Part 1
She sipped her champagne as she stared at the painting. She couldn't really say what fascinated her about it. The colours, of course; she was always attracted to the colours in art. This reminded her of the fauvist movement: Bright and bold, but with tempered lines - not quite real. Except that she couldn't actually make out what it was. She peered at the title beside the canvas: 'Woman', it said. Perhaps she didn't have enough perspective.
She began to walk slowly backwards, trying to find the optimal distance at which to appreciate the artist's expression. Her head tipped slowly from side to side, trying to see if a different angle would help. In the back of her mind, she knew also that it could be extremely abstract and that she might never figure it out on her own. But suddenly, her eyes widened as the pieces of the puzzle fell into place. She took a couple more steps to the side and backwards, just to be sure she was viewing from the best angle, and bumped into someone, champagne sloshing onto her wrist.
She whipped her head round to apologize and found herself looking into the most amazing dark eyes; rimmed with lashes so long a girl could weep. He graciously accepted her apology and asked what she thought of the painting. She realized his hand was on her hip, where he had steadied her as she had backed into him, and that her buttocks were brushing his body, but those eyes had latched onto something inside her and she didn't want to move.
She turned her head away so he wouldn't see her blush as she admitted that she had only just realized what the painting's subject was, and then swiftly moved on to praise the artist's style and use of colour. She asked the man what he thought, to keep the conversation going, to prolong the contact, and was surprised when his comments on the technical details proclaimed him the artist.
Abruptly, she felt uncomfortable. Here she was, almost intimately close to a complete stranger; a stranger who had painted the most intimate details of a woman, and who had just explained to her that though he was happy with how he had rendered the subject, he felt that the painting was emotionally lacking. She could feel her mind boggling at the implications of that statement.
She took another sip of her champagne and asked if he was exhibiting other works here, maybe some in which he felt he had captured that emotional element. His hand moved to the small of her back, guiding her to another part of the gallery. They stopped some ten feet in front of another portrait, this time of a nude. Yes, she thought she could feel the emotion in this one; how the brush had stroked the contours of her body as his hands might have previously. The warmer colours seemed to be concentrated around the erogenous zones, the brightest ones not necessarily where you might expect. Even from so far away, she could tell the texture on this work was quite simply amazing.
It crossed her mind that here was a man who appreciated women, who loved sex, and she became conscious once more of his hand on the small of her back, generating waves of warmth throughout her pelvic area. She found herself compelled to tell him that she had once been an artist's model, but that she had never inspired such soulful works.
It had not been her intention to suggest that she should model for him. She would never have been so pretentious. So she was a little embarrassed when he asked if he could paint her. She stammered that she hadn't meant to imply..., but his hand was now moving up and down her lower back, and his breath was hot on her neck and ear, whispering that she inspired him, that he wanted to paint her, that he wanted to discover her. Her heart beat faster as he took her hand, set her champagne glass on a passing tray, and led her out of the gallery.
******
Undressing behind the Japanese screen, she could hear him shifting things around, perhaps moving canvases, selecting materials. Naked now, she put on the silk robe and came out from behind the screen, mounting the dais covered in brightly-coloured scatter cushions and surrounded by electric heaters. He smiled at her as he looked up from his preparations.
Dressed now in his working clothes, he approached her, pulled the tie from the robe and the robe from her shoulders, allowing it to pool around her feet. He stepped back to take in her body. As always, she found herself surprised at how unerotic this was. His gaze took in parts of her: Her right breast, her left hip, the roundness of her belly, the hue of her skin, the curve of her calf; but not the whole of her. She was a subject, not an object, and felt no self-consciousness at his stare.
He asked her to sit, to fold one leg beneath her, raise the other knee, then lean back on one hand - no - elbow. He paused, his finger on his chin, his brow furrowed as he surveyed the effect. He changed his viewing angle, standing slightly behind her, his eyes tracing her back, the curve of her buttock, the space between her open legs. He knelt on the dais just behind her, his hand grasping the underside of her thigh, just behind the knee, repositioning her with her foot on her other knee. He pulled a cushion over and placed it under the breast nearest the floor, and another under her upper arm, then stood back again.
Apparently satisfied, he returned to his canvas and began to sketch her outline in charcoal. It took no more than 20 minutes, but she was glad when he seemed to have finished, as her muscles were already beginning to strain. He stood back again and regarded his work, his eyes flicking from the piece to her and back again. When he smiled, she started to push up to sitting, but he told her not to move. She was unsure why; it was usual for the model to rest every 30 minutes or so, and especially if the artist had reached the end of a stage. He walked towards her and knelt on the dais just behind her, placing his hand on her hip and reclining so his lips were level with her ear. His breath sent shivers through her shoulders as he whispered that he hadn't yet told her how he worked, and asked her if she trusted him.
The warm touch of his hand on her skin, his breath and words tantalizing her, made her throw caution to the wind. She whispered back that she did, and felt him draw away from her and return to his table. She allowed herself to turn her head slightly and could see that he appeared to be gathering materials.
As he returned with his tubes of paint and a selection of brushes, he told her to close her eyes. She obeyed. Deprived of sight, her hearing was intensified, and she realized that he had not stopped at his easel but was now kneeling back on the dais, just behind her.
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Submitted by:
lennythelion
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