said: 'Oh, I wouldn't be so sure about that, Andrew. Alexa and Erika do not confine themselves to tribadic encounters. Indeed, I am sure they would have grown out of these feelings long ago if they had only been given the opportunity to meet more young men by their parents who brought them up very strictly. So I don't think that Ian and Jack will be too disappointed because, as far as the girls are concerned, they want to make up for lost time!'
'I know just how they feel,' I murmured in Katie's ear as I slipped my arms around her and pressed my hands to her breasts as she opened the door to the gallery.
'You are an impatient boy, Andrew,' she scolded me with a giggle. But she responded by feeling behind her and rubbing her hand against my thickening prick. 'Don't work me up now, there's a dear, because somebody might come in. Besides, I'm looking forward to being fucked by you tonight and I'm sure you wouldn't want to spoil my appetite.'
'No, of course not, Katie,' I said humbly. 'Please forgive me. Now I promise I shall behave like a monk whilst you show me the most interesting pictures in your parents' collection.'
And I kept my word whilst we strolled through the gallery-which did not prove too difficult a task for I genuinely enjoyed looking at the wide variety of paintings hanging on the whitewashed walls. There were canvasses by contemporary British artists of the calibre of Spencer Gore, D. S. McColl and William Nicholson. But my eye was most taken with two rich portraits, placed on either side of a window, which had been executed in the style of the Dutch Old Masters, one of a bright-eyed young girl and the other of a gentleman dressed in the fashion of an English Cavalier.
'These pictures are first class, Katie. Who it the artist? A pupil of Rembrandt or Rubens?' I remarked as I peered at the pictures. But Katie shook her head and said: 'No, the artist is a Dutchman named Anton Dourlein and he's not from the seventeenth century but is still very much alive. So are the models, even though he has painted them in historical costumes. The man is his cousin Henk who bears a strong resemblance to Prince Rupert of the Rhine, the nephew of King Charles I who fought for the King during the English Civil War.
'Since he learned about his feats at school, Anton has been fascinated by Prince Rupert who was a skilled engineer, chemist and artist. He developed the mezzotint process of engraving on copper by scraping and burnishing the roughened surface and devised a new method of painting colours on marble which, when polished, would be permanent, as well as inventing a new, more powerful gunpowder and a quadrant for measuring stellar altitudes at sea.'
'Really? Well, I've definitely learned something this afternoon,' I said and resisted the temptation to kiss Katie's perfectly shaped red lips, 'I never realised that Prince Rupert was such a polymath. And what about the girl? Is she also a relation of Mynheer Dourlein?'
Katie gave me a roguish smile. 'Not exactly. At the time she was only seventeen and the youngest daughter of a wealthy merchant who lived next door to Dourlein in his little home town of Maastricht,' she answered as we sat down on a small sofa in the centre of the sparsely furnished room.
'And now?' I queried and she shrugged: 'Well, Bernice is still the youngest daughter of the wealthy merchant but the last I heard of her was that she now lives with Dourlein in Amsterdam!'
'There is certainly something to be said for taking up an artistic career, especially if one has the benefit of even a modest independent income, as there never appears to be a shortage of pretty girls who are ready, willing and able to be bedded either before or after their portraits have been painted,' I mused thoughtfully. I slid my arm around Katie's waist as she continued drily: 'Yes, Anton Dourlein has a jolly life because women are queuing up to sit for him and he gets well-paid for his portraits, however they might turn out.'
'So how did your father acquire these two pictures?' I asked. Katie shook her head. 'He didn't buy them, I did when we went to Amsterdam last April for the wedding of Princess Helena of the Netherlands to Sir Trewin Cheetham, a distant relative of my mother. Well, the day after the wedding my father returned to England. But my mother and I decided to stay on till the weekend to see more of the city and take a trip out into the country to see the tulip fields in full bloom.
'Like many other guests who had come to Amsterdam for the wedding, we were staying at the Kresnapolsky Hotel. The next day, whilst we were having breakfast, Mrs. Flora Murdoch, the elegant and charming wife of the American textiles magnate whom we had met at the wedding reception, came across to our table and kindly invited us to accompany her to the Rijksmuseum to see Rembrandt's The Night Watch and all the other superb masterpieces which are on display there.
'In fact, it was whilst we were looking at a group of pictures by modern Dutch artists that Mrs. Murdoch suddenly exclaimed: “Heavens alive! Just look at this picture of a picnic party, ladies, I've been put in it!”
'I studied the painting more closely and, sure enough, I could see that Mrs. Murdoch was portrayed in a scene which showed a group of people sitting around a table that had been set up by the side of a small country road with two motor cars parked under the shade of a nearby tree.
'“So you have, Mrs. Murdoch, and it seems you all spent a very pleasant afternoon,” I observed and she chuckled: “Yes, I'm sure I would have had a jolly time, my dear, except that this gathering never took place. I've never met any of the other people in the picture and I doubt whether any of them are actually acquainted. However, the artist and I are old friends, I met him on my first visit to Europe about ten years ago when my husband commissioned him to paint my portrait. His name is Anton Dourlein and his work is very popular just now, but when we were first introduced, he was a struggling young artist who had yet to achieve recognition. Come to think of it, I remember now he told me that he would ask people if they would pay a small fee to be shown in his paintings-all he needed was a photograph from which to work-and clearly my husband must have agreed to his proposal.”
'“What a clever idea,” my mother remarked but Mrs. Murdoch said: “Well, maybe so, although it's not original. Anton told me that Rembrandt used a similar scheme before he began work on The Night Watch. Almost all those men in the picture paid him to be in it and those who paid Rembrandt the most are shown at the front of the painting!”
'Anyhow, we stayed in the Rijkmuseum till one o'clock and then Mama insisted that Mrs. Murdoch join us for luncheon. We took a horse-drawn cab back to the hotel and as the head waiter was about to show us to a table, Mrs. Murdoch gasped: “My word, this is quite unbelievable! That gentleman sitting by himself by the window dressed in a grey suit with a flower in his buttonhole is none other then Anton Dourlein!”
'“I looked across at the handsome broad-shouldered gentleman and said: “What a coincidence! Mama, why don't you ask him if he would care to take lunch with us? I presume that like most Dutchmen he speaks good English.”
'“Mrs. Murdoch protested that this would be an imposition, but I take after my mother who enjoys the company of artistic folk like actors, painters and writers and we soon prevailed on Mrs. Murdoch to invite Anton to sit at our table. Well, to cut short the story, he did indeed speak perfect English and his easy manner and good humour (despite having been 'stood up' for luncheon by a potential client) made an excellent impression on my mother and myself. So much so that when he suggested to my mother that I should sit for him, all she replied was that, unfortunately, there would be no time for me to do so as we were leaving for home in a few days' time.
'“But I would enjoy sitting for Mr. Doulein this afternoon, Mama,” I pleaded with her. “At least this would give him time to take some photographs and make some preliminary sketches for a portrait he could then paint after we have left Amsterdam.”
'Mama still looked doubtful but Anton finally won her over by settling for what I thought was a ridiculously small fee of fifty sovereigns to paint my portrait. “I'll just go upstairs and pack a change of clothes,” I said excitedly and less than half an hour later Anton was escorting me through the door of his studio just off Dam Square. I went upstairs into his bedroom to change and when I pulled off the last piece of underwear, I stood in front of the long wall mirror and wondered whether Anton would admire my firm breasts and the curly thatch of chestnut pussey hair between the tops of my snowy white thighs.
'Now I must confess that I had been very naughty because the clothes I had brought with me were hardly suitable for a portrait of a demure young lady! First I slipped on a camisole fashioned from the softest Irish linen, trimmed with lace, through which the generous swell of my breasts and long pointy nipples were plainly visible. To complement this flimsy garment, I put on a pair of close-fitting French knickers made from the same sheer fabric which accentuated the contours of my tight curvy bottom. I completed my wardrobe with the choice of my best white silk stocking held up by frilly baby-blue satin garters.
'As I checked my reflection in the mirror, I cupped the full roundness of my breasts in my hands and my nips swelled up to stand out like two tawny bullets. It occurred to me how silly it would be to hide these sexy
