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What I describe in this little tale would never happen, but I’ve seen stranger performance art in real life than what’s detailed here, so… Anyway, it’s ridiculous, and definitely geared for the big boob lovers out there, a reinvention of a scenario brought up in a previous story I wrote. Hope you enjoy!
And oh yeah, there’s incest, but one might think this story is centered around exhibitionism. It’s a slow burn.
One hundred sixty-eight women, all “artists” (rolling my eyes) or models, had volunteered and arrived for Patrick Hennegy’s latest project, what he considered would be his magnum-opus in his contribution to the art world. “I’m retiring after this,” he threatened on several occasions. At the age of thirty-eight, I knew that was a load of crap. Artists say stuff like that all the time.
Patrick often used nudes in his work, much like Spencer Tunick or Marina Abramovic, and this latest exhibition, being held at the Sampson and Lillith Museum of Fine Art, was no different. Patrick employed many mediums (poorly, in my opinion), from photography to sculptures, to living displays, sometimes a combination of all three. Unlike Spencer or Marina, I thought Patrick was a talent-less hack. He believed his themes pushed boundaries. I felt his gimmicks were overplayed, and sometimes just straight up exploitation, without any depth or meaning.
For instance, once he had fifty nude women lined up on a football field, twenty-five on either side. They stood on the sidelines, facing the field at evenly spaced markers, while an entire football game was played out. The women never moved unless they were bumped or run down by one of the team’s players. This, of course, happened on several occasions, even when the poor players did their best to stay in bounds. This ridiculous excuse for performance art was Hennegy’s best work to date. I won’t even bother describing his less inspired garbage.
After busting my buns for the past month to ensure the museum’s latest event would go off without a hitch, I had Winston Danley, the head of the board, reading me the riot act. It wasn’t supposed to be 168 models. We were actually two models short. Next to Winston stood the always angry and irritable artist himself, Patrick Hennegy. I’d been putting up with his antics for almost a month, while he and his crew had been working on the exhibition in the west wing of the museum. It looked more like a haunted house maze than an art project, in my opinion.
Patrick and his crew had put up walls made of particle board throughout the four-thousand-square foot space made available for his exhibition. It wasn’t so much a maze, rather than a route planned out for the guests, from beginning to end. However, some areas allowed access that circled back to other areas. One could effectively visit the exhibition as long as they desired, without being pushed out.
Considering it was made of particle board and would be packed with people, I spent the first two weeks of work on the project fighting with the city for a fire-code exemption. I then spent the next two frantically searching for enough women to meet Patrick’s demands for this stupid thing.
“Amanda, you promised Mr. Hennegy you had 170 models ready for this event,” said Winston. “We have a couple hours until the opening, and only 168 are here. You better fix this!”
Patrick broke in, “Miss Cummings, I simply will not allow this exhibition to open without the required tools.”
I fucking hated his snide tone. “Tools,” he was saying. What he was referring to was women. Nude women.
I knew becoming the curator and manager of the Samson & Lillith, one of the most prestigious private art museums on the west coast, would be challenging, but I’d successfully managed several smaller museums in the Manhattan area, following school. On my 30th birthday, I got the call from Winston Danley to come here. Had I known I’d be working directly with Patrick Hennegy, I may have passed on the job, regardless of the significant increase in income.
A large part of the job is overseeing and collecting works for the museum, but we also hold six special exhibitions each year. Hennegy’s would likely be the biggest event this year, in terms of turnout and publicity. He was currently riding an undeserved wave of fame.
To date, Mr. Danley and the rest of the museum’s board have been satisfied with my work, but this was the first time I was facing real criticism. “Winston… Mr. Danley… I cannot help that one of the models got sick. Bedridden, in fact. One of the others just backed out. Refuses to come in. I did have enough models, but this just happ…”
“Backed out?” he barked. “Aren’t they all in contract?”
“Yes, but I can’t make a sick woman get well, just because she signed a contract. The woman is in the hospital, and apparently, the other girl is willing to break the contract, fines be damned. We can sue her over it, but we can’t put a gun to her head.”
“Why didn’t you think Isparta Escort to retain back-ups?” asked Winston, as if he understood at all the struggle I incurred getting these.
When we first announced the project, many women, especially those who considered themselves artists and seeking fame in their own right, were eager to jump at the opportunity to work with Patrick Hennegy. It looked as if it would be no problem securing all the models needed, but without offering any pay for the work (Patrick insisted that paying the women negated the art form), it was difficult to find the last twenty or so volunteers.
We scavenged a few willing women from local art and dance schools, and also by reaching out to community theaters. Classifieds got a few bites, but most girls wanted compensation for their time. By the time we secured the entire 170 volunteers, we were scraping the bottom of the barrel. Frankly, I was shocked anyone would be willing to sign a contract stating they would be financially penalized if they backed out of volunteering, either before or during the event. Supposedly, it was all legit and legal.
It was just two days ago that we signed the last model, and only just in the last hour that when we discovered two of them wouldn’t be making it. I felt Winston was being unfair to me, given the circumstances. I began to state that opinion when Rita barged into the office.
Rita Pollock is my secretary/office assistant and has been with the museum longer than I have, working for the previous curator for several years. She’s a flirtatious girl with a busty figure like my own, only shorter,and a favorite among the staff and patrons. Now, I won’t deny that my face and figure has likely benefited my career. Though my looks may have helped to open doors, it was the quality work that defined me. With Rita, not so much.
Barely adequate at her job, Rita would often sneak out for long breaks, or flirt with the help, and rarely took proper notes. I was sure it was Rita’s physical qualities that were responsible for the board members’ willingness to forgive her over any performance issues. She’s an attractive redhead, with double D’s on a small frame. I wasn’t very fond of Rita, and she probably felt the same about me, but we tolerated each other.
“You two will have to do it,” said Patrick, flatly, sounding bored. “The show must go on.”
“Excuse me?” I almost yelled. “You expect US to be models for your art exhibition?” I looked to Rita for support, but her eyes opened up wide and she smiled. “That would be awesome!” she exclaimed.
“Frankly, Amanda, we don’t have time to arrange for any other solution,” said Winston.
“But I have to greet the guests when they arrive,” I argued. “I’m the curator, after all. Patrick has his role, too. Certainly you can go without ONE person.”
“Absolutely not,” insisted Patrick. “You can greet the guests, do your little speech and then go off to your station. We will put you at the end of the exhibition. The tunnel exit.”
My eyes about popped out of my head, but not from joy like Rita; from repulsion. I knew exactly the spots Patrick was talking about, where he wanted to place us. It wasn’t a good one.
Maybe I should explain this “art” exhibit. As I already stated, it is comprised of a maze of halls and rooms. Models, however, do not fill the halls, only their body parts do. The entire exhibit has secret accesses, to narrow cavities and passages, that allow the models to be positioned on the opposite sides of the walls.
Along these narrow passageways and wall cavities are spots for the models to fill. Some are elevated, while some are low the ground, requiring a girl to be on her knees, or even laying on her side. Each spot has holes cut out of the particle board where the models are to push their beasts or asses through, and handles are fashioned where appropriate, so they can leverage themselves against the walls more easily. Still, for a three-hour event, it would be a grueling exercise for most of the women.
So imagine, as one makes their way through the halls and rooms of the exhibit, the only thing they see are body parts sticking out through the walls, all tits and asses. Some of the passageways even had ceilings to them, with models lying above, their breasts dangling above, like chandeliers over the visitors’ heads.
No guest would ever see a model’s face, nor would any model show more than just part of her body, either her tits or her ass. Still, Patrick insisted that all participants must remain completely nude during the event, even though they were behind a wall, away from the eyes of anyone. No clothing was permitted at all. Except, of course, by the patrons.
The holes Patrick and his crew had fashioned were rather small, too. This was by design, as Patrick didn’t want “gaps” in the walls that would allow guests to see anything other than what Patrick wanted them to see. No shoulders, stomachs, or any part of the Isparta Escort Bayan torso other than the breasts. No more leg or back than necessary, for the girls who had to flaunt their asses through those stupid holes.
We knew full well that as the girls went to their places, Patrick and his goons would have to assist some of them. It would require physically pulling their breasts through these tight openings in the walls. Save for the A and B-cup models, many girls would be subjected to such hands-on action. If I was going to be included in this atrocity of an “art piece”, it was definitely happening to me, too. I have ridiculously large breasts.
I’ve considered reducing them surgically, but since they’re still quite firm, I don’t want to mess with them yet. I wasn’t dating anyone at the moment, but my “rocket tits” seemed to please the previous boyfriends I’ve had. I always enjoyed showing off in private, but this was an entirely different scenario.
At the end of the exhibition, guests are to make their way through a twenty-foot long tunnel, but it’s only about two feet wide. Overweight guests have a side exit, and have to skip this part, but anyone else goes through the tunnel. Unlike most of the rest of the exhibit, this area was extremely well lit. The walls, floors and ceilings were painted solid white, making it hard to judge just how narrow the space really was, and there were no holes cut out for any body parts, until the very end, just before the exit. On either side of the walls there, would be two pairs of breasts facing each other. Those breasts would be the only frame of reference in this blindingly white, but narrow tunnel.
Considering the passageway was only a couple feet wide, I always assumed small breasted women would be stationed there. The thoughts sent shivers down my spine of having my tits poke through for all to see and get so close to. People were definitely going to be rubbing over them just trying to get through to the exit.
“I know what you’re doing!” I screamed at Patrick. “You’re putting me and Rita there because of… because of our…” I wanted to state the obvious, but I also didn’t want to cross the line with my boss, who remained scowling at me.
“You are going to be station there – at the END of the exhibition – so you have time to help with the opening. Just like Patrick explained!” barked Winston. “Frankly, everyone should be at there posts by 8 p.m., but this will have to do.”
I knew I couldn’t fight this. This wasn’t sexual harassment. For fuck’s sake, I’d just spent the last two weeks convincing 170 women to go naked for this stupid thing, without getting paid, to boot! Rita and I either “save” this project to Patrick’s satisfaction, or I was going be sending out resumes soon.
Patrick and his squad got to work positioning the girls. The artist was improvised, as he made their assignments. “You!” he would shout, pointing to some random girl. “There! And you, over there.”
While Patrick had women approaching and leaving, his staff helped direct them back to their positions on the opposite sides of the walls. As expected, quite a few of the poor women had to have their tits practically squeezed, like taking part in a mammography scan, just to fit through the holes. I wouldn’t be surprised if some of them were black and blue by the end of this thing.
I rushed over to Winston with fifteen minutes to spare before the guests were to arrive. Almost all the women had been positioned by this time, and none were allowed to leave until the end of the event. No water or bathroom breaks, either. Of course, everyone knew what they were in for when they signed up for this.
“Winston… Mr. Danley… Look, I kind of noticed that Rita and I…”
“Yes?” I knew my boss was annoyed with me, but his tone made it even more apparent.
“I know it’s late to ask, but could you ask Mr. Hennegy to check the holes he had made for the exit. I uh.. I think if it’s anything like what I’ve been seeing, neither Rita nor I will be able to… uh… fit through…”
Winston’s left brow raised a bit, and he took a moment to glance at my chest. I suppose it was warranted. The truth was, I didn’t want Patrick, or one of his creepy staff members, yanking on my tits and my nipples, trying to tug them through such a small hole. I presented it as something more urgent. “If we can’t uh… participate, because we don’t fit, it would ruin the show.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” said Winston, marching off to find Patrick. I only had a few minutes to prepare for the guests. At 8:20, I was to make a short speech in the lobby and then go to my “place” immediately following. Guests would be entering the exhibit just as Rita and I were to get positioned near the exit. Considering we didn’t think any guest would be able to get through in less than twenty minutes, it gave us plenty of time to get situated.
There were over sixty guests at the closed-house event, including Escort Isparta the mayor, Guy Loudon, and his wife, not to mention my very own brother, Quinton. I didn’t have the pull to get Quinton an invitation on my own. In his own right, my brother was an accomplished Manhattan artist and he flew in on the board’s request. I shivered at the thought that my brother would be seeing my tits for the first time in his life, even if he wouldn’t know they were mine.
Quinton caught up with me just before I was stepping up to address the crowd. I recognized his distinctively deep voice anywhere, and turned the moment I heard him. “Hey, sorry I couldn’t come in sooner, sis. You want to meet up after the show?”
“Of course,” I said. “I’d already planned on that. You’re staying at my place.”
“I already got a hotel, but I can always get my bags and head over later.”
“We should have talked about this more before you got here,” I said.
“No worries. We’ve both been busy. I know you gotta get started, so I’ll get out of your way.”
With the crowd now gathered in the foyer, I tapped on the mic and drew their attention. “Hello, everybody. My name is Amanda Stanwyk and I’d like to thank you all for coming tonight. Our featured artist really needs no introduction. Last year’s Requiem on Fire at the Othello, and the Majestic’s five-year run of Enemies of Passion, have cemented Patrick Hennegy’s place as a living legend…”
I continued to roll through the speech, finishing it up by introducing the artist himself. He would say a few words, before releasing the crowd into the exhibit. This allowed time for Rita and I to get stationed.
“So you want this side, or the other?” asked Rita. We peered into the main area, where the guests would be coming through, astonished by how the sheer whiteness of everything removed any sense of depth. The holes in the walls, waiting for duty, were the only “visible” things in the hallway, everything else blindingly white. It didn’t look like any adjustments had been made to make the holes bigger, I noticed.
Kyle Thomas, one of Patrick’s proteges (and likely, his gay lover) suddenly approached us from behind. “Okay, ladies, come back through here.” We jumped, turning to face him. Kyle was pointing at panels he’d pulled back near the exit, one on either side. I sighed and took the one on the left. Just as we were stepping in, Kyle stopped us. “Uh! Nuh, uh. Both of you. Clothes off first. Nothing goes in there.”
Rita and I glanced at each other and she just shrugged, saying, “Well, this ought to be fun!” She had a belt wrapped around her and unbuckled it, followed by quick actions that removed her of the jacket and blouse in a matter of seconds.
“You too, Miss Amanda,” said Kyle. He’d gotten to know me pretty well over the past month. I wasn’t exactly thrilled to be naked in his presence.
I rolled my eyes and got to business. I was right about Rita. She had big, round tits and a firm ass. Her breasts had more of a teardrop shape than mine, but looked amazing on her small torso. She giggled, bouncing them, and then whistled at me as I dropped my bra. “Damn, Amanda. Big and pointy. I love it!”
I blushed, shaking my head, and then ducked down, sliding through the panel’s opening. Kyle closed them behind us and I stood up. I was in a very narrow passage, just a few feet deep and barely wide enough to fit through. I practically had to slide against the wall to reach the cutout, avoiding one of the grip handles that was fashioned nearby.
Kyle went inside the hall and called out to us, “Okay, ladies. I’ll help you get situated, but then you’re on your own. No leaving your post until the end of the event.”
We both made audible agreements and soon, I felt the touch of skin on my own. I had pushed most of my left breast through the hole, but it didn’t leave much space for the other. I started pushing my right breast forward when I felt Kyle’s hands touch my nipples. I couldn’t tell if it was the back of his hand, or his palms.
“No, honey, you need to back up a bit. You’ll need to squeeze from both sides. Just get the tips of your boobs through first, okay? Then I’ll help.”
I couldn’t believe I was doing this, but I followed his instructions. Once about a third of my breasts were through the hole, Kyle latched firmly on and pulled them further in. “Just a second, honey, you’ll need some lotion. The other girl had more elasticity, and was easier to help. Also, considering how close you are, it’s hard for me to get leverage.”
I felt a cold glob of liquid drop on my right breast, followed by the other. It made no sense to protest now. I just let the man assault me… or so it felt, if even in a comedic sense. Kyle rubbed the lotion in my skin, particularly near the opening, greasing it up. He then dried his hands, and enough of my flesh to grab hold and pull through the rest of the way.
My torso was now flat against the wall on the opposite side of the hall now, and I had to turn my head to the right to adjust, my left cheek touching the wall. From this angle, I could only see parts of the small passageway and the panel door I had accessed to get in. I latched on to the handles near my hips and held myself firmly in place.
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