I stood, trembling, outside his atelier, knuckles poised to knock. Swallowing, I tapped lightly on the door, remembering how he had summoned me…

She had confronted me in the market, while I had my hands full of fruit. His mistress, looking at me with that haughty stare the campesinos all loathed, as if she were better than anyone else because she was his.

“Pipi wants to paint you.” She sniffed, looking me up and down. “…and, I’m sure, fuck you as well, puta!”

Flustered, I could only reply, “But…but I…I’m a virgin!”

She snorted. “Of course you are. That makes it even more likely he’ll fuck you.” She shook her head. “Sunday. Right after Mass.”

Turning, she marched away. She looked dumpy and clogged away stolidly along the cobbled streets as I gaped after her. No one ever understood how she managed to hold his affection.

Then I noticed that the townspeople were staring at me. I turned and hurried home with my shopping.

But for the rest of the day, and well into the night, I’d agonised over whether I would go. I was a virgin, but I knew I wouldn’t stay that way if I went. Yet, he was famous! And he wanted to paint me!

I didn't get much sleep.

 ~~~~~

When no one answered, I knocked louder, swallowing hard.

“Come!” His voice – peremptory, commanding, even annoyed.

I almost fled, but finally turned the knob and gently pushed the door open.

He had his back to me, brushing something clear on an empty canvas. I stood in the doorway, waiting to be told what to do.

He turned abruptly. “Well, come in and shut the door.” He turned back to the canvas.

I did as he said, then stood there, squirming, as if I was once again standing before Mother Superior at school, waiting to be scolded.

He finished what he was doing, then dropped the brush on the table next to him, smacked his hands together, and turned back to me.

“Let’s see what we have to work with – come here, girl. Contrary to what those shitheads in the village say, I don’t bite.” He smirked. “Well, sometimes I do – but not the way they think.”

He grasped me by the shoulders and dragged me into the room, and up onto a well-lit wooden platform about thirty centimeters high beneath a skylight. “There. Stand there.”

I looked at my feet and continued to fidget like the schoolgirl I had recently been.

“Stand up tall, girl. Beauty like yours should be shown – and appreciated. Why else do you think I would want to paint you?”

He thought I was beautiful? I, whom the boys had all mocked as too skinny with a funny face, and the girls had all scorned because of my big mouth and dark eyebrows? The world-famous artist thought I was beautiful?

I straightened up, letting my hands fall to my sides, and looked at him, truly looked at him for the first time in my life.

He wasn’t pretty. He looked – white. But not lifeless, like a corpse. He was solid and steady, and carried himself as if the Earth grew from him, rather than he standing on it. He wore white, rough-spun shorts that reached to his slightly bowed knees, and a matching smock button top, both of which had faded paint streaks in places that clearly hadn’t come out in the wash. He had a big, potato nose, short-cropped white hair making a fringe around his mostly bald head, big eyes that seemed to stare through me. His legs were white, too, and his muscular hands had thick fingers. His nails were short – and clean. I could smell a slightly musky after-shave.

But it was the eyes that captivated me. That and an almost electric presence that filled the room. I breathed in as his gaze took me in, weighing, assessing – deciding?

What if he decided I wasn’t beautiful enough?

Swallowing, I stood taller and met his stare – and was surprised to see him smile for the first time.

“Yes. Beauty and spirit. I was right. We will make something beautiful together, ¿eh? We will make art, you and I, and the world will covet us. And you will be immortal, forever beautiful, forever young.”

Unbidden, tears came to my eyes. The thought of being made immortal at the hands of this, this god of art struck me to my core, for I believed him.

“Now – clothes.” And he snapped his fingers, pointing to the floor as he moved into another room, swiftly returning with a box of paint tubes, placing them on the table.

At first, I wasn’t sure what he meant – until it dawned on me. He wanted me naked! I didn’t know what to do – and almost turned to run.

But his glance caught me, so he stopped what he was doing, standing motionless, waiting to see what I would do.

I didn’t know myself, then decided. With trembling fingers, I unbuttoned my blusa and shrugged it off, holding my hands over my breasts to cover them. He turned and stood, watching, not in a leering way, but waiting, patient.

Sighing, I dropped my hands and pushed down my falda, revealing my cotton panties. I placed my hands on the waistband, glancing up at him, and quickly pushed them to the floor.

Stepping out of them, I felt something new, something immensely powerful, as if I had walked through a door and been transformed into someone new.

I was a WOMAN. Not just a silly schoolgirl. I was, in his eyes, the embodiment of all it meant to be a woman, and I felt a strange power run through me. I stood taller, arched my back and pushed my breasts out proudly. My chin lifted; I placed my hands on my hips, and I stared back at him, as arrogant and as powerful as he.

“Yes!” he shouted, clapping his hands in glee. “I was right about you! YES!”

He almost leapt up onto the stage, turned me by the shoulders, facing slightly to the side, adjusted my chin up slightly, and pointed. “Look there,” he stabbed at a point on the ceiling. “Left leg slightly bent,” he pulled my foot slightly forward, “right leg straight.”

He fussed around me, adjusting me ever so slightly this way and that, occasionally standing back and looking at me, then moving in, and adjusting again.

Finally, he was done. He stood back and looked at me for what seemed forever, until I saw him nod out of the corner of my eye and move to his easel.

“Stay,” he commanded, and I did. He picked up a square-looking camera; I heard it flick open, he looked down into it, and I heard a loud, mechanical schlick-clack sound as if pieces were moving around inside it.

And again, and again, and again.

He took photos from all sides, moving around me, crouching down, standing tall, and then up on a step-ladder, aiming down at me.

I barely breathed, and felt a sensual power I had never known before. I felt as if I were radiating power, and he was merely absorbing it, warming himself with it.

Finally, he stopped and exhaled heavily, quickly moved to the easel, put the camera down carefully, squeezed tubes of pigment onto a board, picked up his paint brushes in one hand and began.

Frowning, he selected a large brush, mixed paints on the board, followed by making bold, slashing strokes in various directions, never a halt, never a hesitation, as if he knew precisely where each should go. After a while, he would stop, pause, look at what he had done, pick up a different brush, and repeat the process.

We kept going for what seemed like hours, to the point where my legs and arms were trembling. But I didn’t move, not a centimeter.

Eventually he stopped, and stood looking at the canvas, frowning. A couple of times he almost picked up a brush, then stopped himself. Finally, he threw his implements on the table, and pronounced, “Done!”

Turning to me, he said, “You are amazing. It’s as if you were born for this. And I am the fortunate paint-dauber that found you. Thank you, you may relax.”

He walked over to me and guided me to a plush chair. I collapsed onto it, suddenly realizing how tired I was, letting my head fall back, hair trailing down. Who knew that standing could be such hard work?

He went to the other room and quickly returned with some glasses plus juice and water, poured three glasses – one of juice and two of water – put them all on the table, and pushed the juice and water towards me.

He pulled up a chair and sat next to me, sipping from his own water glass. “It’s thirsty work, this immortality stuff, ¿eh?” He nudged me, looking at me sideways. I detected a quirk at the corners of his mouth.

That triggered a quirk in my mouth, and before long we were both laughing hysterically, laughing until it hurt!

When we paused, I looked up at him, this famous, impressive personage, and saw something more: a man, devoted to art and nothing less. It was as if I could see the brilliant light inside him, shining forth and illuminating the room, the atelier, the world around us. He was luminous. And he radiated an electric male sexuality that I had never felt before.

I paused for a moment, then reached up, put my arms around his neck, and pulled him to me, paused for another moment, looked into his eyes, and kissed him.

He had done nothing to encourage or repel me, but now he wrapped his bull-like arms around me, pulled me roughly to him, and kissed me with the same focus, the same intensity that he had earlier posed, photographed, and painted me.

After what seemed forever, I pushed him lightly away, then slowly started to unbutton his smock. He permitted me, making no move to help or hinder. I smoothed the garment over his shoulders, and he shrugged it off, tossing it somewhere behind him. Standing, he pushed his shorts down to the floor, then flipped them playfully up in the air with one foot, caught them and tossed them over his shoulder to join his smock.

He was solid. Not stocky, not fat, not flabby; solid. His male member, the first I had ever seen, stood up tall before him and curved slightly to his left, pulsing. Not quite knowing what I was doing, I grasped it and felt it jump in my hands, then pulled him slowly to me – and kissed the glistening tip as it beat within my grasp.

Still standing, he stroked my hair, cupped his hand behind my head and pulled me towards him. I looked up, shocked – but nodded, licked my lips, and took the head of his penis into my mouth.

It was dry, so I pushed back, gathering saliva, then smooshed my mouth onto his cock, licking and juicing my mouth’s wetness onto it.

He sighed heavily, deep in his throat, and I felt the vibration on my tongue.

I looked up at him and smiled, feeling a thrill of power as I moved forward and back, deeper each time until I felt that if I took any more I would gag and vomit. I stopped and held him there, feeling the beat of his pulse on my tongue.

He stroked my hair, breathing heavily, leaned down and kissed the top of my head – then, unexpectedly, pushed me back and off. Grasping my hand, he drew me up standing, scooped me into his arms and carried me, feet dangling, into the other room, setting me down lightly onto a white chaise lounge on a dais in the center of the room.

I remember the yellowy color of the sun on the wall through the skylight, the white hairs on his chest and the tangled thatch of his pubis, the purple and rouge colors of his bobbing member – and those eyes, piercing and luminous.

He pushed me onto my back and slowly started to trace his blunt, thick fingers over my body – running them through my long, black hair, around the nape of my neck, down into the hollow at the base of my throat, stroking, teasing, not-quite tickling. I felt my back arch, and my hips start to move, and could smell my excitement.

His fingers started to circle my breasts, gradually working closer and closer to my nipples, which were already hard and pebbled, twisted into tight knots. When finally he just about reached my nips, he stopped, leaned forward and took my left breast into his mouth, letting his rough tongue slide along the peak of my nipple.

I heard myself moan, and felt my hips writhe. My knees spread wide, then came together, squeezing my sex – hard – and parting again, as if possessing a life of their own.

He continued to paint his fingers over my body, stroking here, squeezing there, and finally wound up stroking around my sex.

I felt hot, and my pussy felt liquid and slippery.

Smiling at me, he stuck one rough finger into his mouth to wet it, then slid it into me, making me gasp. I had never experienced anything like it, and wanted more. His thumb found my pearl, and although I had sometimes brushed against it as I showered, now he very deliberately stroked it.

I saw stars, and somewhere in the distance I heard a familiar voice moaning.

He slowly worked his finger in and out of my sex to a squelching sound that made me blush, his thumb all the while gently massaging my pearl.

I could hardly breathe, as if all the air was suddenly missing from the room. Sweat popped out of my brow, and I could feel my chest rise and rapidly fall, panting.

It was suddenly more than I could bear. My back arched; I pushed hard with my feet and elevated off the chaise, screaming, my entire body rigid.

And stayed there as my heart beat wildly.

Then he stopped, and I collapsed back onto the chaise with a wet smack!

Panting hard, I felt as if heat prickles were climbing up my chest and neck, and my whole scalp bristled. I looked at him, his one hand still plugged into my sex, smiling at me.

“And you are a natural at this, too, ¿eh? You are even more beautiful when you cum.”

My mouth broke into a wide grin, and I giggled at him. “I thought I was here for you to paint me, Maestro!”

He chuckled back at me, then his eyes glazed and he looked off into the skylight. “Paint you,” he mumbled to himself, “paint you! Why not?”

He withdrew his finger with a quick pop, licked it with an appreciative grin, and hurried back to the supply room. I heard him rummage around, bottles clacking and boxes moving.

He returned, balancing a white card box on one palm, a towel over one arm, and holding a liter bottle of some kind of clear liquid in the other. Setting them down on the table, he moved to me and started to arrange me on the chaise as he had on the posing stand in the other room.

When he had finished, he stepped back, finger on one lip, staring at me, then frowned.

“No. No! It’s not right, it’s not right!”

Suddenly smiling, he snapped his fingers. “Yes – that’s it!”

Moving towards me, he moved my legs apart – and pushed his face in between my legs and up against my sex! Shocked, I sat up – only to have him push me down almost brusquely.

I sank back – and felt his raspy tongue slide from my nether lips up to my pearl – and felt myself start to arch and writhe again as I had before. Shortly I was panting again, and very quickly after that, felt an even bigger burst of emotion as I cried out!

Quickly he pushed himself up and stepped back. “YES!”

He moved over to the box, pulled out a jar of bright blue paint, quickly screwed the top off and flicked it away. Pushing two fingers into the paint, he scooped out a gob and slid it down my left leg with the same quick, sure strokes as before, then, fingers wide, repeated it on my right leg.

Stepping back, he looked at me, and I smiled lazily back at him.

Taking another gob of blue, he moved to my right side, smearing the paint on my right shoulder, getting more, then down my right arm, more again, and painted a smear from my neck down the left side of my breast with the edge of his hand.

He stepped back again, frowning, stepped in again and, using the heel of his palm, dabbed paint on my cheek and above my right eye – and finally ran his paint-covered fingers through my hair.

Holding his hand above a metal bowl, he poured the clear, astringent-smelling liquid from the bottle onto his hands and scrubbed them together, finally wiping them on his thighs, apparently forgetting that he was naked. Idly, I noticed that his thing was slightly limp, but still wagged when he moved, as if this was a sexual act. I noticed a drop of some kind of liquid on its tip, which fell as I watched, to splat silently on the floor.

Next, he grabbed a pot of bright red paint and repeated the process. I could feel the heat from his hands as he worked, as if he were stroking my nether lips and pearl, making my bottom prickle and my sex clench.

He finished with the red, ran his hands through my hair, and cleaned his hands with the liquid, dried them on the towel, scrubbing them down his thighs again, leaving long streaks. Finally, he grabbed a pot of bright yellow and repeated the process, focusing now on my left shoulder, left breast, down my center line, ending by painting all around my sex.

He stood back, almost jumping upright, clearly excited, his thing now hard and throbbing up, and up, and up…

Snapping his fingers, he ran into the other room and returned with a tube of lipstick. He unrolled it and quickly and expertly applied it to my lips.

“Smear,” he commanded. I moved my lips together, all the while looking at him. He dabbed carefully at the corners, then, satisfied, stood up and walked slowly backward away from me. He stopped, frowning.

I smiled at him.

But now he was scowling, shaking his head. “No – we’ve lost it. It’s gone, it's missing!”

His eyes refocused on mine, then his mouth broke into a slow smile, and he moved towards me, kneeling down by my side. Smoothing his hand along my left leg, he reached my nether lips and started to draw his fingers up and down between them, stroking my pearl each time.

I gasped, then writhed, arched, and cried out, my entire body feeling as if it was crackling with a crest of fire rolling along my skin. He kept going, occasionally sliding two fingers inside of me and stroking my insides before bringing them out again and continuing to stroke my lips and pearl.

I cried and arched and pulsed – and came, over and over and over again!

Finally, he stopped, kissed me lightly on the lips, and stepped back.

My head fell back, and I could feel my lips brighten into a smile, hands gripping the sides of the chaise.

I heard that noise, the schlick-clock repeated again and again, but I didn’t care. I felt so good, so warm, so … alive.

Finally, I opened one eye and saw him looking down into the camera that filled his hand. He pushed a button on the side, and the schlick–clock sound happened again.

I smiled at him, lowered my head and looked at him through my eyelashes, and was rewarded with another schlick–clock.

He moved around me, taking picture after picture. I followed him with my gaze, feeling oddly worshipped.

Eventually, he stopped. Looked at me. Looked down at his thing, smirked, then gently placed the camera on the table, slid his arms under me, lifting me and carrying me into another room, this one with a bed. He placed me on it, and lifted my legs and spread them.

He knee-walked between my legs. I raised my arms to him. He moved his member to my nether lips, slowly sliding between them. My arms went to his shoulders and pulled him towards me.

I felt a slow, cresting feeling as his thing entered me, and if I felt worshipped before, I felt like a goddess now! Throwing my head back, my hips moved, and I pushed back and felt a slight pain, a burning sensation, until he moved all the way inside me.

My legs wrapped themselves around his back and pulled him in deeper. He moved closer, his hairy chest tickling my breasts, and the paint smearing on him. Giggling, I felt my hips move – and his move in response.

It was a slow dance of thrust and move and slick sliding away, then moving in again. All at once his eyes changed, and he started to move faster, and thrust harder and deeper.

Finally, he cried out, the muscles of his back and bottom tensing as I felt him pulse inside me – and I felt myself cum again and lost myself, gasping in ecstasy…

Panting, I gradually came back, cradling him in my arms. I stroked his head, murmuring I know not what, then giggled as I saw paint smeared on his cheek. Leaning up, I kissed it, tasting a wet, mineral flavor.

His eyes opened, and he smiled.

“Yes,” he said, “you will be immortal. I will make sure of that."