The Artist

She was sort of kinky.

She'd been working from home, on her work-issued laptop the night she called. She'd accidentally closed a browser tab she was using. Navigating into the history function to bring it back up, she was confronted with her other recent page visits. There was a lot of porn. And not just any porn. She had specific tastes. BDSM tastes. Tastes she would never admit to her friends, never admitted to even her lovers, who were usually attractive men with big egos who didn't care to probe her depths. None of them could make her come--she did that on her own, thank you very much. She appeared vanilla, embraced vanilla, except when she was all by herself.

That is, until the party. Meeting him, seeing his obscene art awakened, and emboldened something in her. Plus, there was always yolo to consider. EOW.

When he opened the door, the greeting she'd planned--some snide comment about his lousy digs, rats for roommates, etc--flew out of her head. Like his presence exuded some kind of force, smothering her beneath some intangible weight.

"Welcome," he said, motioning her inside. She wasn't sure whether she should go in for a hug. He didn't, so she didn't.

The interior was similar to the outside, all rough and ramshackle. "So this is where the magic happens, huh," she said, laying on the sarcasm to shield her nervousness. Her excitement. Canvases leaned along the walls, sometimes three or four deep. The space was divided into separate rooms with cheap exposed particle board.

"I share this space with a few other artists," he told her, leading her to one of the rooms that had no door. "But since it's the weekend, we've got the place to ourselves."

Coming into his room, she tried to process everything she saw in an instant, becoming overwhelmed and seeing none of it clearly. There was a small table with a mound of clay, a set of brushes, and a pallet of paint. Standard fare. Before that, another, bigger table was pushed against the wall. Atop this lay a cushion for a lounge chair, the kind you'd see on patio furniture.

"Here's the contract and the NDA," he said, drawing her attention away from the table for the time being. "Take a minute and read it over. Then sign here."

She looked to where his finger lay along a dotted line. Then she read the heading. "Modelling contract," she said, to no one in particular. "Lolz." This all seemed so absurd. So strangely clinical.

When she went to sign it, he stopped her. "Actually read it," he insisted.

She tried to focus. But he was right beside her, and that table with its cushion on the other side, both demanding her full attention. Her eyes passed over words that seemed to be in another language while her mind raced uselessly, her heart beating thickly. After a few moments of the charade, she took up the pen again, signed it sight unseen, and afterward noticed the five crisp one hundred dollar bills laying next to the contract.

"So how many of these sculptures have you done?" she asked, finding her voice again, needing casual conversation to assert her confidence, wishing he would offer her a drink to calm her nerves.

"Twelve," he said promptly, motioning towards the table.

He was all business. Like he had a schedule to keep. Maybe this really is just a business transaction, she thought. Maybe she'd been foolish to expect anything else. Maybe there wasn't anything to get worked up over.

"Like I mentioned before, this is going to take about three hours," he said, leaning against his art table. "You'll be there, on that table. We'll make sure you're comfortable. Ideally, you won't move from your position. If you get thirsty or hungry, I'll bring you whatever you need. Are you hungry or thirsty now?"

"No," she said.

"Do you need to go to the bathroom?"

She felt her mouth open slightly against her will. God, this was all so weird and so hot. "No," she answered, feeling like a bashful child.

"Then why don't you take off your pants and underwear."

He spoke softly to her. He knew he must strike the perfect balance between gentle and commanding. She must understand that she wouldn't be coerced into anything, but also that she must respect his time, and follow his guidance.

He allowed her a few moments of looking especially shy, laughing behind her hands, covering her face with her hands. He smiled with her, silently acknowledging her feelings, the strangeness of the situation for her. But he didn't move, communicating his expectations though the stillness of his presence.

Slowly, she did what he asked, leaving her socks on. He didn't say anything about her socks, she thought wildly. What was it about this situation, about him, that totally paralyzed her rational thinking?

He moved forward now, coming close to her, and she willed him to touch her, not being quite brave enough to initiate anything herself.

He only patted the cushion on the table. "Up here," he said.

She obediently positioned herself, her legs squeezed shut.

He took a calm breath in, the most delicate part of the operation having arrived. "Comfortable?" he asked.

She nodded.

"The way I'd like you to sit is with your legs open, your feet on the table on either side of you."

"Oh god," she said, bashfully covering her mouth again. "I can't believe I'm doing this."

This was the point of failure for so many of his models. Sometimes they needed assistance or encouragement. But as she slowly opened her legs of her own accord, he felt sure that she would do anything, and everything, he would ask of her tonight.

"More like this," he said, pushing her knees a bit wider, so that she hung open, her pussy angled towards his art table. "Perfect. And your hands should be holding onto your ankles. Yes, like that. Keep them there the whole time. Okay?"

She nodded.

Producing a white towel, he instructed her to lift her bum off the cushion while he slid it beneath her. He offered her no explanation, allowing her instead to imagine its purpose.

Throughout these preparations, he was careful to avoid looking between her legs. It was all a matter of moving forward in delicate degrees, in order to prevent any undue alarm or clamming up. Once she was in position, he went to his table and began warming up his clay. As he worked it between his hands, he looked her over. She was very tense. Completely normal. Her knuckles were white as they gripped her ankles, like she was holding on for dear life. He was amused by this. Her head was turned to the side, pretending to closely study something interesting on the blank wall beside her. He took his time at his table, letting her acclimate to the position, to her exposure, to him.

Next, the time had come for him to warm her up. Putting down his clay, he dipped his hands into a bucket of water, wiping them dry on a towel. He approached her again, coming to stand beside the table. "Did you read the part in the contract about touching?" he asked.

"Yeah..." she lied. She felt like an admonished school child who'd failed to turn in an assignment.

He knew she was lying. Most of them did. He sighed, letting slip the slightest hint of annoyance. Purely performative, of course. "Tell me, what did you find so compelling about my piece at that party?"

Immediately, she knew what he was getting at -- at least, she knew what she found compelling. It was aroused. Sloppy-looking. Engorged. Used. As quick a tongue as she normally had, she could not bring herself to utter any of these words.

"I'd like you to be aroused for this," he continued. "You have the option of touching yourself, to keep yourself aroused for the duration of the session. Or, if you consent, I can touch you instead. You did already sign the consent form for that. But I leave the choice to your."

"Wow, okay," was all she could manage, covering her face in her hands again. "Is this for real?"

"I asked you to keep your hands around your ankles," he reminded her.

She felt flushed, certain she was sweating through her shirt. Did she stink of BO now, too? What else could her body do to embarrass her? She knew he was expecting an answer, but could she really say it? Could she actually ask for what she wanted?

"You can do it," she said finally, affecting an uncaring attitude. "If you want."

"It would be my pleasure," he said. He moved to stand between her opened legs, and began his examination of her. He was delighted to find that she had a full, luscious pussy, just like he liked. Clean shaven, as he'd requested. His first touch was along her smooth thighs, his fingers trailing slowly downwards, glancing up at her every so often to ensure she was being appropriately receptive. He ran his thumbs along her outer lips, massaging them, pulling them open slightly. Already she was swelling, the first hints of wetness appearing.

Abruptly he left, going to his work table where he began manipulating clay.

Her pulse thudded in her ears, between her legs. Never before had she felt so exposed. Sure, she was embarrassed at how aroused she already was. But his gaze from his table, his careful focus as he shaped clay into her likeness, felt every bit like the physical touch she wanted now. That she needed.

Some women deflated easily, and he would need to spend much of his time plumping them up again. Some needed near constant physical attention. He was always happy to provide it.

But the women who could stay aroused even in his absence--these were the ones he saw potential with.

"So you lurk around your sculptures to select your next victims?" she asked, breaking his concentration. "Whoever lingers the most?"

He smiled his crooked smile. "My livelihood does sort of depend on it," he said. She needed more attention now, he decided, but this time it would be to shut her mouth. He wanted her entirely incapacitated. He knew exactly how he would accomplish this. Selecting his softest paintbrush from his cup, he came to stand between her legs again. He was pleased at the sound of her breath, becoming more ragged as he stood before her.

She didn't know what the brush meant as he held it between his fingers. But upon first contact, she suppressed a moan. The softness of the bristles, the delicate strokes he bestowed upon her. She understood. At least, she was beginning to understand. He stroked her all over, her inner thighs, her inner lips and out. Slow, light, and methodical strokes across her clit.

"Do you know why I chose you?" he asked her, uninterested in her answer, wanting only to gauge her ability to speak, to see how much longer he would need to continue.

Indeed, her ability to speak was gone. She barely heard his words, straining as she was through the pleasure. Pressure that was building now, with a vengeance. She was amazed: she might actually come. With another person. For the first time. But could she let it happen when she was spread so lewdly before him? Could she really come right before his eyes?

She needn't have concerned herself with these thoughts. He stopped, putting the brush down on the table beside her, in full view, so she could contemplate it while he went back to his clay.

Her throbbing flesh begged for touch. Almost unconsciously, she reached for the brush, wanting to feel its once more, just a little bit more.

"No."

Her eyes flew open, only then realizing she'd closed them to the world, everything except the sensations thrumming through her body.

"Put your hand back where it was," he told her.

At first, she was indignant. Who was he to tell her what she could and couldn't do? But then she remembered her place. She was the subject. The paid model. Her only job was to be a still life, a bowl of fruit. Fine.

But as she clasped her ankle once more, she ruminated on this word. No. Why was so darkly captivating about it? Why did her pussy throb at the memory of it?

On the session went. Every ten minutes or so, he would dip his hands into the water again, towelling them off, moving slowly, giving her time to anticipate what was to come next. He didn't need to touch her so often, but it was now a matter of desire for him. He wanted to make her ordeal as intense and difficult as possible. To see how far he could push her. He would take up the brush, or he would use his fingers, relishing her soft moans, curses muttered under her breath as her body strained for more. He was very pleased to discover she was not one of those women who could come easily. She was checking so many of his favorite boxes.

He also discovered her sensitivity around her ass. When he'd passed the brush across it, she squealed, catching hold of his hand.

"No," she said. "I don't like that."

It was the only time she so directly disobeyed. As difficult as it was to restrain himself from admonishing her, he consoled himself with the fact of having acquired this potentially very useful information.

Eventually, his sculpture neared completion. He guessed around two hours had passed, but he wasn't counting, and he knew she wasn't either. Soon, there was only one last part to finish.

When he approached her this time, he retrieved an object from his pocket, holding it out for her to see. It was a small clear dildo, only a few inches in length, tapering out into a wide base with a handle at the end.

"Mind if I use this on you?" he asked. "I'd like to open you up a little."

"Sure," she panted, calling to mind the sculpture on the wall, the dark opening, as if speaking a silent invitation. She wondered what she looked like, what her sculpture would look like, and for a moment, shame flared up.

But the instant he put the thing to her flesh, all thoughts ceased once more. It was warm, having been in his pocket. Warmed with his body heat, she knew, and suddenly wished it was him, instead of the dildo, that would be entering her.

He started slow, slipping the tip in and out of her, teasingly stabbing at her entrance.

"Please," she moaned, unravelling.

"Please what?" he asked.

"Please fuck me with that," she said.

His cock twitched. She was being so good.

He forced it into her suddenly, pushing passed her tight entrance, only to pull it out an instant later. She cried out in surprise, a cry that devolved into a long, hungry moan. He loved the way her hips rocked so pathetically, trying to invite it back in.

"You're tight," he told her as he resumed the light stabbing. "When's the last time you were fucked?"

She leaned back into the cushion, eyes closed, unable to process everything that was happening. She felt as though she might explode. She wanted to explode. But he was preventing her, somehow.

He wanted her full attention. He snaked a hand into her hair, wrenching her head forward. "Why don't you watch?" he said softly. Simple, innocent-sounding suggestions with his words, coupled with demanding touches as he roughly gripped her hair. He strove to confuse her mind, casting it aside in order to directly address her subconscious.

She did watch as he began plunging it in and out of her, watching his strong arm with its lithe muscles working her. The sounds of her juices filled the air as he pummeled her, a needed respite for his pent-up aggression.

When her tightness was utterly gone, the dildo passing in and out of her as smoothly as butter, he stopped, placing the dildo beside the paint brush, ignoring her plaintive cries for more. As he stood back at his table, admiring his work, he was filled with nearly irrepressible glee, feeling his cock straining against the confines of his clothes. If she didn't come from that, it meant she couldn't come from penetration.

She was perfect.

The deep, urgent heat the fucking left her with was nearly unbearable. She needed to be filled up completely, not the meager few inches the dildo provided. She wanted him, all of him, in her. Now.

A short while later, when he told her he was finished, she couldn't quite understand what was happening. Before she could utter a rebuttal he was guiding her off the table, holding out her clothes for her to put on. Stuffing bills into her hand. Then she was in the hallway, looking back at him.

For a moment he was hesitant to let her go in this dazed state. But he knew the cool outdoor air would perk her up enough to return her wits to her. She would get herself safely home.

More important was the boundary he must maintain. The appearance of the transaction completed. Their relationship terminated. Her body used for his purposes and nothing more.

As he shut the door, he already knew precisely when he would call her back. And he knew, without a single doubt, that she would come.