Brushstrokes (2 page)

He tilted his head, as
if he had heard another statement all together behind what she said. “Are you
complaining that I should not want the space so small?”

She could have kicked
herself. “No, no, not at all. It just kept me busy.”

He looked dubious and
smiled again. “It is OK to be honest. There is a reason I demand such a small
viewing area, and it is not to make trouble for beautiful women such as
yourself.”

She blinked and took a
deep breath that had the unintentional effect of making her breasts swell for a
moment. His eyes took notice almost unperceptively. Smiling, she decided to
dive in and see where this was going. “Tell me then, why the preference?”

He lifted his left hand
up to his face and scratched his jaw with a large finger. “Because looking at a
person’s individual reaction to my work is the only way to know if I have
accomplished what I set out to do.” He looked up at the ceiling, as if he were
searching for a better description. “If enough people react the way I wanted
them to when I conceived my work, then I was successful. If not, then I change
how I solve the problem.”

He looked down at her
and took a step closer. “You see, Sandra…” He took her free hand and lifted it
to his face. “Everything is a problem, a puzzle that has a solution. You cannot
get anything without a little… prodding.”  He gently pressed his lips to her
hand and let it go. “Take you for example.”

“Me? I am not a problem
or a puzzle.” She felt her palms perspiring again. All of this attention from
someone who had such an inexplicable effect on her was making her extremely
weak in the knees. It was like she was a fly trapped in a web with a spider… a
spider that she was both terrified of and wanted to be devoured by.

“A problem, no. But a
puzzle that I would like to solve.” He stopped a moment to study her face. “You
are an artist who works to promote the art of others, are you not?”

She had a hard time
suppressing her shock at his insight.

“I can tell you at least
try to paint with oils, the scent of linseed is very obvious when standing this
close to you.” He briefly gestured over her ponytail, his fingers dangerously
close.

She repressed a blush of
embarrassment. “Oh, it’s just a hobby. I’m not very good at it.”

“But you can be. Let me
look at your work, give you advice.”

“W-what? But you must be
busy.”

He shrugged. “A man like
me is always busy, but I make time. I am free tonight, and it is not terribly
late yet.” Noting that she looked hesitant, he added, “I will bring something
to eat or drink, if it will make you feel more comfortable with showing your
work.”

She hesitated, horrified
at the prospect of showing such a genius her amateur work. She felt like so
much more than just herself in his presence that she did not want to say
anything to make him leave.
Is he going to just look at the art and leave
when he sees how hopeless it is? Could he actually be attracted to me? Is he
just amusing himself?
Is this even appropriate?
“I don’t want to
waste your time with my paintings.”

“I will decide what is
not a waste of my time, Cherie. You must project more confidence. Good art, bad
art, the only difference is your confidence. All you are doing is convincing me
that I must look at it. Tell me, do you have a studio?”

Someone called his name
in French and he looked away for a moment, exchanging words. When his attention
was no longer fixed on her, she felt a sense of dread. She was suddenly
terrified of him walking away, of losing the sensation of being at the very
center of the world. Then, he looked back at her and she was under his spell
again.

“I must go help the crew
before they ruin my work. One of them was just dragging one of my masterpieces
along the floor and getting the bottom filthy.” There was an edge in his voice
that spoke of annoyance and exhaustion.  “I must look you up before I leave the
city. We will speak of your art and perhaps you sitting for me in my studio,
yes?” He smiled briefly and walked away to the loading area, a slew of French
phrases and slurs escaping his lips.

***

She never did hear from
him again that night, or the next day for that matter. She was devastated on
some level, but did not expect someone as busy as Leon to take her seriously.
It was mid-morning a few days later when she finally stopped waiting for a
message from him and indulged in a long bath, sans cell phone. Leaving it well
out of reach on her kitchen counter, she promised herself that she would relax
and stop thinking about their meeting. She had never told herself such a
bold-faced lie before.

Allowing her muscles to
relax in the warm, pooling water, she settled against the shape of the
porcelain tub. She cleared her thoughts of everything except the sound of her
breath, but that did not last very long. Her mind went back to her idol, the
man she had fantasied about meeting for so very long. He was so much more than
she had imagined.

Reality felt so
different in his presence. She felt the power that he commanded all around him,
the ability in his hands that no one else could replicate. She wished more than
anything that she could create as he did, but she was no match for those
masterful brushstrokes and raw talent. She had been told that some things you
just have to be born with. That made him all the more irresistible.

Sighing and sinking
deeper into the soothing water, she regretted having given him the runaround. 
He had an effect on her body that she just could not explain.
If I could do
it again, I’d have brought him home.
Running her hand gently over her
teardrop breasts and slowly downward, she focused on the sound of her name on
his lips, afraid of losing the memory.

Bzzzt!

Her imaginary world
stopped and she shot up, water splashing on the floor.

Bzzzt!

Leaping out of the tub
and skidding with wet feet to the kitchen, she reached her phone just in time
for the call to go to voicemail. Too excited by the possibility of it having
been Leon to notice she was shaking from the cold, she checked the call log
with slick, slippery fingers.

“Oh, just work.”
Dejected, her heart sank to the bottom of her stomach and her sensual desires
lingered like the scent of a feast in the nostrils of a starving man who would
never eat.

Deciding to call back
instead of dial into voicemail, she was simply told to pack the standard set of
contracts and get ready to board a plane in three hours. It was not uncommon
for her to be asked to get an artist’s signature for major contracts in person
to avoid future conflicts, but this was very short notice for an international
flight. Fortunately for her, she never unpacked her overnight bag from her last
trip.

Less than two hours
later she had passed through security and was well on her way to making it to Paris. There was one thing she wondered, though.
Who is going to pick me up in the
middle of the night?

***

Disembarking from the
plane, she stepped out into the receiving area. Rubbing her own shoulders, she
stretched every muscle in her body and vowed to lie in bed for as long as
possible when she got back home.  Looking around the huge space, she thought
about how this was Leon’s city and hoped to bump into him.
Don’t be
ridiculous.
She chided herself.
Paris
is as busy as New York. I won’t see him…

Her thoughts were
interrupted by the hulking man with flat, blue eyes motioning to her near the
main exit. Dumbfounded, she walked over as confidently as she could.
Is this
a trick? Is this a coincidence? Maybe I’m still asleep on the flight and this
is a dream?

”Leon,” She managed a flat, professional tone that belied her thought process. “Are you whom I’ve
come to collect a signature from?”

He chuckled, his voice
deep and booming. It came over her from above, his tall frame dwarfing her.
“Certainly. But come, it is late and there is much to be done.” He put an arm
around her and walked her to his car, looking to all observers as if they were
as familiar as lovers.

The trip was much more
difficult for her than the long plane ride. He was imposing in the seat next to
her, his body wide and well built. The air was thick with his scent. The musk
he wore, the scent of his body, the peppermint on his breath. He was talking
about a new painting that she had inspired him to do. It was all she could do
to make sense of the words coming out of his mouth.

His clothes fit him
tightly, outlining his manhood only a few feet from her. She felt like she was
having an out of body experience that she had no control over. She was
physically drawn to Leon in a way that drained her of her mental faculties. She
had her well-rehearsed formalities and professionalism, but everything else was
out the door. What was she supposed to do if he made advances towards her? She
could hardly think clearly, especially being out of her element. This was his
town, his car, and she was his guest. It was like a dream come to life, but she
had no idea how to act within her own dream.

“I shall take that as a
yes?
Magnifique
!”

She blinked and realized
that she must have been daydreaming.
What did I miss?!
Thinking quickly,
she added on, “What exactly does it entail?” Realizing that she was stuck doing
whatever he had asked her to do or admit to not having been listening to him,
she hoped to at least find out what she was getting herself into beforehand.

“Oh, you shall see,
Cherie
.”

Morning in Paris came quickly and she was not able to get any sleep before the sun rose. Standing in
what could only be called a palace, she looked out a glass window at the sun
rising over the city. She could see that they were just outside of the city
proper, but the view of the Eiffel Tower was still breathtaking. The cool
marble floor under her toes brought her a sense of comfort. She was relishing
in that small constant in life when the door opened behind her.

A thin man stepped in the
room and held out a black robe and some clothing for her to take. She was
thrilled that she was dressed decently when he barged in without knocking.
Taking the items from him just so that he would leave, she put them on the
guest bed and started to look over them when the man spoke.

“I will come for you in
a few minutes.”

She looked at the door
quizzically for a moment when it closed, then opened the robe to reveal its
contents. A black corset, gloves and an exceptionally long pearl necklace was
prepared for her to wear.

I am sitting for him.
She took a deep, long
breath. Not seeing a way out of it, and not all that sure that she wanted to
find a way out, she disrobed and put on the getup Leon had selected. She
understood why he had supplied the robe. She was dressed in little more than
lingerie and would have to walk down the halls to his studio.

As if he were
clairvoyant, the thin man opened the door just as she tied her robe around her.
He motioned for her to follow him and led her to a room where a friendly woman
let her hair down and straightened it. Securing the long, golden locks back
with black hair clips, she applied makeup and declared Sandra the perfect muse
for Leon.

Grinning inwardly at all
the positive attention, she was starting to adjust to the strange reality she
found herself in when she was led into Leon’s studio. The ceiling was extremely
high, but it was a much more intimate space than she had imagined. The painting
area was sectioned off into a small section that was currently covered by red
backdrops. A lone Victorian chair sat askew directly opposite an easel, a
bright light illuminating just off its center mass.

She was drawn to that
spotlight immediately. Walking over to it, she placed her right hand on the
chair and admired the way the fabric looked in the light shining off of the
deep, red wall.

“Stay just like that.”

She froze when she heard
Leon’s voice. She had not even heard him come in the room.
Has he been in
here the whole time?

“Take off your robe,
Cherie.
A figure like yours deserves to become a work of art.”

She did as he said,
feeling once again like a fly in his web. She had no doubt that she would be
devoured this time, and she was excited as well as terrified. Her palms were
sweaty, but she held her hand out to the chair and looked downward, feigning
appreciation for the fabric. In reality, all she could think of was the
imposing body that sat next to her in that car a few hours before and what he
thought of her exposed body.

She heard the door close
and knew that they were now alone. He spent no more than a few minutes painting
when she heard him utter French words in frustration. Her heart beat so fast
that she thought she might faint when he suddenly bridged the distance between
them and wrapped his arms around her, pressing her frame against his large,
warm body and lowering his mouth to hers.

He kissed her
passionately, as if she were as important as any work of art that he had ever
obsessed over.  He lifted her body with his strong arms and pressed his large
hands, the hands that had manipulated so many tools, stones and paints, against
her bottom and pressed her roughly against him. “I have been waiting to take
you for so long.” He breathed out in a raspy voice, pushing her corset down
under her breasts and exposing them.