His Favorite Model

He got my name through the university art department. They recommended me as I was always on time, the professors liked working with me, and I was in need of the cash. Over a year had passed and I was still faithfully coming to his studio every week, lately twice a week. In the beginning I worked for several other artists as well but he began demanding more and more of my time. My nude likeness hung in several galleries around the south and one in New York. And while he had worked with other girls before, for now, I was the only one he wanted to paint. I was his favorite model.

He was ten years older than me and at the time I supposed wiser. His face was handsomely masculine with a heavy brow and strong chin, framed by thick, long blonde hair. His brown eyes were honest and often crinkled in an easy smile.

We spent long hours alone in his studio, his brush sliding across the hand stretched canvases following the contours of my body, my skin. His large hands held the long brushes lightly and at other times he used broad sweeping arm movements washing the canvas with a wide brush.

Over the months we developed an easy banter and I often brashly critiqued his work wandering the bare, wood floors of his studio completely comfortable in nothing but skin. He told me of the art galleries, of rabbit-skin glue, and hand mixed pigments and I would ramble on about my professors and fledgling love life, such as it was; while the heat turned to winter chill then slowly turned again.

He would often position me upon a large red chair; throw cushions behind and beneath me. He told me which leg to move, which way to point my toe, how far to arch my back, tip my head, and then when it was just right he would say, 'hold'.

I could hold a pose for hours, draped odalisque-like upon his red chair. He would smile and nod as I told my youthful tales then tell me to hush as he concentrated over some detail that would catch his eye. I watched the beads of sweat slide down his face, his t-shirt damp in the heat and his focus. He loved each canvas, obsessing over it, filling it with form and light and often plunging deep shadows.

The first time he touched me I was trying to move into a position he wanted. I couldn't quite get it right. He came around from behind his easel to look down at me, his arms folded across his broad chest. I tipped my head in surrender and he reached for my arms twisting them to the angle he liked then shifted my lower body with his hands on my hips. He turned and walked back to his easel continuing to set up his paint in silence. From then on he positioned me himself. I was his soft, flesh mannequin and I didn't mind at all.

He invited me to one of his openings. It was at a very prestigious gallery, very swank. I wore a black cocktail dress and high-heels. I rarely applied make-up but felt the occasion called for it and then curled my hair before driving the hour into the city.

He spoke to me briefly, hugging me the way he would anyone and told me I looked lovely then moved on to greet others, his eyes twinkling with pride. The gallery was packed with well-moneyed, well-heeled patrons. They viewed my likeness making their considerations and I felt awkward, out of place, looking at the beautifully framed paintings on every wall, around every corner.

Over glasses of wine, he was talking to an older man and while trying not to listen I clearly heard him point me out in the crowd. I blushed knowing that this stranger knew what I looked like nude through his painter's eyes. I wondered if the man would buy one and hang it on his wall. Would he look at me sprawled across the red chair and feel a secret longing?

We continued on in endless days of paint and talk until the heat turned to cold again. Fall arrived with a chill in the air and he set up kerosene heaters to keep me warm. I watched the breath come out of him like smoke as he labored over the canvas.

I invited him to my Halloween party though I didn't think he would come. He never came to my parties. I wore my homemade Cleopatra costume, sandals and white leggings, gold jewelry and not much else. I drew heavy black lines on my eyelids and was donning my black wig when he called. Could he still come? I was thrilled and set about helping my roommates finish readying the house as the band set up on the front porch.

Several hundred arrived for our now legendary Halloween party and I danced and drank and talked and looked for him. The party was winding down; people were leaving when someone tapped my bare shoulder. I turned and looked up to find his smiling face covered in make-up. He was a butch Marilyn Monroe and I grabbed his arm laughing hysterically as I pulled him toward my room.

We talked for hours toasting each other's bravery in costume choices. He helped me clean up and then I changed out of my overly revealing outfit while he leaned against the wall watching. I slipped into my white cotton nightgown with the eyelet lace then hugged him goodnight. His arms circled tight around me in a long hug not meant for just anyone. After tucking me into bed, he turned out the light before closing the door behind him.

He called me the next morning to tell me how much fun he had. He was glad that I liked his costume; he had been worried. I reassured him saying I was so happy he had come. He wanted to come over again, could he come over now?

Running to the bathroom I showered quickly and heard his soft knock as I pulled on my red kimono-style robe. He had breakfast in hand, hot coffee, a sheepish grin. He set his offerings down and circled me in another tight embrace. His head tilted to the side, eyes lost in a look only reserved for his canvases.

I went up on tiptoes and he kissed my lips possessively as he pressed my body tightly to his. He nibbled my neck as he untied my sash walking me backward toward the bed, my robe lost somewhere along the hardwood floor. He pulled off his t-shirt and kicked out of his boots and jeans while I composed myself upon the down comforter.

His hands were shaking as he climbed above me pulling me roughly up to meet his kiss and I knew he had wanted this for too long. His mouth hungrily nibbled and kissed its way down my chest and abdomen searching the lines and shapes he knew by memory. He grabbed a mouthful of my thigh biting down and I cried out in shock and the sudden rush of my first love bite. He rumbled above me biting everything he could, running his hands along everything else, exploring me.

I reached for him closing my hand around his cock nestled in blonde curls. He was so thick and I know my eyes widened in surprise because he smiled wickedly down at me whispering promises not to hurt me. His was the biggest I had yet touched. I spread my legs and looked up into his handsome man's face wanting to feel him inside me, trusting him. I wanted him to feel every shape and curve he had never seen, never painted, never touched.

He rubbed himself against me feeling my folds with his large head before finding his way. Gently and slowly he lowered himself down into me, his hair spilling out of its ponytail to fall about my face. He growled twisted and wild in my ear and I was in awe of him. I wrapped my legs around him pulling him closer as he began to move through me making me cry out every time he hit the end.

He needed this, he craved this, this body he had gazed upon for so long and had so lovingly and faithfully portrayed over and over again. Moving with passion and unrestrained desire he used me as his canvas. And I clung desperately to his chest as his sweat rained down upon me coating me in his salty paint.

The next time I went to his studio, he positioned me as always on the red chair. I reclined sideways, draping like a wet rag over the arms, my hair spilling over the side. I watched him shifting restless before his canvas, his brushes aimless; he couldn't find his rhythm. A half an hour later he grabbed a drop cloth and threw it on the floor then stalked toward me grabbing my hand.

He was all over me again as he pushed me down to the floor, the paint crusted drop-cloth rough against my skin. I knew I would never model for him again. The possibilities were too distracting.