I bounced the new jeep-thing Mom had bought me over a double row of railroad tracks and parked slantwise beside a dented pickup in the courtyard of an old industrial complex. These days the loading docks and conveyors of the place were abandoned and dirty, the concrete block walls thick with graffiti, the panes of glass broken and replaced by cardboard by the artists that lived here now.

I knew that the place called Essex Gallery was located in these groups of buildings only just not exactly where. There didn't seem to be any signs. I flicked on the visor light and turned the unfolded announcement over under it, trying to get my bearings from the crude map that was scribbled on it. You'd think that artists would know how to draw a map. "Sex in the Nineties--What You See!" the reverse side said. "August 4-25" The opening reception was tonight. Only where was it?

Inside the door a big sign had been spray-painted with the name of the exhibit. "Erotic Images," it said in smaller letters. I looked around in amazement. The walls were covered with pastel drawings and oil painted pictures of people getting it on. A pair of full-size fucking figure sculptures hung suspended in the center of the room, and in a corner a big-screen TV was showing some kind of amateur porno tape. The walls were beat up sheetrock hung over rough brick, the poured cement floor chipped and uneven. Definitely a low-budget operation. Somehow I doubted that this kind of gallery was the place for a serious art dealer like me.

On one side of the room a band had set up, but they had left their battered guitars and beat up drums and gone away. It seemed at first that everyone was dressed in black pants, black leather jackets and T-shirts. I shook my head. Here I was in my clean summer slacks and a light striped polo shirt. Pretending to be casual I walked over to where a table had been set up against one wall. The whole place was filled with weird-looking punks.

There was one weird one in particular that I had to look at two times. She was tall and curvy with short wild hair that had been bleached blonde-white like a madonna. She was wearing a tight black corset thing on top and it pushed a pair of milky white tits up where a man could really get into them. She had on some kind of short party dress that swirled out stiff and full of frilly petticoats around her hips. Her slim legs ran wide apart way up underneath it from where they began in a pair of black high-heel lace-up boots.

She was looking right into my eyes as I came over, and even though I'm a straightforward guy I could feel myself starting to blush. "Welcome to the Essex Gallery, sir" she said sassily. Her eyes seemed super-big, long lashes heavy with mascera and lids shaded in electric blue, and I could feel them slide downward to my waist to where my cock hung already semi-hard inside my slacks. She gave me this superior smirk. "Hope you enjoy the show!" Her eyes told me she thought there was no chance that I would. "I hope I like it too. I'm Peter Baring--the art buyer for the Cochoran Gallery. Is there someplace around here I can get something to drink?" I asked. I hate it when these people call me sir. I could tell from her shitty attitude that for some reason she thought I represented everything she was rebelling against. She was a little punk and I was loving it from the moment I laid eyes on her.

"Just stick it in the hole."

"Anytime." But I didn't know really what she meant. "I don't understand."

I couldn't take my eyes off the punk-rock girl. Her face was twisted now in a an open mocking sneer, her wide lips glossed with thick black lipstick that outlined her expression, matched her made-up eyes with her rude mouth. "I know you don't," she said contemptuously, "but I bet you'd like to." She turned to a skinny black girl in a leather hat and tight leopard-patterned leotards who was standing beside her. "Show the sir how to stick a buck in the hole, okay, Do-ree?"

The other girl shrugged and reached a pink palm toward me and I dug my wallet out. "Just a buck?" I asked as I pulled out the bill. I could feel the blonde's interest rise as she saw the wad of cash I was holding, but I ignored her and handed the money to her friend. She took it and turned to face the gallery wall, wrapping the dollar into a tight cone around her middle finger.

Now I saw that a tiny hole had been drilled in the center of one of the so-called artworks. It was a spray-paint caricature of a woman raising her rear-end, her knees knocked together and opening up her snatch for inspection. Doree looked back over her shoulder to be sure I was watching and then poked the money into the opening. She pulled her finger away, leaving the rolled bill jutting out obscenely from the puckered asshole in the drawing.

My dollar jerked once, wagged around in a little circle, and then disappeared slowly inside the picture. A few seconds later there was a sliding noise and the sketchily-drawn hairy twat of the money-buggered woman cracked wide open. The dimpled end of a can of beer appeared.

"That's the filthiest thing I've ever seen!" I couldn't believe that these two girls were showing it to me. They were bent over laughing at the expression on my face. I reached forward and extracted the can of beer. It was warm, one of those generic yellow cans with the word "BEER" stenciled on it and nothing else. I pulled the tab and foam spewed into the air.

"Oh wait. Bwana! Oh great white art collector! Let me service you!" With a sly look at her friend the blonde pranced forward and bent over my spurting drink. In a second her mouth was stretched almost completely over the top of the can and she was sucking and slurping the liquid noisily. Her stiff skirt stood up saucily as she bent over toward me, bare shoulders soft and creamy.

The double muscles at the back of her neck rippled and tensed as the girl turned to lick the drips of moisture off the sides of the can with long strokes of her tongue. Her eyes were squeezed shut, as though by lust, but after a moment she opened them seductively to see how I was appreciating her playacting. The black lipstick had begun to smear wide around her mouth as the little tease continued to kiss the wet aluminum I was pressing at her. Should I? Well, why not? I reached forward until I was touching her, ran my open hand behind her head and began to coax her movement. Now the tease had turned. I poured a stream of beer straight down her gullet. A trickle of the golden brew ran along the line of her jaw and her hair wisped across the back of my hand as she leaned languidly back into it.

"That was good!" I said, wiping the white foam from her face with my forearm. "I think I'll have another!"

"I've got a different idea," she said, when she had swallowed. She seemed to like me better now that I had shown her I was willing to play along with her games. I liked her better. She looked so trashy-sexy bent over in front of me, her corseted top split deep down the back, laced with tight black cords across the long knobby curve of her naked spine. "I'll give you a guided tour of the show."

Well what else was I going to do? I shrugged and let her lead me clockwise around the gallery space. "I'll be like a docent for you," she said, "--one of those grandmas at the museum that takes you around and tells you what the artist meant." Only she wasn't anything like any grandma I ever saw, and that was what I told her. She was like some dangerous sweet aroma that can wisp into your head and then fill it up bursting with a golden sensuous fog.

"No really. This is serious." She was acting again, standing straight in front of one of the canvases with her elbow in one hand, a forefinger pointed pensively at the corner of her wide, licorice-lipped, sexy mouth. "Here we have one of my personal favorites." On the canvas quick strokes of paint had outlined the image of a laughing woman rolled back on a pair of soft cushions, her heels high off the floor and her hands stretching and grasping at her ankles as if to pull her split pussy open to the fullest possible extent. "In this canvas," my tour guide was saying in a solemn voice, "the artist uses the metaphor of the opening once again to reveal the most intimate sense of the interpersonal experience." She leaned toward me, pulling down on my arm and breathing her voice hot against the top of my cheek. "She's asking you to come on into the picture and dick her silly."

The way she was, the lady in the picture had one tit hanging to the side while the other pointed to the ceiling. Two blocky close-up blobs of cherry-orange paint showed off her crinkled nipples, drawing them out and making them beg to be touched and chewed and sucked on, and the paint had puddled and dripped along the curves of her big chest like her female desire itself.

"I don't know about you," my tour guide remarked, "but when I look at this artwork I get this kind of spooky tingling feeling." She looked back at me, laughing brashly and curving her pink tongue from the side of her black-lipsticked mouth. I was getting the same kind of buzz off the sight of her standing there in front of me. Her legs ran bare and naked from where the tops of her thighs disappeared under the edge of her frilly skirt to her lacy ankle socklets and high-heel boots. I wanted to get my hands between her knees and tingle them apart, feel the sticky heat build as I slid upwards.

She combed her blonde hair back up from her face with her fingers and swallowed, her dark eyebrows arching up unevenly on her fair forehead as she felt my intentions rising beside her. "Let's move on, then," she said. "We have a lot of ground to cover here."

The next canvas was even dirtier than the one that had come before. The arms of a slim black girl were shown in a strong, flat brown that the artist had laid across the other girl's milky rounded shoulders and her dark face glowed with proud pleasure as adoring lips nibbled upwards on her ribs, her swinging heavy breasts. In another painting next to it, close up, the blondie's short, shock pink tongue prodded vee-like into the deeper colors of her friend's lips-wide crack. You could almost taste the dainty, loving reverence that was the promise of a nasty nose-romping rut-facing clit rub.

"These are Do-ree's." she said. "I can tell that," I said. "I think I recognise someone else, too." But in the pictures she was transformed into a loving goddess, her toughness stripped totally away.

"Well," she said scornfully. "That was then." It was the cynical snarl of her opened black-smeared lips that made me love her. For some reason it just made me want to fuck her until she forgot all about it. "This is my work," she announced, leading me on.

"I call it 'Week's Supply,'" the artist said. It was a set of six pretty pussy pictures, color photos that showed the model spreading and primping in day-of-the-week crotchless panties, only these outfits were all different. Monday was a thick black string bikini that tied from the hips into a small knot and then stretched its dual strands deep through the fleshy folds of her legs-spread twat. Another photo showed her in a honeymooner, pink and lace around a cute curly blonde bush.

I leaned close to the framed display. "They're all the same person!" I said. The images were so finely focused that you could actually see the hot moistures that coated the turned out labia. "I can tell by the smell."

She was standing tall and right next to me and when she laughed the bustle of her petticoated skirt shifted stiffly against my thighs. "I'm working on the last day's piece now," she told me. "I'd like to see it," I said.

She looked me over again slowly, from head to foot, calculating. Then she spoke. "OK let's go." A second later the punker had grabbed my hand and begun to drag me back toward a hallway at the side of the gallery, the heels of her boots pounding the concrete floor as she strode across, her dress swirling high on her hips as her bare legs scissored angrily ahead of me. "This warehouse is an artists' cooperative," she shot over her shoulder at me. "I'm going to show you where the work in this show was done." We paused as we passed a group of scruffy artist-types where the black girl Doree was standing. "We're going upstairs, Doree. Give me about three minutes, okay?" Doree nodded, scowling at me.

"You think three minutes will be long enough?" I asked skeptically. I could see where she lived already and I was jumping along behind her like a man on a pogo stick as she stamped up a flight of stairs. "By the way," I offered as we reached the top, "I introduced myself, but I don't yet know your name."

"Kandi. Kandi Kamera." She was fishing through a jumble of keys and undoing a lock-covered wooden door. "Huh?" I asked, "Oh. I get it."

She had bent over and turned on a lamp, and its yellow light splashed across her round shoulders and smooth tits, shone through the fine blonde fringe of her hair. I took up with her there, my tongue cruising deep into her punky kissing mouth, my arms roving and discovering the sweet curves of her body.

"Not so swift," she said agreeably. "We got more than three minutes." I had come up hard behind her and reached around her sides, just starting to tickle and touch her big boobs through the thick black material of her outfit. I could feel the way her nipples had begun to rise and swell as I gently squeezed and pressed her captive whoppers. "So show me this new piece," I said, my arm encirling the bunched up bustle of her party dress, fingering the stiff material and shifting the light mass of it across her rump distractingly.

I had a really kinky idea of my own, since she was such a little actress. "Pose for me," I ordered, releasing her and pushing her toward the center of the space, "Show me what the girlfriend wears on a Saturday night." I could tell she was into it, and I sank deep into a soft chair to watch.

Kandi was a perfect model, coy and threatening in her high-fashion outfit. She started out as cold as ice, striding out like she was on a stage runway, and then stopping short and staring blankly past me with her elbows sharpened and held away from her sides like a mannequin. Her voice was careful, cultured and toneless. "From the collection of Andrew di Robia, Candice wears a fitted flounce with a tied-up strapless top that elegantly emphasizes the freedom of her long legs and bare shoulders." She swiveled swiftly and began to walk away more slowly, placing her steps in a straight line that made the ruffled dress shift from side to side on her hips.

But some lowlife had busted into the salon and it was me, whistling and stomping my feet on the floor as my imagination stripped the funky rags off the bare-naked model and threw them in a heap on the floor. "Strut it, Kandi," I ordered, "Get it naked."

Saturday's child wore a pair of holey boys' underpants as her day-of-the-week selection,cut in front so that the crotch hung out like a tail behind. I watched eagerly as Kandi made the change from haughty princess to horny hooker. Now she was turned and spread open to view and she had done her snatch up too. She was showing me her new piece. This was the cunt of the punky bitch I had first met. She was showing her true colors again. There was more than one place a girl could use lipstick. The puffy, fleshy opening was lined in waxy black that made the pink hole inside it glisten like a precious ruby.

"Do you like my painted pussy?" Kandi was pressing her thighs apart and making it mew. I was throbbing hard and I leaned forward to get a better look. I thought so. She had bleached out her cunt-hair too. A little blonde beard wisped around the red and black of her horny hole, and I thought about how it would look frizzed out in a curly circle with my thick dick stuck in the middle of it. "Oh you guys. All you want to do is mess up my makeup," Kandi said. "Don't you want to mess up my makeup?"

A moment later she was leaning forward with her hands flat on a work table, her legs straight and spread and her lace-covered butt hiked high in the air. I guess she was already reading my mind. Her shoulders were twisted back to face me, her sultry expression demanding rear entry. I was going to march her in place until she was dripping wet and then line my palms up against her hips and find the straight line to her soul. "Fuck my hot hiney, Pete!" she moaned urgently. She stayed frozen in the position for just a moment before she began to slowly dip it and roll it around.

"I'll be happy to do you that favor, sugar-pie," I murmured, pulling my belt open as I stood up out of the chair. She began to draw the line of her short dress up above her rounded rump, revealing a deep sweet crack filled with goodies, extending her long legs to the limits of lust. "That's right," I laughed as I unzipped my slacks, "I knew there was a different way into that thing."

Now she was tit-smushing all the way down on the table and reaching back with both hands to stretch her cheeks completely apart for me. Her long fingers were tipped with shiny black ovals, her nails done dark to match the rest of her makeup.

I went on up the back alley where Miss Kiss-it used to take Harry Balls, kicking her trashy cans, digging through her stiff party skirt and petticoats until I got down to the recyclables. Kandi's punky ass was tipped up to me, wriggling with desire out of the bunched up black and white material. "Jock me, you dumb stud!" she was demanding in a muffled urgent voice. She didn't seem to mind being pushed around a little bit and that suited me too. I walked her knees slowly in place as I got the tight space between her soft curved thighs open and ready, loving the rolling motion as her cheeks jiggled and spread beneath my hands.

"Oh yeah. Get 'em open. Split my buns wide!" I had torn my fat red-tipped match out and I was scratching it lit on the raspy patch beneath her soft rump, sparking thin lines of lust along her striking sandpaper slit. "Put your big cock in there, baby. Don't you just want to FUCK MY BUTT?

My fingers were clenched through the criss-crossed corset cords down the naked line of her back, and I pulled her shoulders to me and bent her spine into a u-shape as I worked on getting the laces loose. Finally I pulled the loop through and the tight garment sprang open. "You BASTARD, you leave my tits ALONE," Kandi was snarling and pretending to try to tear herself away.

It turned out she had a lot of personality underneath her tough-girl facade. Kandi was still bitching and cursing me like a juvenile delinquent. I ran up hard against her ass as soon as I felt her lips spread around my knob and she grunted with effort as my meaty prick first rammed her painted hole full. In two strokes I had her sliding free and easy, her pelvis pounding and grinding forward against the tabletop. "OOOH," she moaned. I was expecting some more dirty language out of Kandi but now her cunt was doing all her talking. "GIMMEE GIMMEE GIMMEE," it was saying. She was stroking my boner like the sweetheart next door, her elbows bent out and her hands flattened on the surface of the table, shimmying and squeezing my long tool desperately as I slung it between her crybaby cheeks.

If I was into painting dirty pictures I would have made this one a realistic masterpiece, drawing her big knockers out until you could see the squishy weight of them bouncing free in your feeling forward hands. I could just see the face I'd put on her, long-lashed eyes bugged out with the shock of the stroke, her painted black curving lips pulled back from her white teeth as she dug the sensation.

"Hike it up to me, honey," I said. I was giving her a lesson at the Famous Fucker's School, my slacks down around my ankles, my knees spread and bent and my balls swinging through the air as I had her on and helped her off. Kandi's high heels were tap dancing against the floor from the lifting effect of my prick and she was huffing and humming and making little noises as I humped her hole. The juice was dripping and spraying around the base of my thick cock, smearing a sticky spot wide and wet all over her tight asscheeks. I had to admit that this little minx had some aptitude to go with her attitude. "I'm gonna show you something now," she said. I don't know how she got her legs crossed with my shaft splitting her fat fig, but in a second she had her knees locked together and the squeeze was on. She was going wild with the feeling of me, like she was trying to roll up my whole yellow pages and stuff them in a hairy briefcase, only it wasn't her fingers doing the walking this time. "Oh I love it. I LOVE it! Cram me full." She was turning hot and pink as she clamped and rode her cunt around me, starting to put together the colored scraps into a collage of cum, pumping up a load of paste to stick it down.

"Do my TITS!" Now she was begging me to handle them, and I could handle that. I was stretching them around by the hardened nips and then splashing them close to her chest as I ground my piston in deep. "SQQQUEEZE UM," she moaned. She was rolling her head deliriously from side to side as I mauled her breasts. "God, MAMA. He's playing with my TITS!"

The idea of sexing up an arrogant little punker that must have been ten years younger than me was still really getting me off. I was driving her across state lines, her wide ass smacking flat and warm against my hips. "AHH, Right. Bounce my BUTT," she said. I was swelling harder with every stroke I delivered to her bouncing buns.

There wasn't any doubt she was into the fucking every bit as much as I was. "Make me CUM. Make me cum HARD. Stick it in my cunt you SWEET FUCKER. Stuff my slutty ass full."

"Your SO BIG you FUCKING DICK!" I had a live one slip-gripping my hungry hunter. Her tight wet opening was rolling and running my whole length, squeezing the sides of my sense-expanded gland, banging down to the base of it, tickling the tip. My lip was curling like Elvis as I felt the charge move up into the firing chamber.

"LOOK AT ME!" She was rearing upright and showing off her jumping thumping juggs while I jackhammered her rear end. "I'm getting FUCKED. He's FUCKING me so CRAZY! I'm going to CUMMM!!" Now her knees were bent and spread again, setting her back on my prong while I bucked and fucked her skyward.

"Ohhh. AHHH!" The air was rough and raspy in her throat as the hot spot between her legs caught sudden fire and the flames began to lick around her soul. She was flickering and unfolding in colored flames like a crumpled magazine photo wadded up in a nest of plain newsprint.

I didn't know if I'd rather fuck her or be fucked but I didn't need to decide. With a single gooey spasm my balls turned inside out and shot the sweet spunk deep into her crack. We were stuffing and huffing at each other, ramming and reaming without rhythm as we came together and I could feel her kink and then explode with pure deep lust. "HuhHahh,HuhHahh," she gasped as she fell forward, her legs loosening around me, her passage opening to a final flurry of thrusts, "Haha, ah hah HAH!!"

"Well, what do you think," I asked finally, grinning down at the sight of her shiny spread out cheeks slowly stroking the last strings of juice from my throbbing boner, "Are you sorry I messed up your makeup--I mean your new piece?"

"Oh, no," she said, smiling sweetly and turning her head and looking toward a camera on a tripod hidden in the corner of the room. A little red light glowed along its underside. "You don't understand, Pete. You didn't mess it up. You messed it up perfect. See, I'm into video art now."

Downstairs in the gallery I could hear the applause begin.