Cinnamon Girl

Back in his studio the next day, he's suffering the worst case of artists' block ever. He sits on the stool for hours, just staring at a blank canvas. For the next three days, his creativity abandons him. Finally, he goes to the refrigerator and pulls out a bottle of jenever, and a of dry vermouth. A jenever martini is what he needs, his go-to drink. But after three of the delicious potions, he's no closer to a breakthrough, and after five of them, he collapses on the daybed at the back of the studio. As he sleeps off his drunken stupor, he dreams.

He dreams of the award banquet, of his cinnamon girl on his arm smiling up at him, of her cries of passion as he takes control and pleasures them both. He awakes with a raging erection, and he has one thought on his mind—paint her.

He paints through the night, not pausing for more sleep. He needs to exorcise his demon. By morning, there are three new canvases on easels. In one, she's in a ball gown giving the viewer a come-hither look, in another she's nude and looking over her shoulder. The third is his favorite, one he'll never sell nor allow the public to see. It's the view he had of her bent over the sofa arm with his semen leaking from between her engorged lips. No one will ever know that the paint used to render the semen contains his seed.

Three weeks later, his studio is full of new paintings. He's never felt so energized, so inspired. He hasn't left the studio except to shower and get clean clothes every few days. He sleeps on the daybed and orders food from a couple of nearby restaurants.

And then all hell breaks loose. Hell in the form of Maureen.

She's come to his studio, uninvited. I simply have to start locking that door!

"What the actual FUCK Jon! What are you doing? You don't answer texts, you don't answer calls. We've been trying to reach you for over a week. For fuck's sake, we thought maybe you'd DIED! What have you been doing that's so—."

She chokes mid-sentence when she realizes that she's surrounded by new paintings. Most are complete, some are still a work in progress. She wanders through the easels, ten in all.

"Is this what you've been doing?"

Jon nods.

"All of these, in three weeks?"

It's more than he normally produces in a year. Then she notices the three paintings of Brooke. She stands there, mouth agape, as Jon joins her.

"It's her, isn't it? These are obviously paintings of Brooke."

"Yes."

"She's your muse, Jon. More than anything else, even your incessant masturbation. She's affected you like nothing before."

"I suppose so."

Maureen unleashes on him. "You suppose so? YOU FUCKING SUPPOSE SO! Jon, you are a fucking asshole! No, you are a fucking IDIOT! Do you know what your silence has done to her? Jesus, she thinks you hate her! You've ignored her since the banquet. She's called, she's texted. God damn you, Jonathan Isaiah Tate! You've broken the poor girl's heart! She can barely cheer anymore because of what you've done to her with your silence!"

Jon stands there, taking her abuse. He had no idea, and hearing what's happened, he knows he deserves her wrath. He glances over at his phone that's lying with his paint jars. He knows without looking that the battery is dead and likely has been for weeks.

"I'm sorry," he mumbles.

"SORRY! You're SORRY? You're a piece of shit, Jon. Your mother raised you better than this. Just wait until I tell her all about the great Jon Tate who's secretly the biggest piece of shit the art world has ever seen. She will be crushed, CRUSHED! This shit?" she continues, motioning to the paintings, "This shit doesn't matter. People matter, Jon. You've already crushed Brooke's spirit, don't crush your mother's heart as well."

Maureen takes a deep breath and walks away from him, leaving him standing amongst his paintings. She takes a few minutes to let her heart rate slow, then she turns to him.

"She's here, Jon. Brooke is here. She's outside, waiting to see you. I'm giving you ten minutes to figure out what the FUCK you're going to say to her, and it had better not be that you're sorry. If you don't come out in ten minutes I'm coming back in here and I'm going to drag you out by your dick and then let her slice it off. Do I make myself clear? And you'd better have a damn good explanation for why you've put her through hell." Maureen turns and stomps to the door, her high heels sound as if they're chipping the concrete floor as she walks. She pauses at the door.

"She has feelings for you Jon. This is about more than sex," she says over her shoulder before disappearing.

Outside, on a park bench across the street, Brooke is sobbing. She's, hurt, angry... scared. What if he's dead? Lying amongst scattered canvases? Why did I come?

She notices Maureen crossing the street and she stops breathing.

"He's alive. He's a moron, but he's alive. I've given him ten minutes to come out and explain himself."

Brooke hugs Maureen and sobs into her shoulder. Maureen holds her and comforts her.

Jon doesn't take the full ten minutes. He steps outside and looks around. Spying the two women across the street, he is soon standing by the bench. Maureen clears her throat and Brooke looks up. Her breath hitches when she sees him.

"Hello, Beautiful. I need to apologize, but I'm short on the proper words. I hope to show you some of the reasons why I've been such an ass."

Brooke leaps into his arms.

"I'm happy that you're okay. I was so worried. I went to Maureen for help."

Jon wraps her in his arms. His touch lights her on fire—her heart races.

"I apologize for what I've done to you. Please, come with me."

Looking at Maureen he says, "Give me ten minutes."

Taking Brooke by the hand, he leads her across the street and into his studio. There, he has set seven easels in a semicircle, with three more in a single row before them. They pause in front of the artwork. Her mouth is agape in surprise.

"Those—they're me," she says, looking up at him.

"Yes. I was locked up, unable to create. I had to get you out of my system. This was my way of doing it."

Brooke steps close and runs her hand over the image of herself in her ball gown.

"You were radiant that night. I had to capture the memory of your beauty."

She softly smiles and moves to the next painting.

"When you undressed for me, I was convinced that I was unworthy of what you were offering."

"I was so afraid that you would reject me. For years I've fantasized about being with an older man. My heart was racing."

She moves on to the third painting.

"Oh my."

"That was my view after we, well, you know."

"I'm getting wet thinking about it."

"I masturbated when I painted it. There is some of my cum in the paint."

"No."

"Yes."

She turned to him. "We need to do it again."

"You don't hate me?"

"No. Now I understand. I'm going through something similar, but I haven't been able to get you out of my head."

"I'm sorry, Brooke. I never should have taken advantage of you."

"Don't you remember? I seduced you, and I will do it again if necessary. You rocked my world, Jon. I'm not interested in any other man. The thought of never seeing you again has left me unable to function. I thought you were avoiding me, but now I understand that you are dealing with the same thing."

They embrace, and they kiss. There's a passion for sure, but there's something else. It's a kiss between two long-lost lovers. Unbeknownst to them, Maureen stands in the doorway.

"Ms. Windsor, should I wait for you before returning to the university?"

Brooke looks into Jon's eyes, silently begging him to ask her to stay.

"Don't go," he whispers.

Without breaking eye contact with him, she responds to Maureen.

"No, ma'am. You should go. And please let my professors know that I will miss classes tomorrow."

"Very well, but don't forget about the game on Friday. We need our Spirit Squad leader to show up, and be in top form. Understood?"

"Yes, ma'am," she smiles, "she'll be there with bells on."

Hearing the door close, Brooke smiles. "I've missed you terribly. I haven't felt complete since that night."

"I know what you mean. I was in so much pain. Do you want to see the other paintings I've created in the past two weeks?"

"Later. Is that a daybed I see along the back wall?"

"Yes. It is."

She takes his hand and leads him to it. She begins to undress, and he follows suit. Soon they're both naked, and she presses her body to his.

"I need to be your slut, Mr. Tate...Please?"

She pushes him down to sit on the bed, takes a pillow, and places it on the floor between his feet. He spreads his legs and she takes his cock in her hand. He's already hard. While she begins licking and kissing his shaft, he gathers her long hair behind her head.

"Hands behind your back, Ms. Windsor."

She smiles and complies with his demand. He guides her mouth to his crown and presses between her lips. As he grips her hair, he begins guiding her lips up and down his shaft, thrusting his hips and fucking her mouth. Soon she's accepting his crown at the back of her throat. Finally, he thrusts his cock into her throat and releases a groan from deep inside. She feels his cock pulse as he spills his seed and releases her hair. She quickly grasps his shaft and milks every drop into her mouth, then licks him clean. He collapses back onto his elbows and watches her do this.

Satisfied that she has consumed every last bit of his cum, she smiles up at him.

"My turn, Mr. Tate."

"Yes, ma'am," he chuckles.

They exchange places and she lays back, spreading her legs wide, to the point that her knees are almost on the mattress. He places his hands on the back of her thighs and leans in.

"Nope. Hands behind your back Mr. Tate."

He chuckles as he complies, then leans in to taste her. He's missed this, and he takes his time licking and nibbling on her lips, circling her clit, probing her entrance. As she builds to her release he begins suckling her clit, just like that night. Before long she explodes against his tongue, her thighs clamp against his head, and her entire body quakes with her release.

He joins her on the bed and they kiss. His face is wet with her excitement and she licks and kisses him clean. Their tongues probe and he tastes his seed on hers. Just like that first night, the taste of his seed in her mouth makes him feel possessive.

"Satisfied?" he asks.

"Not nearly," she smiles. " I need you inside me. I need you to fuck your slut, Mr. Tate. Perhaps I should even be punished for taking so long to ask for help finding you."

"Are you asking for a spanking, Ms. Windsor?"

"Is that what you do to sluts who misbehave, Mr. Tate?"

"I believe that going forward I might find many reasons to spank you, Ms. Windsor."

"Sounds wonderful," she purrs as she snuggles up to him and lays her head on his shoulder.

~~~~~~~~

The art world was full of rumors concerning the change in Jon Tate's works. His newest pieces were more erotic yet at the same time more subtle. The brush strokes revealed a renewed passion. But what caused the most commotion was his series of erotic watercolors.

As for Jon, he developed an interest in college football. He also became a prolific creator. He held back quite a few of his works to create an artificial scarcity, intending to maintain his price point in the market.

A few years later, the university issued a press release concerning a new Master's graduate, a very unusual thing to do. But this was no usual event.

"The School of Art is pleased to announce that recent graduate, Ms. Brooke Windsor, MFA, will be joining the studio of our famous graduate Mr. Jonathan Tate." The announcement went on to detail her background and achievements. In total, it was just less than one typewritten page.

The announcement might have gone unnoticed save for the mention of Jonathan Tate and the photo that accompanied it. It was not lost on those in the art world that Ms. Windsor bore a striking resemblance to a young model in a painting that the artist said he would place on loan but had declared he would never sell. The name of the painting? Cinnamon Girl. They found it curious that the creation of this painting immediately preceded the change in his works that they had noted a few years prior.

Brooke never cheered for the NFL. Instead, she took on a set of responsibilities that she considered to be infinitely more important and rewarding.

- Co-creator, sculptor, and resident muse at Tate-Windsor Studio.

- Wife of Jonathan Tate.

• The soon-to-be mother of twins Sarah and Isaiah.

Once the twins arrived, Jon and Brooke remodeled the studio to include a nursery so they could be near the twins and still share their love of the creative process. One wall of the nursery was created entirely of glass so they could keep a watchful eye on Sarah and Isaiah. Whenever Brooke is nursing the twins she sits in a rocker at the glass wall and watches Jon as he creates. He convinced her to pump her breast milk so that he could have the pleasure of watching her create while feeding the twins. Always present in the studio is a small baby monitor so they can hear what's happening in the nursery. They often travel together to international art events, and when they do, a nanny accompanies them so the twins are never left behind. Never far from their doting parents.

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