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Wednesday Morning

There was a special show scheduled for the Louvre, featuring six artists of the hot new art movement: Rayne, Becker, Colbert, Durand, Martel, and Thayer. The show was sponsored by Le Université de la Sorbonne Nouvelle, and would take place in a room normally used for restoration work.

The two models were chatting as they waited for the artists to get ready. "So why did you come here," Jeanelle Paquet asked.

Agnes Girard smiled sadly. "My studio decided I wasn't bringing in enough money, so they invoked the 'early retirement' clause in my contract. You know how that goes."

"Yeah. Sell your body for just enough to live on, or starve in an 8-foot square room with a toilet that works some of the time."

"Yeah. But they offered me this as an option, and I practically leapt at it. What about you?"

"My bookings were going down. Jeanelle answered. "Fewer showings, fewer photographers wanting to use me. I could have kept working another year, maybe two, but when I read about this new 'Noosrotica' show I just couldn't resist. A chance to hang in the Louvre. Who wouldn't want that as an ending?"

Agnes nodded. "Yep!"

The Louvre's Managing Director, Monsieur Gaubert Odilon, came in and clapped his hands for attention. "The first hanging is to be hands free. The second, tomorrow morning, will be with hands tied. So... who goes first?"

Agnes and Jeanelle looked at each other. Jeanelle smiled. "That would be me."

"Excellent," the Director said, "You may touch yourself anywhere you like, for erotic or any other purpose, but do not scrabble at the noose; we want your skin smooth and undamaged."

Martel fixed Jeanellle with a lascivious look that made the meerkat femme's nipples erect. "Your long, dark headfur will look lovely as you sway in the noose." The pure eroticism of the ratel's brushstroke technique on the faces and headfur of her snuff models had made her world famous.

"Thank you," Jeanelle said. The meerkat brushed a tiny bit of oil into her fur to make it shine.

"Merveilleux," Durand said.

The Director brought up a stool. The meerkat climbed up and stood on top of it. She pulled the noose open and slipped it under her chin, then adjusted the knot until it touched the side of her neck.

"One moment, please," Martel said. "Could we have Mlle. Girard sit with her legs crossed and her right hand touching her left hip? I'm planning a wide view for this painting."

M. Odilon glanced at the koala, who nodded. "Bien."

Agnes took the position indicated. It was reasonably comfortable and it would give her a primo view of the meerkat's hanging.

The artists began sketching, outlining Jeanelle and the noose with pencil or charcoal stick.

When all six artists had set down their tools, the Director touched Jeanelle. "Ready?"

"Yes."

"Will you step off or should I push you?"

The meerkat made a pushing motion with one hand. " I want just a little noncon in my hanging. Count to three, then give me a good push."

"One..." M. Odilon put his hand on Jeanelle's buttocks. "Two..." The margay tensed the muscles in his arm. "Three." He gave a solid shove.

"Ackkk!" Jeanelle gasped as her feet left the stool, then the rope stopped her fall and the noose squeezed her throat shut. The meerkat hung there, still for a few seconds, her chest muscles tensed.

The Director moved the stool to a corner of the room where it wouldn't intrude on the scene, then went to the East side of the room

Jeanelle started kicking, slowly at first, then more vigorously, her feet protesting the punishing grip of the noose around her neck and her need for air. Then her kicking slowed again, became more tentative. Her left hand went between her legs, finding her button, and her right hand began squeezing her left tit. The fear on her face was replaced by the not-quite-a-smile of a femme near orgasm. The meerkat's paw went to her face, two fingers forcing their way into her mouth, then back to her nipple, tweaking it and rubbing it. Her tail stood straight out behind her.

Jeanelle reached inside herself with one finger. Her cunt was already wet. She reached in farther, then spread the juices on her clit. Her face contorted as she rubbed her clit hard and fast.

Martel set down the brush she'd been using to paint Jeanelle's tits and picked up a pencil. The ratel sketched that needy expression, then the motion of the meerkat's bare feet.

Jeanelle's face grew more intent; her right hand came down to her pussy. She jammed two fingers into her cunt and began fucking herself furiously, wanting to reach that deathcum in the few seconds of consciousness left to her. She succeeded: her eyes focused on the far wall of the room, her hands moved rapidly as she pleasured herself, but her other muscles were rigid in the throes of her orgasm.

Martel overlaid the orgasm expression on her sketch of the model's face. Rodolph Thayer sketched Jeanelle's headfur, breasts, and pussy. Durand drew the outline of the meerkat's body, her clenched hands, and the way her head tilted to one side.

Jeanelle's hands stopped moving and slowly relaxed at her sides. Her hindpaws kicked, a little, perhaps two or three inches, then went still, her toes pointing down and swinging back and forth like the pendulum of a double-sized grandfather clock.

Oscar Colbert had incorporated an almost-cubist sense of motion in his eroticism. The ferret was using a very sharp pencil to draw thin, almost-invisible arcs on his canvas, marking the motion of the model's toes, her hips, and her tits.

"I can't stand it any more!" Agnes said, jumping up from her pose to stand, one hand on her hip, one cradling her right breast. "It's too much to bear! Somebody fuck me!"

All three males turned to look at her. Thayer and Colbert shook their heads. Becker said, "I need about ten minutes to finish this sketch, Mlle. Girard... is it? then I'll be glad to take care of you. Meanwhile, why don't you come over here and help get me in the mood?" He turned to M. Odilon. "Monsieur le Directeur, could you arrange to have a heavy table or desk brought in. Something to lean against, but short enough to see over?"

The Director nodded and made a quiet phone call.

Agnes came over and put her hand in the caracal's lap, feeling for the lump. She was not surprised to find him partly erect already. The koala started squeezing his cock, slowly, then rubbing her hand over it.

A wooden desk arrived in about five minutes; Becker put down his charcoal stick a few minutes after that. He and a couple of other artists moved the desk so that somebody leaning over it would have a good view of Jeanelle's still twitching body.

"Now, Mlle. Girard, if you would bend over..."

The koala stood with her legs apart and bent over, bracing her hands against the desk. Emile felt her cunt with two fingers. It was sopping wet. The caracal took off his clothes, leaving them folded on his chair. Then he walked up behind Agnes and slid into her with a soft squishing sound.

"Oooh, yes!" Agnes said.

Becker started moving slowly in and out of the koala's cunt while she stared at Jeanelle, still twisting slightly at the end of the rope. She licked her lips and moaned with each inward thrust, then looked slightly disappointed each time he withdrew. This went on for nearly two minutes, then she threw her head up and started keening.

The caracal sped up, pounding in and out of Agnes's wetness. At last, he grunted, thrust all the way in, pulled halfway out, hilted himself and stayed that way. "Yes! Yes! Yes!" he yelled. The koala screamed as she felt him go all the way in. Her legs started to buckle, and he had to grab her around the waist and hold her up so he could stay inside her.

He finally withdrew, panting, and slowly lowered Agnes to the floor. "You're pretty good, young lady."

The koala just lay there for another couple of minutes, twitching and occasionally yipping. When she finally got control of herself, she remembered what Becker had said. "You're not so bad yourself, Monsieur Becker. I hope I'll get you as excited tomorrow as Jeanelle got me today. That was unbelievable!"

The director picked up his phone to call for workers to remove the desk, but Coralie Martel said, "No, leave it. Two of us -- or more -- may want it tomorrow."

Agnes looked at her and shivered slightly. "I hope so. I hope I get you all so excited you have an orgy on the floor!"

Martel looked around and caught Steffie Rayne's gaze, then Becker's and Colbert's. "You won't be participating physically, but you can count on us to get the maximum enjoyment from your contribution to our art," the ratel said. The two males nodded agreement.

The other five artists nodded agreement.

"I'm going to get some lunch." Colbert put down his brush.

"Give me a few seconds," Rayne said, touching up a bit here and there. Then she put down her brush as well.

"Could you resume your position, please," Martel asked.

Agnes looked confused for a moment, then spotted the cushioned bench she'd been on earlier. "Sorry," she said, and went back to sit there, leaning on her left hand, her legs crossed at the ankle.

"Don't apologize. I just need to get a little bit more detail here on my canvas. But I just have to capture that 'I just came harder than I'd have believed possible' expression on your face." She stood the canvas stretcher against the wall behind her, and picked up another, smaller one. She picked up a different, finer, brush and began painting, little tiny strokes as she drew the corners of Agnes's mouth and the slightly crinkled skin around her eyes.

The other three artists got up one by one and left for the museum's lunchroom. "Would you bring back a selection of sandwiches for Miss Girard," Martel asked . "Put it on my tab." She reached down and handed her card to Thayer.

"And maybe a little bit of the soupe du jour?" Agnes added.

Martel nodded.

"Sure," the rabbit buck said and left the room.

Martel painted for about an hour, then set down the small canvas and put the big one on her easel. "Now... yes! Your pussy is still wet from earlier, it glistens beautifully." She started painting again. Then, "Hmmm.... do I dare show the bits of semen around your entrance?"

The koala turned bright red as she realized that she'd never bothered to wipe off after that wonderful experience with Becker. Then she realized why her breathing had sped up. "That would be really sexy, Madame."

"Oh, call me Coralie. No need to be formal after the show you just put on."

"Yes... I mean no, Ma... I mean Coralie."

Martel mused a moment. "I think I'll do it. The stick-in-the-mud critics will denounce it as blatant pandering, of course, but that will just make more people want to see my work. And the others -- the critics who think they are in the avant garde, they'll find reasons to like it." She squeezed some white paint onto her palette, mixed in a few drops of other colors, picked up an ultra-fine brush, and began adding little off-white accents to the painting.

"Yes," the ratel said to herself after about 15 minutes, "That will do it."

"I'm glad, Coralie."

The other artists came straggling back in, Durand carrying a paper bag. and resumed work on their pieces.

"Anybody else need Mlle. Girard this afternoon?" Martel asked.

The other artists shook their heads, a couple adding various forms of "No" aloud.

"Okay." She turned to Agnes. "You may leave for the day. Or just find somewhere comfortable and watch us work, whichever you prefer."

Agnes put her feet down on the floor, picked up the bag and opened it. She pulled out a small container of soup and a spoon. "Onion soup. Perfect!" She pulled the lid off and started spooning soup into her mouth. When she'd finished with that, she looked into the bag again, chose a sandwich, unwrapped it and ate it slowly.

When she was done, she stared at the meerkat's body, now perfectly still, with her lips parted, breathing slightly fast. After a while she realized that she was a little cold. She reached down, picked up her robe, and put it on. But she stayed until all the artists had washed their brushes and put them away. Mostly looking at the body, but sometimes wandering around to see what was going onto the canvases and sketchpads.

Colbert and Martel were the last to leave. "Are you hungry?" the ferret asked.

Agnes looked around, realized that he was asking her. She considered the state of her belly. "Yes, I think I am."

"How about La Palais de Saphir? We're paying."

"That sounds wonderful."

Thursday Morning

Martel came in just after 9, when the day shift staff came on duty to admit her, and resumed work on her painting from Wednesday. The other five drifted in over the next two hours.

Agnes walked in at 11, the Director's arm over her shoulders. The artists all applauded her. She smiled and bowed to them.

"Do you have a last request before we get started?" M. Odilon asked.

Agnes looked around the room, locking eyes with Martel and then Colbert, and remembered why she was feeling sleep-deprived this morning. They nodded, and Martel made a quick licking motion with her tongue. Agnes blushed slightly, but if any of the other artists noticed, they didn't say anything. The koala shook her head, then thought of something. "Does anybody here want to give me a last fuck?"

There was an awkward pause, then Colbert said, "Right now we need to stay horny. If we cum before we at least get our cartoons drawn, our art won't have that fierce erotic drive to it."

Agnes nodded. Yes. The art -- their art -- was what she was here for, after all. She paused, thinking.

"Well.. my hands are going to be tied, right? Like a prisoner being executed?"

"Yes," M. Odilon said.

"Jeanelle only fell a couple of inches. But if I'm to be like a prisoner, I think I should have a substantial drop. Not enough to break my neck -- that wouldn't be erotic at all. But maybe two or three feet?"

"You'll get a terrific rope burn," M. Odilon warned her, "it'll hurt a whole bunch."

Agnes shrugged. "Il faut souffrir pour être belle -- One must suffer to be beautiful, yes? Or, in this case, sexy."

"And I'll need to get you a higher stool. We can only get about a 50 centimetre drop with this one."

"Can you do that for me?"

"Yes. If you're really sure."

"I'm sure."

"Okay. Go to the bathroom, then come back and remove your clothes, please."

Agnes left the room. The Director picked up the stool and put it away in a closet. He brought out a taller stool. It had metal crossbars that could be used as rungs for climbing, but it looked rather rickety. He set it up, then brought out a 4-step ladder, unfolded it, and set it in front of the stool.

The koala returned about 5 minutes later. She took off her clothes, tossing them into a corner. She hesitated a moment when it came time to remove her panties, then shrugged and muttered something about "...naked yesterday..."

"Turn around, please, then hands behind you."

Agnes turned around and crossed her wrists. The Director wrapped a short rope around them in a figure eight, passed one end between them, then pulled the rope tight and tied it off. "Test it, please."

Agnes pulled at the rope, but was unable to move her hands. "It's good."

"Turn around again."

Agnes turned around and saw the ladder and stool waiting for her with the noose above it. "Oh!" she gasped. She took a step forward, and stopped, then another, and froze. She just couldn't bring herself to take those last three steps to the ladder. A few tears dripped down her face.

Martel and Thayer picked up their canvases from the previous day, but Rayne motioned them back. "I just have to capture this," she said. The kinkajou reached down, picked up a camera, and took a photo of Agnes's expression. She moved around the room, capturing the koala's face and position from several different angles, then returned to her easel.

Martel went forward and held her painting up, in between Agnes and the noose. Thayer held his up next to Martel's, and Durand put her nearly-completed drawing on the other side.

"Look!" Martel demanded. "This is the result from Mlle. Paquet's sacrifice yesterday. Isn't it beautiful? Sexy?"

"Y-yes." Agnes sniffled.

"Today's art will be even sexier."

"Are you sure?"

"I, Coralie Martel, promise that my painting of you will be sexier than Jeanelle's."

"And I, Mélanie Durand, promise that today's painting will be more beautiful, more striking, than yesterday's."

"And I, Rodolph Thayer, the founder of the Noosrotica art movement, promise that the painting I make of you today will be more beautiful, more sexy, than this painting I'm showing you."

"But, that gorgeous long headfur..."

"And you are blonde," Becker said. "It will be even more beautiful when you hang."

Agnes sniffled again, but she took two steps toward the ladder."

"Wait a moment." Becker picked up a pencil and began drawing. A few minutes later, the caracal came over with his sketchpad. He held it up in front of Agnes. "See?"

Agnes looked at it. It showed her with a noose digging into her neck, her long legs kicking, her head leaning to the left. Her headfur had become disarranged from her struggles and floated around her head like a blonde halo.

"I'm.... I'm beautiful. And sexier than I thought possible."

"Can you do it now?" Thayer asked.

"Yes. I can do it. I will do it." The koala took another step, put one foot on the ladder, then the other. The director stood beside her, helping her stay steady as she climbed. She stepped onto the stool and turned to face Becker.

The Director climbed up next to Agnes and pulled the noose open. The koala bent her head to accept it, and he slipped it around her neck with the knot at the right side. He pulled a control off his belt and pushed a button. There was a humming noise, and the rope retracted until the noose was uncomfortably snug around Agnes's neck. He pushed another button; a slightly different noise and the rope was paid out, forming a loop that dangled over her shoulder.

"There. That's just under a metre."

"Thank you."

"I'll let you know before I do it," the Director said quietly.

"Could we have a few minutes to get her pose and face on canvas?" Colbert asked.

The koala turned her head to look at him. She apparently liked what she saw: she smiled and nodded. "I'd be happy to do that for you."

All the artists got busy with their cartoons, some just penciling in the shape of her body, a few drawing facial details.

The artists sketched and drew for about fifteen minutes.

"Everybody ready?" the Director asked.

"Yes," Agnes said, "My only regret is that I won't get to see the paintings you're going to make of me."

"Just a sec," Martel said. She moved over to Becker's table. The caracal already had a pad of paper spread out that nearly covered the table. He picked up some charcoals and handed Martel a box of them. "Ready," he said.

"On three," the Director said. "One... two... three." He pulled the stool away.

Agnes fell, then stopped with a sudden jerk. Her face contorted in pain, and her legs started to kick wildly. But half a minute later her expression had changed: she looked intent, and her feet moved in a regular rhythm.

"What the...?" Rayne muttered.

"She's..." Colbert paused, "She's dancing. Literally dancing. In an imaginary Conga line, I think. Amazing! I must get that motion into my painting." The ferret sketched, erased, sketched some more.

Agnes managed about a dozen repeats of the Conga step, then seemed to lose focus. Her hindpaws moved back and forth in a flutter-kick, and her eyes looked into the distance.

"Are we too late?" Becker asked. "Is she out?"

Martel looked up. "No, I think she's having a fantasy."

The koala was indeed having a fantasy. In her mind she was still dangling from the noose, but somehow also on her knees in front of Oscar Colbert. She was sucking him, sensuously, in no hurry. She had all the time in the world to enjoy the taste of him, the texture of his ferret-cock, to build up to the urgency when she would slide her lips up and down as fast as she could and then enjoy the slight bitterness of his semen. It was the one way she hadn't gotten to enjoy him last night. Last night... oh....

"Yes, but she won't last long. We'd better finish here."

Becker nodded and switched to a charcoal pencil. He drew Agnes's body, stretched out, her feet in the middle of a kick. Martel had three charcoals in her hand, ranging from a broad, very light gray to a very thin black, and filled in details on the face. It took less than a minute.

Becker and Martel picked up the entire sketchpad and held it up in front of Agnes. The koala's eyes slowly focused on it and widened. A drawing of her, naked, hanging, the noose digging into her neck. The feet and legs somehow suggested motion, kicking back and forth. But her face -- it somehow combined the pain from right after the rope had rubbed her neck raw at the end of the drop, with the pleasure from when Becker had fucked her over the desk.

Agnes stopped kicking. Her hips moved back and forth, and the same pleasure suffused her face again. _Yes. Yes. Yes! YES! YESSS!!!! _

Agnes didn't even notice when her consciousness slowly faded away. She dangled limp in the noose, a red line around her neck under the noose. The koala's muscles gradually relaxed over the next two minutes as her body stopped trying to breathe, and all the muscles in her body relaxed. Her eyes stared blankly into infinity and a few drops of urine fell to the floor.

The artists set about expressing the emotions of the hanging -- both Agnes's as hangee and their own as viewers -- in their paintings and drawings. Rayne, Durand, Becker, and Colbert drifted off to have lunch at various times; Becker brought back sandwiches for Thayer and Colbert.

Toward the end of the afternoon, Oscar and Steffie looked at each other, looked at the expression on Agnes's face, and shed their clothes in haste. The kinkajou bent over about 45 degrees, bracing her hands against the desk, and lifted her tail over her back, exposing her pucker. Emile pulled a little bottle out of his art kit and spread oil on his erection, then on Rayne's tailstar.

"Yessss..." the kinkajou whispered. Colbert thrust smoothly into her. "Harder!" she demanded. The ferret thrust hard and fast. The kinkajou gasped out "Wait a sec," after about a minute. The desk had shifted a couple of inches. The kinkajou moved her feet to regain her balance and took a good grip on the desk. "Now... fuck me good."

The caracal was happy to comply. When Rayne screamed, he plunged all the way in and stayed there, pumping his semen deep into her rectum.

The other four artists soon gave up and took their clothes off. Agnes got her wish: everybody ended up in an orgy on the floor.

Two weeks later

To M. Odilon's great relief , the exhibit opened as scheduled. It took up two rooms, with six pieces in each room. Photos of the models -- with one foot on the ladder, standing noosed on the stool, kicking, limp -- were placed among the paintings and drawings.

The public loved it -- mostly. Daily admissions set a new record, in spite of the demonstrators carrying signs like "noosrotica is not art." and chanting "snuff porn is still porn."

The critics' reactions were equally mixed. The critics who always followed the latest avant garde art fashions loved it. The traditionalists ("traditional," by this time, being anything up to Toyism) denounced it: "obscene", "degenerate", "pornography of the worst kind".

And there were a few critics who thought for themselves rather than identifying with any particular fashion. About three quarters of those liked it: "Beauty in death," "Can something be pornography and also be art? My answer is 'yes'," "I didn't think much of this 'Noosrotica' movement's first salon, but they seem to be on to something. I'm reserving judgment, but this exhibit seems promising."

And only a very rare visitor, perhaps one in ten thousand, sensed the two ghosts in the exhibit. Most of them felt only a mysterious change in the air temperature -- not the sudden chill that is conventionally associated with ghosts, but an unexpected warmth. A few "creamed their jeans" even before they got a good look at the paintings.

And a few -- less than a dozen -- very sensitive visitors actually saw the ghosts. Two naked femmes, a meerkat with very long, brown headfur, and a slightly shorter koala with her blonde headfur , staring at the paintings or the photographs. Sometimes the meerkat's ghost would be in the first room and the koala's in the second room. Sometimes it was the other way around. The meerkat could be seen squeezing her breasts or frigging herself. And sometimes both would be in the same room, in which case they would often be on the floor, fingering or licking each other.

One of these rare visitors dared to mention what he was seeing to the docent who was explaining the Noosrotica movement and how these pieces related to it.

"I'm not surprised," the ferret replied. "These two models, Mlles Paquet and Girard, gave their lives for art. It makes sense that they are 'hanging around' to enjoy the fruit of their sacrifice."

Author's note: In the US, a "docent" is someone -- usually an unpaid volunteer -- who explains or comments on the exhibits to museum visitors. And a "cartoon" is not limited to only being a short form of "animated cartoon": it also means the preliminary sketch that an artist makes before filling in the details with paint, pencil, or charcoals.