François has become a wonderful friend. I shared with you last month his amazingly beautiful and erotic art -
Simply Erotic Lines. After a few email exchanges with François I was inspired to write a piece with an "artistic" feel and so I offered up this short story -
Brush Strokes. And now look at the lovely gift I have been given back. I absolutely love this retelling of my original story from the artists point of view and am thrilled that I can offer it to you here.
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Brush Strokes
The Other Side
by François Dubeau
After instructing her to strip naked, I slipped the black heels on her feet. Then, I placed her hands: one on her hip, the other cupping her breast. Her nipples were hard, as they always were when I posed her. That was why I now worked only with her: she didn’t merely pose, she became the painting. I knew I could twist and turn her body whichever way I wanted, she would never complain. Today, however, she wasn’t posing for the painter. No, the painting was pretty much finished. Today, she was posing for the voyeur.
I could always bend her to my will; usually, I wasn’t really aware of it, engrossed only in my creative work, the model being not as much a woman as a collection of shapes, lines and colors, shadows and light. But today was different. Today, I would savor the woman. I ran my fingers all along her spine, thinking that for all the artistry of my painting, she would forever be the better work of art. Today, I was aware of her body, feeling it curve and twitch under my fingers like a loaded paint brush on canvas, as I reached the small of her back, moving slowly down towards the split in her body. There, my fingers felt soft moisture, like freshly mixed paint on a warm palette. Yes, she indeed was the painting, now more than ever. I felt her shudder, and moved my fingers slowly down her inner thigh. “This leg out a bit more, dear”, I said, as I spread her legs ever so slightly farther apart, maybe a bit more than what was really needed.
I walked back, and noticed she was working hard to keep still. It was not an easy pose to hold, and it touched me to see her strain for my art, for me. Sacrificing herself for my art. Her back to me, twisted so she faced back, her gaze suddenly glazed over: she couldn’t see me anymore, she had become canvas and paint. She had entered an inner place where nothing could touch her and she seemed to levitate, like a surreal sculpture, barely breathing, weightless. Of the two of us, she clearly was the superior artist.
I walked over to my easel, all along keeping my eyes on her beautifully arched back. My waiting canvas was like a mirror to her beautiful body; she had reclaimed the pose perfectly. Just a few details remained to be filled into the picture, but I would take my time. I loaded my brush with just a dab of raw sienna and set to work. Every stroke of my brush made her body twitch and bend. I gently brushed her long, elegant neck, watching her twist her head in answer. The bolder my brush, the less she could keep her body still. Her contained erotic tension pushed me into bolder and bolder colors, sienna giving way to carmine, cobalt and ochre.
With every stroke of my brush, I could see her body sway ever so slightly. I felt like a master over her willing self, but was I? She was the one dictating how my brush would move. Wasn’t she the mistress and I her willing slave? My brush would forever be condemned to do her bidding. What started as an exercise in my power over her had been completely turned around as a small light touch-up of paint had become a complete redo of the painting. She had turned the tables again. She was just too powerful. Just standing there, not moving, she bathed the room in the light of her sultry sensuality, turning every surface a glowing shade of orange one can only find in a Modigliani nude.
My painting, once a nice but somewhat academic and meek rendition of a naked woman, had become an orgy of color, an almost abstract nude, lustful to the nth degree. It was a tribute to her energy. And to what it did to me.
As abruptly as it came, the storm was over. Like someone flicking a switch -- Off! -- the moment was over: “don’t touch it anymore, it’s finished!” I dropped my brush in it’s jar, and walked over to her. I felt exhausted and filled with energy at the same time; it’s always a strange feeling once a painting is done. Elated yet drained. Softly, I put my hand on the small of her back. Touching her made me feel complete. I felt the warm glow one feels after fulfilling sex: la petite mort. I moved down her leg and kneeled to her side to remove the tortureful heels from her feet. I caressed her feet, gently soothing the soreness away. I kissed the back of her knee, pausing there for what seemed like an eternal grace. Still, she held the pose, her arms trembling from fatigue. I eased her arms to her side and straightened her back. Taking her face in my hands, I slowly turned her head to a relaxed position, and rubbed her body all over until I felt her tension release. Her weightlessness suddenly vanished and she crumbled into my arms, turning into a rag-doll. I held her close, warming her trembling body, and kissed a lone tear streaking down her cheek.
“Do you want to see it yet, my muse?” I asked.
“I already have” was her reply, and I knew it was true. Lovingly true.
