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I was at my easel, failing yet again to create something beautiful when I heard a knock at my front door. I looked at the clock and my eyes popped wide open: it was four o’clock and I realized that it must be my buyer standing outside my apartment.
Panic set in. I slammed my paint brush down onto the table and called out, “Just one moment,” as I rushed to the kitchen. I dampened a paper towel with water and tried to wipe splatters of paint off my face and hands before meeting the man interested in my Giselle painting.
Praying that my messy appearance wouldn’t send Mr. Marshall packing, I took a ragged breath and opened the door, a welcoming smile on my face. I was taken aback when I saw an elegant woman standing there…
Earlier that morning, I’d been working on what felt like my millionth attempt at a painting I named Rochelle. I had no idea what was wrong with me and I became more than a little frustrated. Not a single attempt looked right, no matter how hard I tried. The colors were either too bright or too muted and didn’t blend in certain places. Or the legs, arms, breasts were disproportionate.
Not only was I annoyed, I was worried. How would I make a decent living if I couldn’t paint?
I’d slammed my brush into the ceramic cup of mucky water and taken a deep breath before lifting my hands to fix my messy hair bun. I needed a break. So, continuing to fix my disheveled topknot, I walked into my small kitchenette to grab myself a glass of water and relax for a moment.
My apartment wasn’t very big but, as an American working in England and being a budding artist, I couldn’t afford anything expensive. In fact, I was lucky to have clothes to wear for my day job that weren’t covered in art stains. I worked in a Brighton gallery as a part-time art appraiser, a position I’d acquired after finishing the last year of my degree at university. It didn’t pay that well and most of my money went on bills and art supplies.
Painting had been a part of my life since I was in grade school and I loved it. Indeed, by age six, I’d decided to become a famous artist like Van Gogh or Picasso. Of course, I ditched that idea when I got older and learned that not a single of those famed artists made any money and weren’t even famous until well after they’d died.
But painting always gave me a sense of calm and excitement while allowing me to express myself, especially when at my most emotional. Plus, I wasn’t half bad at it. Good enough to be able to sell them at the very least.
When I started managing my own website at the start of the new year, my paintings began to sell and the feeling that gave me was even more astronomical. I was excited that people liked my work and I became more and more proud of myself with each one that sold. Eventually, I made a decent amount of money from them and I could afford regular food instead of noodles and cheap, pop-in -the-oven pizzas. Recalling chicken flavor packets and thin, burnt crusts made me feel sick. Argh.
Returning to living from paycheck to paycheck was not an option and, with the few paintings I had yet to sell, I thought I wouldn’t need to go back to that for some time yet — if ever.
Having arranged an appointment with another potential buyer, I was certainly hopeful that everything would work out. I looked at the clock: 12:30. I had time to paint before I needed to shower and dress for the appointment with Mr. Marshall at four.
I walked over to my stool, sat, and picked up my paintbrush once more. I dipped it in a small amount of white paint and took a deep breath before pressing it to the canvas.
I made small intimate brush strokes, working to enhance her features. As I painted along her legs, I envisioned all the simple pleasures that would have brought her into the pose that I’d chosen. As I inched closer to paint her sex, I imagined my subject in a more salacious way. I immersed in the daydream of watching her hands roam down her body. I became lost in the way I thought of her nipples becoming erect as her fingertips tantalized them. I worked with beautiful pinks, reds, and flesh bahis firmaları colors to bring her arousal to life and, all the while, I became a slave to my fantasy as I painted…
Having been so lost in thought, I hadn’t paid attention to time and now here I was, a flustered mess, not greeting my expected buyer but looking at the face of a woman I didn’t know.
I blinked and then blurted, “Oh, hello. What can I do for you?”
The woman smiled and proferred a hand. “Hello, I’m Marissa Paty… pleased to meet you.”
I looked at her perfectly manicured nails and nervously wiped a grubby palm on my jeans before accepting the handshake. “I’m sorry,” I said, “but I don’t recognize your name.”
“Ahh, no… that’s because you know me as Mr. Marshall.”
I released her hand and blinked again, puzzled. “I’m sorry, did you say Mr. Marshall?”
She nodded. “Look, I’m sorry for the confusion. I’m not making myself clear, am I?” I didn’t respond and she carried on, “I am here about buying your painting. To be safe, I always use a fake male name when I’m dealing with artists over the internet. I apologize if this is strange or alarming in any way. I probably should have explained when we made this appointment.”
I started to relax as I listened to her plausible explanation. Her accent was much thicker than those I’d grown accustomed to in the south and the sound of each word rolling off her tongue sent a shiver of delight down my spine. She had straight, blonde hair and wore little makeup. She didn’t need much: her skin was radiant, not a blemish in sight, and she had high, rosy cheeks with small dimples and beautiful pink lips. She wore black stockings and black heels but the rest of her was concealed beneath a fashionable beige coat.
I wonder what’s underneath? The latest fashions, no doubt. I bet even her bra and panties match.
Panties. The very word brought forth a sudden heat and my eyes fixated on her perfectly kissable lips. I wondered what it would be like to slowly remove each stocking from her long legs.
Oh my God. No! Stop that right now.
“I can understand if you don’t want to show me the painting at this moment,” she said as I continued staring into her piercing blue eyes, “but I can prove that I am who I say I am. And I can prove that I’m the Mr. Marshall you’ve been emailing these past few weeks.”
She paused, and then raised an inquisitive eyebrow.
“Right,” I said, suddenly aware that she was awaiting my response. “That’s fine, I understand about the false name. Can’t be too safe, can we?” I motioned to invite her in. “I’m Sara, of course,” I added as she passed by.
A few steps into the apartment, she looked around. My art supplies were set up in a corner of the living room but she maintained an excited demeanor regardless of the lack of space. “So where is it?”
“Over here,” I said and quickly closed the door before hurrying to grab her specific painting. I carried it to the kitchen table and laid it flat.
Walking toward me, she unbuttoned her coat, revealing the anticipated fashionable outfit. A loose, white satin blouse was tucked into the top of a black pencil skirt. Her dominant, precise appearance made me feel even scruffier, but it also brought on more naughty thoughts… of her in leather outfits. And a paddle.
I stood on the other side of the table as she leaned over the painting for a closer examination. She seemed to be analyzing my work but any critique she might have was not my concern at that moment. She’d leaned so close to the table that I had a full view of her cleavage. I was instantly and utterly obsessed.
They’re lovely. I wonder ho — No. No. Stop. It. You’re acting like a horny teenager.
“What gave you the inspiration for this painting, Sara?” she asked, bringing me back into the here and now.
“A woman I saw in a bookstore, actually, ” I said, my gaze drifting down again.
“She must have been lovely, then, because you’ve paid a great deal of attention to the…” She looked up, catching me staring. Shit.
I offered a casual kaçak iddaa smile and looked into her eyes, trying to appear calm despite the reddening of my cheeks.
“…wonderful details of her body,” she finished slowly while she straightened her spine.
I cleared my throat. “Yes, I think the detail is very important. You’ll notice that in all my pieces, actually.” Belatedly remembering my manners, I walked around the table to take her coat and hang it. “Can I get you something to eat or drink?”
“Coffee would be lovely if you have it.” She smiled.
“I can do that,” I said, heading to the kitchenette.
I turned on the machine and made two strong coffees. When I was about to return with mugs in hand, I remembered that I liked sugar in my coffee. I took a deep breath, told myself to be calm, placed the mugs on the counter, and walked back to the doorway. I poked my head out and saw Marisa was on my sofa, one leg crossed over the other, hands folded in her lap.
“Cream and sugar?”
“Just cream is fine, thank you.”
With both coffees made, I walked into the living room and handed a mug to Marisa. I sat next to her, waited while she took a sip and then continued with discussing Giselle.
“I’m really glad that you like my painting.”
“Yes, it’s wonderful and I intend buying it… if the price we discussed is still the same?”
“Yes, the price has not changed.”
“Excellent. So, tell me, why do you paint?” She put her mug on the end table next to the couch, picked up her purse and began riffling through it.
“I paint because it brings me joy to do so.”
“Oh, c’mon, that’s a cop-out answer,” she said with a wry smile as she pulled out her checkbook and a pen.
“No, it’s not,” I laughed. “That’s the reason why I paint.”
“Okay, then, why do you always paint women?”
“I paint landscapes, too.”
“Hmm… but most of your paintings are of naked women. Why is that?”
I inhaled deeply, trying to think of an answer that would suffice while she opened her checkbook. I’d never actually thought I’d be questioned about my subject matter and I took several moments to think about an appropriate answer.
I sighed, unable to think of anything poetic or artsy. I mentally shrugged and decided to tell the truth. “Essentially, I paint women because I like them. Love them, in fact. Everything about them is beautiful and sexy to me. I think that human beings are all beautiful, of course, but women are my favorite to paint. Their bodies have a certain fluid curve that I find appealing, both personally and artistically.”
“Personally?” A knowing grin appeared as she picked up her mug and pressed the edge to her lips.
I was a little confused by her response — and hopeful. “Yes, personally. Does that bother you?”
“Well, I would hope not, considering I’m probably more of a lesbian than you are.” She giggled before adding, “I didn’t peg you for being gay. Bisexual, maybe. But not strictly one over the other. My radar must be off today. Normally, it’s pretty good at picking up that sort of thing, especially with someone as pretty as you.” She took another sip of coffee.
She thinks I’m pretty?
I lifted my mug to my lips, contemplating where to take the conversation. Before I could speak, Marissa asked, “Are any of your paintings of a special someone?”
“No.” I sipped coffee, looking over my mug at her. “I had a girlfriend who would have been the perfect model but she was too shy to ever do it for me.”
“You said ‘had’. Is that why the relationship didn’t last?”
“It wasn’t just that.” I shook my head. “She became quite jealous. She saw my paintings as some kind of hidden desire for other women. She wanted me to focus on painting something else. For a little while, I did just that. That’s the landscape period. They’re most of the places we visited together. But, in the end, that wasn’t what made me happy. So we ended things, about eight months ago.”
“Wow. I’m sorry.”
“Oh, it’s no big deal.”
“If it’s any consolation, I know how you feel. My kaçak bahis girlfriend left me about a year ago,” she said, “albeit a bit more dramatically.”
I smiled inwardly at this double victory and grew a little more excited. That niggling, little tingle between my legs kept growing, although I tried to stay professional. My livelihood and reputation were at stake but my vagina didn’t seem to care too much.
Strangely, after so awkwardly revealing our sexuality, the night flowed more smoothly. We were more casual with each other and I actually enjoyed talking to Marissa. Not only was she beautiful but she was funny and intelligent. I understood, more and more, why I’d enjoyed our time exchanging emails, despite the lack of real name and gender.
As it became darker outside, it was apparent that neither of us wanted to part just yet. I opened a bottle of wine and ordered Chinese takeaway to share with the woman who’d spent a couple of hours chatting on my couch.
Marissa told me a lot about herself. She had a brother and a stepsister, her father was gay, her mother remarried, and there was always tension between them at family gatherings because of her sexuality. She had a dog named Cooper, a cat called Tizzy, she liked to cook, worked at an accounting firm, and she loved collecting beautiful pieces by local artists.
“I normally don’t deal with an artist in person but this is first time buying anything erotic so I thought it would be good to give it more of my attention. My dad is going to be so proud,” she laughed, eating rice from one of the boxes.
“Does he have the same taste for erotic paintings?”
“Yeah, he paints his own, actually. He’s probably the reason I appreciate art. But the only erotic stuff he ever paints is of his boyfriend. While my dad is talented, I find it a little awkward staring at and giving a critique of his lover’s man parts.”
I laughed loudly. I hadn’t felt as comfortable with someone in a while and I found it refreshing. Actually, more than refreshing. I was enjoying Marissa’s company more and more with each passing minute and each fresh topic. I knew it was supposed to be business but it felt more than that now. The thought of it being a date of some sort, curled the corners of my mouth. Just a little.
An unofficial, random kind of date, with a woman you thought was a man. Not weird at all. That kind of thing does happen, right?
I tried to rationalize but I hoped Marissa was enjoying my company just as much and that, at the very least, this could be the start of a friendship.
“So, when’s the last time you got laid?” she asked bluntly, interrupting my train of thought.
My cheeks flushed even though I’d thought the question might arise eventually. It was nearly ten, and we were now working on a second bottle of Merlot.
I cleared my throat. “It’s been about eight months,” I admitted with a self-conscious laugh.
“Oh wow… Not nearly as long for me, but still long enough to miss it.”
“I know exactly what you mean.” We laughed as I grasped the neck of the wine bottle.
“Why has it been so long for you? Are you shy about dating or —” Marissa stopped talking as I poured the red liquid into her glass.
“No, I’m not shy at all. I haven’t really found the time to date, that’s all. I’ve been painting a lot more recently and right now I am content with that. Sure, it would be nice to have someone around but I do okay by myself too. So it’s not a priority for me, you know? When it’s time for a person to come into my life, then she will come.”
“I see,” said Marissa, putting the glass to her lips. She sipped as her gaze turned toward my painting, still laying on the table.
“Why is her name Giselle?” she asked, continuing to look at the figure on the canvas.
“I’ve never known the names of any of the women I paint. I pick random ones that I like or think will fit.”
“Hmm,” she mused.
Lusty thoughts bombarded my brain and loosened my tongue. “Have you ever modeled for a painting, Marissa?”
This time it was her turn for flushed cheeks. She looked a little shocked.
Even when she’s embarrassed, she’s pretty.
“No, I’ve never modeled for a painting,” she admitted, swallowing hard.
A wide grin came over my face. “Well, there’s a first for everything.”
Ben Esra telefonda seni bosaltmami ister misin?
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