A small gallery in Munich’s Maxvorstadt, a private preview, a woman who has been running her own show for twenty years. Today, she would hand over the reins – in the dirtiest way possible.
The Lassner Gallery is small. Three rooms, one with windows facing the courtyard, two interior, on Hellmuthstrasse. I bought it twenty years ago with an inheritance from my uncle, and I made it what it is: an address to be taken seriously without seeming pompous. But tonight, I wouldn’t just be selling art – I would be making myself the object of desire.
I rarely hold auctions, maybe two a year. Before each one, there’s a preview, once public, once private. The private one takes place on the Thursday evening before the auction Saturday, and I invite six to eight people, no more, almost never anyone new. Maximilian was new. He was recommended to me by a buyer from Vienna, had asked me in writing for an invitation – on good paper, in handwriting that already said a lot. I agreed because I was curious.
He arrived on time. Suit, no tie, a shirt with an open collar, the kind of man who wouldn’t have been my type twenty years ago and now was. His gaze slid over me, lingered on my breasts, wandered lower to my crotch. I wore a tight black dress that accentuated every curve, and I knew he could see my nipples hardening beneath the fabric.
“Frau Lassner.” His voice was deep, a little hoarse.
“Herr Greiner.”
We shook hands. His was dry, the handshake brief, but his fingers lingered a moment longer on my palm. I felt an electric jolt shoot up my arm, straight into my wet cunt. God, I was already getting wet just from the sight of him. I led him through the rooms. He was interested in four lots, including two small Schiele drawings, a Munch print, and a Klee watercolor. We lingered longer than necessary in front of the Klee.
“What do you want for the Klee?” he asked, but his gaze wasn’t on the painting. He was staring at my chest, at the hard peaks pressing against the fabric.
“You’ll hear the starting price at the preview tomorrow.” My voice trembled slightly. I wasn’t used to being desired like this.
“What would you take if I asked today?” He stepped closer. His breath brushed my neck, and I felt my pussy grow hot.
I looked at him. It was a standard question, as old as the art market itself, but it was asked in a way no one asked me, because I hadn’t had secret clients at private previews in twenty years. Still, I didn’t say no immediately. My heart raced, and between my legs, it throbbed.
“Why would you ask today?”
“Because I won’t be in Munich on Saturday.” He smiled, a smile that crept straight into my panties.
“Phone bidding is possible.”
“I don’t bid by phone.” His gaze grew more intense. “I only bid in person.”
“That’s your business.”
We looked at each other. He smiled very slightly, almost imperceptibly. It was a smile that didn’t come from the negotiation, but from something else lying beneath it. I could feel his cock getting hard, pressing against his pants.
“Frau Lassner. I’m not asking you what the Klee costs. I’m asking if I may invite you to dinner after the preview.”
There were others in the rooms – two collectors from Augsburg, a collecting couple from Starnberg, a Swiss lawyer. No one heard us. I looked at him with a calm I had acquired over twenty years, but beneath that calm, a fire burned. My cunt grew wet, my panties sticking to my labia.
“You know that’s unusual.”
“Yes.”
“You know that makes a certain answer more likely if you don’t then win the Klee.”
“I don’t intend to win the Klee.” He leaned in, his lips almost at my ear. “I intend to win you.”
His breath was hot on my skin. I felt my nipples turn into hard pearls, my pussy opening, ready for him. “You lingered in front of it for a very long time earlier.”
“I lingered because I saw your face behind your shoulder in the frame.” His hand touched my arm, lightly, almost casually, but I knew it wasn’t an accident. “And because I wanted to see your tits, how they show under the dress.”
That was a sentence that made the answer difficult. I thought it over. I thought it over longer than I usually do before turning down such invitations. But my cunt decided for me.
“Thursday in a week,” I said. “Seven-thirty. Tantris. You make the reservation.”
“I’ll make the reservation.”
“One condition.”
“What?”
“You don’t buy anything from my gallery as long as we’re seeing each other.” My smile widened. “But you may buy me.”
He nodded. He held out his hand, I took it, a second handshake as brief as the first, but I felt the difference. His fingers stroked across my palm, and I knew that this hand would soon be in other places.
We met on Thursday in a week. We ate at Tantris, he had halibut, I had turbot, but I couldn’t concentrate on the food. Every bite tasted of anticipation. He ordered a wine, a robust Cabernet, and with every sip, he looked at me over the rim of his glass.
“Would you like to come to my apartment?” he asked around ten o’clock. His voice was deeper now, rougher.
“Where do you live?”
“In Lehel.”
I went with him. His apartment was an architect’s place in a building from 1908, with too few pieces of furniture and a wall full of books. I recognized two pictures he had – one was a Schmidt-Rottluff lithograph. But I was no longer interested in art. I was interested in what was under his pants.
He poured me a glass of wine. I took a sip, but then I set the glass aside. “I don’t want to talk,” I said softly. “I want you to fuck me.”
He looked at me, his gaze dark with desire. “You’re an impatient woman.”
“I’m a woman who has waited twenty years.” I stepped toward him, my hands sliding over his chest, feeling the hard muscles beneath his shirt. “And I want your cock now.”
He laughed softly, but then his face grew serious. He grabbed me, pulled me to him, his lips pressing onto mine. His mouth
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