Three days later, Willow sat at her office desk, head tilted and propped up against her palm. She scrolled randomly through the strange phone’s screen. There wasn’t much there, just the bare bones of icons. No message app, no contacts folder, not even a way to dial out. The files were empty. She had considered taking it to the I.T. department to see if they could dig through it --find something, anything-- but thought better of it.

She even tried calling from the phone itself to her office phone to see if there was a number that showed up on her call display. “Caller Unknown”.

Mindlessly, she flipped it over and over in her hand, regarding the mesmerizing red cellphone and the unusual charm from every angle like some confounding puzzle.

Three days. He hadn’t called back in three days. Maybe he really wasn’t going to call back?

Willow rubbed the side of her head, trying to massage some sense into her skull. Why was she expecting he’d call back? For God's sake, she had even bought a compatible charger for the phone just so it could remain on at all times, day and night. Who in their right mind would do that?

She didn't want to guess an answer to that question.

Placing the phone on the desk, she gently prodded the ivory charm, running her finger along the jagged edge.

“A watched pot never boils,” Randall said, suddenly appearing, leaning his lanky frame against her cubicle entry.

Willow rolled her eyes and sighed. She sat back.

“Here.” He offered a small paper bag.

Eyeing it, Willow asked, “Is that a Mona's Bakery eclair? You’re making me fat.”

“Willy, you need to work yourself into 'soft and doughy’ before you can even start thinking about being overweight,” he dismissed. He turned to leave. “But if you don’t want it…”

“Wait,’ she insisted, quickly snatching the bag, “give it here.”

Willow pulled out the feather-light eclair and bit a chunk from it. Chocolate ganache spurted into her mouth. “Oh my God,” she exclaimed with her mouth full of sweet, buttery, chocolatey decadence, “Mmm! That’s so good!”

"You're welcome," he said, then asked, “Better than a call from a strange man in the middle of the night?” 

Interrupted in mid-gastronomic ecstasy, she chewed slowly before swallowing. “Ha. Ha,” she said sarcastically.

She had confided in Randall the details of her phone conversations with the unknown caller… minus a few key points. She definitely tempered the notion that the calls excited her in any way, disguising it under a mask of annoyance.

Still, she knew Randall was savvy enough to realize something was stirring in the head of his normally level-headed colleague. She needed to be careful about what she said and how she reacted.

"So no more calls, I take it?" Randall asked.

Willow shook her head.

He continued, "Maybe he's decided he doesn't want the phone back?"

"Yeah," she said, pausing to wipe the chocolate from her lip with her tongue, "I hope I'm not stuck with this thing."

"Why don't you just bring it back to the coffee shop?" Randall asked. "Or are you hoping to give it back in person?"

Willow looked up at him. She had expected to see him sporting a jeering grin, but instead, he regarded her with sincere curiosity.

"I don't… " she paused, "I guess I've kept it this long. I feel responsible for it."

"Think you'll get a reward for it? Maybe you can parlay this into something nice."

"Something ‘nice’? Like what?"

Randall shrugged. "A puppy? A bottle of wine? A houseplant?"

She giggled. "I don't want a houseplant. I don't want any of those things."

"Well, what do you want?"

Deja vu again suddenly froze Willow.

Randall cocked his brow at her, tilting his chin aside. She realized his intuition had kicked in.

He leaned forward, still eyeing her. "Hmm?"

With a scoffing sniff, she turned away in her chair, stalling. Shrugging, she said, "It looks like an expensive phone. Maybe he'll give me money for it."

He looked unconvinced. "Mm-hmm."

Just then, the phone chimed to life, vibrating on her desk. Willow sat still, her eyes shifting, avoiding looking at it directly.

Randall stood straight, his brow still arched. "Okay. Not to worry," he said, stepping back from her cubicle, "I know the drill."

As he disappeared around the divider, Willow quickly picked up the phone and regarded the screen: "Caller Unknown".

Taking a cleansing breath, she answered, "Hello?"

"Mmm. There's that warm, pleasing voice," the now-familiar caller said, "I'm relieved."

"Relieved?"

"I was concerned that you may not have the phone anymore," he replied.

She couldn't imagine the man being stressed or uncertain about anything or anyone he was involved with.

"Yes, I still have it," Willow said, trying to sound indifferent, "I didn't know what I should do with it."

"I'm sorry if you were waiting for me to call back," he said.

“I wasn’t…”

"I realized that I ended our last conversation rather abruptly and really wanted to call and apologise for my rashness. It would be understandable if you had gotten rid of the phone by now."

She mentally agreed with him.

“So I’m very pleased you didn’t,” he added. “Again. Sorry.”

Removing her glasses to rub her brow, she leaned forward over her desk and sighed, "You don't need to apologise. Just… please tell me what you want.”

"I want to know…" he paused, then began again, "I want to know that you didn't actually imagine me wanting to harm you now, did you?" 

Willow held her lips ajar momentarily, then answered, "No. I didn't believe you wanted to do that."

What do you want?

He laughed softly. To Willow’s relief, he just said “Good” and seemed to leave it at that.

"Are you at work?" he asked.

"Yes," she replied.

"So am I."

Willow’s eyes narrowed as she tuned out everything around her other than the sounds coming from the other end of the line. "I can hear music in the back," she said, “Classical guitar. Spanish?”

It was the same music she heard in the background when he last called.

"Perceptive,” he said, sounding pleased. “A benefit of a home office is that it allows me to have such relaxing music playing. Reminds me of warmer, sunnier environs.”

“Like home?” Willow asked.

There was a long pause. “Is it okay if we talk?" he asked, veering away from her question.

"Just talk?" she replied, with mild sarcasm.

"You catch on quickly," he chuckled.

Willow glanced through the entry of her cubicle, then turned back in her seat. Hunched tightly over her desk, she cupped the phone close to her mouth and said in a hushed voice, "I can't really leave my desk."

"That's fine," he said.

"What do you want to talk about?"

"Ah well,” he started, sounding as if he was settling back in his chair, “the other night, we were starting to get to know each other. It'd be nice to continue."

She shook her head in disbelief, scoffing. What was she doing?

"What's the matter?" he asked, picking up on her subtle hesitancy.

"I guess I just feel weird about getting to know someone I still haven't met in person," she conceded. "It's easier if I can put a face to the voice."

"That's understandable," he replied, "so, how about we try that?"

"What do you mean?"

"Put a face to the voice," he explained, "Why don't you go first. Tell me what I look like."

Her eyes narrowed. "Shouldn't it be the other way around? You describe what you look like to me?"

"I'm much more interested in knowing how you envision I appear."

She grimaced. "I don't think I can do that. I'm kind of terrible at describing things in words. What if I’m completely wrong?"

"I'm not certain that’s possible," he replied, “It’s your imagination after all. I’m not going to say if you’re wrong or right.”

She blinked as she thought, focusing on a blank piece of paper on her desk.

He continued, "I'm definitely waiting in anticipation. Please, try."

There was a note of subtle insistence in his tone, despite his politeness. Her eyes set on the paper, she picked up a pencil and began to sketch on it almost mindlessly.

“You’re… you have a long oval face. A swarthy olive complexion. A tidy wave of short black hair,” she said, drawing upon his accent and the music in the back possibly indicating his Spanish background.

"Mm-hmm."

"This is so weird." She couldn’t help but grin and wince self-consciously, feeling foolish playing this game.

"Go on," he said, prodding her.

She sighed, then continued, “Dark, thick brow; hooded, narrowed brown eyes; long hawkish nose; full lips, smiling and exposing perfect rows of white teeth.”

“Mmm. Rather devilish.”

‘Devilish’, definitely, she thought to herself. Willow shifted aside in the chair, pressing her black nylon covered legs together as she leaned them askew beneath her desk. She watched her hand continue to move the pencil around on the paper, yet at the same time seemed totally unaware of what it was doing.

“Anything else?” he asked with anticipation.

“You’re tall, standing confidently,” she went on, getting into this much more than she should have. She closed her eyes, a pungent smell --rich, floral,leathery-- wafted through her mind. “You’re wearing cologne. It’s strong. Rich. A suit. A tie. Everything is expensive. Everything is demanding.”

“Ah, I see,” he said, appreciatively. If a smile as sharp as a broken shard of glass could make a sound, it would sound like his voice.

Willow shook her head. “I said I wasn’t very good at this.”

“No. I’m quite happy with this description.”

Her small lips fluttered slightly with her breath. She knew everything she described was superficial and it frustrated her. She found herself delving deep, wanting to say more, needing to hear that approval in his voice again. As she was about to speak, however, he interrupted.

“I know you want to continue,” he said, “but I have to ask you to stop for now.”

Opening her eyes, she blinked then winced, the light of the office suddenly seeming so bright, so artificial and intrusive. Despite herself, she found herself eager to know if she had pictured him correctly. More troubling, she worried that he was about to end their call.

“My turn,” he said.

She sat still as she imagined the man leaning back in his chair, holding a glass of expensive liquor in one hand as he closed his eyes and prepared to pick her apart.

“Is your hair tied back?” he asked.

It was. Her bright auburn strands were braided into a loose bun. She replied, “Yes.”

“I imagine it’s quite fine, soft to the touch. Silky and delicate. I can feel it just cascade off my fingers,” he said. “Let it down.”

Willow rolled her lower jaw aside and scanned her eyes around. She could have just told him that she had done so, how was he to know? Instead, she reached back with one hand and undid her hair.

Already assured she had done as he asked, he added, “Brush your hand through it. Let it fall naturally.”

Still hesitating only for a moment, she pushed her fingers back through her hair a couple of times, then rubbed her neck nervously, feeling the tension rise.

“You hair drops past your shoulders,” he said, “It feels light, almost like air passing through my fingers if I were to sweep my hand around the back of your neck.”

Willow felt the small hairs at her neck bristle.

“You have small, delicate, red lips. I see them quiver apart as my thumb caresses along their edges. The tip of your wet, pink tongue peeks out.”

Willow wet her lips with her tongue, blinking towards the table. She shifted slowly in her seat, unable to find a comfortable position, her hips suddenly feeling agitated. Her restlessness crept to her fingers as she pulled lightly at her crucifix.

“Your skin is noticeably lighter against mine, softer, like velvet. You take care of it like you do your hair. It itches and tingles at the touch of my warm hand as I skim my palm along your cheeks, down your neck, tracing a line with my finger down to the top button of your pristine blouse.”

Now her legs joined in the anxious, restless motions, shifting side to side, clenching together, her stockings rubbing provocatively. She removed her glasses and rubbed her brows.

“Bright, expressive eyes, that say more than any other part of your being. They widen and narrow within moments, a gauge of the sensations moving through you. They tell me everything, all that you want. I picture them holding steady, watchful even as the back of my hand circles along your curving breasts. They slope perfectly in my palms. Through your blouse, your bra, I feel your nipples strain, going taut and rigid as I rub and flick my thumbs across them.”

Willow’s free hand pulled lightly at her collar, letting the cool air kiss the top of her warm chest as it rose and fell noticeably.

“The length of your legs is perfect. Your height is just right. I wouldn’t need to bend as I reach my arm down to tease up your skirt and slide my hand between soft, milky thighs, wrapping my palms and fingers over the crotch of your satiny, damp panties.”

Fuck, fuck, fuck… Willow’s eyes squeezed shut so tight she could see flashes of white behind her lids and felt the moisture of tears hanging at the edge. Her teeth chattered as she gasped softly, her lips drying from the quick breaths escaping her mouth. As his words grew more explicit, she sank further into them, succumbing to his illicit intentions.

“Your hips roll against my touch, pushing against my palm.” His voice deepened, speaking deliberately as if through grinning, clenched teeth, “If I squeeze my hand, I can feel the urgent pulse behind your warm, wet, tantalizing cunt.”

The harshness of his tone drew an anxious groan from Willow. She flinched, her chin dipping towards her chest as she swallowed and gasped. Her thoughts flared with vivid images and tactile sensations coursing just below her skin. Beneath her desk, her thighs pressed and slid against one another as she twisted in her seat.

Suddenly, her desk phone rang. She jumped back with an audible gasp. The ring was like a claxon and her eyes widened, dizzying light flooding her senses immediately, slapping her back to reality. The cell phone slipped from her hand and dropped to the floor.

Scanning her desk as if she couldn’t remember the layout, she scrambled for her phone. “Yes?” she coughed. “I mean… Willow McCarthy speaking.”

“Willy, just a heads up that the HR veep has entered the office,” Randall alerted her, “and she could very well be passing our way just about the same time that you’ll be needing to light a cigarette.”

She closed her eyes and buried her forehead into her palm, then muttered, “Fuck.”

“Definitely, it sounded something like that,” Randall noted.

After hanging up, she sat up and quickly twisted her hair back into a bun, put on her glasses and adjusted her blouse. She promptly began typing gibberish on her keyboard just as the VP walked by her desk.

“Hi, Dana,” she said abruptly.

“Hello, Willow,” the VP stopped and replied, looking somewhat bemused by Willow’s chirpiness. “How are you?”

“Good. Good,” she nodded. She couldn’t get her heart rate to slow. “Keeping busy.”

“Well, that’s very good to hear.” Dana smiled through the innocuous banter, then looked towards the floor beside Willow’s chair.

Willow watched as she stooped down to retrieve the crimson cellphone and hand it to her.

“Oh. Thank you,” Willow said. “It must have fallen out of my purse when I sat down.”

Dana nodded cordially, her eyes constantly roaming Willow’s cubicle. She pointed with her chin and said, “I see you’ve got some talent.”

Blinking at her, Willow asked, “What?”

“Did you just sketch that?”

Still confused, Willow searched her desk and realized Dana saw the picture she had just mindlessly drawn. “Uh, yes,” she confessed, “I tend to doodle without thinking when I’m working.”

Dana shook her head and chuckled, “I completely understand. I don’t know how I could get through some of my meetings without my son’s old fidget-spinner.”

Willow laughed nervously through a crooked grin.

“And that’s way too good to be called a ‘doodle’, Willow,” Dana remarked as she resumed walking away. She arched her brow and added, “Quite the handsome man, too.”

Once the VP was gone, Willow allowed herself to breathe properly before finally focusing on her sketch. She frowned at the drawing, gazing into the eyes that stared back at her with unflinching intent. Then she suddenly remembered she was still holding the cellphone.

Just as she looked at the screen, he hung up.

--0--

About ten years ago...

Willow Blythe McCarthy, age seventeen-and-a-half, senior at St. Augustine’s Private Girls College, sat quietly on her stool sketching in the school’s art studio. She listened to the sound of her charcoal lightly scratching at the paper mounted on her easel mingling with her breaths as she tried to shut everything else out of her scope of focus other than the nude model standing motionless in the centre of the room. Still, she was also quite aware of the art teacher, Mr Valcourt, strolling amongst the small group of students in the room.

It was after regular school hours with only a select few students, all seniors, invited to participate in the extracurricular live nude drawing sessions seated in the room. They were the ones identified with the talent and the maturity to partake in the program, all handpicked by the teacher. It was something that they shared no small amount of pride in together. Of course, it was also an opportunity to spend a little more time under the attentive eye of the young, handsome art teacher.

Willow leaned her head around her easel to regard the model posing on the platform: a heavy-set, senior male with wrinkles, spots and folds along his skin that extended beyond his face and all over his body. She had deliberately chosen her seat to hide his penis from her view; the flaccid, stumpy appendage tucked behind his turned hip.

As she continued to mindlessly etch her worn stick of charcoal across her paper, she turned her head and eyes a little more, syncing her sights on Mr Valcourt, “Justin” as he requested to be referred to during the casual after-hours class. God, he was as good-looking as he was talented, and his winning of a couple of notable art prizes and earning high-profile commissions indicated that he was very good-looking. Only a little over a decade older than the eldest students in the school and a bit of a free-spirit, he balanced perfectly along the edge of boyish charm and refined, handsome maturity. Half the student body likely experienced some sort of personal awakening the moment the superstar art instructor arrived at their school the previous year. It was like they had let the peacock roam the henhouse.

Feeling a sudden twinge of discomfort in her chest and a blossoming unease between her thighs, Willow frowned and shook her head, refocusing on her easel. After a minute or so, she finally settled back into her drawing.

“Hey, Willow.”

She blinked and looked up and aside. The teacher smiled genially towards her from above. 

Frozen in mid-sketch, she held her mouth open for a second before saying, “H-hi… Justin.”

It felt so weird to call him by his first name, but her heart seemed to miss a beat each time she did.

Justin tilted his head and chuckled softly. He reached for his back pocket and pulled out a small towel. He offered it to her while pointing at his nose. “You got a bit of charcoal on yourself.”

Willow frowned and went momentarily cross-eyed to try to examine her nose. “Oh… oh, God,” she blurted, already feeling herself go red as she took the towel and quickly scrubbed. “Thanks. Sorry.”

He laughed warmly. “Not a big deal.”

“It’s because my nose itches.”

“Happens to the best of us,” he explained. “I won’t begin to tell you where I’ve accidentally marked myself with bits of clay and paint and charcoal without knowing.”

Willow kind of wished he would, though.

“So, how are you doing?” he asked, leaning down as he regarded her drawing.

The smell of his sweet musk wafted across Willow’s nose. She breathed it in while keeping her face towards her paper and her eyes slid towards the edge to look at her teacher. “Um… okay, I think.”

She flipped through a few of her other sketches while Justin nodded.

“Very nice studies, Willow,” he said. “You’re even better than your sister was.”

She bit her lower lip to prevent her smile from beaming too wide. Faith, being a year older than Willow, took the same life drawing program with Justin the previous year.

While he continued to examine her drawing, his dark brown brows pinched as he added, “But is this what you see?”

Her smile evaporated. After regarding the model and her paper again, she said cautiously, “I think so.”

“Let me rephrase that,” he said. “It’s a fine visual rendering, but is this what you see? Or maybe is this what you think I might want to see?”

“I… I don’t understand.”

“If you’re wondering if I’m pleased with this interpretation, I am. It’s almost as if you borrowed my eyes and hands to draw this,” Justin explained. “But I guess I’m left wondering if this is how you interpret the model for yourself.”

Frustration rippled through her. 

Justin nodded his chin forward. He spoke softly, “Take a look at Courtney. See what she’s doing.”

Willow regarded her classmate, Courtney Sanders, seated just a few feet ahead of her.

“Honestly, you’re ahead of her technically. In fact, you’re probably the best in this group in that regard,” Justin continued. “But her drawing feels like hers to me. She created it, she owns it.”

Now drips of jealousy mingled with her frustration. A stern, sharply angled line drew across her lips.

Justin stood tall and shrugged cordially. “I’m sure you’ll figure it out, Willow. You’re unique and have talent,” he said, smiling with his attractive blue eyes blinking at her as he nodded. “Draw what you want.”

Willow watched him as he walked over to Courtney, bending beside her classmate just as he had done with her, commending her with that passively sexy voice of his. As she did, she pressed her stick of charcoal between her fingers so tight it snapped in half, and she blinked, startled.

She needed to hear Justin’s approval again, but what she wanted was even more than that.

Willow pulled her sketchbook and pencils from her bag and feverishly began to draw.

--0--

Now...

While Willow cleared the plates from her Saturday afternoon dessert and coffee with Faith, her sister strolled around her apartment checking out her things.

“So what are you and Mitchell up to this evening?” Willow asked as she rinsed out the sink.

“The husband has got his indoor soccer league match,” Faith replied with a dismissive shake of her head. She idly shuffled through the items on the coffee table and sighed, “I’ve got nothing on the go.”

“Maybe we can catch a movie together, then?”

“Sure. Why not?” Faith shrugged. “Hey. This looks new. Are you drawing again?”

Willow turned to see her sister flipping through her sketchbook. Wiping her hands with a towel, she replied, “Um… yeah. I just felt like sketching.”

“That’s great,” Faith remarked, still scanning the drawings. “I have no idea why you stopped. You were so good. So much better than I was, that’s for sure.”

“Stop. I’m not that great,” Willow said, smirking. She walked over and reached for the sketchbook but Faith turned aside.

“I’m not done,” her sister scolded playfully, then eyed her with a grin. “Who’s the hunk?”

“What?”

Faith turned the sketchbook towards her, then flipped through pages of sketches revealing various profiles and angles of the face of the man she had spoken to as she pictured him in her head. “A little obsessed are we?” she asked again.

“It’s not an obsession,” Willow scoffed and grabbed the sketchbook.

“Uh-huh.”

“And he’s not even real. I just made him up.”

Well, she wasn’t quite lying.

“Sure,” Faith said, sounding unconvinced. With an accusatory leer, she asked, “This your idea of the ideal guy?”

“No.”

Faith tilted her head as she scrutinized the drawings. "Hey…doesn't he sort of look like our former art…-?”

"It isn't," Willow insisted.

"Okay," Faith snickered. She nudged Willow with her elbow. “So, tell me who he is and I won’t tell our mother that you’re chasing after some new man.”

Willow gaped back at her sister, aghast. “Shut up!”

Faith laughed, “I’m gonna go pee and let you think about that for a bit.”

With her sister in the bathroom, Willow twisted her mouth aside and fumed quietly. Reluctantly, she glanced through the pages of her sketchbook, shaking her head at each drawing of the man she thought she envisioned when speaking to him on the phone. She shook her head both because she didn’t understand why she kept drawing him and also because she wasn’t very satisfied with her sketches. It was true, traits of Justin seeped into each drawing. Everything felt wrong.

As she ambled by the dining table still looking through the sketchbook, she heard a jazzy melody begin to play. It was Faith’s cellphone. She peered at the screen but didn’t recognize the number. After a few seconds, the music stopped.

Moments later, Faith emerged from the bathroom. “Ready to ‘fess up, little sister?”

Willow pivoted. “Your cell phone was ringing.”

“Oh?” Faith replied, successfully distracted. She checked her phone and then it looked like she held her breath for a moment. Just as quickly, she composed herself and asked, “Um… is it okay if I go into your bedroom to make a quick call?”

Frowning, Willow shrugged. “Sure? Everything okay?”

“Yep. Yep,” her sister responded, already through the door before the second ‘yep’.

“Is it Mitchell?” Willow asked, but Faith just closed the door.

She didn’t know why she felt compelled to ask if it was Faith’s husband, just as she wasn’t sure why she felt the need to lean close to the door and listen in despite the guilt of eavesdropping. Faith managed to keep her voice muffled for the most part aside from some tittering. Willow thought she heard her say something about “wanting” and “now”, then finally an exclamation, “Alright. Alright. I’m coming. I’ll be there.”

Just as she moved away from the door, Faith emerged once again, walking past her and grabbing her purse. She appeared giddy.

“Thanks so much for brunch, ‘Low. I have to run,” she said.

“Is everything okay?” Willow asked again, looking stunned.

"Yeah, everything's great," Faith replied. She didn't look.

“I thought we were going to the movies?”

“Oh,” Faith turned and paused, unable to hide a crooked grin. “Right… I’m sorry, ‘Low. There’s nothing good to watch, anyway.”

“But…” Willow began but was cut off by some quick air-kisses at her cheeks and a “bye” from Faith before her sister blew out of the apartment.

Just like that, Willow was left alone holding her sketchbook.

--0--

St.Augustine's...

Willow ran back through the empty hallways of St. Augustine’s, ignoring the scowl of the after-hours janitor. She hurried up the stairs and down another hallway before finally arriving at the art studio. As soon as she was through the door, she rushed to where she had been sitting and searched around the empty studio.

“Hi, Willow.”

She gasped and spun around “Mr Valcourt!”

"Please. 'Justin'," the teacher said as he walked casually out from behind his desk, always with that pleasant, boyish smile of his. “Forget something?”

Willow’s widened eyes fixated on his face for a moment before tracking down to his hand at his side. “My sketchbook.”

“Right. Your sketchbook.” He looked down at it and nodded, then he held it out to her.

Willow paused, scratching slowly at her thigh behind her kilt. The man was calm, cordial, but the way he fixed her with his eyes, his telling smile… it made her uneasy. She was suddenly keenly aware that this was the first time she had ever been alone with him. There was no other person there for him to focus on. She had his full attention.

Justin raised his brows and nodded again, still offering her the sketchbook. She took a few steps towards him and reached for it. She stopped when he suddenly pulled it back, her hand remaining extended.

He spoke as he flipped through the pages, “I knew you understood what I meant. You know, about drawing what you want to draw, what your mind’s eye sees and feels. You really are so much more artistic minded than your sister was.”

Willow felt unsteady, her nervous breaths swaying her where she stood as she slowly withdrew her hand. She swallowed, but her throat still felt dry as her heart raced.

Justin smiled as he scanned her drawings. “These are actually very good. Very good. And kind of flattering, really. You really are paying closer attention than I realized. I was almost blushing from just some of the details and expressions you evoked from my face. But then I got to the full-body nudes…”

Willow’s face pinched tight as she sucked in her lips and held her breath.

“Wow. Quite the imagination, Willow." The teacher blew a long, cool stream of breath from his pursed lips, the edges curling up. His dark brows arched, and he turned the sketchbook around and raised it to show Willow. With a coy grin, he said, “We haven’t even begun drawing two people or positions like these.”

Impotent and dumbstruck, Willow just stood there as he showed her more pages of her own drawings; provocative, sexually explicit, erotic images of a man and woman. Damned by her own talent, there was no question as to the identity of the people she captured in her drawings, caught in various acts of kissing, embracing, fondling… fucking.

“I’m sorry,” she croaked, blushing from embarrassment, feeling as if a spotlight was beaming upon her face and neck from two feet away. The apology didn't feel genuine, sounding more like a plea. If she really dug deep and was really, truly honest with herself, she knew she felt excited that he had seen her drawings.

He closed the book and held it while regarding her for a long moment. Then, once again, he held it out to her.

Her shoes dragged on the floor when she finally managed to step towards him again. Surprisingly, she was able to maintain eye contact with him even as she took hold of the sketchbook, and she continued to do so when she felt him maintain his grip on it even as she tried to take it back.

“What do you want, Willow?” he asked.

She blinked at the unexpected question. Her lips parted as she looked deeply, carefully into his handsome eyes. As her chest visibly rose and fell, a sense of clarity inexplicably came to her with each passing breath, settling her mind just as it did when she was drawing. “I want my sketchbook back.”

Justin smiled and released his hold on it. “And what else?”

“I want…” Willow began and hesitated. Her voice almost sounded foreign to her as she punched her thoughts out into words, “I want you to draw me.”

While gazing at her like she was some intriguing puzzle, his thin lips shunted aside with a curly smile. He nodded. “I’d love to.”

Willow swallowed again, then turned and walked towards the centre of the room, leaving her sketchbook on a stool and dropping her school bag to the floor. At the same time, Justin went over to the studio door and locked it.

As he walked back to the stool where she left her sketchbook, he kept his eyes on her. She did the same while stepping onto the model’s platform, a four-foot square block of wood. 

Justin picked up a pencil and her sketchbook then sat down. Looking up at her, he waited silently, patiently.

Willow stood motionless. Never had she had the explicit attention of a man, especially a man like Justin whose eyes saw more deeply into her than anyone else.

With a stern resolve that was just manifesting for the first time in her life, she stared back at him as she undid her kilt and let it drop off her round hips and lithe legs. It was as if she was daring him… no, demanding his attention with her intense gaze as she unbuttoned her white blouse and pulled it off her pale, freckled shoulders. Even as she kicked off her shoes and pulled off her white socks, she maintained eye contact and an unfazed expression on her face.

Justin remained quiet and just as comfortable in his own resolve, but she noticed his eyes trace their way intently up her body. She saw his Adam’s Apple bob as she unhooked the clasp of her bra and removed. She watched him wet his pink lips as she pulled her panties down and off her slim, white legs. The feeling of his eyes upon her excited Willow.

There was a slight, yet perceptible nod of the teacher’s chin. It was the only movement between the two of them for almost thirty seconds as Willow stood before him, nude except for her thin chain and crucifix around her neck, her white skin glowing from the lights. The air in the room didn’t feel as cold as she imagined it would, but she still felt the light bumps along her skin as she rubbed her arm with her hand and the pinch of her stiffening, pink nipples.

Finally, without a word, she assumed a model’s pose. Justin opened her sketchbook and began drawing.