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Slave Girl Paintings, Pornography And Art

April 14, 2012 7 comments

With digital cameras and willing models, who seem to be in plentiful supply, anyone can be an artist, and images of scenes that tickle our fancies, whatever forms those fancies take, are readily available. But oh how much more difficult it was in times past to create these  image. One had to be really be an artist.

In the nineteenth century there was an art movement called Orientalism. It depicted life, real or imagined, in what looks to be Southern Europe, such as the slave markets of ancient Rome, or the Near East. There were several painters—Jean-Léon Gérôme, Giulio Rosati, et. al.—who specialized in this work. Following are examples for your pleasure and edification.

Slave Painting by Otto Pilny (Swiss, 1866-1936)

In the painting above, the desert tribesmen are enjoying a smoke when two slave girls are brought into camp and held by men sporting leering grins.

Slave Girl by Ansen Hofmann

I love the little blush of hair, and I note the girl—well, okay, clearly a woman—is a natural redhead. She is displaying herself, but the men seem to be distracted. Is she displaying herself because she was ordered to? Trained to? Or is she willingly asking for attention? The man on the right seems as if he’s about to pat the young woman’s ass. He’ll be telling her: Don’t worry, my dear. I’ll won’t be ignoring you much longer.

Pharaohs Handmaidens by John Collier

Ahhh Yes, I remember well the days when I was a Pharaoh, and these three beauties were in my service. The one on the right is asking: do you need me Master?

Selling Slaves in Rome by Jean Léone Gérôme

This young woman is certain to bring a good price. Her clothes are discarded behind her, as she stands before the buyers. I see several hands raised. I wonder what roll is played by the young man in the lower left? Does he bring her and take her back to her cell? I wonder what perks he enjoys.

Jean-Leon Gerome (French , 1824-1904). Snake Charmer, about 1870. French, Oil on Canvas.

It’s not the snake she’s charming, its the snakes. I wonder what the young man is thinking i.e. the boy on the left.

Slaves For Sale by Gustave Boulanger

I wish I could read the girl’s sign. For Sale, plus some other choice words I imagine. He has a sign as well, so I guess he’s a slave too. He doesn’t look happy, but she seems to have accepted her fate.

Bargaining for a Slave by Giulio Rosati

If I owned her I’d drive a hard bargain too, so to speak. The buyer is putting on a tough face, but the seller is clearly holding all the cards.

Slave Market by Jean Léone Gérôme

Nearly every hand is raised for this young woman. I love her figure. The scribe behind her, the one with his writing instrument in his mouth, is certainly checking her out.

I’ve looked at this painting many times, but it wasn’t until today that I realized its story. This is not just a woman being sold. It’s a family—mother, four children, and perhaps a nanny. The oldest child seems to be a developing girl, and I don’t mean woman. Child porn, something I find repulsive, just for the record, seems to be subtly expressed in Léone Gérôme’s fantasy.

White Slave by Ernest Normand

Yes, a White slave indeed.

The Slave Market by Gérôme Jean-Léon

I know a man who is especially attracted to girls with straight teeth. This is another.

A Puppy for Valentine’s Day

January 23, 2011 3 comments

Ginny and Her Doggie on Valentine's Day

Ginny hates pets, but she wanted a doggie for Valentine’s Day.

A Puppy for Valentine’s Day

By Matthew Dyne

“What do you want for Valentine’s Day?” Ginny asked.

I leered.

“You pig,” she said. “That’s all you ever want.”

“What?” I sputtered, indignantly. You practically raped me, last weekend.”

“B.S. I barely touched you, and you were all over me.”

I looked askance. “What do you want for Valentine’s Day?” I asked.

“I don’t know… something special.”

“How about being my slave girl and letting me take you down to the sports bar and show you off?”

I thought I’d gone too far and was surprised Ginny didn’t get pissed. For a moment, she even looked as if she was considering the idea. I should have known better.

“I want a puppy,” she said.

“What?” I asked in disbelief. Ginny hates pets.

“I want you to be my puppy for Valentine’s Day,” she said. “I’ll pet you and feed you, and if you’re a good puppy and do everything I tell you, maybe I’ll let you do it to me, doggie-style, at the end of the day.”

We’d never played games like that, and though I preferred that she was the puppy and I the master, the idea still held appeal. The appeal, however, was tempered by her maybe.

“What’s the matter?” she challenged. “You want me to be your slave girl, but you won’t be my doggie? Where’s the fairness in that? And, anyway, you’re supposed to be nice to me on Valentine’s Day.”

“I thought it was a shared holiday.”

“Shared the way I want,” she said with assurance.

I raised my eyes to heaven. “Okay,” I agreed with trepidation. “I’ll be a perfect doggie.” I could barely swallow the word. “But I’d better get my reward.”

“An obedient doggie always gets rewards.”

***

I came home from work early on Valentine’s Day and was chagrined to find Ginny had doggie equipment ready for me. “Down!” she commanded and pointed to the floor.

I got on hands and knees, and she went to work. She put on my leash and tied it to the stove. Then she put knee pads on me, which she’d appropriated from my workshop and covered with flowered cloth. I was glad to have the pads—it was a considerate gesture—but flowers weren’t my style. Then she slipped leather booties on my hands. This was going too far, I thought. She tied the booties at my wrists. There was no way I could use my fingers.

Ginny left the room, momentarily, and I hung my head in shame. If anyone sees me, I thought, fearfully. Then a camera flashed.

I lunged at her, but my leash choked me up short.

“Bad dog!” she yelled.

I started to protest, but she yelled again, “Doggies don’t talk!” Then she said, sternly, “Bark or whine, or growl if you must, or else no reward.

What a guy will do to get laid, I thought. I whined pitifully.

Ginny untied the leash and led me to a chair, on which she sat. She put my head in her lap and stroked me lovingly. “You’re a good dog,” she said. “You just need a little training.” Then she undressed me. Everything came off, except my knee pads and booties. Doggies don’t wear clothes, I said to myself.

Ginny made dinner and served me in a bowl on the floor. It was hamburger and potatoes. It tasted good—I was hungry. After dinner she wiped my mouth and rewarded me with a kiss. I licked her face.

***

In the living room, I curled up on a rug, and she used me as a footrest while she read a magazine. At least I could look up her skirt, and she even opened her legs to reward me for good doggie behavior. She was a kind master.

The doorbell rang, and I panicked, but Ginny had tied my leash to the foot of the couch, and I couldn’t get away before Ginny’s friend, Jill, and Jill’s sister, Annie, walked into the house and saw me trying, futilely, to untie my leash with my teeth.

“Is that your new puppy?” Jill asked Ginny.

“He’s cute,” Annie said.

“I can’t do this,” I said, breaking character and trying, unsuccessfully, to hide my penis, which had plumped from my voyeuristic endeavors.

The women crowded around and cajoled me, exhorting me to be a good sport, and Annie pointed out that it was Valentine’s Day, and she and Jill were lonely for a man, especially one who wasn’t threatened by a little girlie fun.

When all the women started petting me, I relented. The feminine attention was delightful, until I received a whack on my head, with a magazine, for pushing my nose into Jill’s crotch.

The girls went into the bedroom and came back with Ginny’s fuzzy knit dress. It was way too small for a big man, but they stretched it on me and called it fur.

My humiliation felt complete, but they took pity on me. Ginny and Annie hugged and kissed and petted me, and Annie kneeled between my legs and leaned on my back and held my penis, letting me fuck her soft hand. It felt heavenly, but I wanted much more. I wanted to reduce them all to screams and tears and bowls of quivering jelly, the teasing bitches.

I barked and made motions toward the bedroom, and Ginny untied me. I padded away then barked and growled, to tell the women not to follow, and I retrieved Ginny’s and my Valentine’s Day gift that I’d hidden. I brought it back in my mouth. It was gift-wrapped with a red heart on it.

Ginny opened the package. It was a rose, chocolates, and a box of condoms.

“I think he’s trying to tell us something,” Annie said.

“Woof, woof,” I replied.

“Me first,” Jill said, and she raised her skirt, removed her panties, and sat on the couch with her legs spread. “I hope he’s a good lap dog?” Jill said to Ginny.

“Practice makes perfect,” she replied.

It wasn’t what I wanted, but I had two more chances, and it was Valentine’s Day, so I treated Jill to my best lapping. She had a wonderful orgasm—I could tell because of how she clamped my head between her thighs. If her orgasm had lasted longer I would have smothered.

Annie was hot for me to fuck her, but Ginny wouldn’t allow that. She wanted me for herself, and maximally horny, so Annie got a licking like Jill’s. The sisters tasted quite similar.

Then the sisters went home, and Annie took off my fur and knee pads, stripped herself naked, and went down doggie style on our bed, with her ass high in the air. I needed no further encouragement and fucked her long and hard until she screamed and came like a girl-dog in heat. Then I finished myself off.

The funny thing is, for the first time I felt like a real dog. My prick was still so stiff it felt like it had a dog’s knot that wasn’t coming out until morning.

“Happy Valentine’s Day,” Ginny said, my dog dick still in her. “Pass the chocolates, please.”