Ars Amandi

I didn’t fall for her because she was beautiful but rather because she wasn’t. I was hers the moment I saw her, on an October day twenty years ago. I was wondering through the Moravian Gallery, on my final day in the city. Brno is actually a pleasant city, once you have penetrated the dystopian outer ring of Communist era panelaky, and like peeling off the layers of an onion, reached the sweet soft centre of gentle post Habsburg decay, of ochre yellow and onion domes, of manhole covers that tell you this was once Gemeinde Brunn, and remind you of the ghosts that still haunt these buildings. I did the Spilberk, I did the church crypt where former prominent citizens lie embalmed and orgasmless under glass.   

On my final morning I had time to kill. I went to the gallery and saw her.

A faint outline of an ex-girlfriend, a look of sadness I thought, as of she was waiting for me. There were depths there. I sat and gazed at her, thinking myself into her time, the world that was to be swept away, never to return, the home she shared with who? I didn’t know, didn’t want to know. I saw her bed, saw one pillow bearing the imprint of her head, the other pillow seemingly untouched. My pillow, my pillow. I was soon in the bed warming the sheets for the moment she came into the bedroom freshly bathed, and…….

The rest of the exhibitions might as well have been a blur. They meant nothing. I had no camera but stood before her for twenty minutes memorising every detail. I needed to hold her, for ever. I looked around the gallery, I was alone on this chilly autumn morning.

I knelt before her, slid a hand down my skirt. I was wet. I kissed the floor then walked up to the picture and kissed it. I looked quickly for the toilets, locked myself in a cubicle mad masturbated frantically to her, flushing the toilet as I came so as not to be heard.   

On my first day in Brno I had found a bar that I liked. It was clearly aimed at the young professional women of the city, wicker chairs and pastel colours. I guess such overtly feminine decor is not normally my thing but I knew I would be safe here, sitting on my own with my city map, planning the following day’s sightseeing. And they did great cocktails. I came here every evening before dinner, enjoyed the people watching, I could watch Czech women all day and wish I could say more in their language, more than prosims and dekujis and smiling like an idiot.

I ordered a pornstar Martini and began to leaf through a copy of Czech Vogue as I waited for it. On the next table a blonde Czech woman sat with what I assumed was her Spanish husband. She spoke fluent Spanish while he sat in various states of cluelessness as the waitress took their order. It’s always the way I reflected, that it is always the woman who learns her husband’s language and so rare that the husband makes the effort even though he would gain so much from it, greater intimacy with his wife and better sex not least. I thought she was lovely and I would happily have given her the orgasms she deserved, and then I thought of my new lover. What would I do to her? Or what would she do to me? I am sexually submissive so would happily have done whatever she wanted. I was here to serve. Being a top in bed is the ultimate service for me. 


A pornstar martini was placed on the table in front of me. I picked it up and started, nearly spilling my drink, as I looked at the next page of Vogue. She was there in a feature on the Moravian Gallery, there for me.

I didn’t bother with dinner that night. I needed to be with her. I paid for my cocktail and surreptitiously slipped the magazine into my bag. I needed to be alone, quickly.    


It was two years later that I went to the Czech Republic again. I had enrolled in night classes, learnt some elementary controversial Czech, I had even had a brief relationship with a Czech woman I met by chance on the bus home one night as I studied my course book. Just a brief relationship. In the meantime I forgot all about mu virtual lover from Brno. I may even have thrown the magazine out.

As my friends were mostly in settled relationships, I holidayed alone. This year I went to Southern Bohemia and Cesky Krumlov, on the trail of Egon Schiele. A visit to the art gallery was first on my list of things to do.           

“Come here!”

I turned round with a start. She was there before me, still in the white blouse, the green cardigan, her hair still n the severe bob. She carried a whip, a dark coil of promise. I felt immediate arousal seeing her. She motioned to me to come to her, nodded that I should get on my knees. I knelt and bowed my head, focused on the Mary Janes, and the beige stockings that I cod see were sagging a little.

“You are to take your clothes off and masturbate for me…..not to me, like you did that time in Brno. Do you think I didn’t see you? I forbid you to fantasise about me. You masturbate for me, for my entertainment”

I looked around. The attendant had gone, we were alone in the gallery. I heard the sound of a key in the door. No one was going to come in. But I could not escape.

“Get a move on!”

“Yes, pani” I muttered and pulled the dress over my head.

“All your clothes. The underwear too.”

I hesitated.

“Underwear off! Now!”

She spoke firmly almost without raising her voice. She brought out her hand from behind her back. I saw the whip, its delightful threat. I felt myself becoming aroused. I gasped as I removed my panties and the silk brushed against my swollen clit.    

   She pointed to a raised wooden plinth in the middle of the exhibition space and motioned to me to climb onto it. I lay down and opened my legs as she commanded me.

“Play with yourself but do not come”

She was now standing over me. I pushed a finger into my cunt. I was soaking. I looked at her, at the whip, I rubbed my sore butt against the rough wood of the plinth and gasped. I began to work my clit with my thumb.

“Come without permission and you get one hundred lashes.”

“Yes Ma’am.”

I worked slowly not wanting to take myself to the edge too quickly but I couldn’t. I needed to come badly, badly, I needed, her, her, her heel grinding my nipple, her hand spanking my butt, I needed my hands lashing together and roped throw across a beam to stretch me for the fierce whipping, I wanted the stripes, I wanted them, I rubbed harder as he looked down at me, laughing at my agony. I arched my back as I fought the orgasm, struggled to obey, I tried to remember how to ask her for permission to come in Czech, knowing she would refuse, I needed to obey, to submit, to come, come , come. I groaned with despair.

Tears were welling up as I saw that she had gone to open the door and a visitors we coming in, looking at the picture on the wall, looking at me. But she had gone and I was alone with the viewers, I was art, living art.

Could I come? I knew I could, must. I rubbed my clit frantically and realised I was being recorded on several phones as I brought myself back to the edge, then carried on beyond it and came with a loud scream.

A burst of applause echoed round the gallery. I lay panting.

A man brought a coat and laid it over me,

“Perhaps you are cold?” he asked.

“Thank you” I said quietly. I lay still for a few seconds then threw the coat off and started again.

I woke up alone in my hotel room. I pulled back the curtains and looked up to the castle. There was more visiting to do, so much more. First I needed another wank. 

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