The Secret Life of Artists Ch. 04

This is the fourth story in my Secret Life of Artists Series. They are all standalone, the topic and categories are different, but they are all related by art of some type.

Shania, an older woman gets a younger black client, Curtis for her art therapy and finds it hard to overcome their sizzling chemistry. But as her client, she cannot get involved unless...

As always, emails and comments welcome. xo

The Secret Life of Artists Chapter 4

I pulled my old white Range Rover to the curb in front of my new life. At fifty-three, after a life of travel and study, I finally settled down to live in my own home with a perfect-for-me attached studio.

The keys jangled in my hand as the deadbolt clunked a welcome. I stepped in, dropped all the bags, and spun around in circles in the middle of Cassie's huge glass-walled studio. Even though I just came from picking up the keys and signing the contract out at Cassie and Ted's ranch, I will have to keep reminding myself that I now own all this.

The flooring near the windows was paint-spattered, obviously where Cassie did most of her painting. I smiled remembering some of the stories she told me about the naughty college boy.

On the opposite side were two stacked mattresses. A filmy black backdrop flowed from the ceiling like a waterfall. Several stands without the light heads were scattered around.

So, this is where the naughty photographer did his deeds, I thought, giggling aloud and imagining the naked romping that went on in this room between Cassie and her young man, and then the photographer and all his models.

Live and let live is my motto. I haven't led the life of purity myself and am no one to judge other's actions.

I snapped the lights on in the- I would say bathroom, but was shocked to see it was really more of a dressing room with a divine glass-walled shower that had to be six by eight feet of group gropes and naked frolicking. Triple sinks lined a wall with makeup lighting surrounding the mirrors. A commode and bidet had their own closet in the corner.

I laughed again wondering if the studio vibe would be bored with my presence. No naughty goings ons, just weaving, and some painting. My students weren't likely to get into a group orgy, but I suppose you never know. Especially in this atmosphere.

The darkroom made me quite happy because it would be perfect for my dye room. That was most important because I dyed all my wool and silks. With a few changes, it would be perfect.

I was a dancer. Not a performer but I had studied a variety of dance and enjoyed them all. The dancing kept me in shape and was a requirement if I wanted to keep my figure. At only five foot four I had to watch my weight. And dancing kept my ass in tight round globes and my waist small. C cup breasts were the things that were out of proportion on my petite frame. A ballerina I would never have made.

~~~

Within a week I was set up for my first weaving class. Eight women and two men carried their looms in bags and set up in front of the chairs I had arranged earlier. They were anxious to choose their yarns and roving and settled in front of their looms. Most had woven before, the rest caught on quickly. I kept it basic for the first class which relaxed the students and gave me an idea of their expertise. They asked about the big floor loom that I had set up a few days ago. It had treadles that would change the shed for various weaving patterns. It could become quite intricate and take some time to complete a project.

The next day I dressed in black yoga pants and a black scoop tank. I tied my long auburn hair up and danced before working on my weaving. I leaped and spun and twirled until I was breathless. I leaned over, hands on my knees for a moment to catch my breath. I heard the doorbell at the same time I looked up to see a man blocking the glass in my studio door. It was a large glass door, and it would take someone quite large to do that.

I ran to the door and opened it, waving him in. I closed the door and turned. My eyes traveled up a massive chest to a face that immediately suggested, Simon, on the Bridgertons. His face was quite the same, but his skin was more chocolate. This man was much larger than I'd think Simon would be. His black curls were tight, and his mustache and beard were closely clipped and similar in style. I wondered if that was by design.

"Sorry, am I interrupting? You look busy." His voice was deep, smooth as velvet, and his smile revealed perfect pearl teeth.

"No, no, I'm sorry. I'm rude. It's just that you look so much like-"

"Simon?" he interrupted. I laughed, my face flushing. I must be like any other enamored girl his age. "And you're not rude. I'm used to it." His laugh was husky and whiskey strong.

While he was talking, I took in the broad shoulders that strained a white t-shirt, yet fit his rippled abs and narrow waist snugly. It was neatly tucked into low-slung jeans that hugged his hips but struggled to contain muscular thighs.

"Come on in! I'm Shania by the way." I motioned him to one of the chairs I had placed against the window. He introduced himself as Curtis.

He settled into the chair, elbows resting on the arms, legs spread male style. The seam of his jeans pushed into the mountain of his sex as it spread down across and a bit down his leg. His maleness was not only visible but palpable in the air surrounding us. My pussy tingled and dampened my panties, my nipples were hard and aching and I dare not look down because I know they were pushing through the knit tank I wore. I was thankful he seemed unaware of the effect he was having on me.

"Doctor Davis suggested I see you."I nodded, knowing immediately what he was here for. The doctor often sent patients to me for art therapy. I had taken the courses in college and have had ten years of experience, so he knew he could rely on me. He often took athletes and I have no doubt this is one.

"I see, okay, he refers a number of his patients to me. I'm very experienced in art therapy." He nodded. "I am set up to paint or weave, your choice. Or you can choose both and see what works best?"

He looked around and the big loom caught his eye. Understandably since it stood taller than him and equally as wide. "Is that for weaving? Could I use that?"

That one is my personal loom and I never let anyone use it. "Yes, of course," I answered without hesitation. What are you doing, Shania?!

I gave him the information he needed to know and took him into the dye room where I stored boxes of various colored yarns and roving. In my experience, men sometimes lost their mojo when it came to choosing colors. It wasn't a thing that a male child or adolescent would have reason to do, so I understood.

I left to let him look through the boxes and prepped the loom. It was already warped, but he needed to make a few practice rows. Throwing the shuttle and using the pedals took practice.

I had some adjustments to make under the loom and was leaning across the bench, only realizing that it was a rather unladylike position, so quickly backed out and cracked my head on the loom.

I stood up rubbing the knot that was quickly forming. "Ouch, dammit. That's gonna leave a mark," I mumbled.

"Let me make sure you're not bleeding. You hit your head pretty hard."

He dumped his armload onto the bench and started parting my hair to the scalp to check for damage. The only damage was to my pride. The heat of his body so close to mine quickly chopped through my embarrassment and right into arousal. What in the world is wrong with you, Shania?

He was six foot two of pure one hundred percent testosterone packaged in a hard-muscled smooth-talking drop-dead gorgeous, polished male. I was a petite five foot four and he was a wall that I couldn't see around or over. He blocked all my good sense, he blocked all reasoning, and he had my libido shifting into high gear and heading down the straightaway.

I stumbled back out of his force field remembering that this man was here for me to help him. He was a client. Not a student. I have never had a reaction like this to anyone before.

"I'm sorry, did I offend you?"

"No, no, not at all. Just that my head is starting to throb a bit," I said, reaching up and carefully feeling the knot.

"Yes, you're lucky you didn't break the skin."

No, I'm lucky you were here so you could distract me with those almond-shaped melted chocolate eyes surrounded by thick black curly lashes that appraised my condition. Not to mention the strong eyebrows knit in concern as he did it.

I forced myself to get and said, "I'll get all this wound and you'll be able to begin weaving."

We discussed the time and day and other details about why he was here. I never asked questions and only listened if they chose to talk about their anxieties. That information was then passed on to the doctor. My real job was to help them center. The repetitiveness of weaving was Zen-like, almost mesmerizing. But at the same time, you had to be conscious of space and colors, so it was not mindless. It usually was very successful for those with anxiety issues.

I saw him out and burnt sage. For myself, not for him. It had to be all the sexual shenanigans that happened in this studio that was making my hormones as rampant as a horny teenagers.

I had a small room full of boxes that I had in storage for years delivered yesterday. Always a free spirit I kept on the move throughout my life. I married young, divorced young, and never tied myself down again. It was fine for others, but not for me. I don't know if it was my age or just my soul that told me it was time to come in for a landing right here.

I unpacked boxes of memories I had not seen in years. Most things that I had picked up in my travels around the world. I often stayed in hostels, and often lived and worked in any city that I wanted to spend time in and get to know the people. From those travels, I learned to love everyone, no matter nationality or skin color. Everyone has a story to tell and you're a fool if you go to your grave not listening to others.

I worked at that for the next three days and on the fourth day, Curtis would be here. I looked at my watch and decided to use that beautiful aqua glass pool off my back deck in hopes of relieving some tension. I already had made my libido happy to get me through Curtis. I hoped.

The backyard was private and I was free to swim nude, which I loved. Cassie had clued me in on that and I was thrilled. I floated around and relaxed for a bit, swam a couple of laps to revive myself, then went in to shower and change. I opted for a long black lace and ruffle Stevie skirt and my usual black tank. I wrapped my auburn hair up on top of my head with a colorful scarf, and even added a splash of lipstick.

Curtis stepped into the studio right on time. I was happy to see his calm, but bright smile.

"Hi, Shania! You really look nice," he said, not without a touch of nervousness. "I've been looking forward to this. The weaving I mean." I nodded loving it when a man wasn't always one hundred percent sure of himself. A little uncertainty is endearing to many women.

Today a light blue t-shirt stretched across his broad shoulders, which was tucked into thin acid-washed jeans, that fit him like a second skin. He toed off his gym shoes and pushed them under the chair. He remembered that I told him it's easier to weave in socks.

"I'm glad. I think you're going to enjoy it. Treadling takes some practice, but the rest comes easy. Since we aren't using a pattern, you can let your imagination run wild with that."

He seated himself in front of the big loom. He worked on throwing an empty shuttle and treadling. I can usually stand next to someone seated on the bench without any issues. Because of his size, I couldn't avoid pushing my arm, body, or mostly breast against him when I leaned across to point something out on the weaving.

His maleness filled my nose again, but this time with a faint spice scent. Like cinnamon and cloves, unlike any men's fragrance I've ever smelled, but they should bottle this.

I dated a spiritual once that was rather abstract in thought so we played with sensory deprivation during sex. Of course, we often did visual, but sensory loss in the form of two added another twist. It was amazing what being deprived of sound does to you. Sound-blocking headphones and a good blackout mask will take you to new places. I'd recognize his essence anytime, anywhere.

The memories on top of his scent along with the heat of his body, not to mention the electric touches had me squeezing my thighs together and wondered if he could smell my sex because my panties were soaked.

I stepped back and watched him weave for a bit. Once I saw that he went from thinking about every move, to just fluidly doing it, I walked away. Truthfully, I was glad to get some distance between us. He had been nothing but a gentleman and I'm sure wouldn't consider that I would be about anything improper. And normally I wouldn't...

About an hour later he said, "Shania, can you come look. Something got tangled."

"Oh yeah, no problem," I said once I looked at the issue. But it did involve me un-weaving a few rows which put me in the position to lean across in front of him to throw the shuttle back and forth, which made me lean against his arm.

He moved it and I felt his hand lightly on my waist because, in all fairness, the only other place would have been on my ass. The heat of his hand melted right through my clothes down to my skin. I wanted him to slide his hand in the band of my skirt to measure the size of his big hand on my body. I wanted to see his dark hand on my light skin- a visual sensory.

I fumbled with the yarn. As I stretched my arms across the weaving, the side of my breast pressed into his chest. The quicker I tried to work, the worse it got. Suddenly two beefy hands spanned my waist and urged me to move in front of the bench.

"This might be more comfortable... Or I can just move?"

"No no, you're fine. Just a little glitch... Almost done," I murmured, trying to ignore that although I could reach it better, more of my body was pressed against him.

His hands were still around my waist, mostly to keep me balanced because I had to lean so far forward. It felt as though his fingers touched, his big hands completely spanning my waist. I couldn't imagine the power he held, especially over someone as tiny as myself.

I finally got it all straightened around and stepped back. He let me go when he knew I had my footing again, and laughed.

"You know I bet I bench press heavier than you weigh. You are very very small," he grinned. I never noticed the dimples on my initial inspection. Oh great, that only added another thing to ratchet up my arousal for him.

"I wouldn't argue that." I glanced at his shoulders. "You obviously spend a lot of time in the weight room."

My fingers twitched wanting to trail them across the muscles that bulged through his shirt, then removing it to caress his dark burnished skin. I wanted my lips on him, tasting him. Would he taste salty or spicy? His nipples poked through his t-shirt. Would he like to feel my tongue flick across their hardness or would he prefer them in my teeth, gently tugging?

"Am I ready to weave again, Shania?" His voice snapped me out of my ridiculous fantasy.

"You're free to weave as long as you like. I have no set time. I'm going to be working in the dye room also known as the darkroom," I said laughing. "Holler if you need me."

Dying was one of my favorite things and I could get lost in the process. In my world, there's nothing better than working with colors, and I lost track of the time.

"Here you are! I wasn't sure if you were still in here or not," Curtis said, his big body claiming much of my space.

"Good timing. I was just about done." I reached up to the pull cord and plunged the room into nearly complete blackness. "Oh shoot!" I usually had enough studio light coming in that I could easily get out the door, but Curtis was blocking it.

I waved my arm around trying to get the pull cord at the same time he tried. My breasts crashed into hard chest with an Ooof and I teetered against him, splaying my hands on his chest.

He grabbed my waist and held me against him. "You okay?" His fingers flexed. "God, Shania you're so delicaate."

I felt him grow hard against my stomach. A hard nipple was under my finger. His chest expanded with a deep breath. His thumbs slipped under my shirt and caressed my skin. I sucked in a breath and it sounded loud and lewd in this room. My eyes adjusted to the blackness and I tried to see, but all I could do was feel. His thumbs stroking around and around on my sensitive skin. I rubbed my finger over his hard nipple. I heard his hard swallow.

I knew if I could look in those melted chocolate brown eyes I would be lost. I was clinging to my professionalism with a cobweb thin grip as it was.

He leaned down and kissed my neck. His soft breath washed over me and I begged for just another moment. I slid my hands up the peaks and valleys of his chest to his shoulders, then down over his biceps. My breasts pushed into his chest and I had to rub my aching nipples against him. As if he knew, his hand went to the side of my breast, his thumb pushed between us and circled my nipple through my top. A whimper came out of nowhere and sounded distant in my ears. I knew then it had to stop it. My career was at stake.

"Curtis, no, we can't."

"You're right, Shania. I'm sorry. I wasn't thinking." He made his way out of the door and I had enough light to follow. "I'll see you my next scheduled time."

I looked at what he had woven so far and ran my fingers over the various textures, amazed at the color blends. He had an artist's eye for color, and utilized texture like a pro. I realized then how much I had let him down by letting my libido flip the bird to my common sense. How did I lose my professionalism so quickly, I admonished myself. I've never even been close to that happening before. So he didn't think I had forgotten what he was even here for, I went to my computer and sent him a link to a male weaver in Serbia that did similarly beautiful work, very similar to what Curtis was producing.

He emailed back the next day to thank me for the link and added how inspiring it was so I knew he hadn't totally written me off.

My weavers came in that afternoon for their third class and more than a few showed promise of being excellent textile artists. Several asked if I would eventually have dye classes and I promised them I would think about adding them to the schedule as well as advanced classes. I was pleased with how this was all taking off, even more, convinced I had made the right decision in moving here.

Later that afternoon Cassie was a pleasant surprise at the studio door.

"Cassie! I'm glad to see you. I think about you so often of course."

"I had to come into town to pick some things up for the ranch and thought I'd see if you weren't busy."

"I'm not! Come in, come in!"

She walked around the studio and admired the student's work that left them there. "Some of these are created by real artists," she said, amazed. "Oh, and this big loom! I assume this one is yours?"

"Well, it is my loom, but it's not my weaving."

"It's gorgeous. Someone with an amazing talent is working on this."

I nodded. "Yes, he's good isn't he?"

"He's a student and you're letting him use the big loom?"

"Not a student but a client." She nodded and didn't question further knowing that I also had art therapy students. "But I'm thinking I should turn him over to someone else." I sat down and she grabbed the chair across from me.