back. Hot and heavy. Power and energy slump from my body as I
surrender to him in that one motion.
and he lifts me by the shoulder, the hand at my back casually
smoothes over my buttocks and presses firmly at the dip beneath. I
melt. I liquefy. The ache in my groin which has plagued me since I
boarded the train in Scotland is now a torrent of heat and desire.
The stillness in this vast crowded space.
grabs my hand, almost dragging me behind him as I shimmy in my too
high heels and too tight skirt and too nylon stockings. It is highly
erotic. I can almost visualise us in black and white with perilous
piano music playing along. A damsel being taken by a gentleman in a
shabby three-piece suit and three-day beard. God, I am wet. My
panties are soaked. I feel wanton and excited. Will we go to his
usual studio or does he have something else lined up?
and touches my lips with something cold and sticky. The feathery
slippery touch is tickly and strange. Almost like he is painting them
with a sable tipped brush. I keep still and silent.
stairs and the blindfold is removed, we are in familiar territory. I
am glad. I love his paintings. Louche figures in various stages of
undress and eroticism stare at us from all angles. They remind me of
the 1920s, somehow carefree and decadent with a sizzling dangerous
commands sweeping his hand in the direction of a wooden pillar. He
has removed his jacket but the waistcoat remains and he has rolled up
his shirt sleeves. I do as he bids and face the easel which is set up
just in front of it. “Take off your top half.”
in that way that tells of a life lived on good whiskey and
cigarettes. Or is he a brandy drinker? The faint lingering scent of
debauchery on his breath and skin, even after bathing, I imagine,
gives me a thrill. He gives me a thrill. The fuck you attitude of a
man who will not be told what he can and cannot do. I like it. My
pussy quivers as he licks his lips and sighs in a contemplative way
while he studies me removing my blouse. Happy to be rid of the damp
item, I reach up behind my back to unhook my bra but he holds out his
stares at me, my form, with an analytical eye. There is no emotion in
a human to human sense but he is so concentrated in an artist to
subject sense that I am overwhelmed with need. But what do I need?
What is it that brings me to him? He has never touched me yet. Not
once. And I have never even caught a glimpse of even a sketch. When
we are done, he simply sends me on my way, burning. His brow furrows
as he concentrates on my chest. My nipples are yearning and peaking,
straining for attention. But he won’t see. I have a thick vintage
cotton bra which holds my breasts out in the perfect cone.
He steps forward with both
hands out and I hold my breath as he reaches in over the top of each
cup and eases my breasts out. His hands are cool and I let my head
fall back as he tugs harder, unaware that this is a 1950s original. I
sway on my heels as he keeps working until both tits are free and
hanging out over my bra. He manages to fold the top half of each cup
into itself to arrange it like a balcony. Perfect. Did I just imagine
it or did he roll my nipples between his thumbs and fingers?
those artist’s fingers up between my thighs, oh, the heat and
sodden need he would find there. One touch. That’s all it would take.
One tiny circle of a finger tip on my clit and I would be spiralling
right now into that heady place of oblivion. But he doesn’t. He lets
me stand there. Every hair is raised and reaching out to him. Every
inch of my flesh is crying out but I am silent…