Chapter 18 Artful Fantasy
Artful Fantasy
Stoke my passion
That evening, I walk into class without feeling an ounce of shame. Taking Anton’s advice to heart, I’m determined to learn from my reaction after last night’s failed scene.
Calling out my safeword does not denote a position of weakness but one of enlightenment.
“I was informed you would be late,” Mr. Onassis comments, looking pleased when I enter the room before the bell rings.
“I had an unexpected meeting, but I wanted to keep my promise to you.”
I catch Nosh’s subtle sneer as I walk past the jerk on my way to sit down. But instead of irritation, I still feel compassion for the jerk, and I wonder if he’s suffering from unspoken pain, the same as I am.
I frown at the thought as I take a seat, convinced I’m officially losing it. Amethyst looks at me with genuine concern when I sit down beside her, and I smile to let her know I’m doing okay after my meltdown.
To my delight, Mr. Onassis stands up and begins passing out our journals. “Now that you have attended your first auction, you have a better understanding of how important these are.”
I open the leather book solemnly, aware that the words I write on these pages with gilded edges have the power to become my reality. It is a weighty realization.
Because my first fantasy was so unusual compared to everyone else’s, I decide to go with a much simpler fantasy that still makes me hot and has no bondage.
I feel antsy as I sit in my apartment, flipping through an endless array of lame reality TV shows while I listen to my neighbors screaming at each other on the other side of the wall.
Tired of replaying this pathetic version of hell every weekend, I decide to get dressed up and head out for the day. A creature of habit by nature, I decide on a whim, to hop on the bus headed to Chelsea. I’ve heard about the art district but know nothing about art.
I notice two guys checking me out on the bus and discreetly tug on my skirt, wishing I had chosen something a little less revealing. Rather than endure their unwanted attention a second longer than I have to, I pull the yellow cord when we reach West 28th.
Hurrying off the bus, I walk toward the first gallery I see. Glancing over my shoulder, I’m alarmed when I see the two men elbowing each other as they exit the bus. Quickening my pace, I walk across the street just as the crossing sign turns to a solid red.
Making it to the other side, I breathe a sigh of relief, only to see the two men weaving through the oncoming traffic behind me.
When I reach the glass door of the gallery, I yank it open and quickly head to the far back, hiding behind a group of people admiring the art.
“I absolutely adore Nova’s work. He perfectly captures the futility of life with his simple choice of color, texture, and composition.”
I stare at the abstract painting the group is studying. The large canvas is covered in splotches of black and red with a jagged line of thick brownish-green paint down the center.
The woman who spoke turns to me with an air of arrogance. “What do you think?”
I gaze at the painting, nodding my head slowly, and state, “The futility of life is the reason I came here.”
The others in the group grunt in approval.
I take a peek at the entrance, concerned when I see the two men staring through the glass, looking for me. Quickly excusing myself, I head to the restrooms to wait them out.
I’m in for a surprise when I enter. The bathroom is as artful as the gallery itself. I smile as I sit down on a globular-looking chair shaped like a cloud. There is a line of them set in front of a large, lighted mirror in the vanity area of the upscale bathroom.
I’ve never felt so fancy! I momentarily forget about those men as I pull out my lipstick and look in the mirror, gliding the ruby red color over my lips.
I feel like a movie queen until the woman who gave me an attitude walks in and takes a quick glance at me. Rolling her eyes, she marches into the toilet and sink area of the restroom.
Annoyed by her arrogance, I get up to leave.
Heading back into the gallery, I notice a man standing apart from everyone.
His shirt is loose and his sleeves rolled up, showing off his toned arms. The way he is studying the people as if they are the subjects for his next project makes me think he’s an artist.
The man must feel me staring at him because he turns his head and flashes a warm smile, saying in a rich tone, “Well, hello.”
I blush under his intense gaze.
“I feel as if we’ve met before,” he states.
I shake my head, certain we haven’t.
He nods confidently. “If not in this lifetime, then perhaps in the previous one.”
I burst out laughing. “That has to be the corniest pickup line I’ve ever heard. Does that really work on women?”
He grins. “I was being serious. But I’m not offended.”
I can’t tell if he’s kidding. The man has a magnetic presence I find dangerously attractive. “Are you an artist here?”
He shakes his head.
“Oh, I just thought…” I chuckle self-consciously. “You look like an artist to me.”
He winks. “I am an artist, but not at this gallery.”
Looking back over the crowd, he states, “You don’t seem like you belong here.”
“Is it that obvious?” I blush, feeling embarrassed that he’s seen through me so easily.
He turns toward me and smiles. “I mean that as a compliment.”
The woman from the bathroom walks up and moves between us. “It’s been ages, Zachary! Are you still working on that piece? Walt was just asking about it because he’s interested…”
I watch her lead him away. Glancing around the gallery, I realize he’s right. These people are not my jam.
Before leaving, I check to make sure the two men who followed me have gone and head out. I’m now on a mission to find a less pretentious gallery.
Halfway down the block, chills run down my back when I spot the two men walking toward me. One leers at me and says, “We’ve been waiting for you, sweet cheeks.”
I freeze where I stand. Before I can turn to run, Zachary appears. Wrapping an arm around me as if we’re a couple, he asks, “Do you mind if I join you?”
Mute with fear, I can only nod.
He glares at the two men as we stroll past them without incident.
“Thank you,” I mutter after we cross the next street.
“I noticed the miscreants stalking you when you entered the gallery. Do you know who they are?”
“No, but they were riding on the same bus.”
He frowns as he glances back. “My studio is just a few more blocks this way. Why don’t we go there as a precaution, and I can show you my latest piece?”
Grateful for the suggestion, I readily agree, “I’ve always wondered what an artist’s studio looks like.”
He chuckles. “Be prepared for a mess. I wasn’t expecting company.”
“I’m glad to hear that, because I was worried it was just another one of your pickup lines.”
He smirks. “You’re a bit jaded.”
“It’s hard for a girl not to be,” I answer in a light voice even though I’m being dead serious.
Zachary walks me to a building that looks more like a warehouse than an apartment and takes me up to the third floor in one of those old cage elevators I thought only existed in movies. Opening the last door down the hall, he invites me into his place.
I glance around the large room. It has a cement floor, industrial lighting, and exposed plumbing. “Quite the bachelor pad you’ve got here.”
He chuckles, glancing at all of the paintings propped against the wall. “It’s my sanctuary.”
I walk over to look at them, exclaiming, “These are incredible!”
I’m particularly drawn to a large portrait of a young girl.
The child is glancing off into the distance with a look of pure innocence on her face.
Examining all of his other paintings, I find portraits of people of differing ages, each with an expression that clearly conveys a specific emotion.
Even the few landscapes he’s painted evoke a full array of emotions, from the fury of a storm on the ocean to the hopeful joy of a sunrise.
Genuinely puzzled, I ask, “Why isn’t your work being shown at the gallery?”
He states with a humorous smirk, “I was born in the wrong century.”
“But people need your vision of the world.” I look back at the paintings and smile. “They are a breath of fresh air.”
He grazes my cheek lightly with his fingers. “I knew we were acquainted.”
I chuckle. “Still thinking that we’ve met before?”
“I’m certain of it,” he states in a husky voice, tilting my head up to look into his eyes.
“You’re dangerous,” I murmur, no longer willing to fight the natural chemistry between us.
“It is you who is dangerous. I’m just a helpless captive to your magic.”
I stare at his lips and whisper, “Kiss me.”
He hesitates for a moment, then moves in to kiss me lightly on the lips.
My lips tingle from his gentle kiss, and I smile. “I almost believe your claim that we’ve met before…”
He stares at me intently for a moment, then suddenly leaves my side. Walking over to a table lined with small cans of paint, he holds up the amber one. “I have failed to understand the appeal of the abstract…until this moment.”
My lips part in astonishment. “Are you saying I’m abstract?”
“No,” he says with a mysterious glint in his eye. “I’m envisioning something beautifully abstract with you as the subject. Are you willing to be my muse?”
Intrigued, I ask cautiously, “What does it involve—exactly?”
“Imagine a large canvas, your naked body, and…”—he holds up the can—“insane amounts of paint.”
“So, this whole thing has been a convoluted way to get me in bed?”
He smiles. “No sex…unless you insist.”
I like his shameless answer. “Am I supposed to be your model?”
He shakes his head, stating in a serious tone, “You are the muse.”
I have no idea what that means, but I’ve never been anyone’s muse before. It’s incredibly flattering…but also intimidating.
“I never get naked on the first date,” I inform him.
“It is not a date,” he declares, sounding offended. “This is in pursuit of great art.”
I don’t know why, but I feel completely at ease with this man. Almost as if what he’s said is true and we really are kindred spirits.
“I’ve secretly wanted to be immortalized in art,” I confess.
“Then consider this divine intervention.”
“Divine intervention…” I murmur. “I like the sound of that.”
He nods toward a gray shower curtain that’s covered in splatters of old paint. “Undress behind the shower curtain while I prepare the canvas.”
I guess we’re really doing this…
I laugh to myself as I go behind the curtain to undress. Undoing my blouse and skirt, I listen to Zachary whistling as he moves about his studio, setting things up.
“Come out when you are ready,” he announces.
I take a deep breath and throw all caution to the wind. With my head held high, I move out from behind the curtain completely naked.
“My muse…” Zachary states with reverence, holding out his hand to me.
I slowly walk to him, drinking in this moment.
“I am honored,” he says as he helps me to lie down in the center of a large swath of white linen.
Standing above me, he stares at me critically with an artist’s eye, positioning my arms and putting my palms up with my fingers spread.
He then positions my legs and feet to match the vision in his mind that only he can see.
My pulse quickens when he kneels beside my head and begins gently fanning my long curls out into the pattern of sunrays. The process tickles me in a delicious way, and I feel myself getting wet.
As if he can sense the sensual effect he’s having, Zachary lays a silk tie over my naked pussy. Wearing a sexy smirk on his lips, he adjusts it to make sure I’m fully covered.
Standing up again, he announces, “This will be my first abstract masterpiece.”
Picking up the golden yellow paint, he dips a paintbrush into it. Then, with a precise flick of his wrist, he splashes it on my hand, leaving an outline of splatters on the white linen. He does the same with my other hand, then sets down the paint and chooses a new color.
He furrows his brow, pressing his lips together in concentration. Each splash of paint that caresses my body feels like an extension of his hand. My nipples ache with a need to be touched.
Once he is finished outlining my body with an array of fiery colors, he sets the paint down and cleans his hands with a rag while his eyes linger on my body.
Even his gaze is dangerously hot!
Dropping the rag to the floor, he rips off his shirt, exposing his toned chest and abs.
“We’re almost done.”
My eyes widen when he gently lays his shirt over my face. “To protect you while I complete the work.”
I bite my bottom lip when I catch his lingering scent on his shirt. Who knew something so simple could be so erotic?
“I vow to clean every drop of paint from your body once I’m finished, my beautiful sun goddess.”
I smile underneath the cloth, envisioning the image he has been so meticulous in creating. As his sun goddess, I plan to thank him by unleashing the fiery passion his creativity has stoked…
I let out a satisfied sigh as I shut my journal. I can’t wait to see how this fantasy plays out!