Now I know why Dad didn't object to me touring Europe with Charlie. Talk of safe? What a wimp. I know touring Europe after high school is supposed to be a cultural bonanza, but you'd think a bit of adventure might just creep in? We might just as well be in Kansas.

Yes, Dad did stipulate single rooms. But now we were away, the freedom, the sights, especially sexy Italian men, had a way of leaving me moist about the pussy at night. The slightest timid midnight knock at my door and Charlie could have had anything he wanted. So often I nearly broke away, but I didn't dare.

Till Nigel came along. Yes, Nigel's English, and the English are all weak tea and stiff upper lip. Don't believe a word of it. The only stiff thing about Nigel is his... but I'm leaping ahead.

The lowest point of our cultural 'bore-nanza', after a series of non-events in Italy, Austria and I don't know where else, came an hour or so into a trudge around the National Gallery, London, England, UK. Don't get me wrong, I like art galleries. But with Charlie? I mean even if I don't arouse Charlie, you'd think the Rokeby Venus might.

It wasn't like he didn't see it. He spent twenty minutes criticising the brushwork, showing neither pleasure nor embarrassment at the prolonged examination of the bum he was dissecting. And trying to show me the vanishing point. I just wished he'd vanish. The picture had more effect on me than it did on him.

His voice droned endlessly while I thought, 'Wow, if I had a bottom like that I'd pose for any painter. I wonder if she was getting turned on. I wonder if she had to have a tissue in front of her, or whatever girls mopped themselves with in those days.' I looked to Charlie and only just stopped myself asking him aloud, "What do you think about the painter? Do you think she turned him on? Do you think she kept trying to turn round to see if he had a boner?" My silent thoughts set me giggling, but Charlie shush'd me.

It's all right for Charlie. But even if it's only a painting. If these perfect proportions don't turn him on just a bit, what hope have I when (if he ever wants to) he sees my ordinary girl-next-door bum. I shot a furtive downward glance in his direction. No sign of a boner. My naughty thoughts about the sitter and her painter were already giving me intimate tingles, but I knew there was no chance of Charlie ministering to my moist parts when we got back to our miserable single rooms.  

I was still musing over the picture, wishing I was that woman, beautiful, desired, valued and lingered-over by an appreciative genius. If Charlie knew so much about brushwork and vanishing points, why didn't he paint me and make me look as gorgeous as that?

I didn't notice he'd moved on, no doubt to denigrate some other unsuspecting Master. A voice came over my shoulder. An English voice. Very gentle but the sort of voice that caressed you and made you feel you belonged. The words enveloped me. "Beautiful, isn't she?"

Just in time, I stopped my eyes enquiring whether the newcomer had a boner. He certainly had a voice that suggested he knew of the concept. The sound of it sent yet another impulse of honey into my moist parts. When I came to again he was talking about the picture. Within three minutes he showed me five points of the artist's inspiration that made it the great and sensuous work he assured me it was. So much for Mr Know It All Charlie.

Nigel went on. "There, though. I'm speaking as a man. I suppose you disapprove of all this flaunting of flesh."

"No, no. I think she's beautiful, too. She's not just flaunting it, she's celebrating it. You can see how she's feeling. She's so relaxed. She's enjoying being looked at." Had I said too much? Did I catch just the slightest flicker of his eye towards my crotch? Had he divined my dampness? Thank God I was wearing a skirt, and not flimsy cotton trousers. 

I continued. I felt I could say anything to him. If he understood as much about life as he'd shown me he did about art. If he understood women's minds as well as he understood this body in front of us..."It's just." I tried to find words."If men have got glamorous bodies like that to look at, what hope is there that they'll want to look at girls like... us?"

"I can only speak for myself. I'd much rather see a real live body than one on canvas. And, as you say yourself, bodies are to be celebrated. All of them. In any case, if I paint someone I want her to look real. I like this painting because she's real, not because she's glamorous. I hate glamour magazines, even fashion magazines, if they do everything they can to disguise the real woman."

 What was so lovely was his caressing voice. You felt safe because he was being matter-of-fact and not naughtily suggestive. And yet his whole voice was quietly English, but creamy, and oh, so sexy. His psyche seemed to stroke that cream into the already moist recesses of my pussy. I didn't know if I could handle it. The voice was designed to make my vagina long for what Charlie had never thought to offer it.

He had to speak twice before I registered what he was saying. And more astoundingly, what he was asking. 

"My name's Nigel. How long are you staying in London?"

"Three more days." My heart sank at the prospect of three days and a long flight with Charlie. What an anticlimax after this.

"I think that's long enough to paint you. Suppose we go for lunch now? Then I'll take you to my studio. I noticed you when you were looking round earlier. Your friend won't mind, will he? I'll pay you, of course, and you can share it with him if that's what you want. I don't know how close you are. It was difficult to tell."

This man saw through everything. Was he psychic as well as artistic?

"Actually," I confessed. (Yes, that's what he was like, a confessor). "To be honest, I wouldn't mind a break from him. But you surely can't want to paint pictures of me?" I looked across to Venus for comparison, then pointed to my figure. "You won't sell many pictures of this."

"I don't want to paint you to sell to glossy magazines. I want to paint someone I like. And I want the painting to show why I like you. You are nicely proportioned, you have a friendly nature and a friendly smile. That's what I want people to see."

By the time we made the studio, I was in such a state of pussy and nerves that far from being shocked when invited to strip, I would have been devastated had he not asked me to. This man had seen into my soul and the least I could do was let him celebrate my body. Quite involuntarily as soon as I'd stripped I turned around for him, positively wanting his eyes to caress me all over, just as his voice had been doing.

Standing, and slowly twirling, I believed I'd showed him everything, but a tremor shook me when I realised I was going to have to entrust even more to him. The picture was not going to be of my girl-next-door bottom, as I'd expected from seeing the Venus; nor was I to be painted standing or sitting, legs demurely together.

When he saw me he declared he 'simply must' paint my secret chestnut curls. Now I must explain that those curls are not thick, they are silky. It was a scary moment, because I know that they let every detail of what's between my legs show through. If it hadn't been for another dizzying surge of honey moisture somewhere in the depths behind my silkiness I don't know if I'd have had the nerve after all. He wanted to paint me reclining on his rococo chaise longue, with legs slightly parted.

This was all so new. It was difficult to contain the excitement, the sheer naughtiness of being naked with this stranger, and even more difficult to reconcile it with his matter-of-fact approach to his painting, and his caressing approach to me, reassuring, almost embracing me, with his voice. Only the surges of honey made it possible to ride such a rollercoaster.

The creamy voice caressed everything he talked of, saying such things as, "Recline here. Make yourself comfortable. Just part your legs. Not too much. So it looks natural. Just enough to see your lips, and maybe a hint of cheek? Your openness will chime with the openness of your smile. I see this portrait as a picture of happiness and generosity."

I reclined like that for two hours. They flew by. The more Nigel talked, the more 'happy and generous' I felt. Who would want to cover her pussy when Nigel's voice and eyes were pampering it? At times, my legs slipped wider apart without any volition of mine.

Eventually, Nigel stopped painting. He said, "I have enough for now. Later I can touch up the background, but I shan't need you for that. Do you want to come again tomorrow, and we'll do our own version of Venus? I want to paint your back. Then if there's time, I'll paint you on the bed as well. In fact, Carolyn, come and see the bed now. We should end this session in a very special way, don't you think?"

I did think.

He took my hand, raised me from the chaise longue, and carried me in his arms onto the soft covers of a genuine old English four-poster bed.

He moved away from me to undress. But I reached up and held him back. I wanted to undress this amazing creation myself.

As I lay there I gingerly undid the buttons of his shirt. Pure silk. He dressed thoroughly as the artist he was. But gorgeous as he looked dressed, the taut skin and well-toned muscles under his shirt were far superior. Scared now, but trusting him implicitly, I explained that this was my first time. He laid a tender hand on my shoulder, the same hand that had been intricately copying every hair of my intimate mound. "Don't worry, Carolyn, I shall be very gentle. This must be wonderful for both of us. You do feel ready, don't you?"

Like I'd say no. I just nodded and smiled.

I loosened the belt of his trousers and breathed, "Nigel, I do so want this. And I'm so glad it's you who's giving me this first time."

I had to stop talking now. Almost too scared to breathe, I slid the trousers over his legs. The pants slipped off with them, hindered only by the boner I'd been so curious about. It looked big, strange, alien. Tremulously I reached and felt it. I cupped a hand over the soft heavinesses beneath it.

I held the balls and stroked his thighs while he rolled a condom onto the cock that would be mine.

I didn't know whether I should be scared or not, but the moisture inside me was crying out for whatever Nigel's needs dictated. It had been building up since I first saw the picture in the gallery. Now, looking at his dick I was desperate to take it to myself. Whatever was going to happen, my vagina and his penis belonged together.

We didn't need foreplay. We'd had four hours of it. I hadn't seen his painting, but I'm sure he must have caught the glisten of my cunt wanting him. And now I'd got him. Lying on my back, I pulled him down onto me. Pure gentleman, he wanted to be tender and caring. I wouldn't let him. I thrust my buttocks high, thinking to offer my cunt to his cock, but it only hindered his dick from finding its way in. He made little, calming noises as if taming a kitten.

I stilled, closed my eyes, held him with my arms, and let his full, throbbing penis slowly enter into me. My moisture received him, soothed for a few seconds, till the shaft began its magic of stimulation. Now he was inside I could thrust up again to meet him. I could feel my chestnut silk blending with his thick, black curls. Our bellies warm together. I just wanted to give him everything. I clasped his tight, masculine ass to me as his dick pumped deeper into the vagina whose stimulation I realised was only just beginning.

This was nothing like the light titillation I'd felt in the art gallery. In my dreams, I'd thought that's what sex was like. But this was infinitely more wonderful. This was like ocean waves, breaking over my soul with each plunge of him. Between my legs was merely the source of the feelings, but the exhilaration itself filled my whole body. My soul was like a seabird, soaring, diving, landing on the water to be carried, exulting, to the breaker's crest, then down into a deep and secret trough, before lifting on another wave of almost unbearable excitement.

Without coming out of me he rolled us over, so now I was 'woman on top'. Now I was contributing to ever wilder and wilder thrusting. I took him deep into me. Then I made him play around a shallow spot his prick discovered for me, exquisitely sensitive, so delicious I thought I would pass out. I made him revisit it again and again, between my takings of him as deeply as I possibly could. Now he was playing with my bum. Squeezing it, stroking it, all in counterpoint with the plunging of his prick. He was worshipping my ass, making it feel desired and loved far beyond any bottom in an art gallery.

I thought I could hear the seabirds. But it was me, making sounds I'd never made before.

And he too. I was convinced we were about to come together.

But at almost the last moment he rolled us over again. Now he was in control and, gauging my mood to perfection he timed his own climax with mine.

We lay in each other's arms for what seemed hours. In utter contentment. I couldn't believe my happiness that my first time had been such a success. I'd heard horror stories about first times. No-one could ever have had one like mine. Nigel just lay back contemplating my bliss.

Eventually, after good-natured, subdued argument over who should be thanking whom (Nigel's English was as impeccable as his manners,) he reminded me that I had promised him another assignation tomorrow.

"Including this bit?" I asked. 

His only reply was a radiant smile, and the words, "Oh, and if you're minded to extend your stay in London. I believe your tour is due to end. I trust your friend might be agreeable to travelling back on his own?"

Need I say what I decided?