The Muse
Does she inspire him or does he inspire her?
She sat in the artist’s studio as she had done many times before. Naked, her long limbs curled into the pose he had requested. Neither of them spoke; the only sounds were the rustle of leaves and distant birdsong that floated through the open window, contrasting with the gentle scratching of charcoal on paper.
He felt as though he knew every curve, every line, every pore of her body. Her small breasts that could be brought to life by a single curve of the charcoal. Her pretty face, which often wore a beguiling expression hinting at naughtiness, but could change to one of wide-eyed surprise at the mention of anything erotic, as if she were innocent of the acts.
They took a break. She walked around the studio naked, stretching her limbs. She rarely donned the robe now. He smiled, remembering the early days when she had timidly emerged from behind the screen clutching the gown tightly closed. Only slipping it off at the last minute, posing, and then seizing it and wrapping it around her as soon as he suggested a break.
“My husband thinks you are fucking me,” she said, flopping down into the tattered armchair in the corner of the studio. It greeted her like an old friend, moulding itself to the contours of her body.
“Well, you probably spend more time naked in front of me than you do him.”
“He knew that I did this when we met - that I enjoy it. He lied when he said he was fine with it. Now, I think we will separate.”
“Not because of your modelling.” He sounded concerned.
“No, he is jealous, controlling. I am nothing but another possession to him.”
The artist looked at her. “We have known each other a long time. We have never fucked, but we are intimate - I am in your head and you are in mine, that is what he should be jealous of.”
“And he is not in mine. He makes no effort to be. I am simply someone to cook, clean and fuck. I think that is why we will split.” She shifted in the chair. Only a small movement, but her legs parted revealing her sex gleaming beneath the neatly trimmed bush of her pubic hair.
“Perhaps we should. Get it out of the way. Give him a reason to divorce me.” There was that expression again; the one that showed the naughtiness of the real woman - the one that flashed across her face when she said something as if she was joking, but deep down, he knew she was not.
He said nothing.
She sighed. “Ignore me. My life is just lacking that intimate erotic connection with someone who can get inside my head as well as my body.” The cloud lifted from her face as she smiled. “Are we going to do some of the more erotic poses now?” She brought one foot up onto the seat of the chair, bending her leg and exposing the open flower of her sex.
“Yes.” She knew the more intimate drawings of her always sold well. She always asked who had seen them, who had bought them; relishing the idea that anonymous collectors could possess and admire a sketch, a painting or even a photograph of her naked form, but would never touch or see the reality.
He stood and moved beside the chair intending to instruct her to change her pose, but it was perfect. He rested his left hand on her hair and, for a moment, felt the soft silkiness of it. She did not look into his eyes; instead, her gaze fixed wide-eyed on the slight swelling in the front of his trousers. Her mouth open slightly like a baby bird expecting a morsel from a parent.
In his right hand he still held two sticks of charcoal, one coarse and hard, the other soft and loose. His hand holding the charcoal moved down and brushed the hard stick across her nipple. She sighed and her head slipped back, pushing her breasts out towards his fingers. The charcoal left a black smear on her nipple. He moved it across to the other as if sketching them, bringing them to life. Slowly, he built up the layers until her breasts were topped by two drawn points.
“This is how I want to possess you.” He switched to the softer stick and drew the perfect crescent beneath her breasts. She writhed in the chair, unable to resist bringing her fingers up to squeeze and pull at her nipples. Her fingers stained black with the charcoal.
He drew a sweeping line from her breast down until it disappeared into the dark bush above her sex, and then again from her other breast. Her fingers traced the line down, smudging the charcoal as they went. She sighed, louder and with more force and her fingers parted her lips and sought out her pearl.
Her right hand tugged at his belt. “No.” He stepped back a little but felt his resolve weakening.
“I need it,” she breathed. The fingers of her other hand still circling her bud and opening her petals.
Unable to fight the urges pulsing through him, he allowed her to wrestle with the clasp, unbutton his trousers and free his growing erection. She wrapped the warmth of her lips around the head. Reaching down, he drew final lines from her breasts to her mouth before touching the charcoal to her nipples again. The connection was made; she bucked and rose from the seat of the chair, arching her back, as she lost herself amidst the waves in her mind.
If you have just read this story and thought, what is going on there? That was my intention. I have long been an admirer of the writing of Anais Nin. Although reflecting the mores of European society at the time her stories were written, they challenge what was then, and in some cases still is, a masculine, physical, view of sexuality by introducing the concept that female sexuality is centred in the mind.
The Model continues this series
I have always loved the interaction between model and artist; the sensuality riding just under the surface. She, opening herself to one who studies every minute detail of her body; he, standing behind his easel drawing her with great precision. The act in itself is erotic, even if both are professional and its just buisness. You captured that perfectly!