‘I love it. I love that line. Can I have that? Can I keep it?’
He tore off the page and handed it to her.
‘Sign it, Marco.’
He did.
The two of them had the whole afternoon to play with and there was no urgency on Marco’s part to rush the game. He was hard, painfully hard. His jeans were no help at all, far too tight to be very accommodating. But he continued on his path.
He moved Emma off the couch and she stood for a moment in front of him.
Their eyes meeting, Emma lifted her hands to the top button of his shirt and undid it. And then the next, and the next, till she could open it. She lifted the shirt from his shoulders and he let it drop to the floor. She ran her hand across the smooth, hairless, tanned skin of his chest and then down along the muscles of his abdomen. When she reached the top button of his jeans his hand gripped her wrist. He moved her away and forced her to pose on all fours on the chest. She could see herself in the mirror. It was a filthy pose. Now she felt naked.
Obeying him gave her an unexpected thrill. He circled her slowly. She was entirely exposed. She hung her head and shuddered, remembering Jason walking around her that night in the backyard. But this was different. Marco was a man, a man with a past, a man who knew beauty, who knew what a woman wanted and could deny her exactly that if he so desired.
He circled her slowly twice. His movements were deliberate. He knew each second that passed added to the turmoil within her. She had given herself away. She was exposed in more than one way. He knelt behind her and gazed up at her pussy.
Emma’s paralysis turned her on. Her pose was dirty. She was an object. She stared at him through her parted thighs. He was sketching her. When he touched her she jumped, it was so unexpected. He pushed apart her buttocks for a moment then went on with his sketching. Emma moaned as the sensation of his touch faded. She closed her eyes in an effort to chase down the feeling. At one moment she felt his breath on her wet lips, but all her aching limbs received from him was his closer observation and the sound of his charcoal scratching on paper. It took all of her self-restraint to remain where she was. She wanted to knock him down and sit on his face.
‘Marco?’
‘Si?’
‘Please.’
He lifted his piece of charcoal and ran it along the flesh of her thigh. It gave her goosebumps. He stood up and Emma could feel the charcoal against her skin at the base of her spine. He paused as if undecided, then slowly drew a line down her spine. It was dry and rough against her skin but he touched her lightly. Emma shivered. As he leant forward to complete his line, as his charcoal ran under her hair, up her neck to her scalp, his crotch came up against her naked arse. Emma pushed back against him. He withdrew and placed his open palm against her thigh and ran it along the lines he had drawn, rubbing the black dust into her skin.
He was making her crazy. All she wanted was to be taken. She didn’t care how. Hard and fast and all over in seconds. It didn’t matter. She just wanted him to grab her, put his cock in her and fuck her. She wanted his cock in her. Now.
‘I paint,’ he said, and left her where she was, retreating once again to the canvases.
‘Fuck me! Come back here. Pull out your cock and fuck me!’
‘No, I paint,’ he said. ‘Don’t move. Be good. Do as I say.’
She followed him with her eyes but remained in her pose.
He returned with a glass jar and a large flat paintbrush.
‘What are you going to do with that?’
‘Paint.’
He stood behind her. He ran the wooden end of his brush up her thigh and gently, barely touching, across her pussy. Then ran the long edge of the brush between her lips, up and down. Emma closed her eyes. The sensation after so much teasing was strange yet exquisite. But like so many of his touches this ended as soon as it had begun. He ran his palm along the smudged line of her spine and over the edge of her bottom and down her thigh. The side of his hand now brushed the wetness of her lips.
‘I want,’ he said, grabbing her hips.
‘You want?’ she sighed.
‘Si, I want. You make me cry.’ He slapped her arse softly. ‘Too beautiful. Too beautiful.’
He moved back from her. Looking between her legs she caught him rubbing his hard cock through his pants. She wanted the games to end.
Then he dipped the brush in the jar of water.
‘You stay.’
The brush trailed along the smudge of his first line. He saw goosebumps rise again. Emma wriggled her arse. She couldn’t keep still. Her pussy was desperate for attention. When she tried to reach under to touch herself again, he stopped her with his brush.
‘No.’
He began to paint her bottom. He was covering it all. He drew the brush across her skin then down between her cheeks. When he reached her arsehole Emma let out a moan that shook her whole body. A moan that caused Marco to re-evaluate his plans. His cock throbbed at the sound. He dipped the brush back into the jar and returned to the spot. Cold and wet, the brush head circled her there. Emma squeezed her thighs rhythmically.
Then Marco moaned. It came forth involuntarily and surprised him. He put down the brush. He put down the jar. He held her hips. And for the shortest of moments Emma expected to feel his cock enter her. She waited. She could almost feel it. His grip strengthened. He looked down at her arching back, at her head hanging, her hair falling everywhere and saw an image that demanded to be sketched.
He picked up the pad and the charcoal and began a new sketch, more chaotic and unrestrained than any of those before. His hand would not stop shaking. His eye would not focus on the subject, but kept returning to her arsehole and the sex below. His cock strained against the denim.
He moved around Emma, trying to take control again. But he was lost. He reached out and cupped her breast. Emma lifted her face and saw he was close. She raised her hand and took hold of the button of his jeans. Marco began to sketch; he was not going to take any notice of her. She undid the top button, then unable to resist, stroked the length of him through the jeans. The thing pulsated. She began to release it. The buttons were difficult. He wore nothing beneath and soon he was in her hands.
He looked down at Emma and started sketching frantically. His cock was now centimetres from Emma’s mouth. She stuck out her tongue and licked the base of his shaft. The skin tasted salty from his swim. He ignored her efforts. He was satisfied with this new view, from her thick hair, down the porcelain skin of her long back, to the two round halves of her rump.
He made bold, full marks on his page, whilst Emma sucked one of his testicles into her mouth. He shaded and smudged with his thumb, giving the form movement, then in a moment of inspiration he began to add in an imagined lover holding her hips and giving her his cock from behind. Emma took his thick shaft into her mouth.
Marco’s sketch was coming along well. He managed to render the male lover anonymously, fading the lover away so that only his tense arms, hands and torso were visible. As Emma began to slide his cock in and out of her mouth in deep, long movements, sucking hard and pressing her tongue up against the underside of his shaft, another inspired piece of imagining came to Marco.
Apropos of nothing he began a small sketch in the corner of the same page, from memory, of a woman sucking lustily on the end of a thick cock. This was hastily done and managed to capture the movement of a woman busily at work on a cock.
Without warning Marco stepped away from Emma’s mouth and changed the page.
‘Fuck, Marco, what are you doing to me?’
‘No move.’
He was faced with a blank page. He was excited by a new challenge. He felt it necessary, as an artist who valued symmetry, to make a drawing from the same height and perspective but from the other end of Emma’s body. He made his way to her behind, trailing his charcoal along her skin as he went.
Again he parted her cheeks but this time he boldly ran his fingers along the length of her wet sex.
‘I no have woman in two years. I no want woman. I only paint. Two years! Capito?’
‘Si,’ Emma said, her head down, her body aching for his fingers to return. She pushed her butt back towards him.
‘I make promise. No woman,’ he said, his hand returning to her. The place was impossible to resist. It was hunger. It was desire. The scent of her was everywhere. It rushed through his veins. He was intoxicated.
‘I am no woman,’ she said, willing his fingers into her.
‘You woman. You trouble. You too much woman.’
‘Do you want woman now?’
‘Si, too much. Too much. Too much.’
He stepped close to her so that his cock head was pressing against her and began to draw her. She turned and looked at him over her shoulder.
‘No move,’ he said, ‘I artist. I draw you. No woman. I cannot break promise.’
‘To who?’
‘To Marco.’
He pushed his cock into her.
Emma let out a deep groan as her body finally welcomed him. He kept still and wouldn’t withdraw. His marks on the paper quickly became the reverse of the previous sketch. But this time he shaded and smudged using the wetness from his fingers. The effect was quite startling, even to an old hand like Marco.
Again he finished off by sketching in an imaginary lover standing before Emma. There was no great jump in the imagination of the viewer to deduce that she was sucking that lover’s cock. Just as Emma began to push back against him the sketch was done and Marco, the artist, was standing a foot or two behind her, making another sketch of her glistening sex.
Emma climbed off the chest and dropped to her knees and fell to sucking his cock, one hand gripping the base, the other sliding in and out of herself. Marco was trying to think but she was so distracting. He always found his models distracting. He even let out a moan, which pleased Emma so much she squeezed her legs together over her hand and moaned into his cock. She wanted release so badly but wanted Marco to be her deliverer.
‘No. No. I not finished. Sit. Sit.’
He sat her down on the chest and knelt between her knees. He started another sketch but paused and, bending down, kissed her pussy. Emma threw her leg over his shoulder and stretched her arms out behind her. She rested on her elbows. He started to lift his face from her and she gripped his hair and forced him back down. He knew what he was doing. She wasn’t going to let him get away again.
‘You’re going to make me come. And then you’re going to fuck me like you’ve never fucked anyone before.’
Marco started to lift his head but Emma kept him there. She lay back on the chest and Marco began in earnest. Emma knew it wouldn’t take long, she was too worked up. All she needed to do was let it come. When he lifted his hand and gently pressed his fingers into her she was there to receive him. He read her. He knew. He drew it forth.
When it came it was big. It rose from somewhere deep and shuddered through her like an earth tremor. It had no end, though. It lingered. It seemed captured within her. She knew what this meant, too. Though her body wanted her to stay where she was, she moved quickly onto her knees and, grabbing Marco’s hand, said, ‘Now fuck me. Fuck me!’
Marco gripped her hips and began to fuck her, but this wasn’t enough for Emma.
‘Fuck me, Marco. Fuck me hard. Harder. Harder! Don’t stop. Fuck me!’
The two bodies clashed in gratifying disharmony.
Emma put her head down, closed her eyes tightly, the second orgasm was still there. It was within reach.
‘Marco! Marco! Fuck me! Fuck!’
Marco’s hands were gripping Emma’s hips so tightly he was dragging her to him with every thrust. He had never thought to fuck someone this hard. He was beyond his own orgasm. He had lost that in this divine rush toward physical oblivion, a complete crush of flesh. He pounded her without restraint. Full painful force. And then he heard it. He could feel it. Her body was shuddering. It rose up within her again, the most thrilling sound. It was a moan, then a groan, then, when it came, it was a scream.
Two orgasms seemed to merge for Emma. The first taking so long to leave had been caught by the second. She was overwhelmed by it and collapsed onto the wooden chest, her knees bumping the edge as they fell heavily to the ground. She was unsure whether she was laughing or crying. Her breasts heaved spontaneously.
Marco was out of breath. He picked up his tools and staggered toward the divan where his knees buckled, toppling him over onto the cushions. He started to laugh.
Emma made a pathetic grab for him but he was out of her range. He lay back on the divan, stretched out along its length – the sketchbook in his left hand, the chunk of charcoal in his right. His cock stood erect. Emma lifted her head and saw that he was sketching her as she lay. She saw the cock, too. This was not a sight she could see without something stirring within her. A moment before she was wondering if she might ever be able to move again. She stared at the cock for a long time. It showed no sign of diminishing. The more she looked, the greater the urge to move to it. Desire returned. She was as she was before. It was as if nothing had happened. She began to need it in her.
She reached again for him without success.
‘No. Not finished.’
‘Neither are you.’
She crawled to the divan. Her knees hurt. She climbed up onto it and lifted a knee on either side. She took hold of his cock and angled it upwards and eased herself down till she swallowed the full length. She sat there, holding his cock with her vagina, clamping on it, and closed her eyes. Marco started to sketch like a man possessed.
‘Bellissima,’ he mumbled to himself. Emma paid him no heed. She just sat and clenched, then released, then clenched, then released. His cock felt wonderful to her.
Marco sketched her alabaster skin, her full round breasts and her lovely slightly rounded stomach. He sketched her face, capturing the full satisfaction of her present mood. He exaggerated the madness of her hair and sketched her hands amidst the tangled locks, though in reality they were steadying her, one grabbing the largest of the pillows and the other on his thigh.
Emma lifted slowly, just an inch or two, then lowered herself again. The pleasure of this small act was overwhelming. She was at such a pitch, she was open and receiving all sensation. If Marco hadn’t been so busy, if he had dropped the book and had come up to suck on her breast … Just the thought was delicious. And if he was to bite down on her neck instead of sketching it. Ohhh. And if he would kiss me, just once. Just one lingering kiss. She lifted up and lowered herself down. The full length of his cock, warm and hard, in and out, touching her, caressing her. Her movements became more persuasive. She began to lift and fall, lift and fall, faster and faster. Her breasts began to rise and fall. She brought her hand to her nipple and rubbed and pinched herself there.
Up and down. His cock was so hard and running so deep.
Marco looked on over the top of his sketchbook. Her attentions were distracting him from his work. He closed his eyes. He stretched out his hand and touched her thigh. Emma’s hand grabbed his and squeezed. Marco began to thrust up to meet Emma’s heavy downward fall.
Emma took the sketchbook from his hands and tossed it across the room. It slid along the floor and ran into the mirror. Marco smiled and, thrusting up, lifted her over onto her back without withdrawing from her. He fell on her, his full weight, body to body, skin against skin, and began to slowly, and deeply, fuck her. She wrapped her legs around him and threw her arms about his neck. Then staring into each other’s eyes, they shared their first kiss.
From where Emma was sitting she could see the marks her bare arse had left on the dust-covered work bench. She also noticed there was dried come on her thigh. The divan had a suspicious stain right in the middle of the mattress. She could see charcoal marks everywhere. On cushions, the chest, the walls. Marco’s dirty hands had marked her all over too. But they were her hand prints on the mirror. Marco had fucked her against the mirror as he wanted a self-portrait.
Emma had the sketches in front of her. The effort had been worth it, in her humble opinion. She looked up at her hand prints and she could just make out the mark her face had left when Marco had dropped the sketchbook and had driven home his point.
Emma was still naked. She felt worn out. So physically exhausted she could not move. She was shuddering uncontrollably, everything turned her on. She was fuck. She was orgasm. Her exhaustion left her defenceless. The slightest movement made her wet all over again. She flicked through the pages, the record of the afternoon’s romp, and was thoroughly happy. Marco had made all their fucking look fun and beautiful, even the dirty, dirty bits. She was in love with the sketches of herself. She was in love with her sexuality and impressed by it. She admired her sexual power as captured by Marco.
He had left her. He was done, he said. He also said in his broken English that he was pleased with the work they had achieved, complimented her on her patience as he knew it was hard work modelling for hours on end. He had put his jeans back on, left his shirt on the floor and had walked out of the studio. Where he had gone, Emma had no clue. It was dark out. He had stopped for a moment at the door and given her a smile which had satisfied every doubt Emma could possibly have in his absence. Emma had smiled then and was still smiling two hours later.
TWELVE
‘I don’t know.’
Emma was on a payphone near the station.
‘I know you’re worried, but I’m fine.’
Marco was waiting for her. He was sitting on his bike about five metres away.
‘I’ll probably look for work in London before I go home.’
She was talking to her mother.
‘I know I can’t work there legally. I can’t work here legally, either, but I am.’
The Secret Lives of Emma: Unmasked Page 7