Brush Strokes

I stood as directed, silently. My back to him, legs spread just a small bit. The black heels were the only thing I wore. He had slipped them on me himself before placing my feet just where he wanted them. One of my hands he had placed now on my hip, the other he put so that my palm cupped my breast, thumb just above my hard nipple and so my fingers curved along the gentle swell of me. My torso he twisted and my head turned so that I looked back at him standing behind me now.

“Yes, that's the line I want,” he said more to himself than to me. With gentle fingers he traced the line from my neck where my up swept hair bared the nape, down the line of my spine. Down between my shoulder blades, down farther still to the dip and curve of the small of my back until at last he reached the cleavage of my bottom. Still he continued this path of fingers along skin. Down and down between the split of me. Then just when I thought I could no long suppress the moan that threatened his hand moved on from the most private parts of me and brushed against my inner thigh. “This leg out a bit more dear.” And he gave it a gentle but firm push and I did again as he said.

The pose was not an easy one to hold. As he walked away from me to the easel I could feel the ache of it already begin through out my body. Calves and thighs were tight, my back twisted so was strained. Looking back over my shoulder my neck ached as well and holding my hand to my breast with no support would be a struggle. But I would hold this for him. I would stand as he required for as long as he required.

He had positioned his work area so that I could not see him as he had placed me. But I could hear. I could hear the brushes being rattled in the jar where they stood as he chose which one to use now. I could hear the soft sounds when brush stroked canvas. This moment of beginning made me almost breathless. He was everything in this moment. I found it all as erotic and stimulating as any sexual act I had ever done. He didn't need my eyes in this pose so I closed them. I slowed my breathing and let the emotions of this moment of creation take me.

I knew he too was lost now as he began. I knew he no longer saw me as woman, or even really human, but rather I was lines and planes, colors and shadows, dark and light. I was fine with this loss of my humanity as to be a part of his genius was all I desired to be. Eyes still closed I listened as intently as I was able to the soft swishing of his brushes on the surface. It only took a little while before I could feel the brush against my own skin. I could feel it against my collar bones and down the curve of my shoulders. Dark there at the crease of my arm where it bent and light were the swell of my breast was turned toward him, I knew these contrasting areas of light and dark would move him close and closer still to the easel as he worked on capturing these values and this concentration I knew from him made me feel him move closer to me.

His brush continued to move over me in my mind. Again and again across my shoulders and my back, sweeping with strokes and swirls as he loaded the colors onto the canvas and created me that was not me and was me. He would pull my very soul out with his brushes and paints and mix it with his talent, his genius. These thoughts took me to that other place where he was not painting on the flat white of his canvas but rather right onto my skin. Bold, abstract colors in great swaths across me, blues and greens down thighs and legs. My hair becoming bright flaming red, the curve of my spine he traced earlier with finger was now in my mind a deep yellow sweep from top to bottom. Each stroke of natural hair brush made me ache to moan for the teasing of it. The only movement I allowed was the smallest brush of thumb across my nipple and that small touch set my body to trembling. I was lost to the sensations of wanting to be this for him. I wanted him to create the me that he saw. He was my God in this moment. I was on fire for his stroking brush.

Over and over I heard the wisp of his brush and over and over I felt it against my skin. I wanted only to be that which he created and yet I wanted everything else as well. I needed to feel him now and soon or for certain I would be lost. And then I heard his brush slide back into the jar that was set on the small table next to his easel. I heard as he sighed and as moved away from his work and he moved to me. I felt him then. His hand on the small of my back, and then down my leg. I lifted my feet for him as he gently bade me with touch, one then the other as he eased the heels from my feet. He leaned in and kissed the back of one knee and I kept my eyes closed as I accepted these small gifts of gentleness. My hands I did not move until he did so for me, easing my arms down to my sides. My head and body he turned back to straight as he moved in front of me. He ran his hands down my naked trembling body then and I let all the tension go and fell against him. He was strong and took the weight of me easily. He held me close and kissed the few tears that fell down my cheeks.

“Do you want to see it yet, my muse?” he asked softly.

“I already have.” And I meant my simply words and gave him my trust in his ability to capture what he saw. I was his muse he was my artist together it was beautiful. This was our love.


___________________________

I have been given the most lovely gift of words and I want to share them with you. So for the other side of this story visit Brushing Strokes ~ The Other Side.