Artistic IntegritybyEnglish Bob©
The artist sits alone and lonely. His fingers rest in front of his pallet still and tense; awaiting inspiration. His eyes stare sadly at the blank canvass still propped upon the easel; the evidence of a fruitless days work.
He stands and stretches his aching muscles, too long hunched in the same position and needing the relaxing benefit of massage. He pulls the drapes and looks out at the uninteresting vista before him; the cold brick and window of the opposite apartment do nothing to inspire confidence in him.
He rotates his neck slowly, relieving some of the days tension and closes his eyes as he feels some circulation of blood returning. He tries to recall some of the previous evenings ideas and thoughts but they escape his memory flitting through his mind like so many leaves on an autumnal breeze.
Like a prowling lion he stalks the small room he likes to refer to as his studio, attempting to relieve his limbs of stiffness and ensuing cramp. His bare feet pad over the threadbare carpet and his eyes take in the shabby almost decrepit furniture; a reminder of so long without the successful breakthrough he waits and wishes for.
After a few moments pacing, the artist finds himself back at the window. He stares out again. Night is now upon him and the moon casts eerie shadows against the unimposing buildings that surround him. The street lamps throw their sodium illumination over empty roads wet and sleek with previous rain.
He pours coffee. The last of the pot which reminds him of his excessive caffeine intake but still fails to stop him savouring another cupful of the rich flavour. He inhales the heady aroma and cups his hands around the coffee mug warming them against the chill of the night.
The corner of his eye catches a movement from the window of the opposing apartment. He looks around and sees the light flick on illuminating the bedroom. Then the voices come - as they usually do. Not shouts this time, but raised whispers really from the married occupants that form the human habitation of the plaster-board tower blocks that dot the landscape of most major cities.
The voices become louder and the artist, realising that he is also visible, switches off the main light in his studio. His easel light is now the only illumination in the small room and he knows that it is the voyeuristic streak that resides in all men and women (no matter how well contained) that drags him back to the window.
He can see the two figures now in the next apartment as well as he is able to hear them. An argument. Although he can hear, the structure of the actual words and sentences elude his ears. The male figure turns on his heels and walks out to the sounds of his berating wife's voice reverberating behind him. The artist hears the door slam and once again all is quiet.
He wonders what the argument was about as he watches the young woman sit on the edge of the bed, her head in her hands. For a moment, he assumes that she is weeping but then, as she lowers her hands from her pretty face, he can see the smile and hear the laughter as her head rolls back.
The artist is intrigued and continues to observe the woman from his unobtrusive position. He tries to tell himself that he is looking at her out of artistic integrity, but he knows himself well enough to realise that this is not the complete truth. She is attractive. Longish auburn hair neatly tied back in a pony-tail frames a face that needs little make-up. He guesses her age at about thirty-two, but he knows that he has never been good with ages and accepts that he could be out by four or five years either way. She wears a pale coloured top and, if he is not much mistaken, leather pants. She looks dressed for a night out and he wonders if this might have been the cause of the argument. As the artist continues to watch, an idea begins to form in his mind; the woman seems so perfect in her na vety, so innocently unaware that she is being observed. In short, the perfect portrait!
He almost stumbles in his haste to reach his paints and feverishly begins mixing colours. His eyes flit back and forth between the canvass and the window as he attempts to capture the very essence of his subject. His fingers move at lightening speed as the brush daubs colours; fading them to the tones and hues required for the perfect likeness. He remembers his coffee, now almost cold and reaches for it without thinking. But the light is dim and as his hand stretches to the table, his fingers catch something that he does not see.
The sound of glass breaking on the thin carpet echoes around the room and the artist holds his breath as he looks directly at the woman. Has she heard the sound? Will he finally now be uncovered? Exposed as the perverted voyeur?
He cannot easily tell if she is aware of his observations or not. She has heard the sound of the glass, of that much he is sure; her head turned directly towards the window. But has she seen him? If she has, then she is seemingly unconcerned. The artist releases his breath slowly and continues with his work at a more labourious and controlled pace.
The woman is now almost perfectly framed in the window and seems content in the secret world of her own thoughts. A smile traces her painted lips that seems, in his imagination possibly, to be directed at him. Again, the artist wonders if she is aware of his presence or not. His attention returns to the canvass for a few moments but, on his return to the window, he is greeted with an unexpected sight.
Aware or unaware of her secret audience, the woman has begun to remove her clothes. Perhaps, he thinks, she is preparing for bed. But the smile that parts her perfect lips is now more evident as she stares directly at the window.
The artist, confused for a moment by this turn of events, ceases his work but continues to stare. The black bra that the loss of her top has exposed contrasts perfectly with her pale skin. He feels himself become aroused. The woman's hands begin to caress her upper body tracing patterns with long, perfectly manicured fingernails across her flat stomach. He looks as she closes her eyes and allows the fingers to drift lazily upwards towards the bra, there to run lightly over the lacy material that covers hidden treasure. He can hear her moan softly as she pushes one cup up and over the swelling mound of a breast and reveals a tight looking nipple.
The artist shifts uncomfortably on his stool as he feels the strain of his growing erection beneath the robe that he habitually wears. There seems little doubt now that the woman is in no mood for sleep or bed, but he is still uncertain of whether she is simply pleasuring for her own benefit or if she can sense that there is someone watching her.
With a movement that pushes her firm breasts forwards, the woman reaches behind her and unsnaps the fastening of her bra. The garment falls forward and immediately both of her hands cup the swollen heave of her chest. The artist watches fascinated as her fingers manipulate the nipples, pinching and squeezing sensuously until the buds become hard, turgid peaks. Her head rolls back and the moan that escapes her lips is this time much more pronounced as she climaxes for the first time
She seems more relaxed now as she catches her breath. The artist attempts to do do likewise. The painting stands forgotten now as he wonders how far, or for how long, the woman will continue until she realises that she can be seen from the window. Or does she already know?
If she is aware of her vulnerability, then she seems not to do care. Her fingers toy idly with the button at the waist of the pants - yes, they are leather, the artist now acknowledges with a smile. The button pops open under her ministrations and, very slowly, her fingers run down the zipper. The artist can see the dark shadow of pantyhose beneath the pants; a protection against the chill of the winter night, he assumes.
The woman now stands and looks again directly towards the window. The artist holds his breath as the quick smile before she turns seems certain to do be directed at him. But turn she does and, much to do his disappointment, the artist loses sight of the woman's perfectly formed breasts. But his chagrin is short lived. In a smooth, almost ballet-like movement, the woman bends at the waist and rolls the leather pants slowly over her behind. The artist gasps as he is treated to do a view of the rounded half moons of her nylon covered buttocks.
His eyes can now never leave the window as he sees the darkened fabric of the gusset as it covers her most private bodily area. Her buttocks still face towards him as he watches her legs open slightly and her hand stray between them. Her fingers begin to do stroke her covered mound becoming faster and more urgent as the seconds pass. The artist sees her fingers pressing hard against the constraining material and wonders why the woman seems to do refuse the obvious and remove the garment completely. His unasked question is quickly answered. With an audible rent, the material of the hose is suddenly split at the crotch and torn away by the woman's probing fingers. Two digits enter her vagina smoothly but urgently and the artist watches the woman's' legs tremble visibly as she reaches another shattering climax.
With flushed appearance, the satisfied woman turns once again and sits back down on the edge of the bed facing the window. The artist breathes hard as he also sits and notices that his erect penis is now protruding obscenely from a gap in his robe. He looks at his size as if seeing it for the first time and slowly circles his fingers around the swollen head, squeezing gently. A warm, luxuriant feeling washes over him as the turgid protrusion swells further in his grasp. His eyes return to do the window hoping that the vision was more than just a figment of his imagination. The woman remains in his sight, confirming that, if he was in fact deep in a land of dream, then it felt real enough to do him!
But the woman - or the dream, it seemed not to do matter any more - is obviously far from finished with her self-pleasuring. She now sits before him open-legged and with the tatters of her pantyhose hanging in fragments about her crotch.
Her fingers toy with her labia, opening the fleshy folds and running sensuously through the moistness. She concentrates heavily on the area around her protruding clitoris, flicking the digits over the swollen nub and then entering her vagina proper. The artist can clearly see the rise and fall of her large, heaving breasts and watches as her bare feet rise up onto the points of her toes accentuating the perfect arch of her sole. He no longer cares if she is aware of his voyeurism or otherwise and he assumes, by the look of unadulterated lust that adorns her face, that she cares little also.
The artist has been slowly stroking his erection in time with the woman's fingers and, as she has increased her masturbatory speed, he has been moving closer and closer towards his own orgasm. His hand grips the hard member exquisitely sending waves of pleasure coursing through his body and he knows that ultimate satisfaction is not far away.
The woman is now reposed on the bed and the artist can clearly see each wet fold and fleshy crease of her aroused sex. For a moment she ceases her frenzied stroking and seems to do be searching for something with a trembling hand. The artist watches, his penis swollen and throbbing in his hand as the woman brings her hand back now clutching a long sleek looking vibrator. As the gentle buzz of the sex toy fills the air and she presses the tip against the entrance to do her vagina, the artist begins to do stoke himself towards orgasm.
As the two unseen and, perhaps unknowing, masturbatory partners continue to do pleasure themselves, the sound of their joint lust floats through the air. The artist is lost in a world of his own as he peaks and imagines some kind of telepathic communication that connects him with his distant, illusory lover. He is desperate to do ensure that their climax is simultaneous - although, if he is honest, this has never happened to do him before - and his mind imagines a meeting of minds as well as vital, bodily fluids.
And then, suddenly, the woman is climaxing. Her whole body seems to do convulse around the thick vibrator as she thrusts it up into her body. The artist watches her pretty toes as they curl involuntarily and marvels at the way her nipples swell further as the pleasure twists and contorts her. It is more than enough for the artist and, with a deep, guttural moan that emanates from far down within his own body, his throbbing penis erupts in a veritable shower of precious semen.
It seems like a lifetime but is only a few moments before the artist can open his eyes. There is sweat on his brow, cold and clammy chilled by the frigid air from the open window. His attention drifts back to do the window of the neighbouring apartment, but the room from which his previous pleasure had arisen is in darkness. His eyes stare into the gloom trying desperately to do make out some shape, some form that would confirm that the experience had been real and not just developed in the dark recesses of his mind. But there is nothing to do console him; no light, no woman, no trace of anything that had - or might have - happened.
The artist wraps his gown tightly around him and turns towards his easel. A perfectly painted portrait of a beautiful, semi-clad woman stares back at him. It is a work of art; certainly the best piece that he has ever completed and sudden visions of fame and fortune fill his head, exciting him. He looks around the down-market apartment, the shabby furniture and the threadbare carpet and suddenly knows that nothing will change. He smiles to do himself sadly, realising that he will never have the heart to do sell such a masterpiece!