Blaze

With a great deal of coffee she made it through the day. Driving home, she deliberately passed the fire station because she knew she would not sleep if she didn't. She pulled into a side street and stepped out of her car and took in the lines and colors of the engines inside the garage. The doors were open as they usually were and bunker gear was placed on the floor of the garage at the ready. The structure itself was fairly new. She thought it lacked the warmth the story called for and made a mental note to ask David if there was an older fire station she could visit.

And then she went to bed. She was drained, and yet sleep evaded her for several hours more. It was as though her body had entered some other cycle of existence that had taken her out of her sluggish lifestyle. She tried to remember if she'd eaten that day and realized she hadn't. What was wrong with her?

The next morning she called in sick. She'd slept for two hours at the most, and even that had been troubled.

Instead, she called David Scott and asked him if she could visit the fire station where his office was located.

The fire station was very different from the one she'd visited as a Girl Scout twenty-something years earlier. The front of the building had carpeted offices for the chief and captain, and there was a small conference room for community meetings. The kitchen and weight room were downstairs, and the bunks, showers, and rec room up. There really were poles in the floor leading down to an equipment room off the garage. She smiled at this. Some things never changed.

David's office was utilitarian, with not even a personal picture. He sat a little ways back from his desk with his long legs crossed at the ankle in front of him. His office faced the south, and wonderful natural light poured into the office through the blinds, carving his face into shadow and substance. The palms of her hands itched to draw him. She'd brought her sketch pad but used her camera instead to catch the myriad details of the fire station, and she thought it would be rather obvious if she just suddenly began to sketch when she hadn't before.

They discussed the book again and reviewed her ideas for illustrations. David explained the different trucks and engines as well as the equipment. They brainstormed a timeline and even made a conference call to the publisher. In all she spent three hours at the station, even being treated to lunch with the crew. She enjoyed the camaraderie and humor shared by all, noticing how at ease David was with the room full of strong, hulky firefighters. She didn't sense he was involved with any of them; she only noticed he was among his own, at home with all those hard bodies with deep voices and hairy limbs.

He walked her to her rental car and hung on her open door while she started the engine and let the air conditioner run to disperse the heat.

"I don't want to mess this up," David said, watching her as she got on her seat belt, put on her sunglasses, adjusted her rear view mirror. "But there's something else I've been wanting to ask you to do for me. For me, not for anyone else. I'm willing to pay whatever you ask. But I have to know two things: that it won't screw up the book deal; and that you'll keep it to yourself like you did before."

Holly peered up at him. "What is it that you want?"

"I want you to sketch me."

A warmth washed over her that she hadn't felt in a long time. She looked quickly away from him, stunned. She hadn't seen this coming. She'd always assumed that when he'd posed for her before, it had been something against his will, or at least not his idea. That he wanted to lie before her naked, touching himself the way he had then, overwhelmed her. She was simultaneously aroused and afraid.

"Was I wrong to ask you?"

Holly shook her head. "No."

"Do you not draw nudes?"

Of course she drew nudes. She even taught a class with nude models. But it wasn't the same.

He stood up straight. "I shouldn't have asked."

"It's not that," Holly said quickly. "I just want to make sure that, as you said, nothing else gets compromised. Of course I would love to sketch you; you have a beautiful line and it would be very erotic. I just want to make sure we're on the same page as to the purpose."

He knew what she was asking. "I won't deny there's a certain element of exhibitionism at play here," he admitted.

"As long as I understand that," Holly said, sounding very professional and objective. Behind her sunglasses, however, her eyes were wide with astonishment. Her heart was beating wildly in her chest. God, he was admitting to her that he found sexual fulfillment in being sketched in the nude...and not just in the nude, but while fondling himself.

"Are you alright with it then?" he asked. He was trying not to sound eager but she knew he was.

"Yes."

"Can we start tonight?"

That soon. Yes, he was eager.

"Alright."

"I'll be home around seven. I'll give you a call before then with directions. It isn't hard to find from your house, maybe just a five minute drive."

"Alright."

He shut her door for her and she pulled away, driving like a normal person, while behind her cool façade she was exploding in long-dormant sensations. She drove a few blocks down the busy road, then pulled into a side street and stopped. Her vagina was constricting and she couldn't breath. She felt a rush of something between her legs and realized she'd orgasmed and fluid was running out of her. Oh God, he'd done this to her. She'd never experienced a spontaneous orgasm, never even known it was possible. She lay her head back on the head rest and waited for the smoldering fire between her legs to dissipate, yet it remained, like hot coals in a brazier.

She drove quickly home, ran into the house, and threw herself onto the sofa, masturbating through her jeans. A second orgasm shortly followed, hard and agonizing and long. She lay there soaked with perspiration, her mouth dry, her body spent. She didn't try to find the reason for this sudden eruption of desire. It was self-evident.

She took a long shower and put on clean clothes, moving in a way she hadn't in a long time. Being jilted had not only hurt her self-esteem; she hadn't orgasmed in four years. She hadn't felt the need to. All passion and desire in her life had flown away along with her fiancé. Now she couldn't remember what he looked like. What was his name? Oh yeah. Sam. She walked into her studio, her ass shaking a little for the first time in years. Her fingers brushed over the features of the man who had ignited the fire again in her.

"Thank you, David," she whispered.

He was waiting for her when she arrived at the attractive house at the end of a cul-de-sac. Walking up the brick walkway, her gaze took in the nicely landscaped yard, handsome brick and stone façade, and ornamental light fixtures flanking the very solid carved front door. But from the moment David opened that door to invite her in, she could not have recalled a detail of his home if her life depended on it. She knew there were walls and a ceiling, but otherwise she was captivated by the moving art form before her.

He wore a pair of red Speedos and his skin glistened with oil. His broad back rippled with muscles as he moved in front of her. Long, sinewy arms swung from broad shoulders. His thighs were lean and his butt narrow and rounded. He had the graceful walk of a natural athlete.

He led her through the house to a covered patio. A pitcher of Sangria sat on a table next to a pair of lounge chairs. He poured her one and passed it to her. A ceiling fan whirled over their heads, diffusing the heat from the setting sun. She barely noticed the swimming pool ten feet away from them.

"Is the lighting here okay?" he asked.

"Wonderful," Holly said. She sipped the Sangria.

"Tell me where you want this," he said as he dragged a padded iron chair from a patio set over to the lounge chair.

"That's good." She sat down, making minor adjustments to the chair.

He laid back on the lounge. He assumed the most natural and effortless position, looking as though he'd been there all along. She marveled at the command he had over his body. She opened her sketch pad and began to outline the form of a man on a lounge chair drawn from a slight angle. Her hand flew over the paper. God, he was so easy to draw. Her head moved slightly back and forth like an orchestral conductor. Her face was very still, but her hands and eyes moved with lightning speed. Very quickly his muscles took shape and she began to give identity to his face. His eyes stared unflinchingly at her. The only movement to him was his hair where the ceiling fan caused a small disturbance above him.

Her eyes fell to his chest and she drew his nipples, taking in the shapes of the areolas and how his black hair grew in little swirls over his chest. Her gaze lowered, and her hand created his defined abs and the subtle outline of his rib cage. She sketched his belly button and the fine hairs that tapered downwards across his flat belly to disappear into the waistband of his Speedos. Her eyes fell to his groin, taking in the long, thick shape of his erect penis as it strained against the stretchy fabric of his swim suit. She kept her gaze steady, not allowing her expression to betray her. This was all part of the process, she told herself. And she wanted to do it.

She finished his thighs and feet, then glanced back at his face. The eyes were always the last, for it was in the eyes she caught the essence of the subject. His face was intense now, his eyes staring into her like twin laser beams. She felt the color rise in her cheeks and refused to acknowledge it. Instead, she redoubled her objectivity and added the last few strokes to the sketch. Then she stopped and looked at it for a long moment and stood to pass it to him.

He didn't rise from the lounge chair. He relaxed into the cushions and studied the sketch with an appreciative gaze.

"You're amazing," he said after a long while. "You give life to me where I don't see it in myself."

She thought of that without answering. It was an enigmatic statement, one she could spend a lifetime trying to unravel without coming up with an answer.

"Do you mind if we do another?" he asked.

"No."

"Do you mind if I take off my swim suit?"

"No. Do you want me to change the angle?"

"No, I like that angle."

He stood up and, with his back to her, pulled down his swim suit. Her eyes briefly moved over the gorgeous curve of his ass before he sat down. He adjusted his erect penis so it lay mostly towards the right side of his belly. As far as she knew it was fully erect; as it was, she tried to completely ignore it. Instead she repeated the previous process, creating first a general outline and then giving definition before beginning the details. Her pencil moved a little slower this time. She found it harder to concentrate. Her eyes fell involuntarily to his groin and she quickly looked back up. He was watching her very intently.

For the first time her lips parted; she was finding it difficult to breath. She stopped for a moment to drink some of the Sangria, swallowing much more than just a sip this time. Then she went back to work, telling herself she must remain professional. He didn't want her losing it. She had a harder time with his nipples; they seemed to have grown erect and she couldn't create the shadow to her satisfaction. His chest was rising and falling faster this time, and he kept moving his hand to adjust his penis. Her gaze swept over his groin to his legs; she'd go back to his groin in a minute. She fleshed out his legs and feet, and drew the end of the chair, and then went back up. His penis had thickened somewhat and she knew he was becoming more aroused. His thighs moved imperceptibly against his balls, gently squeezing them. She hurried to finish his genitals, frowning as she did so. God, she was so turned on. Her crotch was burning with desire for him but she didn't dare move. She finished drawing the lines of his cock and sac and moved back up to his face. His lips were beginning to curl back and his eyes to narrow.

Somehow she caught that look, and brought it out on the flat piece of paper in front of her. She ripped out the sheet of paper and gave it to him, not stopping to look at it. He gave the sketch a cursory glance and set it down.

"Will you do another one?"

Holly glanced at her watch. Forty-five minutes had passed.

"Alright."

She raised her pencil over a fresh sheet of paper, ready. He closed his eyes and put one arm over his head and began to stroke himself. She began to sketch more rapidly than the first time, but from the beginning it wasn't right. She angrily tore it out and tossed it on the floor. David lifted his head to look at her.

"I messed up," she said and started again.

He lowered his arm to its previous position, by his side, and gazed at her through half-open eyelids. His hand moved over his penis in long, intense strokes, his hips rising slightly upwards. Holly struggled with the line. It wasn't right. She erased and tried again, tilting her head to find her error. What was she doing wrong?

She crossed her legs and immediately wished she hadn't. Her clitoris was engorged and the added pressure from her thighs squeezing against her made it impossible for her to concentrate. But she stayed that way, sketching his body as he pleasured himself. His mouth was slack and his chest rose and fell rapidly. His eyes bore into her; she longed to lock eyes with him and watch him as he orgasmed, but she refused herself that luxury.

His pumping increased to a feverish pace and his face contorted. She was not nearly done. She tried to catch that moment, when the muscles in his forearm almost popped through his oiled skin and his toes curled under and his nostrils flared and he came. His semen shot out over his arm and splattered onto the patio. He continued rubbing his dick, looking at her, his expression becoming relaxed and peaceful.

Slowly he rose to his feet and walked to her side and glanced down at the drawing.

"It isn't very good," she admitted.

His hand moved over her shoulder. He bent and dropped a kiss on her cheek just under her eye.

"Thank you, Holly. Wait for me. I'll be back in a minute."

She gazed in front of her, seeing nothing. She was so near orgasm that she was afraid to move. But her body had a will of its own. Her thighs pressed together, causing a chain reaction. Grabbing onto the arms of the iron chair, she clinched her teeth as her clit orgasmed against the thick seam of her blue jeans. Desperately she tried to keep her hips still, but they rocked under her anyway, over and over and over again, as the wave of ecstasy carried her along. Her ragged breathing slowly calmed and her shoulders and arms relaxed back into the chair. The muscles in her face softened for the first time in over an hour. She breathed deeply the scents of lemongrass and honeysuckle that hung in the air. Her eyes closed. She could have easily fallen asleep at that very moment.

A hand moved across her shoulder blades and she opened her eyes to see David standing in front of her wearing a pair of baggy shorts and a t-shirt.

"Come inside with me," he said.

She roused herself, wondering if he had seen her. Would he be angry?

David bent to pick up the sketches she'd made and reexamined them with a discriminating eye. She tore the last picture out of her sketch book and handed it to him.

"It isn't very good," she said again. "I couldn't get the line right.'

"Perhaps next time," he said, and gave her an encouraging half-smile.

Holly looked away. She wasn't sure she wanted a next time.

David studied her face. "Is this okay with you?" he asked. "Because if it isn't let me know now and I won't mention it again."

"It was difficult," she admitted.

"I admire your professionalism. You stayed with me to the very end. Other artists haven't been able to."

Other artists. So, there were others he had employed for the task.

She followed him into the house, feeling even more uneasy now that she had to leave. In some way it felt as though she'd had sex with him, and yet now they were parting on the most indifferent of terms. Was this how it felt to be a prostitute?

At the last moment, as she started out the door, he caught her arm and she stopped to look up at him.

"This isn't right," he said in a voice laden with doubt and conviction. He touched the side of her cheek, his dark brows furrowed over his eyes. "I don't want you to go. Stay with me, Holly. I don't know what will happen, but I do know I want you to stay."

She stared for a long while up into his eyes. How easy it would be for him to hurt her. And yet, in some strange way she sensed that he was the one who was damaged. She saw him in that moment as the boy he had been in high school, wildly popular, and yet, like the rest of them, just a boy.

She nodded, and turned with him back into the house. Setting down her sketch pad, she moved with him into the living room. He had only begun to reveal himself to her.