Drowning in the Wake Ch. 04

His eyes became even more intense. The blue seemed to grow darker, sending a frisson straight through her clit — Jesus fucking Christ! 'I will make something exquisite, that I can assure you. It would be impossible not to.'

Oh God, she felt her knees tremble. What the fuck was wrong with her? Were a few sweet words all it took? Was she really that much of a pathetic slut? She was here for work! To pay the goddam rent! Not to get seduced by a two-bit artist with a probably bullshit website that was designed exactly for this scenario. He probably hadn't painted a single one of these! He was probably just some Lothario who played the artist card to get into girl's panties.

Oh Christ. Her mind flashed to the little yellow panties she was wearing. What would he think of those? Would he want to see them? Would he want to... Oh for God's sake, stop it! 'You want to paint me?' She asked, too innocently.

'Yes,' he replied. 'Very much. Do you want to be painted?'

'Yes.'

And then there was silence. Just his intense gaze on her. Penetrating her defences. So strong and resolute and uncompromising — like he was fucking her. Watching his cock push in and out past her clinging lips.

'I can pose however I like?'

'Yes. It's important — that it comes from you. The way you choose to pose is part of you — part of what I want to capture.'

And though she was well aware of the voice in her head that told her to check again about payment, to secure the terms up front — she found herself unable to talk about anything quite so... businesslike. Her pussy was making it impossible to think about anything but having this man's eyes on her. His hands on her. And that paintbrush stroking paint into a canvas to take her portrait. To see what he would make of her, what she inspired in him. Whether it was all just some schtick to get girls or not — whether she'd fallen into the trap in a matter of minutes — she knew she had to be painted by Jax. And to inspire him to the best work of his life.

And already her mind, when it should have been negotiating payment, was thinking about the poses she'd like to make. Just what had girls done before? What pose might inspire him to his greatest work? What would turn him on?

Just thinking that — of making this man hard — Christ. A shock of excitement ripped through her body — his hard cock. What would it be like? Was it big? Was it beautiful? Was it going to be inside her? Holy hell! He was so fucking hard already — every inch of him, muscle-bound, solid, chiseled. His cock must just be an extension of that — a pillar of muscle, a granite protrusion that could split her in... Holy shit, what was wrong with her? Just be a professional, for God's sake! Get the money. Make it to tomorrow! She noticed the wine glass in her hand, and took a sip for something to do, to make herself look perfectly at ease when she felt anything but. She was scared, and excited, and incredibly turned on, and...

As she turned back to him, and met that intense gaze again, she wondered if he were any of those things. If he were the least bit nervous. Even a little turned on. Did he even find her attractive? Or merely interesting? Something worthy of putting on canvas perhaps, but not because it was particularly beautiful. Maybe he only saw her professionally. Maybe he wasn't excited at the prospect of how she might pose for him. How she might offer herself to him — to his eyes, to his mind, to his brush.

'Will you pose?' she heard. She could feel that dreamy state start to overcome her once again, like a mist descending — trapping her inside these walls, with no other option but to give herself to this man, to this moment, and render herself subject to whatever might happen next.

'Yes,' she managed, and as his gaze bore through her, it was all she could do not to lean into him that slight amount that would make her his. She wanted so badly to be his — to be the centre of his attention, to be his entire focus, to be his subject.

'Then pose,' he said. And just like that he broke the eye contact, and moved away — far away it seemed, moving in and out of his canvases. 'Anywhere, he said, 'Anyhow. Find a place that feels right, find a position that feels natural — that you can hold for a while.'

'What are you doing?' she asked before she could stop herself.

'Preparing,' he replied. 'Collecting my brushes, my paints.'

She felt foolish for a moment. What was she doing here, she should just leave. She's such a slut! All the boys have fucked her.

'But I also want to give you the room — to find your pose — your canvas. What do you want me to paint?'

Something in his words sent electricity through her. What did she want him to paint? She wanted him to paint all of her — to see all of her, to have all of her. Fucking hell, she couldn't remember being so primaly turned on by anyone before. She could feel her dripping pussy already pining for him — she needed him to fill her, to impale her, to fuck her furiously till she imploded on his driving cock, falling apart as he kept brutally banging against the deepest part of her.

Fuck. Could she do this? Was she brave enough?

'I'll be there in a few minutes. Take your time. Find what feels right. Enjoy the process. This is the art. You are the art.'

Oh fuck. His words went straight to her clit. She was the art? She realized then that this is what she'd wanted for so long — what she'd been craving. To be someone's subject. This was who she was — a beautiful creature just meant to be under someone's gaze. A man's gaze. Giving herself to it, and making herself the most arresting sight she could — so that he might photograph... And a jolt shot through her at the thought of Leo, their photography sessions together, that always descended into a strip show, and nudity, and incendiary photos, and sex that just about broke the bed. She just wanted to be adored like that, to be worshiped like that — to enrapture a man like that. It's what had been missing — more than anything — since he'd left. That feeling of owning a man's attention — diverting him from every thought except the smoothness of her skin, the arch of her eyebrow, the perkiness of her tits, and the feminine softness of her lovely little pussy.

Fuck, she was wet. Her pussy was craving him. But surely she wasn't brave enough to...

She went over to the Chesterfield on the far side of the room. It sat upon a cream rug, by an antique wooden coffee table. The brown, pockmarked leather felt cool and delicious against the backs of her thighs, and again a tingle rippled through her pussy. Did she dare take off her dress? What would he do? Had any of his models done that for him before? Surely they all did it eventually. Surely he fucked all of them. Oh my god. Surely he fucked Crystal's little tulip.

And before she could think better of it she pulled her dress off. And sat back against the couch. She was still in her heels, still in her bra and panties — the little yellow panties, holy fuck! Still holding the wine glass.

She crossed her legs, and liked the way her foot dangled from its perch upon her other knee. How long and sumptuous her legs looked, how in control she must look, how casual. But then she realized her bra didn't match, and...

No way. She couldn't be in nothing but her panties when this perfect stranger returned to paint her. That couldn't be what he saw!

But like there was a devil inside her — she put down the wine glass and quickly pulled off her bra. Fuck it. She wanted to blow his mind. She wanted to be something he'd never seen before. God, I love you. And she wanted to make him paint something like he'd never painted before. She wanted to inspire him, like the sexiest muse that ever was.

'Almost ready?' she heard from behind the large canvases.

'Almost!' she called back. Suddenly her seated position wasn't enough. Wasn't bold enough. Daring enough. Iconic enough. She wanted him to be forced to go somewhere he'd never gone before. Because of her. She wanted to create a vision for him like he'd never seen. To be so much more complex and challenging than a tulip or a sunrise. She wanted to beguile him, to stump him — and force him to take a creative leap like he'd never taken before. But how?

She searched the room — looking for inspiration, for a location, a pose, a frame, a... And then she caught herself in a mirror between two of the window arches. The panties. Yes! The little yellow panties — that was what stood out. That was what she wanted to be the focal point. They were so delicious. So naughty and innocent and out of place — she shouldn't even be wearing them! They weren't even hers. They were nowhere near appropriate. And she was only wearing them because she'd tongue fucked the two shopkeepers of a lingerie store, and been given them as a memento. Holy fuck, that was messed up.

And now she wanted to give them to this artist. To make them the canvas for his wildest flights of fancy. She wanted to offer them to him — and his art. She wanted to offer herself.

She got up, and looked for the place where she could best position herself to show off her sexy little panties. And for a moment she was sure she would press herself up against the big arched window, pushing her ass back provocatively. Or maybe she would lie on the couch, vulnerable and available, a heeled ankle dangling over the back. But then she saw the old mahogany dining table. And she knew immediately the pose she wanted to make.

She walked over, and ran her fingers over its smooth, knotted surface. Yes. Without giving herself the time to change her mind, Elise slipped out of her heels and climbed onto the table, moving into a position on her hands and knees that would put Jax face-to-face with her upturned, panty-covered pussy the moment he returned through the canvases. The thought sent a thrill through her. Fuck this was messed up! He probably expected her seated with her chin on her hands.

On her knees, naked but for little yellow panties, facing the huge arched windows, she knew she was perfectly visible to anyone in the building opposite who cared to notice. But she didn't care. She wanted this. She wanted to offer herself. She wanted to make a spectacle of herself — make a work of art out of herself. A work of art that made this hot as fuck artist as hard as the stem of his brushes.

Biting her lip, Elise stretched out to grip the other side of the long table and pushed her knees further apart. Then she arched her back, tilting her hips up invitingly for him, and rested her head against the mahogany. She was completely vulnerable, presented to him for his delectation — a wanton slut just asking for it, begging for it. Wrapped in nothing but soft, yellow cotton — she knew damn well he'd be able to see the outline of her pussy lips pressed against the stretched material. They may as well have had Eat Me printed on them.

'Ready?' she heard, Jax's patient voice sending shivers up her legs.

What the fuck was she doing? He was gonna freak — kick her out, call her a slut, tell her to get the fuck out of his studio. He was a real artist! What the fuck was wrong with her?

She heard his footstep on the creaking floorboards. Her pussy immediately clenched, and her nipples hardened to aching points, almost scraping against the wood, distended from her pendulous tits. Oh god. Oh god. She gripped the wood tighter, arching her back as much as she possibly could, and tilting her ass up so he'd look straight into her pussy. She was fucking crazy. But just the thought of him looking at her had her body trembling, and her pussy dripping with excitement.

His footsteps stopped abruptly, and Elise held her breath. Oh fuck. This wasn't a good idea. Would he like her? Would he want to paint her? Would he want to...

She heard him step closer. Felt his presence. And then saw him only just reflected in the windows. He was studying her. His head tilted slightly. Eyes locked on her body. Locked on her ass. On her upturned pussy. On the little yellow panties she could already feel getting coated in the wetness dripping out of her over-eager pussy.

He didn't say anything. She was desperate for him to say something. To give some kind of approbation. To tell her she was beautiful. To tell her to get out. Just to know what he was thinking.

But he remained utterly silent. He just stared at her.

Elise dared not move. She was shaking with fear, with nerves, with the sense that he might not like her — that he might find her, and her stupid, slutty pose disgusting. She'd disrespected him. She'd insulted him. And if she had she would die of embarrassment. She's a whore. She kept expecting, any second, for him to swear. To tell her to get the fuck out. To do something. But he stood still, and gazed at her.

Then he began moving. Elise could feel him. Moving ever so slowly, as if studying a natural phenomenon, Jax began to circle the table, moving round to her left. Her head was against the table, she couldn't see him — and only now did she realize just how vulnerable she'd made herself. He could do anything to her, and she was powerless to protect herself.

But something about this sent a shiver through her pussy, and she could feel her lips clenching for his cock, desperate to clamp down on him and not let go till he fired rockets of cum deep inside her. How could she possibly stay still while he painted her, while he looked at her so intently, studying every curve, every swale, every... fold.

He was standing directly in front of her now, she could feel his eyes. His breathing. Was he sketching her? He was so silent. So intense. But she didn't dare speak first. It might kill the moment. If he was going to kick her out, Elise reasoned, he would have done it by now. Did he like it?

But the artist still remained silent, even as he made his way ever so slowly around her. It was as if he were mapping her — tracing her in his mind. And the thought of his eyes drawing her outline sent a frisson of pleasure all the way through her body. Her skin was electrified by the thought of his eyes studying her — running down her curved spine, across her upturned ass cheeks, peaking at her breasts, daring to stare at her pussy lips pressed against the soft yellow material. Oh my god! She could feel his eyes on her! His eyes running up and down the slit of her pussy, lasering through the cotton, imagining her wet, smooth pussy on the other side.

She held her pose, her shoulders starting to shake, her wide-spread thighs shuddering with the strain of holding herself open to him like this. And her pathetic pussy was fluttering with anticipation and need. She needed his eyes on her. She needed his tongue on her. She needed his dick shoved deep inside her. He could just take her. He could do whatever he wanted to her.

Did he still want to paint her? Did he find her disgusting? She was so fucking stupid. Why wouldn't he say anything?

And then, confirming her worst fears, she heard the artist walking quickly away from her. Oh Jesus, he didn't find her worthy of painting. He didn't find her beautiful. She'd fucked up so badly. Ashamed to the core, Elise raised her head from the table, but the moment she did she heard 'Don't move.' Jax's commanding voice, from back across the room.

'Don't move,' he repeated softer. And now she heard his footsteps returning, even as she laid her head back against the table, and ensured her ass was presented to him perfectly. Was there a wet spot? She'd never even considered that. She never realized how turned on she'd become. Was she presenting her wetness to him?

'I am ready to paint now,' Elise heard. He was close. Right behind her. He must be staring straight into the folds of her pussy, her parted ass cheeks, the taut mounds of her tits. 'But you have to trust me.'

'I trust you,' Elise said — she couldn't help it. She was his subject. He could do with her whatever he needed. She needed him to make his art.

Again, silence. The air was heavy with the silence. But she could feel him behind her. Right behind her. She could feel his breath — Oh my fucking god! — his hot breath on the crack of her ass. On her lips. Catching the wet spot on her panties. Holy fuck!

What was he doing? Elise felt desperately vulnerable. She was presented to a stranger. And she couldn't see a thing he was doing. Why was he so close? Was he going to touch her? Was he going to...

'You are the art, Elise,' she heard him say softly. Breathing it right into her panties. Oh god, he liked her. He was going to paint her. 'You are a wonderful subject. A true inspiration. But never before have I had a subject that presents the canvas as well.' And with that, Elise felt a firm, fine brush stroke all the way along the slit of her pussy. Holy shit! He was painting her panties!

'I see what I must paint,' he said softly again, sending flutters through her upturned pussy. Oh god, she could feel the paint through her panties — a fine line of paint right along her slippery slit. And now he added more, with his super-fine brush, the artist made light but assured strokes across her electrified pussy lips. They were splayed against the tightly pressed material of her panties, and she could feel him applying the paint like he was painting her pussy directly. He was painting her pussy! Oh holy fuck, was her pussy the art?

She could feel his urgency, and his confidence. The clarity of purpose, as if he knew exactly what he must create, and that if he didn't trap it on the canvas — the canvas of her panties! — it might escape him. Light, delicate, flicking strokes of his tiny brush against her electrified lips started to make her thighs quiver. She couldn't take much more of this. The feeling of his brush against her, his eyes locked so intently on her most intimate spot, that this incredible artist was painting her — painting her pussy! And painting directly onto her little yellow panties. They were his canvas — they were his inspiration, just as Sondra seemed to know they would be.

He was so close! And she was presented to him so sluttily! His brush painstakingly stroking her pussy lips through her panties. His attention focussed solely on her — on her slutty little pussy. Oh fuck — she was starting to shake. She could feel the gripping inside her. The juice flowing into her panties — would she make them too wet to paint on? Could he smell how aroused she was? Oh fuck!

But the artist remained focussed, his brush reinforcing the line along her slit, then flicking out from the center. Elise concentrated on remaining perfectly still even as every stroke of his brush made her quiver. She'd never been touched like this before. Never been focussed on so acutely. And while Leo had snapped away at every single nook and cranny, had her open herself and present herself and let him snap the very most intimate parts of her — no-one had ever made art of her like this.

The feeling of his brush stroking her lips. The thought of his eyes. That he was inspired by her. That he could smell her. That he wanted her. That she was his art. Her pussy. Her panties had moved him to paint. She could feel the familiar warmth in her belly, the fluttering feeling that said she was close — if he kept stroking her lips like that she was gonna cum! She was gonna cum for this artist as he ran his paint brush up and down her slit.

And then her knees almost buckled — and Elise let go an involuntary gasp as his pointed little brush encircled her clit, pressing harder as he applied paint right against her little nub of pleasure.