by Leo Barton
As if he had finished with her, he quickly rose to his feet and pointed to the table where that morning he had scrutinised her portfolio. She knew instinctively what he wanted her to do. She lay her upper torso on the table pulling up her skirt so it bunched around her waist and her bottom perched over the edge.
Delgado pulled down her panties until they were at her ankles, lifted up one of her feet at a time and removed them, and then splayed her legs so that her exposed bottom perched up a couple of inches higher.
She could smell the pine of the table and the strong aroma of the chemicals used for mixing paint. The sunlight streamed into the room as it had done that morning, the large, oblong window making a rhombus of bright light on the wooden floor.
Maybe she was using Maria's story as a source for her fantasy because there had been no such implement in Delgado's room as far as she was aware, but she felt the hard electric lash of a whip on her bare buttocks.
'If you want to be an artist you have to be spanked on your bottom, Mrs Powell.'
Lash after lash followed. Linda imagined the loud crack the noise would make on her, the excitement of the searing pain that Maria had described to her, and the lash falling on the taut sensitive surrounding flesh of her anus.
After the whipping, Delgado entered her from behind, burying himself deep inside her, pulling apart the sleeveless blouse and grabbing her firm, voluptuous breasts in his hands. Each mighty stroke of his thick hard tool caused an immense stab of pleasure, as she imagined her cunny muscles contracting against the hot meat of his cock.
His left hand had slipped down between her legs and as he thrust into her he manipulated her clitoris, pinching it between his finger and thumb, then sliding two fingers hard over the moist little hill, roughly, as roughly as he was fucking her.
In her sexual reverie she was coming as she was coming in Delgado's studio as Delgado exploded inside her, shooting his jism into the depth of her sex. Her skin tingled, prickled; the prickling sensation seemed tied somehow to the satiation of her gnawing need. She had masturbated herself to climax, but as soon as her climax came it jolted her back into consciousness.
My god, she thought to herself, what had she done? Maybe it was the summer heat. It was very rare for her to masturbate over anybody apart from Sebastian, and if she ever did, she did not normally pick a man she knew, but imagined somebody that she had seen in the gallery where she had worked, or a waiter perhaps where she had dined. She felt it faintly obscene to think that she had masturbated over Delgado, her prospective teacher, and a man, that now she was fully conscious, she still found rather repulsive.
She showered and ordered a light snack, which she ate on the balcony of her room, watching the throng below. The telephone rang while she was eating. It was Alfonso. Sebastian had rang and told him that she wouldn't be able to contact him for a couple of weeks as he was going into the Peruvian jungle to do some research and the director had forbid them to have any contact at all with the outside world.
What a load of nonsense, she thought after she replaced the dial. If the director had insisted on that he must be incredibly pretentious, but she suspected that Sebastian was lying and that he did not want to interrupt his illicit sexual pleasure with Simone Jaeger, his delectable co-star, by engaging in uxorial calls with her. And anyway he could have got the number of her hotel from Alfonso so he could have told her all this himself. He was lying; he was cheating on her again, and as per usual he expected her just to lie down and take it.
What was strange, however, was the realisation that flashed into her mind. Of course she had seen Delgado before. Why hadn't she realised? The curious face that night in El Attico, towering above the other spectators as Jorge fucked her, the face, it must have been, it must have been him.
Chapter 6
There were only five other people in the studio. There was Anita, a lively Basque girl in her early twenties with long copper-coloured hair and pert breasts enclosed in a Che Guevara tee-shirt. She wore long stripy pants and bounced around the room with a natural vivacity. There was Damian, a sombre looking boy with a dark complexion and fine black, shoulder length hair parted in the middle of his high forehead. There was another English girl, Rebecca, a student from London who said 'gosh' and 'beastly' and 'my dear' a lot. She wore expensive designer clothes, and on the first day that Linda nervously attended the studio, Rebecca was wearing a lilac chiffon blouse and a white, pleated skirt. And there was Alfonso and her.
'We work in quite a structured way, Linda.' Rebecca told her as they gathered around a couple of chairs at the far end of the room. 'Every week Delgado gives us a theme and we have to develop this in the morning.' Rebecca talked in a rapid flourish, almost as if she was frightened of being interrupted before she had finished speaking.
'Isn't that a little unorthodox?'
'It's Delgado's way, his method.' Rebecca looked a little suspiciously at Linda for doubting Delgado's approach.
'What type of themes? I mean what does he want you to do?'
'Oh it could be anything, anything at all. Last week it was 'summer', the week before it was 'justice', and the week that I came it was 'death' of all things.
'Isn't that a little authoritarian? Why can't we choose ourselves what to paint?'
'Oh no, he's our teacher. We are here to learn. We must do what he says,' Rebecca continued with an acolyte's fervour.
Linda looked quizzically at the younger girl. She found her exuberance a little off-putting.
'Don't have the doubts, Linda. You will see what an extraordinary man Senor Delgado is,' Anita added.
Damian looked nervous, agitated.
'How long have you been here, Damian?'
'A month, but I do not think that I stay much longer.'
'Why not?'
Damian flicked his head upwards: 'Because of him, Delgado. If I not improve in a week I must to leave, like Jose.'
'Whose Jose?'
'He is the man that you are replacing. Delgado killed him.'
'Sorry?'
'Well,' Rebecca interrupted, 'he wasn't good enough. Delgado was right. He was wasting his time.'
'Is only the opinion. Is possible to give him one chance more. You didn't see what he was like later. I saw him. He was destruido, how do you say, destroyed. Jose had his own ideas but he not listen to him. He not give him a chance...'
Damian was interrupted as Delgado walked into the room. He looked stern and imposing. He wore a navy blue smock that hung down past his baggy cream trousers covered in various shades and combinations of paint.
'Good, you have met, Mrs Powell,' Delgado said in his stentorian voice looking directly at the newcomer. 'She is to take the place of Jose. Jose is not coming back. Senor,' Delgado reverted to Spanish but Linda could understand. 'Please note, Damian,' Delgado continued.
Damian turned his gaze to the blinding light splaying into the room.
'Okay, this week's theme,' Delgado spoke in Spanish. 'You all know my theory about sex and art. You all know that at the core of all great art is sex, and not like Mr Freud would have us believe, that we utilise only our repression. No, in all art we must utilise our passion consciously and willing. The theme is simply sex. I want you to draw for me the thing that, how do you say in English? Turns you on? I want you to draw a sketch of anything that you find sexually exciting. Oh yes, and for the English women present here. No timidity please. I do not like sexual hypocrisy. You must paint your lust, and Mrs Powell, like an artist, not a critic. Okay, one hour, meditate.'
They were all expected to find a place alone in the room and sit there for an hour in silence contemplating what they might draw.
At first she found it difficult to begin, but eventually her mind reverted to the series of lithographs she had done of the priapic figures from the museum in Heraklion. She could do a variation on that. She drew a huge powerful man with an enormous cock. That certainly made her feel sexy.
She glanced at Delgado, wondering if he too had an enormous
tool, or whether all this forceful presence, this despotic pose covered up some sexual inadequacy in him. She thought about Damian's skinny young body. She imagined his lean cock, surprising him by taking it in her mouth, placing her hand under his balls and scratching the rough skin of his scrotum while she bobbed up and down on him, until he jismed inside her mouth. She thought of liberating Anita from the Che Guevara tee-shirt and suckling on her breasts, then sneaking her hand under the waistband of her stripy trousers, tugging them down, splaying her legs and burying her mouth in her juices. It was exciting to think about watching the girl squirm as she slid her fingers into her anus as had been done to her in El Attico. She thought of Alfonso taking her roughly from behind, pumping his sturdy cock deep inside her, his hand pressing down onto her pubic bone to increase the pressure; she thought of him crouching down over her, masturbating himself until he ejaculated a hot gush of jism into her quim. She thought of Rebecca and that false refined English voice, tethered to a bed, her creamy buttocks angled up before her and Linda inserting one of those pearl white dildoes deep inside. And last, she thought of Delgado and sitting on him where he sat in his chair, Delgado's hands pushing her down hard and deep onto his thick, long prick, squeezing her thighs and gobbling on her breasts, refusing to stop fucking her even after she came.
She drew the outline figure first, a man standing erect with a muscular chest. Then she drew the faint traces of his lewd greedy smile. She took considerably more time trying to draw the phallus, making it much bigger than the phalluses even she had seen in Heraklion, thinking what a lovely cock it was. She imagined licking it, rolling her tongue all the way down to the base of the shaft and then back up to the preposterously bulbous head. A beautiful cock that dominated the whole body, the whole personality, which is how she often thought of Sebastian when he was fucking her. His whole being would be totally transformed by his tool, and that imbecilic grin showed not really idiocy but the total surrender to priapic power.
It took her thirty minutes to sketch the figure and the next two hours to improve on her drawing. During the whole time Delgado did not appear, and she began wondering what sort of a teacher he was if he didn't give advice while they were working.
A bell rang and Alfonso shouted over. 'Time for a break.'
'Where is Delgado?'
'He comes in now. We have twenty minutes, then he gives us his opinion of the work.'
When they returned from their break their sketches had been taken off their easels and placed on one central board, one overlaying the other. Delgado had covered the top sketch with a blank piece of paper. Their chairs had been arranged before the board.
Linda found herself sitting directly in front of the towering figure of Delgado, who had the psychological advantage of standing while the rest of them where seated before him.
'Shall we start?' Delgado flicked the blank piece of paper over the easel to reveal the first sketch. It was a drawing of the sexual organs in vivid close up, a huge phallus entering the sexual mouth of a woman. To Linda it was nothing more than a competently drawn sketch that might have been found in a biology textbook.
'What do you see, Mrs Powell?' Delgado asked.
'A good sketch.' She did not want to disparage the work of her fellow artists on the first day.
'Is that all?'
'No, it's an excellent sketch, very accurate.'
'I thought you were a critic,' he said, his voice containing all the disparagement about her comment that Linda had refrained from employing about the drawing. She was about to speak, but Delgado spoke first.
'I like this Anita. I like it because it is crude and blatant, because you have shown the meat, if you like, of sex, and the meat of sex should excite us. It does not attempt to be erotic in any superficial way. The missing element of course is colour and, for me, size. The drawing, I think, should be five times bigger and you should use colours that bring the painting alive.'
That was all he said, nothing about technique or execution. It did not strike Linda that his criticism was either incisive or particularly helpful.
After the maestro had disparaged Damian's and Alfonso's work he came to Rebecca's sketch. Linda hated it. A handsome, naked boy lying supine in a meadow, slipping his hand down and touching his flaccid dick, and wearing an irritatingly winsome smile on his face that evoked the dreamy romantic nonsense that Linda assumed Rebecca's head was full of. Delgado didn't think much of it either.
'Are you a virgin, Rebecca?'
Rebecca blushed. 'No.'
'In that case, like Damian, you need to do more work at the conceptual phase, utilise your experience and if you have no experience then fantasise. Masturbate. See what comes into your head.'
Rebecca's face was rubicund. After Delgado had finished speaking, her eyes stared downward.
The next drawing she knew was going to be hers.
'And now to the worst piece,' Delgado said, flicking to Linda's priapic figure. I hate this picture. This is a picture from an artist who hates sex so much she can only laugh at it. There is nothing urgent or desirous in this figure. It is ironic. It is only ironic. Mrs Powell, here, thinks that sex is a disease and not a joy. What else can we make of this man, but that in sex he becomes preposterous, a smiling fool? Oh dear! How I pity the English, especially English men if this is how their women see them. Try again Mrs Powell; try to paint something else in your soul apart from this frigidity.'
'But it's a primitive...'
Delgado scowled at her. The others all scowled at her. It must have been another unwritten rule that Delgado could not be criticised when he was speaking.
'We can discuss this in my room. I would like to see you and Rebecca immediately,' Delgado said haughtily before storming out of the studio.
Linda looked over at Alfonso, searching his face for some reassurance but there was none to be had. Alfonso merely pointed with his eyes in the direction of the door, which Delgado had just exited.
Linda walked slowly up the stairs with a nervous and trembling Rebecca. All her previous confidence had gone and she was still blushing. They reached the door. Rebecca tapped on it faintly.
'Come in,' Delgado commanded.
When they entered, he was sitting on a wooden chair. Two chairs were positioned facing him.
'Sit down, please,' Delgado said, remaining seated.
Linda's heart was racing. However she disagreed with his aesthetics, he looked so powerful in front of her, that dominating personality sent a tremor through her, as it had done when she had fantasised about him on her hotel bed.
'I asked you Rebecca whether you were a virgin. Tell me the truth.'
'No, I'm not a virgin. I have a boyfriend,' Rebecca replied, her voice quiet and shaking.
'And do you make love with this boyfriend?' he insolently asked. Linda raised her eyebrows.
'Yes.'
'And how do you make love?'
'Sorry?' the young girl replied, wondering why her art teacher was asking such intimate questions. She was too innocent, and in awe of him, though, to become indignant.
'How do you make love to him?' Delgado repeated, his voice growing even more insistent.
'In the normal way.'
'In the normal way!' Delgado repeated mockingly. You talk as if there is only one way, or maybe two, the normal and the abnormal.'
'No I just mean that I'm ordinary, not special.'
'If you want to be an artist then you have to be special.'
'Yes I know but...'
'There are no buts, Rebecca. Remember when you talked about death I got you to think about your grandfather. Remember when we talked about justice we discussed many of the terrible crimes of this century. Do you remember?'
'Yes I remember.' Rebecca was shaking.
'And did it help your art?'
'You said it did.'
'Do you want to be an artist, Rebecca?'
Linda began to realise where all this was leading.
'Yes, I do.'
'
How badly?'
'More than anything else.'
'And you believe that I can help you?'
'Yes I do.'
'Then you know that you must do everything I tell you.'
'Yes, I do, Delgado, I do,' the girl remonstrated.
'Not just about art.'
'No, about everything.'
A sly smirk passed across Linda's face at Delgado's cheap manipulation, although she was excited about what she thought was going to happen.
'Sometimes an artist has to experiment with his life.'
'You told me that and I believed you.'
'The reason your art is not good enough, Rebecca, is that you are too frightened of life.'
'No, I'm not,' Rebecca protested.
'Rebecca!' Up until that point his voice, although authoritative, had been soft and encouraging, just as a kind teacher might talk to their pupils in school. Now it was raised, the increase in volume making both of the women jerk up in their seats.
'Yes, Delgado?' Linda noticed how Rebecca's face was a flaming red. She had that kind of pale skin that blushes so easily.
'We are going to explore some of your fears, particularly your fears about sexuality, so that it will make you a better artist. Are you willing to try?'
'Of course, Delgado,' Rebecca said more enthusiastically.
'Then you must do exactly what I tell you to do. Will you do that?'
'Yes.'
'Stand up then!'
Rebecca looked at Linda nervously; Linda took in the pert young breasts, the curve of her round hips, and the firmness of her buttocks. A tingle of excitement passed through her as she anticipated what the great Delgado was about to do.
Nervously the young English girl rose to her feet.
'Now remove your blouse.'
Rebecca hesitated again, eyes dilating at the prospect of denuding herself in front of her inspiring teacher.
'Rebecca, do as I say!' Delgado's voice was strident, insistent.
Rebecca reached to the top button of her lilac blouse, her hands shaking trying to unloose the button. Eventually she managed to open the first and then the second, a triangle of her tantalising cream chest came into view, and then Linda saw the patterned white cotton bra.