few small splatterings of wetness landed on her cheeks and eyebrows as he stroked himself.
After another of his deep groans, Perle was hit with a load of cum in the corner of her eye. Immediately, a slosh landed on her forehead. Several lingering, smaller clumps soon were strung on her nose and around her mouth.
The same pleasure of aiding a powerful man returned after a few years of nothing. Perle dragged the goo out of her eye and off her forehead and her nose. She licked it off her fingers. Her tongue cleaned her lips. She opened her mouth for Alex before swallowing it.
Alex patted her cheek.
“You have paperwork and a lady waiting for you with champagne,” he said.
Perle remained seated on the floor, though. She now was leaning her back against the bench. Her arms stretched wide. She was exhausted and excited and thrilled and pleased that she had met such a man because he was late.
Alone, she overjoyed herself with her fingers.
Eventually, she met Sheila, who was on the second bottle of champagne.
“Can you believe it was sold?” Sheila asked immediately.
“I cannot.”
“I got word that the buyer was A. Evans Collectors. They’re out of Texas, I think.”
“Evans?” Perle asked. “A. Evans?”
Sheila brushed a strand of Perle’s hair off her cheek. “Looks like you’ve got a little something in your hair.”
“Alex Evans?”
“Yes, that’s who it is. Like I said, A. Evans Collectors.”
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