My dreams were troubled last night. I know I had more than one but I cannot remember them all. I was lost in a great featureless corridor of shining walls. Light was coming from somewhere and as I moved forward searching for a door, the temperature slowly began to rise. The more I hurried, the worse it became until finally I sat down in despair, sweating profusely; thoroughly trapped.
When I awoke, I really was damp with perspiration. My heart fluttered unnaturally as I wandered through into the kitchen to fill a tall glass with cold water. I sipped in the dark, leaning on the counter, looking out into the yard and listening. My heartbeat slowed with each sip and somehow my consciousness reached out to him in my increasingly sleepy state; probing what might be, considering, speculating.
In my mind’s eye, he is on his back, one foot slightly entangled in a white twisted sheet. His arms are thrown out wide; he feels safe, confident and strong even in his sleep.
Certain things stand out to me in my imagining. His strong jaw. I think of running my fingers over it, of painting it, smelling it because I’m damn sure he exudes powerful pheromones from there. I contemplate where else he might exude pheromones from…
Everywhere I’d say. My heartbeat begins to quicken again as I imagine settling myself next to him in a white lace nightie and matching miniscule knix. On my knees, I scent him, nose millimeters from his skin. I rove everywhere, the chemicals from him hitting something in my brain like a shotgun blast, sending blood to places that have no business being flushed and set alight at 4am.
I want to speak his name somehow. It’s like I can’t get personal enough. I have to have him on my tongue in all respects. I need to stop this. All he is, is a card and a set of eyes I saw in a tunnel.
*You will not paint him…*
Fate does not agree. On the doormat the following day is a termination of employment notice from the college due to cutbacks. I’m devastated and beyond royally fucked. My bowl of cornflakes is forgotten. I feel physically sick. I’m still paying off my mum’s medical bill from eight months ago and the rent I’m paying here is astronomical. My savings don’t amount to a hill of beans. I can probably last two or three months at best.
One painting certainly won’t save me but it will buy me some time.
The text I send is terse. I can’t help being angry with him even though it is not his fault. It just seems so unfair I am pushed into a corner like this with zero choices whilst he has everything and floats through life on an exalted cloud of good fortune.
*Bloody rich people…*
I know I am being a supremely grumpy bitch.
It shows further still when he arrives at the studio for the preliminary sitting. I know he wants a fully nude lifesize painting. I am prepared though, having battered myself silly with my favourite toy this morning. I’m also wearing the most unattractive outfit I could conjure up and absolutely no make up. I brace myself furthermore as he removes the soft towelling robe I provided for the occasion.
A scratching dryness engulfs my throat, making it harder to speak as I bid him make himself comfortable on the large chesterfield armchair placed in the centre of the room. He poses well. Very natural. Little is needed to make him right. He is criminally gorgeous.
I adjust the blinds at the window, back facing away from him. I glance back to see if the effect is satisfactory, and there jutting from the nest of dark hair at his crotch, his phallus of porcelain white twitches noticeably and lengthens, almost shyly revealing its coral pink head. He knows it too and his eyes fix upon mine in impish amusement.
‘You never mentioned what this painting is for,’ I say in a cracking, awkward voice. My trembling hands futter with the brushes and rags upon the bench to my left. I knock over a jar of linseed oil and curse under my breath.
‘Oh did I not?’ he says gripping the armrests teasingly. ‘I suppose there is a reason for that. It’s a bit cliche.’
His tone and answer are crafted to allure me. I know that. He has obviously forgotten I saw into his soul that day. There can be no lies. His games are useless.
‘Cliche?’
‘Yes. You could say that. A bit Fifty Shades.’
‘Oh right. Let me guess…this painting will take pride of place in your sex dungeon.’
He chuckles.
‘Bingo.’
The warm tunnel of flesh leading to my womb almost implodes, she grips nothing so hard it hurts.
I think he’s punishing me for seeing something in him no one else has. I begin to sketch some loose lines on the canvas, marking out distances and dimensions. Nerves leave me a little bit and I sink into the task. Part way through, I order us in some coffee and we sit talking, with him in his robe, loosely fastened.
‘I make you nervous, don’t I?’ he says.
I unwrap a biscoff and hand an unopened one to him. He refuses with a tiny wave.
‘Not really.’
‘What then? You look like a rabbit on ketamine everytime I see you.’
‘A rabbit?? Oh and I suppose you see yourself as the big bad wolf?’
He laughs.
‘Well maybe a little.’
He shifts in his seat, sups his coffee and looks up at me with his unbearably sensual eyes. I scale back a scoffing laugh, reminding myself he is a paying client now. A much needed one.
‘There are many different types of nakedness Mr Collins. I have seen two versions of yours. I am afraid of neither. Nor am I intimidated.’
‘You won’t mind if I deal with this then, so we can resume, will you?’
He sets down his empty coffee cup, throws off his robe and reveals the biggest, most delicious looking hardon I have ever seen.
I choke a little on my last mouthful of coffee.
‘Deal with it?’ I splutter. ‘How do you mean?’
‘This,’ he says and begins to slowly and languorously fist his handsome weeping shaft.
Oh fuck….I am so in trouble now.
Source: reddit.com/r/Erotica/comments/w10fbx/tired_and_horny_on_the_way_home_part_3