The Art and Science of Love
4
Painting Sheila
WHEN I AWOKE in the morning, Rita was gone.
Well, strictly speaking, it was barely morning. I lay in bed several minutes reliving every sensuous moment of the previous night, trying to convince myself it had not been an elaborate fantasy I put over on myself. When I realized what time it was, though, I jolted out of bed and dashed to the bathroom for a shower and shave. Saturday is a busy day in the real estate industry and I had an open house scheduled at one of my listings in less than an hour.
In the bathroom, my mirror had been decorated with lipstick. A curly border had been drawn around a series of XOXOXO and a perfect lipstick imprint of Rita’s lips. It seemed there were no hard feelings. She must have had to work this morning, too. Or else she wanted to get across the drive and into her own house before daylight. I got dressed and made it to my open house with minutes to spare, then sat and waited for four hours while a sparse trickle of visitors came, showing no interest in the house whatsoever. Some days are like that. I entertained myself between visitors by sketching small details I could remember from the night before. I discovered Rita could turn me on without even being in the same room.
I didn’t see Rita at all for the rest of the weekend. She had taken off Saturday morning with a bunch of girlfriends for a girls’ weekend at a local spa. She called Saturday night and said she’d see me sometime the next week.
Mondays are dead in the real estate industry unless you happen to have landed a fish during a weekend open house. I considered Monday my weekend. Tuesday morning, I would have to deal with brokers’ open houses and a new homes tour, but Mondays, I reserved to paint. The inestimable Sheila Monroe, my wealthy client, called and asked if she could sit for her painting that afternoon. I’d laid in the background and washes, and was ready to start on the detail work. I agreed and Sheila arrived about noon.
She didn’t bother to step behind the privacy screen I keep in the studio for changing, but made sure she had my eye first and began simply taking her clothes off in front of me. This was a portrait that showed down almost to her draped waist, but she took off considerably more clothing than was strictly required. She stood in a lacy transparent thong and waited for me to position her on the couch in the pose I’d recorded. I spread a blanket on the chaise I was using to pose her on and she settled into position. I looked at the position in the photo and made several small adjustments to her posture and position, letting my hand rest gently on her shoulder or back as she got comfortable.
I’d warned her that sitting for a painting was not like sitting for a sketch. The process is much slower and therefore, the pose must be held much longer. I usually work for forty-five minutes and then take a break for fifteen so the model has time to get the blood circulating through her limbs again. After the first session, Sheila was stiff and tired of the same pose, but she dropped her drape and pranced around the studio—loosening up, she said—in just her thong. She leaned over my shoulder to look at the progress on the painting, pressing up against me.
Sheila is in her mid-thirties and has two children, but in true trophy wife fashion, she’s taken immaculate care of her body. She chatted as we worked through the next session about her busy schedule of getting the children up and off to school and meeting friends at the tennis club to play and enjoy the spa. She might have a massage scheduled—with Enrico, her favorite therapist—or just have lunch and a glass of wine. At least three times a week, she met with a personal trainer, who had obviously been doing a great job. She is about five-five and her body is lean and trim. Almost too lean for my tastes as, like most artists, I like to see curves in a woman. Nonetheless, there is nothing unpleasant about looking at her.
In the third and final forty-five-minute session, there was something slightly different about her pose. Checking the digital photo, I didn’t see what it was at first. A slight movement after I’d started painting, however, drew my attention downward. Sometime during her last break, she’d lost the thong and the drape had been pulled up far enough to expose a clear view of her pussy. I tried to keep my focus on the curve of her breast and the nipple peeking from behind the drape, but I noticed the hand that was not in the picture had slipped beneath the sheet and was slowly stroking her cleanly shaved pussy.
I had a new admiration for Sheila. In fact, I was beginning to think I might call her to model for me professionally sometime. She was holding her upper body perfectly still in the pose we’d agreed on, even while fingering her clit. That takes some concentration and I was losing mine. I managed to complete the curves I was working on and then said I thought we’d done enough for today.
“Oh, Doc,” she said as she moved and adjusted the sheet again, making sure my view was unobstructed. “Would you mind doing just a couple more sketches of me that are full-body and not just upper?” She was lying naked in front of me, so I had no difficulty agreeing.
I brought my sketchbook and a bit of charcoal and sat my stool much closer than I had for the portrait. She moved herself into a reclining pose and positioned the drape so she was full exposed. I quickly lay in a charcoal sketch and captured the bare slit she was showing with her fingers poised just over it. When I’d finished the sketch, she shifted positions and the drape fell away entirely with no pretense about using it for modesty. She arched herself backward, spreading her legs slightly and I tore through another rapid sketch. I had a feeling this was less about me sketching and more about her posing.
“What do you think of my ass?” she asked, getting on her hands and knees for the next pose. She pointed it pretty directly at me and I could see her labia open, exposing her channel and clit. “I’d like you to do one that is just a close-up of my derriere.”
“It’s a lovely ass, Sheila,” I said as I positioned my stool close enough to smell her and see the fine details of her ass and pussy. Between the posing and her earlier fingering, moisture glistened around her pussy lips. I sketched each little pucker as I saw it and, in a few minutes, I had a likeness that only her husband would recognize. Or perhaps her masseur.
She got up from the chaise and looked at the sketches.
“Is that really what I look like from that angle?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said. “It’s really quite beautiful.”
“No wonder George likes it so much!” she exclaimed. I had to assume George was her husband, but perhaps it was her personal trainer. She sat on my lap and pulled the sketchbook from my hands. “You could almost reach out and touch it.”
“From where I am right now, I could,” I laughed. It was very pleasant to have this woman sitting and wiggling on my lap the way she was. I was beginning to show signs of my arousal.
“Why don’t you?” she whispered in my ear. She dropped the sketchbook on the floor and wrapped her arms around me, coming in for a wet, sloppy kiss.
When I pay a model to sit for me, we work hard and maintain a good professional distance. I never touch a model without permission and then only guide her (or him) to the pose I specifically want. That isn’t to say I’ve never enjoyed other entertainment with a model after we’d closed up the studio, but I keep work and pleasure strictly separate when money is changing hands.
In this case, however, the woman was paying me for painting her and was not a professional model. I had no compunction about filling my hands with her ass and burying my face in her tits. And there was no doubt that Sheila was not only willing, but expected no less.
Fucking Sheila was a far cry from making love to Rita. I am by nature a more languorous lover, but Sheila was a woman on a mission and I contented myself with being the fulfillment of her fantasy—and enjoying the experience as she pulled at my clothing until I was fully naked as well. Though I was swelling with anticipation, it takes some slight direct stimulation before I’m fully ready to consummate a relationship. Noting this, Sheila fell to the task with vigor, teasing my cock fully upright with her tongue and lips. Though she applied herself diligently, I was loath to release my load between her lips as I’d seen a far more appealing target.
I lifted her to her feet and guided her back to the chaise, where I set forth to return the oral pleasures to her. My experience is not as broad as you might expect an artist’s to be. I have had an adequate supply of lovers over the years, but I’m not the type to need sex on a daily or hourly basis. Experience has shown me a few things, however. It is not unusual for professional models to shave their privates for the sake of art. When I sketch a woman, having a great bush of hair between her legs has approximately the same effect as airbrushing the region out of existence. When I was in school, student models would often arrive who shaved nothing. It was a part of the “back to nature” movement from which we were able to draw so many of our models. My first experience with an atelier model, however, changed the way I looked at the female form—from an artistic perspective, of course.
From a purely sexual perspective, a shaved pussy does no more to stimulate me than a hairy one. I have discovered, however, a woman who shaved for other than professional reasons, did so with intent. The intent was to attract oral attention to the area. When I buried my face between Sheila’s legs, I found she was as smoothly bare as the proverbial baby’s bottom. When I applied my tongue to the slippery slit, the response was… shall we say, noisy. She was verbal beyond words, helping to spread her labia to give me better access as she screamed over and over such lovely endearments as, “Yes! Fuck yes!” and, “Oh oh oh oh.”
Having such an enthusiastic recipient for oral sex made me much happier to give it. She tasted sweet and slightly salty from her juices. I explored every juicy fold of her labia with the tip of my tongue, thrusting it as deeply into her pussy as I could before dragging it up, out, and over her clit to more shuddering cries. As I worked on her clit with my tongue, I explored the region with my fingers as well. She had flooded the area with so much slippery juice that it ran between her legs and down her ass. I used my thumb in her pussy, pumping in and out as I flattened my tongue against her clit and wiggled it back and forth. My middle finger, I placed against her back door and began gently to apply pressure. This led to a new crescendo in her vocalese and a long string of “Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck,” deteriorating into a long loud wordless wail. I did not let up until she clamped her legs shut on my ears, yelling, “Stopstopstop. I can’t take anymore. Please, stop!”
Whenever a woman tells me to stop, I do—whether it is at the beginning or at the end or any point between. The grip she had on my head with her thighs prevented me from actually withdrawing, so I released her clit from my tongue and gently kissed her pussy, in which my thumb was still buried. My finger as well, I did not withdraw from her anus. On both, I could feel the continued pulsing as she came down from her orgasms. Gradually, the pressure on my ears relaxed and I was able to raise my head slightly to look at her. She was looking down at me with a mixture of satisfaction and curiosity, as though she were trying to figure out who I was and how I got my head between her legs.
“Mmm. That was just what I needed,” she said, smiling. Then she heaved a bit of a sigh. “I suppose you want to fuck me since you wouldn’t come in my mouth,” she continued. She rolled over, pulling my fingers from her. On her knees with her ass in the air, she was in much the same pose as I’d sketched. “Use whichever hole you want, but be quick about it. I need to get home and shower before George does.”
I was being given my choice of fucking her pussy or her ass from behind, but somehow the joy had gone out of it. I may have been hard, but I couldn’t see myself fucking an uninvolved ass or pussy.
“Not necessary, Sheila,” I heard myself saying as I patted her ass. I turned away to pick up my clothes. “I’m just happy you’re satisfied.” She looked at me a little strangely, as if I weren’t quite human.
“Your loss,” she said, gathering her clothes and stepping behind the privacy screen. “You should have come while I was blowing you.” I had to chuckle at that while I stuffed my cock back into my trousers and felt it reluctantly let go of its stiffness. After I assured Sheila the painting would be done in a week, she asked for the three new sketches I’d done and I gladly gave them to her. She left, promising she’d be back for another sitting ‘if I needed her.’ I highly doubted that. She’d gotten what she wanted. The act of sitting for her portrait had made her horny and she had built up her own fantasies about how to seduce me. She wanted no doubt left in my mind that this was a one-time opportunity and it would never occur again.
I cleaned up the studio and gathered up the towels and drape to be laundered. I checked behind the screen to be sure nothing had been left and, somewhat to my surprise, found five one-hundred-dollar bills on the changing table.
What can you do? I had to laugh and decided to find a charity to give my ill-got gains to.
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