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From: "Joanna De Brito" <joanna_de_brito@hotmail.com>
Subject: {Joanna} The Revenge of Edward Hopper (MF)
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Standard disclaimer: Over 18s only



The Revenge of Edward Hopper
by Joanna (joanna_de_brito@hotmail.com)
March 1999


Copyright 1999 Joanna de Brito
All commercial rights reserved.





I hated Margaret Taylor.

There was no denying it: I detested and loathed her. I glared as she 
walked down the corridor, my eyes flashing darts of fire as I watched 
her wriggling her ass from side to side through that slinky red dress. 
Damn her! At that moment I could have throttled her if only I knew how.

"Hello? Miss Tompkins? Sally Tompkins?"

The inquirer had caught me off guard. Realizing that my face was rather 
unwisely mirroring my inner thoughts, I swung round, trying to 
camouflage my sneer. As I turned, a camera whirred and a man with a 
ponytail and a lens confronted me.

"Put that away," I demanded coldly. "I don't want my picture taken."

He was very apologetic. "I'm sorry," he said, lowering the camera. "It 
becomes a habit after a while. Miss Tompkins?"

"Yes," I acknowledged.

"I'm Edward Hopper. The artist. I believe that I'm expected. I have an 
appointment with Mr. Murdoch."

"Hm," I pouted, noticing that my boss, Mr. Murdoch did indeed have an 
appointment with a Mr. Hopper. 

"Would you take a seat?"

I picked up the phone and dialed Mr. Murdoch's extension. "Mr. Hopper is 
here to see you," I said politely.

I listened to his instructions, then replaced the phone on the handset. 
"Mr. Murdoch will be out in a few minutes," I said to his visitor. "Can 
I take your coat?"

"Thank you." 

He unbuttoned his trench coat and shook it off. As he did so I took a 
closer look at him. Although I wasn't too sure about the ponytail, he 
was certainly very sexy, I thought. Broad and muscular, somewhat in the 
Tarzan mould. I tried to imagine him in a loincloth, then I imagined him 
without the loincloth. That was much better, especially as I was 
imagining him with a long thick erection. As I placed his heavy coat 
upon a hanger, I concealed a little shiver behind its protection.  

My training quickly cut in and the next question came automatically. My 
voice was sweet and professional as I asked, "Can I get you a drink? 
Tea? Coffee?" 

"Coffee would be nice," he said. "White. No sugar."

I invited him to take one of the seats that were in front of the 
reception area, then I went to make him his drink. As soon as he was out 
of my sight I forgot all about the attractive Mr. Hopper with his 
gorgeous erection, and again focused upon Margaret Taylor and the 
viscous way she had just spoken to me in front of the whole office. It 
had been so humiliating; everybody had heard. I would become the scandal 
of the company, the target for every wagging tongue. Christ! It was 
intolerable and I was determined that somehow I would gain retribution 
against her. But how? How?

I took Mr. Hopper his coffee, placing the tray on a small occasional 
table that sat in front of him. "Thank you," he said, with a friendly 
warm air.

"You're welcome."

"You don't like her, do you?" he asked in that same friendly manner. His 
question caught me off guard for a second time.

"Who?"

"That woman. The one that you were staring at."

I sighed. "No," I stated firmly. "I don't." I wasn't prepared to admit 
any more to a total stranger.

He took a sip of his coffee, and I began to walk back to my desk. His 
deep booming voice called after me. "It must be difficult to work with 
someone you don't like." 

I turned. "Yes," I agreed pithily. It was certainly difficult. I felt 
exasperated: I couldn't be rude to a visitor, but, at the same time, 
this was something I didn't want to talk about.

"I had to work once with a woman I didn't get on with." 

He laughed as he said it. It was an evil laugh, a cruel laugh, and there 
was something behind it, an emotion, I guess it was, that caught both my 
attention and my imagination. 

"Still," he continued. "I probably shouldn't tell you what I did to her. 
It was rather mean."

But I felt mean; I felt emotional: and I wanted to give vent to those 
feelings by doing something cruel and spiteful to Margaret Taylor. He 
had me hooked. "What did you do?" I asked eagerly.

He laughed again, and it was a devilish laugh that filled me with hope. 
What had he done? Please, please, tell me!

"She was my girlfriend," he said confidentially, moving a little closer. 
"We'd been going out for a couple of months when I found out she was two 
timing me. She was sleeping with a neighbor."

"Go on!" I exclaimed as he paused. How could anyone cheat on this hunk? 
"Please!" I added mentally. "What happened next?"

"I gained a very sweet revenge; it was cruel, but not physically so; it 
was mean, but oh, so beautiful..."
 
He had stopped. The phone had rung. Damn! "Sorry! Please! Wait! Excuse 
me a minute," I apologized before rushing to my desk.

"Murdoch Printers" I said into the mouthpiece. "How can I help you?" 

There was a woman at the other end; she wanted to know our fax number. 
Hell! Why couldn't she take it from our stationary? That's why we had it 
printed! Shit!

While I was distracted, Mr. Murdoch came out and greeted his visitor. 
They shook hands and Edward picked up his coffee and followed Mr. 
Murdoch into his office.

Damn! Damn! Damn! I felt as you do when a man brings you to the point of 
orgasm and leaves you hanging. What had Edward done? How had he got his 
revenge? I was eaten up by the need to get my own back on Margaret. 
Edward Hopper's talk had fuelled the lust within me; an intense loathing 
was now driving me onward. I could not go back. I had to hear what 
Edward had been about to tell me. Still, I comforted myself with the 
thought that he had not yet gone. He must come out from Mr. Murdoch's 
office and I would be expected to give him his coat.

I waited impatiently, so impatiently. The minutes ticked by: fifteen 
minutes; half an hour. I busied myself without being busy. I could not 
think, or concentrate, or do anything at all because of the single 
thought that now consumed me. Revenge! I had to be around when Edward 
left. Sure enough, at last, here he was coming out, and as he shook Mr. 
Murdoch by the hand I quickly rushed for his coat.

Mr. Murdoch noticed and was bemused at my keenness. "Mr. Hopkins isn't 
going yet!" he said by way of a mild rebuke. "He needs to look round. 
Perhaps you could do that for me, Sally. I've agreed to take six of his 
paintings. It'll help create a better image around here. But we need to 
decide where they should go."

Heaven! Never mind the reason; he was leaving me with Edward. "What do 
you want to see?" I asked him, much too eagerly.

He laughed. It was that same warm hearty laugh. "Just show me around," 
he said. "I'll let you be my guide."

I led him into the boardroom first. We call it the boardroom, but it's 
really just a room with a table in which we hold meetings. I watched as 
he quickly looked round and made brief notes in a pad.

"So you paint?" I asked, trying to reopen the conversation.

"Pictures," he agreed.

I waited for him to elaborate. When he didn't I inquired, "What sort of 
pictures?" 

"Nudes," he replied solemnly. "Naked women!" He held an earnest look as 
he scrutinized my face searching for a reaction, then suddenly his 
expression broke into that familiar broad smile.

"No, well, yes, sometimes, yes I do. But, seriously, I paint whatever 
I'm asked to paint. Landscapes, buildings, portraits, very boring things 
most of the time, yet sometimes," he added with a mischievous grin, 
"even the odd nude."

I decided that this moment of levity was my opportunity. His frankness 
gave me confidence. There was only one thought consuming me, Margaret. 
"So what did you do to get back at the woman that was annoying you?"

He found that even more amusing, but now I found his humor infuriating. 
This was not funny! He was laughing at me; ridiculing me; I hated it. 
Not only that, but he didn't answer, which made me even madder. What was 
worst of all was that he could see how upset I was getting and he seemed 
to delight in it.

"You must really dislike her," he said finally. "What did she do?"

I hesitated, I should be cautious; I didn't know this man, I had only 
just met him, but my hatred was driving me; I needed his help. "She 
accused me of fiddling my time," I confessed.

He nodded slowly. "I see. And were you? Were you fiddling?"

I was evasive. "That isn't the issue," I replied angrily. "She had no 
right to interfere. It didn't concern her."

"I see," he repeated.

This man was making me mad. "What do you mean, 'I see'? She got me the 
sack. Next week I've got no job to go to. All because that woman stuck 
her nose into something that's none of her business."

"Calm down," he said at last, his own voice totally unruffled. "I tell 
you what. Suppose I were to do you a favor and do to your lady, what's 
her name...?"

"Margaret," I said quickly.

"Suppose I were to do to Margaret what I did to my Debbie, what would 
you do?"

I was confused. "How do you mean, what would I do?"

"Would you have dinner with me, for instance?"

It struck me that he was asking me to strike a price when I didn't yet 
know what I was buying. "I don't know," I replied. "What are you 
planning? You haven't told me."

But he knew he had me hooked; he could sense it. "Would you have dinner 
with me?" he repeated insistently.

I looked at him dubiously. Could I trust him? What was his game? I 
thought over the proposition. Hell, what did I have to lose? He wasn't 
bad looking; he exuded confidence and strength. Having dinner with this 
hunk wasn't going to be such a sacrifice. "I guess so," I said 
guardedly.

"OK. So you would have dinner with me. What else? Would you pose for 
me?" he responded immediately.

I was instantly suspicious as to his intentions and I obviously showed 
it. He laughed again. "I don't mean like that, you can wear what you 
like, you choose. But you have such an expressive face; it's just 
wonderful for me as an artist: it's so open. I want so much to paint 
it."

"No undressing?" I insisted.

"Only at your discretion," he teased.

"Hmm. OK, then I would pose for you. But I don't think this is fair. You 
still haven't told me what you plan to do."

"Neither shall I," he replied. "It will be a surprise: for you as well 
as for Margaret. But I promise you, the surprise will be worth it."

*************************************************

Edward opened the door. 

"This better be good," I exclaimed. "I cancelled everything - I was 
going to the pictures tonight - to come over here. What is it that won't 
wait?"

"Don't worry. It'll be good," came his smooth reply as he closed his 
front door and showed me into his studio. "Very good."

The ever-present camera was still in his hand. He lifted it and snapped 
a shot of my angry countenance. It didn't get any less angry through the 
experience.

"I thought you were an artist," I snapped, turning away from the camera. 
"Not a photographer."

"I am," he agreed, a little sadly. "But first I take photographs; with 
my photographs I paint my pictures."

The camera whirred again. "Stop that," I protested. "I told you before 
that I don't like being photographed."

"Ah," he said knowingly. "But you also said you would pose for me."

"But that was on condition that you did something mean to Margaret. And 
I haven't seen any evidence yet that you've done anything."

"You are so untrusting," he countered, clicking the camera again. "When 
I promise something, I always deliver."

I caught my breath. Then he had done it! I hardly dared to ask him the 
question. "What have you done?" I whispered.

"As yet, nothing." 

I looked at him angrily. Was he trying to fool me? Or just to seduce me?

"And, yet," he continued with scarcely a pause, "at the same time I have 
done everything. It is so perfect. Everything is prepared; it simply 
requires you to set the device into motion."

That was exactly what I wanted him to say. I was spellbound; this man 
was using all the hatred I had centered upon Margaret to bind and 
captivate me. Please, Edward, my heart is bleeding: please tell me, I 
can bear the tension no longer.

"What did you do?" I entreated him. He could see so clearly that I was 
begging.

That broad smile disappeared and his voice was now deep and demanding. 
"Undo your blouse and I will tell."

I blushed. Was this then just a joke? I was distraught; this was just a 
ruse to get me out of my clothes. "Bastard" I stabbed the word at him. 
"You promised. You said I wouldn't have to remove anything."

I clutched my purse and moved toward the door. "And neither shall you," 
he explained calmly.

Those words, his voice, they stopped me where I stood and I waited. I 
wanted to hear him, to be convinced by him, to believe him. Oh, I wanted 
so much. I didn't want to leave. My hatred of Margaret controlled and 
consumed me. 

"I don't want you to take anything off," he elaborated. "I just want you 
to undo your blouse."

That was not enough. "Oh, yes," I sneered. "But we both know that would 
only be the first step. Then you'd want me to loosen or undo something 
else. I'm not stupid."

"Of course not," he acknowledged. "And neither is Margaret. Yet I caught 
her in my snare. She is yours! She is at your mercy. Humble her; 
humiliate her; do with her what you will. You hate her, but how strong 
is that hate. Is it willing to pay my price? Will you bargain? I won't 
tell you a thing unless first you undo your blouse."

I could not resist him; he had me hooked and he was reeling me in. I 
began at the top of the blouse, slipping the buttons undone. But I would 
not undress. I promised myself that. There had to be a limit; a price I 
would not pay. I would humiliate Margaret, but not at the cost of 
humiliating myself. But where was the harm in what he was now asking? 

He snapped furiously. He gestured that I should allow the blouse to fall 
open. I grimaced, but obediently pulled the blouse from my skirt. The 
sides gaped revealing the valley between my breasts bridged by my white 
lace bra; exposing the flat expanse of my tummy. He liked that. I could 
see that he liked that.

"Ruffle your hands through your hair," he demanded. I paused, I was 
embarrassed, but still I obeyed.

He took half a dozen more pictures, then picked something up from the 
side. At first I could not see, but as he held it out I recognized that 
it was a swimsuit. 

"I asked Margaret if I could take some pictures of her in this," he said 
as he held it out. "I told her it was for a picture that would be hung 
at Murdoch's, a summer interior. She didn't hesitate; she agreed at 
once."

He gave me the costume. "Put it on," he said. "You agreed to pose. I 
want to take pictures of you, then I can show you what I've done and you 
can accept your prize."

At the same time he handed me a piece of paper. "It's a model release 
form," he said to my quizzical glance. "Read it and sign it. It's quite 
regular."

I shook my head, handing both the form and the swimsuit back to him. 
"You must think me very naive!" I said. "If you trapped Margaret with 
this.... Then you must have something devious up your sleeve. I know 
it."

He nodded. "Maybe you are right; maybe you are wrong. How will you ever 
know for certain? Have you come so far only to back out now? There's 
only one way you'll find out what happened to Margaret. I want you in 
this swimsuit. It's quite decent. How badly do you want revenge? How 
badly do you want Margaret in your clutches?"

I took both the model release form and the swimsuit from him. "Where can 
I change?" I asked meekly. He had me, but my words were sticky and 
coated with suspicion. "If you think I'm going to change out here! If 
that's what this is about...?"

He laughed that same old disarming laugh. I recognized it now. He 
pointed to a door. "Changing room," he said. "And there's a lock on the 
door. You'll be quite safe."

I followed his direction and found myself in what I would have better 
described as being a cupboard rather than a room. But he was right about 
it having a lock, and I duly turned the key. Maybe I fancied him, I 
wasn't yet sure, but I didn't trust him at all.

Perhaps he had a two-way mirror, or a hidden camera. Maybe that was his 
trick, I thought. Maybe he was even now watching me in a monitor waiting 
for me to undress. The idea that my body could make him lust for me made 
me begin to lubricate inside. But what excited me the most was that I 
could tease him and then refuse him; I could arouse him and then deny 
him. Well, if he was out to catch a sneak peek, there was enough room in 
this glorified cupboard for me to do a beach job. I would change under 
my clothes. That would scupper his plan!

I carefully lowered my knickers from under my skirt, then pulled them 
off and held them in the reflection of the mirror. You would have liked 
to see me in these, I thought. I think you would have been stroking your 
cock, certainly if I had let you see what was under them. I picked up 
the swimming costume and pulled it up my legs. It took some wriggling 
but I soon had the lower part in place. I bet you liked that, my dear 
Edward, I thought. I bet you like it when I wriggle. I unfastened my 
skirt and removed it, followed by my blouse, carefully keeping my back 
to the mirror, just in case! We don't want to excite you too much, that 
would not do, would it, dear Edward? Then I pulled up the top of the 
costume, and only when my breasts were securely under it did I unfasten 
and remove my bra.

Now I could look at myself in the mirror. You haven't got the better of 
me, Edward Hopper, I thought to myself. Look at me; lust for me; you'll 
have to imagine what I've refused you. I looked at my reflection and 
admired myself in the swimsuit, twisting and turning to get a better 
look. There was nothing wrong with it. It was not too low on the bust or 
too high on the leg. It seemed entirely sensible, modest and one piece. 
It was predominantly red and floral with a hint of green: and it covered 
everything that should be covered. I looked at my rear: no different. I 
would have been happy to be on the beach with my granny in this number.

I sighed. What are you up to, Edward Hopper? You are up to something; I 
smell it. And Margaret fell for the bait: delicious. I read the model 
release and shrugged: it seemed to be in order, so I wrote my name at 
the bottom and left it for him to collect.

Feeling rather smug, I opened the door and went back out. Edward had 
turned on the floodlights and was adjusting the angle of an upside down 
umbrella. I was a little disappointed. He did not seem unduly flushed or 
excited. Had my performance in the changing room then been without an 
audience?

I was now feeling less smug and rather more nervous. Why was I doing 
this? What was possessing me? Where was the trap? When would it spring? 
Did Margaret matter so very much to me?

"Where do you want me?" I asked in embarrassment after he had failed to 
speak. 

He pointed to an area in front of the pair of floodlights and the upside 
down umbrella and I stepped unsteadily across and stood in the 
brightness.

There, I took up a pose. "That's nice," Edward said through the murmur 
of the camera motor. "Yes, I like that. That's good. Hold it there."

I couldn't believe this. What was I doing? I had come to find out about 
Margaret, I told myself. And I was behaving like a naive fool. I had 
found out nothing; he hadn't told me a thing.

"Can you hold your breasts. Lift them, yes, push them together, that's 
it." The camera whirred again.

For the next ten minutes I patiently reacted as he suggested poses: 
suggestive poses; I bent and stretched to his whim. I didn't tell, but I 
found it exciting, It made me feel sexy, feeling his attention, sensing 
his interest. His gaze was so intense that at times, although I knew I 
wore a modest swimming costume, the way he looked, the way he reacted, 
he made me feel very naked, and even more than naked.

Finally it came; the proposition I had been expecting. "Supposing I were 
to ask you to pull down the top; just a little. You wouldn't need to 
take anything off; I would keep my promise. I just want to take a couple 
of shots of your tits. They're so sexy."

I have to confess that for a moment I did consider it. I knew it would 
excite him and I would be able to haggle myself. But I held firm, and I 
shook my head.

"Come on, stop bull shitting me," I demanded of him. "You've taken your 
pictures: now, tell me about Margaret. What's the deal?"

He seemed to accept defeat graciously, though he didn't stop taking his 
pictures as he began to explain. "That swimsuit," he said. "You may have 
seen it advertised in the catalogues. It allows you to sit in the sun 
and get an all over tan."

I nodded. I had seen them. "So what?" I asked. "The advertising blurb 
makes it clear that you can't see through the material, even when it 
gets wet."

He grinned. "That's right. Even when it gets wet."

The camera snapped again. "Would you open your legs a little?" he asked. 
The shutter clicked as I did so, the picture was taken.

"Even when wet," he mumbled, his mind catching up. "But consider how it 
works. The material is colored with a die that reflects visible light 
but is transparent to ultra violet light. That's why you go brown when 
you lie in the sun."

"So?" I didn't see his point.

"So suppose I were to take some pictures with an infra red or ultra 
violet camera; a camera that uses light in the waveband in which the 
swimsuit is transparent. A lot of cameras can do that now."

Both his camera and what he had said suddenly clicked at one and the 
same time. I knew that horror and humiliation were written across my 
face as surely as I knew that he had just taken a picture in which I was 
as good as naked; in which my legs were wide open and the moisture from 
my pussy was freely flowing. My legs snapped shut.

"You mean I'm naked to that camera?" It was a statement masquerading as 
a question. I knew absolutely and without doubt that he had caught me in 
his trap.

"Totally," he agreed. 

Yet perhaps all was not lost. "And you photographed Margaret in the same 
way?"

"Yes."

"Show me," I replied hoarsely. He had pictures of Margaret too. It was 
not a disaster. How I would use them!

He sat me on his coach, still wearing only that floral swimming costume. 
He came over and handed me a small pack of prints. As I looked through 
them I expressed disappointment. She had obviously worn something over 
the costume, a white top; it covered her breasts. I could not see them, 
no, not even in a single picture. Neither could I see her face.

"I don't believe it!" I exclaimed. "How could you take so many pictures 
and not even get one of her face? What were you doing?"

"She was shy of the camera; she didn't want to be recognized," Edward 
explained. "She was not like you. Even though she was wearing both the 
costume and a top she remained bashful. But you can still tell that it's 
her. There's no mistaking it. And her pussy is as clear as anything."

He took the pictures from me and began flicking through them, finally 
picking out one. "This is the one I was thinking of using," he said.

Margaret was sat on the floor leaning against a bed. She was wearing the 
white top; there was just a hint of her cleavage and her pussy was 
clearly visible. 

"Can you imagine how embarrassed she will be when I paint this as a 
picture? Knowing that we both know she is the model? Especially if you 
were to remind her occasionally."

"But Mr. Murdoch would never let you hang a picture like that; not at 
the offices," I protested.

"Oh I think he would," Edward said. "You see, Mr. Murdoch has already 
told me exactly what he wants and exactly how much he's prepared to pay 
for it. I think a picture such as that would be well within his tastes."

"Mr. Murdoch? I never dreamed... But where would you hang it?" I asked 
eagerly. "Somewhere where she would see it. Maybe where she would have 
to see it every day. Can you imagine that, to see it and know that it is 
her? And to know that all her colleagues know it too. She would find 
that so embarrassing, I know that she would. I'm certain that I would 
find it so."

I looked up at him with a broad smile on my face. "Paint it," I ordered. 
"Do the bitch!"

**********************************************************

It was my final day, yet I was looking forward to it, because it was the 
day of the unveiling. I couldn't wait to see Margaret's face when for 
the first time she saw Edward's picture and recognized herself as the 
model.

The pictures had been hung; we all impatiently waited. They were 
displayed before us, with sheets hiding them from view. I looked over at 
Margaret; my heart beat so fast as I contemplated how she would react. 
One of these portraits was her: her pussy on exhibition.

Edward came in with Mr. Murdoch. All the other directors were there, all 
the other staff. Edward caught my eye: he smiled, that devilish smile 
that had first caught my attention. There was menace in his eyes. He was 
talking, introducing his pictures. He reached for the muslin sheet 
covering the first picture. Margaret stepped forward. She took his hand.

"This next work came from an idea suggested by my fiancee," he was 
saying. He pulled the muslin away and I looked at his picture for the 
first time.

I was looking at the portrait of a woman. She was naked and abandoned; 
her breasts were thrust forward and her nipples were hard. There was a 
look of dismay mixed with horror on her face, as though she had just 
been told something terrible. She held her legs apart so that her pussy 
could be seen as being both pink and wet. We stared at each other for 
several seconds, this likeness and I: I could have been her mirror for 
her expression coincided so exactly with my own; nay, it was not just 
her expression: for the resemblance was uncanny; this woman and I were 
clearly but one.


The Revenge of Edward Hopper
by Joanna (joanna_de_brito@hotmail.com)




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