Pictures from an Exhibition: Fiona

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1: Portrait of Lady Fiona Fraser

Rhodri Morgan, Oil on Canvas, 200×175 cm

This is the painting which caused such a furore when first exhibited in London this spring. Making clear homage to Gainsborough’s famous portrait of her ancestor of the same name with a negro slave, Lady Fiona is shown prone, wearing the same dress worn in the Gainsborough portrait, and being anally penetrated by a black man whose face is not visible. The painting evoked protests from several churches, from sections of the art establishment, and from racial equality campaigners, and is the focus of an on-going libel case.

[on loan from the collection of Lady Fiona Fraser]

I’m very pleased with the painting. It’s already achieved everything I wanted from it. My modelling career was really going nowhere, and being the younger daughter of an Earl doesn’t mean you’re rich. I needed something to get me talked about, get me introductions, get me on the celeb circuit. I knew Rhodri wanted to do a new shock piece to raise his profile, too, so I did a bargain with him. I agreed to pose exactly as he asked me and do exactly what I was told, and he agreed to take a very low fee – only five K, which isn’t bad for one of his. I assumed he was going to shag me himself. I mean, there’s this story that he does shag everyone who sits for him, and I think it’s more or less true.

Anyway, it was his idea to use the dress like the one from the Gainsborough. Of course I knew about the painting, it’s been around the house for ever, but I’d never really looked at it. Rhodri was going to get a copy made up, and I was quite surprised when Mother said the original dress still existed. It is rather grand, isn’t it? I love the heavy old silk. It’s bloody uncomfortable to wear… of course, I didn’t wear all the petticoats that would really have been worn with it.

What happened was I went to Rhodri’s studio and he had this platform set up. He got me to put on the petticoat and the dress, and lie face down on the platform. I had to prop myself up on my elbows and look straight at where he would be standing by the easel. Then he came over, pulled the dress up to my waist, and just without any warning stuck this butt plug up me. I mean it was lubed and it went in OK, but I wasn’t expecting it. Yes, it actually was sexy – very sexy. I was still assuming at that stage that Rhodri was leading up to shagging me.

Anyway, then he went back to the easel and told me to shove my arse up until he could see the plug. Then he pulled the dress around a bit until it was lying like he wanted it. So there I was lying on the platform with my shoulders up and my arse up and my knees out and my belly down, and Rhodri said “OK, now just look at me and look bored,” and he sketched away on the canvas with charcoal and stuff, and frankly I was bored so looking bored wasn’t too hard. I mean Rhodri’s fun, of course, and witty, but most of the time he was just working away and I was just lying there. After about half an hour he told me I could relax for ten minutes but I wasn’t to move or disarrange the dress, and he went out. It actually felt weird just lying there. It felt an utterly abandoned posture, utterly exposed, arse up, knees wide, fanny out, and the dress right up to my waist. And of course I was facing away from the door so I couldn’t see who was coming in.

There were footsteps and I thought, OK, it’s Rhodri, and now I get fucked. And I was… yes, actually I was looking forward to it. I mean, it was a sexy situation and I was a bit turned on, and I’d sort of assumed that getting fucked by Rhodri was part of the price, so I was geared up for it. You do get the feeling from him that he really knows how ataşehir escort to fuck.

But he just came back to the easel and said “OK, head up again. That’s right, really bored and supercilious. OK, just hold that and don’t move. Right, John, come in… no, don’t move, Fiona.”

Rhodri was sketching away with the charcoal, and I could hear footsteps. Than a hand grabbed the butt plug and pulled it out. Cold air spilled into my arse. I really wanted to look round but Rhodri told me quite sternly to keep looking at him. I could hear someone getting onto the platform and then I felt the tension in the fabric as someone put their hands on the folds of the dress each side of my waist. And then I felt a cock pushing at my arse.

Now that was sexy. That was amazingly sexy, the sexiest thing I’ve ever felt. Lying there with one man watching me intently, while another man I didn’t know and hadn’t even seen shoved his cock up my butt. I could feel my sphincter stretching to take the head, and then he sort of paused. Rhodri said “OK, John, do one good stroke so you’ve got her juices on you. I want to see them gleam.”

The guy just pushed in. I mean you’ll know if you’ve ever been buggered that it’s tight, particularly at first. I knew I was supposed to hold my position so I had to brace against it. He was strong, and… God, it worked. The guy just pushed in – right in – and then he pulled out again until I could feel the rim of his cock-head pulling against my sphincter.

That was just amazing. It was so casual, so matter of fact, so impersonal – Rhodri treating me like a stage prop, as though I were a slave and he owned me. As though he didn’t have to consider what I felt. And then using an anonymous cock – a stranger about whom I knew nothing – to sodomise me, to debauch me by proxy.

It wasn’t exactly rape. Rhodri’d got me to agree in advance that he could do absolutely anything to me. He’d got me to sign it. I’d asked for a shock picture, for a picture that would be talked about. I didn’t go into this some simpering maiden. I wasn’t being raped. I didn’t feel I was being raped. But I did feel I was being – ravished, taken, used – and that feeling was delicious.

“Look bored, Fiona. Just look at me and pay no attention to what’s going on behind you… John, whenever you feel you’re having trouble holding the erection just give her a few pokes and get back to that position, OK? And can you drop your head a bit further… that’s great. Hold that as long as you can. Poke her whenever you need to. Bored, Fiona!”

And so I just lay there for another half hour with the cock up my arse. Every time I thought I’d got used to it, it did a couple more of those long, powerful strokes, pushing me down into the platform, opening me up. And each time, it would pull back again till only the cockhead was in me, leaving me hollow and hungry for more. And all the time Rhodri’s eyes were on me, not hungrily, not sexually, just cold and analytical. Somehow the fact that he didn’t try to turn me on – that no-one kissed me, that no-one stroked my tits or licked my clit – was a turn on in itself.

Rhodri was working in paint now, in yellows and golds so I knew he was working on the dress. I could see he was working fast, mixing and trowelling colour. Eventually he said “OK, relax again… Don’t move, Fiona. Just relax. John, you can go off and get changed…” The cock pulled out of me with a sucky pop, the hands lifted, and I heard footsteps going away. My arse felt cold and hollow. Rhodri painted on. The clock ticked, and a fly droned in the stillness. I could hear the brushes and palette knife sliding and scraping on the canvas.

At last Rhodri kadıköy escort stood back, took a long look at the canvas, a long, searching look at me, nodded, and said “That will do for this morning. You can get up, Fiona.” I went over and looked, fascinated to see what it would show. Only the dress was yet coloured, and although I could see it wasn’t finished the basic tones and shapes of its folds were there. The rest was charcoal sketch. I was as I expected me to be, clearly sketched, languorous, bored. Over me, up my arse, was a muscled man with a shaven head, tensed, powerful, the thick column of his cock clearly and physically connecting our bodies. To my surprise he wasn’t a big man, rather delicate and boyish but well defined, and, as I already knew, well endowed.

“Wow!”

“You like it?”

“I think so. I think it will do the job. I mean, it’s pretty visceral… when do I get to meet him?”

“Who?”

“John!”

“Get changed, we’ll go to lunch.”

We had lunch in a little bistro just round the corner from Rhodri’s London studio. He resolutely kept the conversation away from the picture and from John. Then we went back and I got back into costume and into position, Rhodri rearranged the dress until he was happy with it, put a couple of bricks where John’s hands had been, and got back to painting. I lay there, waiting for what would happen next, fantasising, trembling, expectant.

And nothing happened. Rhodri painted away for a couple of hours, and then dismissed me for the day, apparently satisfied with his work on the dress. I went and wanked in his loo. Then I went home and was frustrated and bad-tempered and uncomfortable in my skin all evening, went early to bed and wanked myself to sleep.

Next morning, late of course (you can’t really imagine Rhodri starting anything before eleven), I got down on the platform again. I was naked this time; he said he didn’t need the dress any more. He put me into position and lubed up my arse. Again, seducing me by not seducing me, turning me on by ignoring me. No kiss, no caress, no tender murmurings. Just a push here, a yank there, a brusque “tilt your pelvis up a bit more,” and three fingers slick with lube shoved ungently into my anus. And then the “look bored” thing again, and Rhodri started painting, this time with whites, greys, pinks and skin-tones.

This time I wasn’t expectant. I really was bored, and a bit annoyed. Feeling, frankly, used. But we weren’t more than a few minutes into the morning session when there came the sound of a door, and a pleasant, very English, very upper crust, rather rich voice called out. “Sorry I’m late!”

“No trouble, John,” Rhodri said. “Get your kit off and come in. Fiona! Bored, and look at me.” I looked at him, trembling with anticipation, listening for every creak and rustle in the room… you know that feeling you get in your cunt when you’re really sexed up and ready to be pounded? I just never get that way without a lot of snogging and… But I did. I could feel goo just leaking out of me, I could smell it. And that was just hearing his bare feet padding across the floor.

“Good morning, John” I said, trying to take some control of the situation, but it was Rhodri who replied. “Bored, Fiona, for heaven’s sake! Don’t look round. You aren’t interested. You’re bored!”

I wasn’t bored. I could feel my pelvis lifting for the cock, tilting for it. I felt my anus dilate for it. And it came. It thrust in today without hesitation, filling me, devastating me… and out again, leaving me hollow. Involuntarily I pushed back. “Fiona, please hold your pose! John, that’s fine. Poke her when you need to.” I felt like weeping with frustration. bostancı escort bayan It’s funny, really. I mean I’ve been buggered before, but I’d never really got off on it. Now I felt desperate for it. Actually it was the control thing. I’m a bit of a control freak, I suppose. I’ve always been in control when I’ve had sex before. I thought I needed to be in control to enjoy it. And now I was completely out of control, completely at the mercy of someone I hadn’t even seen. My cunt was heavier and wetter than ever before; I could smell myself, feel sticky droplets of juice running down into my cunt hair. And each time the cock ‘needed to’, my need grew, too.

Suddenly I noticed that Rhodri was using a different pallette, blacks and chocolatey umbers and even indigo blues… The cock was the cock of a black man. I shuddered with shock, and as I did it drove into me again. I moaned, somewhere between arousal and desperate frustration.

“Oh, this is useless!,” said Rhodri, throwing down his brush. “John, go and wash up, and then come back, would you? Fiona, do try to keep still.”

I lay feeling empty and frustrated and humiliated, hating Rhodri, hungry for the cock. Rhodri painted on, ignoring me. The padding feet came back. Rhodri looked up. “Just fuck her, would you, John, there’s a good chap? Do her properly. She isn’t going to be able to hold her pose while she’s panting for it like that.”

“Hey!” I said, trying to be indignant, tilting my arse up further. “Don’t I get any say in this?”

“Fiona!” Rhodri replied. “Do you want this painting, or don’t you?”

“But…”

“Stay where you are. Ten minutes to relax, get fucked, wank if you want to, come, get the twitches out of your system, and we’ll get on with it. Oh, and don’t look round!”

This time the hands came on my waist, holding me steady, and the strong, firm cock thrust into my cunt – the same powerful, no hesitation, straight thrust right in, the same fullness. Air was forced out of my arse with a disgusting flatulent noise and I blushed scarlet. But the cock didn’t pause. Long forceful strokes, gathering pace, thumping into me, splitting me, pounding me. I reached a hand between my legs and felt it’s smoothness, glossy with my juice, surging into me. I gasped with each explosive stroke, each invasion. I whimpered. I came, and, as the pounding didn’t ease, came again, and then again. As my cunt clenched down in its third orgasm, the cock exploded hot semen into me. I collapsed onto the platform, my lungs frantically pumping their way back to calmness. Trying for cool, I thanked him politely.

“My pleasure,” said the voice.

Again the voice was rich and cultured and smooth… dead sexy. I could hear his breathing was rough, too. I looked up at Rhodri. He was putting a video camera down. He’d filmed us. Bastard.

The rest of the morning went by in a haze. I felt filled with cock and sperm, liquid and hot and heavy. I speculated and fantasised about the owner of the cock, the owner of the voice. Head up, arse full of cock, I watched languidly as Rhodri loaded more rich, dark colours onto the canvas I couldn’t see, wondered about the colour of the cock, the shape of the face, the person behind it. When Rhodri announced the end of the morning session, I interrupted him.

“John?”

“Yes?”

“Would you mind buggering me properly?”

“My pleasure,” said the voice. And he did.

We ‘sat’ again that afternoon, and he fucked me twice and buggered me – I mean, properly buggered me – once more. The next day I went in for the sitting and I hoped he would be there but he wasn’t. And that was that; Rhodri had got the structure of the painting and didn’t need me any more. He was just bloody appalling about the John issue. He could see I was climbing the wall with intrigue and frustration. I tried all ways I could think of to get John’s number off him, but he just wound me up. Eventually I just gave up.

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