Artist

I was at an exhibition with a friend of mine. We would occasionally go and do the pretentious afternoon thing. This time it was an exhibition of a fairly new artist. The works ranged from simple line drawings in charcoal to big, full canvas paintings, expressions of energy in a variety of media.

He wasn't too impressed, but then he rarely is. I couldn't describe what I was feeling. Just about everything sang to me. It wasn't so much a conscious appreciation than a deep and emotional stirring. The paintings particularly touched so many strings in me that I could feel a whole symphony swell up and rush through my blood in one of the rooms.

As we had already gone around to several other galleries and exhibitions that day, my sudden burst of enthusiasm was too much for my friend to take and he headed home. Well, more likely he headed off to work, but then that is both our curse still.

I wandered through the rooms again and again, ignoring the people who were criticising the artist and her work despite their own complete lack of experience or feeling, and often despite the fact that the artist wasn't anywhere near them. How anyone could try and think about the works with any degree of objectivity was beyond me. I would stand in front of a rich and emotional canvas and before I could even finish trying to work out what the name of the particular painting was I would already be caught by it's passionate expression of something that touched me deep, deep inside.

In between paintings I would try and catch glimpses of the artist. She was generally surrounded, and accosted, by the inevitable journalists and art groupies who make these sort of openings their main parading ground. She was much too irritated by the nerve of the people who would try and understand her personal works however, for the opening night glitzerati to be able to pin her down for even a few minutes of hollow conversation. I was ashamed of my longing, but I had to try and talk to her as well. Her paintings resonated in me, and I couldn't let myself go home without trying to find out why.

"Excuse me, but I wanted to tell you that I find your works absolutely fantastic."

"Thank you." (go away)

"Please, you've opened some emotional gates in me that I didn't know were there. Do you think we could get together and talk sometime?"

"No, I'm sorry. I don't talk about my art."

"Then maybe we could talk about something else. Anything else."

...but she was already gone again, caught up by her agent and someone with a blank wall and a not so blank wallet.

Needless to say, I stayed and let myself drown in the paintings and drawings until the exhibition closed. Having been expertly expelled by the gallery owner, I walked the streets aimlessly, strolling from streetlight to streetlight, from sleepy tree to ice cold pole. I don't know for how long I wandered, but suddenly I saw her walk purposely along a footpath on the other side of the street. She was caught up in a concentration that blocked out all around her, and, I could not help myself, I did not even realize that I did it, I followed.

The door through which she eventually disappeared was narrow and old, just like the town house into which it led. Exactly what I would have expected her to live in. Private, warm, individual. I stood across the road and watched the lights go on and off, upstairs and down. I watched her silhouette dance around the rooms in movements that were, to me, like a ballet in slow motion, set to a music I could not hear but filled with a natural grace and fluidity that could not have been expressed more had she actually been dancing.

It seemed that she was staying up to work. The lights made their way to a room that must have been her studio - large glass doors and windows, their light partially dimmed by paintings leaning alone or in groups wherever they weren't too much in the way. She stood in front of a large canvas supported on an easel, the light behind her illuminating something I couldn't make out. Her tension and frustration carried across to my lonely vigil. I was nervous and excited and when I saw the wind blow aside the curtain of one of the tall glass doors, something purely emotional in me completely overpowered my common sense and I climbed the fence and walked inside.

Her sense of colour and style was evident in everything in her house, from the stacks of magazines, to the bookcases and prints. Everything was as charged as her paintings. Everything made me worked up more and more.

I walked into the next room, the room where she was working so late. This was it. My sensible self made a quick attempt at wresting control and leaving this place, but my heart and my body were burning with a fever that could not be overpowered easily, and it was to no avail.

You saw me as I walked in, but any surprise or shock at so late a visitor was not evident at all. The canvas in front of which you stood was completely blank, and after a short glance towards me you turned back to where your focus was and started to pace. I tried to say something. An apology, an assurance, but you ignored me so completely that I could only feel myself drawn towards you like a moth to a flame. You lifted your brush to start to paint, but then put it down again in frustration. It wasn't right. It wasn't working.

I walked up to your side and reached out to gently touch your shoulder. You turned towards me, fire in your eyes.

"I'm sorry. I saw you on the street. I was at the exhibition tonight. You wouldn't remember..."

My whole being moved towards your eyes, your fire. You were close to telling me off, but I was so devoted to your every breath that you stopped. I, no not I, my body, moved closer. I leaned in to kiss you. You pulled away. You were breathing as deeply as I, your chest rising, your face flushed.

"Can I paint you?" you asked.

"Yes. Of course."

"Stand over there, in the light."

I did.

"Take off your clothes."

Slowly, feeling self conscious but excited, I undressed. I looked up and saw you study me. I felt you breathe me in, feed me to your soul. You walked up to me with a small pallette and brush. Gently, sensually, you draw a line across my naked chest, from nipple to erect nipple. You add another colour and draw a spiral up to my throat and down to my hard penis. I can hardly breathe. You put your brush aside and apply some more colours to my shoulders and neck with your hand. Your touch is so soft, so right.

I reach out and start to undo your blouse. Your breasts are full and firm, your nipples so hard under the silk and lace. I see your tongue dart out and moisten your lips and I can't hold my passion back any longer. I tear open the last of the buttons and pull down your bra. You drop your paints as I lean forward and suck on your tits. My hands explore your hips, your back, as I pull you closer towards me. My lips are exploring your chest and your neck. My hold is tight and your last attempt to push me away only heightens my determination. I lift up your skirt and tear off your lace panties. As my hands run over your gorgeous behind, my lips find their way to yours and as our tongues and breath mix your tits rub against the paint and sweat on my body.

Slowly, together, we slide down to the floor. I kiss you hard and then push your head onto my dick. My hands are running through your hair as your tongue is running over my head. I groan and pull you back. I don't want this to end. I want to give you that which you awoke in me and I want to do it all night. I hold you down as I start to cover your body with kisses again, moving from your eyes down your neck along your arms and then down to your red and flushed breasts. Your nipples are so hard they're like little erect dicks. I suck on them and lick them like I want you to lick me. I draw my tongue from breast to breast, licking small spirals, taking little folds of your skin between my lips, sucking on your nipples.

You grind your hips against mine. My hard dick is pressing against your womb, wanting to get in. I let go of your hands only long enough to take off your bra and skirt. The bra at least survived. Your hands are right where I left them, and as my tongue starts to push at your lips and my dick teases your pussy, your legs squeeze me tighter and tighter trying to end my slow and heartless teasing.

But I won't be stopped and as I hold you down with one hand my other hand tears a strip from your skirt and ties it over your eyes. I hold down your hips.

"Don't move."

I tie up your hands as well. Not hard, but you're not trying to escape so they don't need to be tied hard. I go down on you, drawing in your sensual smell, licking your sweet, hot pussy and drinking your moist, intoxicating juices.

Up and down I brush against your body. Sometimes I flick my tongue across your nipples, then I kiss my way up across your head or down all the way to your toes. My hands alternate in rubbing you and controlling you. Holding your legs open for my tongue, holding your hips down to stop you moving, to increase your frustration and to build you up further and further.

Then, sudden and hard, I drive myself into you, fucking you with long hard strokes. Your hips and mine dance to our lust. You're so hot and wet. I can feel you clench my dick with your pussy and it drives me over the edge. I hold you down even harder now, sucking on your tits until my back arches back and I come inside of you, again and again and again. I can feel that beautiful spasm, that sudden burst of passion and extra heat from your cunt, and as we both slide into each other's arms as if we had been doing it for our whole life, we both relax in the glow of great sex and a love that reaches out to the world from our very souls.