Going Berry Picking

You watch me walk into the kitchen, wearing only a pair of shorts and heading straight for the coffee pot. You are sitting at the kitchen table, eating toast with strawberry jam on it, as our kids are in the living room, eating bowls of cereal and watching some cartoon show.

As you bite into the toast, the store-bought jam tastes too sweet but yet almost bland. You look at the sunlight streaming through the kitchen window, and remember making berry jam with your parents. The memory of going behind your house in the summer and picking berries is so fresh and clear in your mind.

I sit down with my mug of coffee. “What’s up? You look like you are thinking about something?”

“We should take the kids berry picking.” You say in a soft, almost wistful tone.

“What’s that?” I ask, not sure I heard you correctly.
You look me directly in the eyes and say more confidently. “We should take the kids berry picking.”

‘Hon, I know you had berry bushes behind your house when you grew up, but unless you magically planted things last night, we don’t have any.” I say in a joking tone.

“No, smart ass.” You say as you pick up your phone and do a quick search. “About an hour’s drive into the country are a number of ‘pick your own’ farms.” You then show me the screen.

I take your phone and scroll down the screen. “Some of them aren’t in season yet.”

“Fine, skip past those and choose the ones that are.” You say in a confident tone.

After I finish scrolling, I hand you back your phone. “So, if we pick them, what do we do then?”

Very confidently you say “Freezer Jam.” You see the confused look on my face. “My parents would make two types of jam when I was growing up: traditional and freezer jam. We could do either, but I think freezer jam would be easier with the kids.”

“Do we have everything we need? Don’t we need to have glass jars and a pot of boiling water?”

You lean back in your chair and smile. “Nope. That’s why the first jam I learned was freezer jam. We just need plastic containers, sugar, and fruit. I think dad would use lemon juice when he didn’t have pectin.”

“What’s pectin?” our daughter asks as she puts her dirty cereal bowl in the sink.

“Rinse it first.” You remind her. “It’s a sour flavor added to jams and jellies.”

“Oh.” She responds as she rinses her bowl and puts it in the dishwasher. “Are we doing anything fun today?” she asks both of us.

You smile broadly. “A road trip and berry picking!”

“Berry picking? Yea!” our son says as he puts his empty bowl away too.

“Put on jeans and t-shirts you can get dirty in.” you say as they take off for their bedrooms.

You hear me sigh. “Does that include me?”

You get up, lean over, and hug me from behind. “This will be fun. Wait and see.”

After driving for about an hour and a half, you find the farm you want. You hear me grumble a bit when I have to pay to park, then there is an entrance fee, and then we’ll pay for whatever fruit we pick. “Dear, they have to make money somehow. Besides, when we’re done, you’ll enjoy it.” You say and kiss me on the cheek.

The small building with the scale has a stack of shopping bags, and you have everyone take one. “How much do you think we’re going to pick?” I ask.

“We’ll pick until the kids are tired. Come on.” You say, taking my hand.

We get to a row of plants that are loaded with berries.

“Kids. Watch how Mommy does this.” You bend down, hold the berry with one hand and the plant stem with the other, and pull until the berry comes free. “Be careful not to squish the berry or to pull out the plant.”

“OK” they both say and show you that they can do just as you did.

In no time, both our kids are moving thought the rows of berry plants, picking, dropping in the bag, then grabbing the next one.

As you are bent over, grabbing berries, you hear me say “I see something that I would prefer grabbing.” Then you feel my hand softly caress your ass through your jeans. “When you bend over like that, I love how your ass looks so round in those jeans. So ready to be…”

“Dear, I need you to do your part and pick berries too.” You then stand up and whisper in my ear. “When we get home, we’ll be all sweaty and I’ll need your help in the shower.”

I nod, and grin, remembering the last time we had shower sex. “Ok.” I say and kiss you.

My lips feel soft and damp against you. “Focus on berry picking first.” You say and wink. You see me move down the row and start filling the bag, keeping close to the kids.

The sun feels hot on your skin as, you quickly fill your bag.

“Mommy! Look how many I have!” our daughter says as she brings her mostly full bag.

“I’ve got more than her.” Our son says as he comes up behind her.

“Wow!” you say in an exaggerated tone. “You worked so hard. If Daddy is ready we can go and check out.” You see me following behind them, picking up a few loose berries that fell out if their bags. You smile at that and then tell the kids. “Make sure you grip the top of your bag so you don’t spill what you picked.”

Both of them watch how you gather the mouth of the bag closed and wrap it around your index finger, then grip with fist. They both try to do it. “Just hold them tightly closed.” I say as we go to the scale house.

The clerk wearing a t-shirt with the name of the farm, and bib overalls, watches as we place all four bags on the scale. “That’s almost 6 pounds.” She says. “You folks had a good time out there.”

You see her put the 4 bags into a large paper bag and then staple the receipt on it. I pull my wallet out and pay for it. “A little more expensive than the store.” I say under my breath. “But, wait until you taste them.” You say in a low tone. The clerk nods and smiles, as she hands you the bag. “Remember to rinse them well.”

“We will” I say and wave as we leave.

During the drive back home, you place your hand on my thigh and hum along to the music on the radio. Looking in the rear-view mirror, you notice that both kids are asleep.

“I think we tuckered them out.” You say quietly and lean against me. “Thanks for doing this. I forgot how much I missed it.”

I put my arm around you. “If your parents still had that house, we could have spent vacations there, but…”

You slowly nod. “They retired, sold it, and moved to retirement community down South.” Leaning against me, you feel my sweaty t-shirt. “When we get home, you are definitely taking a shower.”

Pulling into the driveway, you notice the kids are still asleep, so you grab the fruit “Let me put this in the kitchen first.” You say quietly. I nod, get out, and then unbuckle our daughter from her safety seat. You see her drowsy form, gripping me as I carry her in, then straight to her room.

A moment later I carry in our son. “Let them sleep for a bit.”

I nod, “They’ll probably wake up while we are in the shower.”

Stripping off our dirty clothes, we take t-shirts and sweatpants to change into, just in case. Our kids have woken up and interrupted us too many times, to not plan for that to happen.

I have the water already running, as you set the clothes and towels by the tub, and close the door. I kiss you and you feel my hands on your arms. “You look beautiful just standing there.”

You kiss me back, but also motion me to get in the shower. “I know, but stop wasting water.”

The water is warm but not hot. We both move around so we rinse the sweat off of us, then taking washcloths and soap, we lather each other up, facing each other. You feel my soapy hand and washcloth move around your breasts, and across your chest. You do the same to me, then we move around so the shower head rinses the soap off of us. I lean forward and lick your left nipple. “You are always so tasty.”

You feel my tongue and then my mouth as I suck it. You grab my head and pull me closer, then reach down with the washcloth and start washing my dick. As I continue sucking your nipple, you feel me reach behind you and wash your back, then down to your ass. I stop sucking and straighten up. The motion of your hand and washcloth has my dick hard for you. “I need to finish washing it clean, if you want me to suck it.” You say playfully. I move so the shower head sprays down my front, rinsing the soap off.

You squat down and get closer to it. “Let me check it to make sure it is clean”. Then you wash my balls as the other hand strokes my shaft. You continue stroking as you work the washcloth under and along the crack of my ass. The tip of my cock is so tempting. You kiss it and then lick around it. You feel me brace myself as you take me into your mouth. My hard cock presses down your tongue as you suck and bob your head back and forth. I must be excited because you already taste my precum, so you back off and stroke me looking up.

“Hold off for a moment.” Then you stand up, bend over, with me still blocking the water from the shower head. Pressing against the back of the shower you, feel me grip your hips and slowly feed my hard wet cock into you. I pull you slowly against me. The water creates that weird friction of wet skin against wet skin. You reach down and rub your clit as you feel me go deeper into you. My hard dick feels good inside of you, so you press back against me as I grip your hips tighter and pull you back and forth. Then I pull you tightly and hold you, as my cock throbs inside of you. You feel me cumming, which excites you and you close your eyes and feel your own orgasm.

Knock — knock — knock. “Mommy, are you and Daddy in there?” you hear our daughter ask.

“Yes, Baby. Mommy and I are showering. We’ll be out in a minute.” I say.

We quickly rinse off, dry each other, then put on the sweatpants and t-shirts. “You planned that well.” I tell you with a wink and a smile.

“Don’t I always. Now lets go make some freezer jam.” You say and kiss me.

(Come back next week for “Making Freezer Jam”. If you enjoyed this, like and leave me a comment. If you enjoy my writings, follow and subscribe. Be seeing you..)

The Holiday Parade

 A month ago, you got a call from an old neighbor asking if you would drive your truck and trailer in the parade or let someone else. The man who used to do it, no longer can, and even though you aren’t an active member, you are still on the rolls, and it would be a great help to the organization. You agree to do it. When you were a kid, your parents were both active in the organization. Helping with the parade, community cookouts, bake sales, etc. You even remember walking in the parade behind an old truck, handing out flyers and bottles of water to people along the parade route. Your parents paid for your Lifetime membership when you finished college and moved near your hometown. You even attended a few meetings of the “Men’s Group”, but after a while it seemed boring to you, and you stopped. Some of your neighbors still attend and tell you what’s going on, but you just politely nod.

You really didn’t have anything planned for the holiday, so you agreed. A letter from the parade committee arrived telling you where you and when you need to be.

So this morning you swept your flatbed trailer clean, cleaned out the bed of the pickup, connected everything, and headed out.

According to the directions, everyone is in the large parking lot of the shopping center at the edge of town. That makes sense, it is a large open area, room for folks to park and set up their floats and then line up on Main Street. Your spot in the parade is #156. Near the back but not at the end.

After you park, you wait for the others. You aren’t really sure who will show up. You don’t remember the Men’s group talking about the Parade. They focused on the Cookout afterwards.

Soon a couple of cars park near you. A few women get out, pulling coolers, bags of ice, and water. “Is the is the truck and trailer, this year?” an older woman asks. You drop the tail gates to both the truck and trailer. “Yes, ma’am it is.”

She puts down her cooler and grabs her cellphone. “Mable, bring the decorations and the sign. Yes, his trailer is perfect.” she says and hangs up. More women show up, some by themselves and others with kids in tow.

“That’s right, the parade was always the responsibility of the Women’s auxiliary.” you think.

You help where you can, but you almost feel like you are in the way. The women quickly tape and tie signs, streamers, and balloons all over the trailer and back of the truck.

You see one of the younger women, a summer blonde, wearing shorts and a halter. “How can I help?” you ask. She smiles at you. “Can you help move the cases of water from the back of my car?” You nod and happily assist. After about 15 minutes, everyone who volunteered arrived and is on either the trailer or the back of the truck.

The older woman who talked to you this morning, shakes your hand. “Hi, I’m Darline. I think we are ready. Do you need anyone inside the truck with you?” You smile back, “No. I know what to do. Let’s go. We are spot #156.” you say and climb in behind the wheel. You drive very slowly to ensure that no one bounces or falls out.

Your spot is not too bad. There is a church choral group singing on a flatbed trailer in front of you, and a kid’s gymnastics team behind you. You look at your watch and you have about 30 minutes until the parade starts. When you were a kid, you hated this.

Some of the ladies are already passing out water to the people at the side of the street.

The sun is bright, and the air is still and hot. You can’t wait to get going.

“Would you like a water?” It’s the blonde. “Thanks, but I thought these were for the spectators.”

“Yes, but we can’t have our driver sweating and becoming a heat casualty, can we?” She smiles broadly as she hands you a cold-water bottle.

You take a sip, and it feels really good. “Thanks, I must have been thirstier than I thought.” you say. “Thank you…”

She extends her hand, “I’m Carrie.” You shake it and smile back. You don’t see a wedding ring, but it is a hot day and maybe she took it off.

A motorcycle goes down the line. “The parade starts in 5 minutes.” the driver calls on a bullhorn.

You start your truck again and hear other vehicles up and down the line get ready. The choir ahead of you is singing a gospel song you don’t recognize, but then again you aren’t a religious person.

Once the parade starts, your job is easy. Keep focused on driving. Keep your speed slow and keep the distance between your truck and the trailer ahead of you, a steady and safe distance.

Aside from the choir in front of you, you hear marching bands; probably from the local schools; sirens from the fire engines and police cars; and cheers from the spectators along the route, cheering and waving to each group as they pass.

“This isn’t too bad. I could do this next year if they need.” you think to yourself.

After driving very slowly for over an hour you arrive at the center of town. The local politicians are all waving as an announcer reads the names of each group as they pass.

You hear your group’s name and cheers erupt from the back and the trailer. You continue following the vehicle ahead of you, until you see the large parking lot where the parade is breaking up.

You park in an empty space. Getting out and stretching your legs for a bit you watch all of the women climb off. Some are hugging and congratulating each other for another successful year. You see Darline “I’m happy that everyone’s happy but why is everyone so happy?” She smiles broadly. “We handed out all of our flyers and most of the water bottles. The crowd was happy to see us, and we feel appreciated by the community. We should have a successful cookout this afternoon.”

“Okay. I’m happy you’re happy.”

“Can you drive some of back to the other parking lot? So, we can get our cars. Plus, we need to undecorate your truck and trailer.” She asks.

“Of course. Whenever the road is clear.” She points to a detour sign “Follow that.” Then she turns to the ladies. “Ladies, those of you who need to get your cars, please get back on the trailer. Our gallant driver will return us to the beginning. For those who don’t, we will see you at the cookout.”

In a minute, she bangs on the side of your trailer. “We are loaded and ready.”

You look in the mirror and see a few women sitting down. You hold a “thumbs up” out the window and go. The women cheer. It takes less time to return but you still go slowly. Once you park, they start pulling off signs, streamers, and balloons. Someone has a large trash bag for all of the rubbish. The signs are all stacked and taken by a woman you haven’t met yet. “It must be Mable, who Darline talked to on the phone.” you think to yourself.

“Thank you again.” Darline says, “It is good to see you younger fellows taking part in the organization.”

“Happy to do my part.” you say without thinking.

“See you at the cookout.” she says as she heads to her car.

“Are you going to the cookout?” asks Carrie, who looks to be the last one.

“She really is beautiful” you think to yourself.

“Ah, I really hadn’t thought about it. I’m not really active in the organization.” She stands closer to you, “You really should. At least have a plate of food. Maybe you and I can talk in the shade.” she says with a flirty smile. “See you there.” she says walking away and swaying her hips.

You drive home and drop off the trailer, then head to the organization park.

When you were a kid, your parents would take you to the park to play.

Pulling up into the parking lot you see “Civic Organization Open Cookout! All are welcome!” “How old is that sign?” you ask yourself. “It can’t be the same one I remember as a kid.”

There are a lot of cars. Mostly older models. You hear laughter and music. Kids are running and playing, as you head for the pavilion. You smell the smokey scent of various grilled meats. Grabbing a plate you get in line. The food all looks so good, and you fill up your plate with your favorites.

There is an empty table, so you sit. A few older people look at you and smile. They look familiar but after a while they all do.

“His parents would be so proud of him.” you hear the voice of one of your childhood neighbors say. You look over to see Mr. and Mrs. Jones talking to Darline. You hadn’t seen the Jones’ in a long time. You wave back and take a bite of food.

“Is this seat taken?” You hear Carrie ask.

With your mouth still full you try to stand up and motion for her to sit down, but it doesn’t come off as smooth as you would like. Regardless she smiles and sits.

“It really is nice to see you here. The ladies all appreciate what you did.”

Finally swallowing and clearing your mouth. “It really wasn’t that much. Anyone with a truck and trailer could have done it.” you respond humbly.

“That might be true, but we called around to rent a truck and trailer and that would have been half of our parade budget. We lucked out when the Men’s committee told us they had a member with a truck and trailer. I think we were surprised to see you, being we don’t see you here often.’

“I came because I was asked.” you answer truthfully.

Both of you chat and eat. From time to time some older friends of your parents come by and ask how they are doing. More than one person tells you how happy they are to see you here. You and Carrie continue talking and relaxing. When the live band starts, you both clap and sing along. “Do you dance?” she asks. “I haven’t in a while.” you answer.

She pulls you on the dance floor during a quick song. You do your best to move in time, but you are out of practice. She smiles and moves closer as the next song is slower. “Can you dance to this one?” she asks. “I’ll give it my best.” This is easier, as you hold her tightly against your body. She feels warm and comfortable in your arms. It has been a while since you slow danced, and you are getting hard. You try to focus on your feet but her hands in yours feel good and her legs against yours feel so right. The song ends. She kisses you on the cheek and sits down.

As you sit down too, “I thought you might need a moment to sit down and ease some of your excitement.” she says glancing down. “I’m glad you are happy to dance with me, but I don’t think you want everyone to see you aroused.” she continues in a low tone.

You smile back. “I think we have two options. 1, we sit here, and you try to ‘calm me down’ or 2, we go somewhere, where you can make use of it.” You wink.

“I know where to go.” She says as she takes your hand. You go into the building. Most folks have been going in and out primarily to use the toilets and washrooms.

She leads you down a hall with doors marked “Meeting Room”. She takes a key from her pocket and unlocks a door. The room is dark, and she doesn’t flip on the lights, but there is a little light from the window. You see a table, with chairs around it, and along the walls are a couple of couches. She locks the door behind you.

Leading you to one of the couches she strips off her top showing her small firm breasts.

“Show me what you’ve got.” she whispers.

You undo your shorts and drop them on the floor. Your hard cock making a tent in your underwear.

She gets on her knees and pulls your dick free. “I wish I could turn on the lights so I could get a good look at it, but I like how it feels.” she says in a soft voice. She licks the tip and then down the shaft. “You taste good too. But I really want you inside of me.” She stands up, kisses you and pushes you onto the couch.

Stripping off her shorts and panties, she gets on the couch and lowers herself on you. She feels so wet and warm as she guides your hard cock into her. Going down and up, taking more of you each time she goes down, she finally gets all of you inside of her. She rocks back and forth. Her breasts rubbing against your t-shirt. You pull it off, and feel her nipples rub against yours.

She rides you harder and faster, bouncing up and down on the couch. You start to moan, and she puts her hand over your mouth. Nodding you keep your lips together as she rides in slower, longer motions. Her clit rubbing against your trimmed pubic bush.

She bites her lower lip trying to muffle the sound. Then she grips you tightly as she cums.

“I’m not done yet.” you whisper in her ear. She nods and climbs off of you. Before you can do anything, she is sucking you. Her mouth and tongue feel almost better than her pussy. She sucks you deeply as she strokes your shaft. You put your knuckle to your mouth and bite as you cum.

She then stands up and kisses you, putting your cum into your mouth. You’ve never had someone do that. You swallow but are still surprised. “Why did you do that?” you whisper.

“It’s yours. I thought I should give it back to you.” she whispers playfully.

Quickly you get dressed. “Now go to the restroom and wash up. This way, people won’t ask where you were.” She says as she leads you into the hallway.

After taking a few minutes to clean and wash up, you head back to the pavilion. Carrie follows behind you and takes your hand. “Thank you for a wonderful afternoon. But I should go home. Maybe I will see you around.” she says as she kisses your cheek.

You watch her walk away. One of your parents’ friends comes up, “I am glad to see you. That is what this organization needs, more of you younger people. Are you going to start being more active?” You look at him and smile. “I think so. If fun times in the organization are like this, then I need to be part of it more often.”

(If you enjoyed this story, leave a comment. If you enjoy my writings follow and subscribe. New stories come out every Friday)

Co-workers - Chapter 2 — "Emergency Stairs"

During the day, in the office, you have been teasing me.

Every so often, when I come near your desk, you raise up your blue skirt, and show me your legs. I come over to show you one of the documents I’m working on. You lean forward to rub your breasts against me.

No one in the office notices what we are doing.

I whisper in your ear, “We can’t do the lunch thing again, but I have an idea, if you can wait until the end of the day?”

I slowly rub the back of your skirt. You feel my hand slowly caress your ass. You knock a pencil off your desk. “I’ll get it. I say. I go under your desk and grab the pencil. As I come up, you spread your legs and flash your panties.

I wink and smile as I hand you the pencil, grab my document, and say, “Thanks for you input. I’ll make those changes.”

I look around to make sure that nobody is watching and I lean in to you.

“When the day ends, stop by my desk. I definitely have an idea for you.”

Before I walk away I look down at your black lacy top, and even through your black bra I see your lovely hard nipples.

As I walk back to my desk, you look at the clock. 3 hours until the end of the day. ‘I wonder what he has in mind?’ You ask yourself.

The building we work in is a multi-story office building. We work on one of the upper floors. As the day is almost over, you notice people packing up, powering down computers, turning off coffee makers, etc. You power down your computer, grab your purse, and slowly walk towards my desk.

I am putting away what I was working on. I look up. “Are you ready to go?” I grab my computer bag, and take your hand. “Follow me.”

Instead of going towards the elevators, I head down a different hallway. There is a red painted door with a sign “Emergency Stairs.”

‘Wait. What is this?’ you ask. We enter through the door.

“I checked this out earlier. These concrete stairs are designed to provide an exit in case of an emergency. No one uses them.” I say and I kiss you as the door closes.

There is a landing and thick iron railings. I back you up against them.

You feel my tongue in your mouth and my hand between your thighs. You lift your top over your breasts and one of my hands caresses your breast. I slide my fingers under your bra and rub your right nipple, as my other hand rubs your pussy through your panties. You feel the texture of your panties rubbing your lips and mound.

You rub your back up and down the railing.

I stop kissing you and kiss the upper part of your left breast then I stop rubbing you and pull your round breasts from your bra.

Your nipples are so hard.

I lick around the left one, as my fingers slowly roll the right one.

You feel my other hand between your legs again. I slowly rub your pussy feeling the dampness of your panties.

I suck your left nipple firmly.

You grab the railing with both hands. It feels cold.

You moan a bit and you realize that it echoes against the painted cinderblock walls.

You tighten your lips, as you feel my fingers slide the crotch of your panties to one side.

My fingertips slowly rub up and down your pussy lips. Moving along them but not entering. I rub your juices all along your wet lips.

I stop sucking your nipple and get to my knees.

“I want to taste your sweet pussy” I say in a low voice. You are sure that it is echoing down the stairwell.

You feel my hands raise your skirt and then slide the crotch of your panties to the side, as you spread your legs a bit wider, and rest your ass on one of the rails.

I slowly lick between your pussy lips and then up and around your clit.

You feel my fingers push back the hood of your clit and my warm wet mouth sucks it.

You place a hand on my head as I suck your clit harder. You feel the suction as I slide two fingers into your wet pussy. I work my finger in and out, thrusting and twisting, as I alternate between sucking and licking your clit.

It feels so good. You try to suppress a moan, but it sounds like a muffled grunt. I work my fingers faster.

‘I want you to fuck me,’ you pant. You feel pleasure moving though you.

I stand up, I kiss you hard. You taste your pussy on my mouth.

“You were teasing me earlier. Since then I wanted to just bend you over and fuck you hard.” I whisper in your ear.

I turn you around and have you lean on the railing.

Your breasts feel the cool air down the stairwell.

I raise your skirt over your ass. I kiss a firm butt cheek, and then you hear me undo my pants. You grab the railing as you feel me rub my hard cock up and down the crack of your ass.

“I love your ass and pussy.” I whisper in your ear, as you feel the tip of my cock thrust into your open pussy.

I put a hand over your mouth as I thrust harder. I slide in and out of your wet pussy so smoothly. I reach my other hand down and rub your clit.

“Do you want to cum?” I ask in a low voice.

You nod. I rub your clit harder and faster as I thrust deeper into you.

As I fuck you harder, the railing is hard against your chest. I keep going.

You try to moan, but my hand is covering your mouth firmly. There are noises but they are coming from me.

My cock feels so slick inside of you. “I am going to cum.’ You hear my voice echo down the stairwell. I thrust and hold it. You feel my cock pulse inside of you as my fills your wet pussy.

I turn your head and kiss your mouth. Then I slowly slide my softening cock from you as cum drips from you.

We take a minute, and fix our clothes. We walk down the stairs until we get to the lobby. Most everyone else is grabbing their car keys or cell phones as they go out the front doors.

The building security looks at us. He motions for us to come to him.

“I am glad to see that the Emergency Stairs are working for you. There are a few people who use them for exercising.” He says with a grin.

“Next time you want to exercise on the stairs, warn me first. My console lights up when the doors are opened. If you tell me that you are taking the stairs instead of the elevator because you are trying to “get in your steps” or some other form of exercise, then I know there isn’t an emergency. And if you are coming down from upstairs, just call first.”

We both nod and thank him.

“One last thing, I heard you breathing hard, from walking, so you might need to exercise more often. The stairwell echoes. I’ll have the cleaning staff make sure that your sweat is wiped up, We don’t want people slipping and getting hurt. You folks enjoy your evening.” He says with a large grin.

(This is the 2nd story of the Co-worker storyline. If you are enjoying these, tell me, especially if you want more of these. If you enjoy my writings, follow and subscribe. See you next time.)

AAA Detective Story - Checking out the Surrealist - Part 5

 

The room is quiet aside from the sound of the fluorescent lamps. Lena’s shoulders droop for a moment. “I haven’t used that name in a while. How did you know?”

Ken points to a covered couch. “Can we sit, if we are going to talk?”

She nods and removes her paint smock, hanging it on a hook near the canvas she was working on. She is still wearing the same plain looking dress from earlier. Ken stands by the couch and waits for her to sit before he does.

“So, Mister Cooper, how did you know and who are you working for?” She asks in an almost resigned tone.

“I’m employed, as I said earlier, by a wealthy man who wishes to purchase some of your artwork. But as you know, there are people claiming to be someone they are not and sometimes selling other people’s work. I was hired to make sure that ‘Charles Pauline’ was real and not some sort of conman…..He’s fake but you are real.”

She slowly nods. “Ok. So, what are you going to do with this information? Sell it, extort something from me? Try to use it to control me?”

Ken goes almost wide-eyed with the accusations. “No. You misunderstand. I won’t do anything with it. But if you explain to me, why the deception, I will tell my employer that Charles Pauline is an artist worth investing in.”

She leans back in the couch for a moment, her small frame looking as if it was about to be swallowed by it. She notices the cigarette pack in his pocket. “Puis-je avoir une cigarette?” Her voice sounding soft and almost lost. He pulls out the pack and hands her one, then flips open the Zippo. She slowly inhales and then coughs, before leaning forward and inhaling again. This time she slowly exhales a small cloud. “You know you Americans got me smoking again. After the camps.”

He lights himself one. “So, the last article I could find on you was in May of 1936. What happened to you after that?”

She explains that she went to Spain to fight with the Republicans, then fled to Paris. When the Nazi invaded, she and her lover Angelique were arrested as communists, and forced into the labor camps, where Angelique died.

Ken finishes his cigarette. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know. I suspected it because of your art. But I’m sorry for what you endured.”

She wipes her eyes with the back of her hand. “Damn you for making me remember her. Damn me for thinking I could forget her and replace her with Isabeau.”

Ken lets her sit in silence for a moment, the smell of burning tobacco, and paint, mix with the sound of the lights. Then he breaks the silence “So why have Charles be the figurehead?”

She goes into detail how, after the camps she was helped by the Refugee Agencies, where she met ‘Isabeau’ and ‘Charles’ who were aid workers. She needed to paint but didn’t want the spotlight or fame. Charles and Isabeau agreed to help her.

“What are their real names?” Ken asks quietly.

She slowly shakes her head, “It doesn’t matter, because they are now Charles Pauline and Isabeau Herrera. The painter and his model.”

“And you are just Lena, their assistant.” Ken nods. He then stands up. “Ok. I’ll tell Mister Huddler to buy whichever paintings you will sell him. He’s a good man, and I won’t tell your secrets.”

She stands up, drops the cigarette and puts it out on the concrete floor. “Ok, Mister Cooper. Do you wish to model for me?”

Ken nervously swallows. “I’m not really one to get naked and be ordered about. But I will help however I can, being I interrupted your work.”

“Bien. Which paintings does your employer want copies of?” She asks as she walks over and puts the smock back on.

“He really liked ‘Circumcised Banana’ and thought about buying ‘Vulva on the Half-Shell, with Clitoris’ for his wife.” Ken says as he removes his necktie, and shirt.

“Interessante. Ok, reproducing copies of those is not difficult. I am satisfied with my models, though….” She says as she pauses and looks at Ken’s crotch. “Pull down your trousers. I wish to see your penis.”

Ken does as she asks, but he is still soft as he holds it.

“Remove your shorts and sit on the couch.” She says in a more commanding tone. She picks up her palette and brush and moves to a blank canvas. “Now slowly stroke it. Move the foreskin up and down.”

At that point Isabeau and Charles return, carrying a bottle of wine and a few glasses. “Lena, I thought you might be thirsty. And….Oh.” Isabeau stops for a moment. “Is he tonight’s model?”

Lena sets the palette down, and pours a glass of wine, then gives it to Ken. “Drink a bit, see if it helps you relax.” She then pours a glass for herself, sips it and sets it by the palette. “Isabeau, can you sit on the chair, and masturbate? I think it will help excite Mister Cooper.”

Charles takes a sip of his wine and leans against a crate, just watching and keeping out of Lena’s field of view.

Ken watches as Isabeau sits, opens her robe, spreads her legs, and slowly rubs herself. He watches as the light catches her opening lips, as she moves her fingers up and down. Her palm resting on the trimmed dark pubic patch. Ken licks his lips. He understands why Charles was so happy to be licking her. Her pussy looks so tasty.

He hears Lena say softly. “Bien, look at the color…. Nicely shaped tip.”

Ken glances at Lena. “Non!. Focus on Isabeau. Keep stroking” He focuses on Isabeau as she also now plays with her beautifully hard nipples. “Magnifique.”

He continues to stroke the same tempo that she moves her fingers. She then parts her lips and works two fingers in and out. He hears her breathing as she closes her eyes and fantasizes about some lover. Ken’s cock is so hard now, and he feels the slickness of his precum. Isabeau’s face goes flush and her thighs close around her hand as she moan loudly. Ken shoots his load all over his hand. “Bien, Magnifique.” He hears her say.

Charles walks over and hands Ken a towel. As he wipes himself off, Ken glances at the painting. The sides of the banana skinned penis have semen dripping down it. There are outlines on the foreskin banana for something to be dripping down it too.

Isabeau stands and covers up again, then slowly walks to Lena. “Do you need me to stay, mi amor?” Lena turns and kisses her on the lips. “Non. I have work to do. You and Charles gave me enough for the earlier one, and now you and Mister Cooper have given me what I want.”

Ken looks at her. “Is there anything else?”

Lena turns, “Non, we are done. I might title it ‘Banana with Cream’ ”. She says with a wicked smile.

The next day the sky is cloudy as a cold weather front moves through. Ken has the windows open but didn’t cancel the day’s ice. “You never know how the weather can change.” He explains to the delivery guy.

 Joan comes in, in a happy mood. “Well I didn’t have to bail you out last night, and apparently Pete teaching the band his mouth exercises have helped keep some of the band member’s girlfriends and wives very happy. Though the drummer keeps protesting.”

Ken pours his second cup of coffee and smiles. “And because Pete’s happy, you’re happy.”

“You know it, Boss. So how did it go?”

He sits back down. “It went okay. I’ll call Teddy in a bit and tell him to buy whatever he wants.”

She fills her cup too. “So you figured out what was bugging you?”

Ken sighs for a moment. He could tell Joan the truth, but she’s the biggest gossip in the building. He could say nothing, but she’d keep bugging him until she got an answer, so he decides to do what he does fairly well, give her a half-truth and hide the rest. “Charles works with both Isabeau and Lena to make the paintings. It is a collaborative effort. Together they draw inspiration from each other.”

Joan sits down, her skirt riding up showing a mouth-shaped bruise in the inside of her thigh. “So which one was in the camps?” She asks.

“Lena. She was a communist, arrested, and put in a labor camp for the war.”

The light in Joan’s eyes goes out as she pictures the frail brunette as a prisoner in one of the paintings. “Is she gonna be okay?”

Ken smiles, “Yes. She’s going to be fine. That’s why she works with Charles and Isabeau. They help each other.”

“Do you need me to get today’s paper?” she asks after a few minutes.

“Sure. Tell Pop, “Hi” and remind him he can come up for a cup of coffee anytime he wants.”

She grabs her purse, “Ok. Be back in a minute.”

While she’s gone, Ken picks up the phone and calls Theodore’s direct line. They talk for a bit as Ken tells the same story he just told Joan. “Yes the artist is real, but it is just more of a collaborative effort than one man. Buy what you want.”

“Thank you. You will get your monthly retainer and a bonus.” Theodore then hangs up.

Joan comes back up with the paper, and half a pack of camels. “Pop said that his wife found the open pack. You paid for them so they’re yours. I didn’t think you liked Camels Boss.”

He takes them from her and puts them in the desk drawer.

A few days later, as Ken is in the office, reading in the paper about “M. Charles Pauline and associates are leaving the city for their next stop in their tour of North America.” He hears a knock on the door and Joan answers it. He hears a familiar voice say “I have a delivery for Mister Cooper, courtesy of Mister Huddler.”

Ken gets up from his desk, telling Ramon to bring it in there. Ramon carries in a large flat package wrapped in brown paper, secured with twine. Once it is flat, Ken cuts the string. As they unwrap it, there are two paintings and a note.

“Mister Cooper, as we agreed here is the bonus you requested. Monsieur Pauline said there was a second painting that you were to have too. It is an interesting piece, more to my tastes than yours but I was told it is a gift for you. T. Huddler”

He folds the note and looks at the paintings. The first is the lamp with the fish for a light. Ken smiles at it. On the back it says #22 of 50.

He gives it to Joan but she is looking at the other one as she gasps and Ramon comments “Oh My.”

Ken looks at what is obviously his erection, with jism dripping along the sides, facing a banana with chocolate sauce dripping in the same pattern. On the back is written “Banana Crème” #2 of 10.

“Ramon, did Mister Huddler see this one?” Ken asks.

He smiles, “I assume he did. He was in the back with them as they wrapped them up. I stayed in the gallery. It is a very nice piece. Almost nicer than “Circumcised Banana”. This would look amazing next to it.”

While Joan hangs the first painting, Ramon takes a thick envelope from his jacket and places it on the desk. “This is for you too. Mister Huddler said it is your retainer and a little something extra. He told me it was ‘fraud insurance’.”

Ken pockets the envelope without even opening it. “Thank him for me, Ramon. Is there anything else?”

He notices that Ramon slowly licks his lips as he looks at the painting. “No. But it is a very nice piece. I hope you enjoy it.” He then turns and leaves.

Joan returns to Ken’s office. “Gee, Boss, that looks a little like yours.” She says with a wink and a smile. “Any idea where you’re going to hang it?”

He wraps it up in brown paper. “I’ll take it back to my apartment and find somewhere for it.” He reaches into his pocket for the envelope, “Here, count it and take it to the bank.”

She finishes counting it and puts it in her purse. “That’s a nice bonus we got.”

Ken sits back down at his desk, picks up the newspaper, then glances at the wrapped painting. “Yes it is.”

(I hope you enjoyed “Checking out the Surrealist”. If you enjoy this; Leave me a Comment. If you enjoy my writings follow and subscribe. Come back next Friday for a new story. Be Seeing you….)

AAA Detective Story - Checking out the Surrealist - Part 4

 

After Ken and Joan return to the office, he takes her notes and adds a few of her comments to his notebook. “Joan. Did you hear Isabeau speak?”

She thinks about it, “Yeah Boss, what of it?”

“Did you notice an accent? Something that made her sound foreign?” He asks as he writes “Lena — accented English”

“Not really, but I only asked her how much a couple of those painting cost.” She replies.

“So if she is the model who inspired all of his work, they would have had to meet in Paris, Madrid, or London?” He says as he sits back and pulls a fag from pack in his pocket.

“Maybe she’s an American who did modeling in Europe. Maybe she was a WAC, a Nurse, or a volunteer who stayed to become a model?” Ken writes Isabeau’s name then starts writing versions of it, Isabelle, Elisabeth, Eliza, Bessie, and Betty.

“You might have it, Joan. Maybe she came to Europe to help with the wounded or refugees, encountered the painters, who offered to paint her. She liked the work and that’s how we got here.” He takes a drag on his cigarette and blows smoke from his nose.

He picks up the phone and dials Mister Huddler’s private number.

“Mister Huddler’s office. How can I help you?” Ramon says in a friendly, but professional tone.

“Hi Ramon, I need to speak to Theodore. It’s about last night.” Ken says in a tone that matches his.

In a moment Theodore’s voice comes over the receiver. “Mister Cooper, what can I do for you?”

Ken notices that Teddy’s tone is a bit more business-like. “Mister Huddler, last night when we heard Charles speak, did you detect an accent?”

There is a pause for a moment. “Not really. There was that ‘showman’s’ tone of voice, but not the accent of non-English speaker. I assume that when he studied, he improved his English to better attract British and American patrons.”

Ken writes down Teddy’s thoughts. “That’s a possibility sir.”

“Mister Cooper, do you still suspect some kind of fraud?”

“I wouldn’t call it fraud, but there’s something wrong. I’ll get back to you when I figure it out.”

“Please do. And Mister Cooper, if the artwork is genuine, you will have the one you wanted in your office soon.”

“Thank you, Sir. Have a good day.” Ken finishes and hangs up.

Joan walks over to the fan and enjoys some of that ice cooled air blowing on her. Ken looks up and realizes that under her thin dress, she has a thick bra, supporting her. He chuckles to himself for a moment.

“What’s funny Boss?” She asks.

He blows a cloud of smoke into the air. “Just thinking about what your brassiere is covering.”

She puts a protective arm across her chest. “You saw them once and that was enough. These are for Pete now. Oh, I forgot to tell you. I talked with Marcy and the girls last night. They was all surprised to know that cunnilingus is a regular thing. I told them that the Greeks and Romans did it for their women. They didn’t believe me until Miss Julie, apparently overheard and came over. She told us, that not only did they do it in ancient times, but guys who’s been to Europe do it too.” She steps away from the fan. “So when they finished their night, Pete was all smiles because the ladies were giving their guys the what for.”

Ken leans back and finishes his cigarette. “So Pete was a little more gentile on you last night?”

“I wouldn’t say gentle but after he warmed up his mouth again, I told him I wanted to do that fil-a-whats-it on him. Like you said yesterday Boss, an even exchange.”

He sits up and looks at her. “That’s what I’m missing. What’s being exchanged? What’s he get out of it.” He flips through his notes.

“What do you mean Boss? Pete got me to suck his dingus. Fair’s fair.” Joan says defiantly.

Ken shakes his head. “No. I’m talking Charles Pauline. If he isn’t the artist, what’s he getting out of it. If he is the artist, what’s the deal with Lena?”

“That little woman at the gallery? Isn’t she his manager or something? Isabeau seemed to follow her directions.” Joan says as she pours some water into her empty coffee cup.

Ken quickly draws a triangle in his book, he labels each corner; Charles, Isabeau, and the top of the triangle is Lena.

“So, what’s next?” Joan asks as she sits down.

“I’m going back to the Gallery tonight, after they close.”

Joan looks a little worried. “I hope you know what you’re doing. I don’t think we got money to get you out if you get pinched.”

He gets up, grabs his hat and jacket, “I’m going out. Enjoy your night with Pete, and tell Miss Julie I said ‘Hi’.”

She stands up. “You don’t want me to come with you?”

He shakes his head as he heads for the door. “Nope. Besides who’ll get me out if the coppers nab me?” He says with a wink and a smile.

The afternoon sun is hot, as Ken drives around. He sees which hotels are near the gallery and sees if a Mister Charles Pauline is registered as a guest. None of them have him nor Isabeau or Lena. Though he doesn’t have last names for them. It’s possible that they are in a hotel farther away from Bryce Gallery, but he takes a chance that there is another option. “The Gallery was an old factory, so what’s in that back section. Isabeau said it was the Studio space. It might have more back there.” Ken says as he parks the car in a secluded part of the parking lot. With the window’s rolled down, he sits back, puts his hat over his eyes and takes a nap.

He wakes up all covered in sweat. He pulls a handkerchief from his glovebox and wipes himself dry. He checks the time. It’s after 8 and the sun is down. The sky is an inky blue with a line of dark orange on the horizon. The parking lot looks empty, and he notes that the lights are off in the main building.

Ken gets out of the car and slowly walks around to the rear of the building. He doesn’t know what type of alarm they have, but the gallery probably has something on the front door.

At the rear of the main building is a smaller building. The windows are aglow with lights, so there is something going on. Ken continues walking quietly, and looking for a rear door. Eventually he finds one. He slowly and quietly turns the handle….click..it is unlocked. Ken, as quietly as he can, slips in through the door, and makes sure it is closed behind him. The room he’s in is the old feed stock store house for the papermill. There are boxes and crates, stacked three high. A few of the crates are open, and Ken sees that they have wooden slats in them. These were used to ship the paintings. The shipping labels read that they were from London, England, which tracks with his research. Maybe he is barking up the wrong tree. Everything points to a good artist trying to trying to make a name for himself. He stops and freezes, when he hears voices.

He can’t make out what’s being said, just that one voice is female and the softer one seems to be male. He hears what sounds like a slap, and then the female voice yelling “Down on your knees! Mets-toi à genoux et lèche-lui la chatte! Do you understand?!”

Ken slowly moves between the crates to the other end of the building.

There is more light in that area, and he sees easels and canvases set up. He can smell the acrylic and oil paints. “This must be the studio area, that Isabeau mentioned.” Ken thinks.

“Oui! That’s it…. Lick her. Put your face between her legs. Utilise ta langue!” the female voice commands.

Ken slowly peers around a stack of crates and sees a naked man on all fours, Isabeau, naked too with her legs spread, and Lena painting. The exaggerated tongue on the canvas looks like it is being devoured by an open vulva which looks like a cross between a vagina and a mouth.

“That’s why! She’s the artist!” Ken says aloud and everyone stops and looks at him.

Lena puts down her paint brush and palette, grabs a rag to wipe her hands and then yells “Come from behind the Crates! Come here now! Vite Vite!”

Ken steps into the light. “I’m sorry to interrupt you while you are working. But I had questions…”

“And now you have answers!” Lena shouts at him.

A soft voice from behind her asks “Should we stop and take a break?”

Lena sighs, “Oui, Charles, get dressed. We’ll stop for now. Isabeau, you can put something on too, if you want.”

Ken notices that Isabeau’s pink nipples are hard and tasty looking, and definitely the inspiration and model for some of the erotic art pieces. She gets up and grabs a robe. She then walks over to Lena. “Can I use the toilet, while we’re taking a break.”

Lena places a gentile hand on her neck, “Oui, mon amour. Do what you need.” Then kisses her lips.

As both Charles and Isabeau leave the studio area, Lena looks at Ken. There is a fire in the eyes of this small woman. “You have interrupted me and distracted my models. I don’t know if I want to scream at you, or have you get naked so I can paint you.”

Ken leans against one of the crates feeling a little shocked. “It makes sense.” He says, then pulls out his note pad and pen. “You are Charlene Paulis.”

(I hope you enjoyed Part 4 of “Checking out the Surrealist”. My plan is to do this in a few parts over the next couple of days. If you enjoy this; Leave me a Comment. If you enjoy my writings follow and subscribe. Come back for Part 5. Be Seeing you….)

AAA Detective Story - Checking out the Surrealist - Part 3

 

As the sun tries to shine through the hazy, humid morning, Ken opens the windows to his office, then pulls off his shirt, before it gets too wet. His t-shirt will get wet enough. Then he walks over to the basin. The water from the melted ice block is tepid. He dumps it down the drain, then picks up the phone and dials the operator. “This is the Operator, how may I help you?” a high-pitched female voice asks. 

“Yeah, please connect to Mike’s Ice and Oil.”

After a moment she says “Sir, we have a Mike’s Oil, Ice, and Fuel Company, is that who you mean?”

“Yes, please.” He says as he sits down. The phone rings and then another female voice says “Mike’s Oil, Ice, and Fuel, how can I help you?”

The operator says, “We have…”

Ken speaks up, “Thank you Operator, I’ve got it from here. Hi, this is Ken Cooper of AAA Detective agency, and I want to place an order for an Ice block to be delivered to my office for the next few days.”

“What size do you want? 10 pound, 20 pound, or 40 pound?” She asks in a professional tone.

He thinks about the basin and how yesterday’s 10-pound block was the right size. “A 10-pounder will do.”

He can hear her writing down his information, “Will you be paying cash for that in advance or bill at the end of the week?”

He pulls the folded stack of bills from his pocket. “I’ll pay for the week when he brings up today’s order.”

“Very well, sir. Thank you for calling Mike’s Oil, Ice, and Fuel.” And then she hangs up.

Ken hangs up the phone and then turns on the fan. The air in the office is still and thick, even this early in the morning. He then makes some coffee and reviews his notes from last night.

In a few more minutes, Joan comes in, wearing another thin summer dress. When the light is right, Ken can almost see right through it. “Good Morning Joan, isn’t it a little warm for nylons?” He asks as he fills his mug.

“Good morning, Boss. Coffee’s ready? Great. And No, these ain’t too hot to wear. During the war, we couldn’t get them, so I wore leg makeup. When the war ended and stockings were back in the stores, I told myself I was always wearing the real thing when I wanted.” She says as she pours herself a cup. Then she notices the pages of notes that Ken is flipping through. “So how did last night go, Boss?”

Ken circles a few things, “Paris”, “Madrid”, and “London”. He then writes “Fleeing the Nazi’s?”, “Post-war refugee?”

“So is his work any good?” Joan asks and then sips her coffee.

Ken isn’t really listening to her but responds “Yeah, good technique, strange ideas, and maybe some wartime trauma.”

“Wow, must have been some show. What’s this “Circumcised Banana” and “Vulva on the Half-shell, with Clitoris”?” She asks reading his notes.

He leans back for a moment. “Those are part of a collection he did, focusing on sexual body part. What time does the public library open?”

“Same as always, 9 AM. Why?”

He leans forward again, “Because we need…” There is a knock on the outer door.

“Let him it, that’s probably the ice man.” Ken says, as he slowly opens his desk drawer, just in case he is wrong.

Joan opens the door, “Oh Hi. Back again? You can put it the same place as yesterday.”

Ken hears the voice of the ice guy as he sets down the block on the basin. The fan’s breeze is instantly cooler. He then turns towards Ken. “The office said that you were paying cash?”

Ken stands up and pulls the bills from his pocket. The ice man counts them and then pulls a receipt book from his shirt pocket. He quickly writes out a receipt and hands Ken the carbon copy. “Thank you Sir. See you tomorrow.”

Joan closes the door as he leaves, and Ken shuts the windows again. r“Smart call, Boss. Are you getting ice for the whole week?”

Ken sits back down and finishes his coffee. “Yeah, I think the weather’s going to be hot all week.” He then looks down at his notes again. “So the Library opens at 9. In a little bit, we need to go there. Bring a pen and a note pad, we need to do some research.”

Ken explains how they are going to look at various magazines, art books, and newspapers to see what we can find out about M. Charles Pauline.

By Noon, Joan had gone trough stacks of magazines and books. Ken focused on the newspapers, especially the foreign ones. Joan found a few recent articles in an English Art Magazine, with photos of Charles standing next to a lamp with a fish on one side and a black and white scribble on the other. The article talks about a brilliant new French artist who studied in France and Spain, showing his art in London. Ken looked for any mention of him in both Spanish and French language papers. He’s not fluent in either language but he can look for names. He couldn’t find anything. In a couple of pre-war articles from Paris, he found a similar name, Charlene Paulis, but that was a woman. He couldn’t find any photos or descriptions, only that she was a new artist working in the surrealist style. “Joan, do you want to see the actual pieces of art?” Ken asks as he puts away his notebook, and set the binders of news articles on the return desk.

“What do you mean, Boss?” she asks as she gathers up her books too.

“There is a public showing this afternoon. I am going over, and I’d like your thoughts.”

“Ok. Do you want to see my notes?” She asks.

“Not yet. While we’re there, take notes on anything you see or feel.” He says as he heads for the door.

This time the parking lot is only a quarter full, but then Ken realizes “Of course. Most everyone is still at work.”

“What’s that, Boss?” Joan asks.

“I was just realizing what time it is and why there are so few cars in the parking lot.”

“Oh. Can we go inside?”

He sets his fedora on the dashboard. “I won’t need that inside. If you get chilled, tell me and you can have my jacket.”

She nods but looks confused. Just as last night, the cool air greets them as they open the door. “Wow, Boss, better than a fan with ice.”

He smiles and nods. He immediately notices that the reception table is gone, along with all of the serving trays. Some of the paintings have been adjusted too. He takes Joan’s hand, and leads her towards the alcove. “Follow me and tell me what you think.”

When he turns the corner, he is surprised. All of the sexually graphic paintings have been replaced. In the place of “Circumcised Banana” is a painting of black birds dropping bombs, the landscape is pitted and burned as rats wearing helmets and gas masks scurry for cover. The colors are blacks, greys, oranges, and reds. It’s titled “A Murder of Crows”.

Another painting shows barbed wire fences, and dogs and pigs guarding sheep that are shorn. The faces are all exaggerated to looking almost human, with the guards looking lustful and hungry, and the prisoners vacant eyed and starving. The title of this one is “Safe at Home”. 

Where there had been twisted sexual organs, now there are images of war, prisons, and labor camps. Another painting that he stops at, shows stylized skeletons, lined up, extending empty bowl, as a grossly fat cook ladles drips that are blood red. It’s called “Food for the Hungry.”

Ken breaks out into a cold sweat. The artist was in one of the camps. He feels sick for a moment. He remembers what some of his buddies who liberated the camps in Belgium, France, and Germany, had told him. Skeletons who had been starved and worked to death. Women and men, abused in ways only twisted minds can dream up.

“Is this what you wanted to show me, Boss?” Joan quietly asks. “These are gross, and ugly, but so’s war.”

He swallows the burning sick in his throat and then writes down the titles of more of these.

Joan is writing too. She points to “A Murder of Crows”. “That one was in the London show.”

He looks up and sees that on her notes from the library, she has none of the sexually explicit items listed, but a mixture of the abstract, surreal, and war themed titles.

“When we get back to the office. I’ll look more closely at your notes.”

The other people in the gallery are slowly moving from painting to painting. Some gasp, or look confused. There are even a few who give a dry laugh, but none of them walk deeper into the alcove. They all seem to glance at the pain and ugliness and turn away.

Ken looks around for Charles but the only face he sees from last night is Isabeau. Though unlike last night’s barely there dress, today, her hair is in a bun, and she is wearing a blue and white polka-dot dress. The dress helps to cover her more luxurious curves, but it’s obvious to anyone who see her that she moves like a model. Today she has a clipboard and pen. Ken walks up to her. “Hi, aren’t you Isabeau? I was here last night. I’m Ken Cooper. My client wanted a second opinion about the paintings before purchasing any of them.” He extends his hand.

She smiles politely and shakes it. “It’s a pleasure to meet you Mister Cooper. I’m sorry but I don’t remember you from last night. But I’m happy to see that you returned.” She uncaps the fountain pen. “Do you know the names of the pictures that your client wants to buy.”

He steps closer and lowers his voice. “They were a couple of paintings that had been in the alcove last night.”

She knowingly nods. “I see. Do you know which ones?”

He nods, “I do, but I wanted to see them in the day, without champagne dulling my senses. Where are they?”

She leans in and whispers, “We moved them into the studio space. We didn’t think they were appropriate for the general public.”

“Who’s we?” Ken quickly asks.

A slightly flustered look comes across her face. “I mean Charles. He decided. It was his decision what to show to wealthy buyers, and what to show to the public.”

Ken nods. “That makes sense. Where is Monsieur Pauline right now? I would like to talk to him.”

Before she can answer, the small almost frail brunette, from last night comes up. “Is there a problem, Isabeau?”

Isabeau almost looks relieved, “Lena, this is Mister Cooper, a buyer. He has some questions about the special paintings from last night.”

Lena eyes narrow for a moment as if she is trying to remember something. “Oh yes. Last night you had a question about the inspiration for some of them. I’m sorry Charles is not here at the moment. If you are not placing an order, then please move along so others can.”

Ken nods, “Of course, Miss Isabeau is free to help anyone who needs her. By the way, Lena, is it? That is an interesting accent, you have. Is it French?”

She turns to go. “I have been many places, and my English pronunciations have suffered for it. Good day.”

Ken nods and then finds Joan standing in front of the lamp with a fish as a bulb. “I don’t get it, Boss. It’s called ‘How many surrealists does it take to change a light bulb?’ But there isn’t a bulb just a fish.”

Ken takes her hand. “I’ll explain it on the way back to the office.”

(I hope you enjoyed Part 3 of “Checking out the Surrealist”. My plan is to do this in a few parts over the next couple of days. If you enjoy this; Leave me a Comment. If you enjoy my writings follow and subscribe. Come back for Part 4. Be Seeing you….)