Truth be known, I can’t paint; I can’t do watercolors, chalk or pastels. I suck at sculpture and other material arts. But me, a piece of charcoal, and a canvas, I can make magic happen. I sketch bodies, mainly from memory, not models. That’s why I took up art history rather than art itself in college. If I could paint or some other form of artistic expression, I would. God, knows I’ve dabbled in it all. But I’ve been blessed with only the talent of black and grays. The strokes of a brush and color composition never sunk in. Plus life is so black and white with gray areas and I express that in most sketches I illustrate. They are raw and explicit, to convey a deep seeded emotion that you could spend hours contemplating, yet you’d still be left in a tornado of wonderment. It’s personal to me and I’ve only ever embraced it as a hobby of sorts.
“You don’t want to be my friend, but you’ll draw for me?” He sounds more surprised than hurt.
“If you have a new apartment, you have to fill it with something. Why not? It’s only art and I know I might not be Kate Sammons or some other famous artist but I can draw nudes,” I state confidently.
I don’t want to go into how I get all my subjects to draw with him. I pull bits and pieces from memories, and when I draw women, which I actually prefer, I use escorts that I’ve known or met as muses for my art. Men have firm beautiful bodies with cut muscles. But the curves and gentleness of a woman’s body is beyond a words measure; with their dazzling rawness it’s impossible to perfect but I crave the need to depict such a fathomless beauty.
“If you want to, I’d love to have two and large would be nice. The ones at the B&B are smaller. I don’t know what you’re capable of. But I will pay you handsomely for your generosity.”
“Do you want male or female and do you want actual sexual organ comprehensiveness or blurry?”
He chuckles. “Wow, you really know your stuff.”
“I was an art history major in college. It’s my job to know my stuff. So what’ll it be?”
This conversation has trotted along long enough. Fifteen minutes and I need to let him go. I can’t stay on the phone any longer. I have a life and he’s dangerous.
“Female please. Elegance more than sexual and sex organs are fine.”
“Ok, sounds great. I’ll save your number and get back to you when they are complete. Also, they are on the house. If it wasn’t for Amy I wouldn’t have a sanctuary. So have a nice day Brad. I’ll speak with you soon.”
I hang up without so much of a goodbye. My stomach is starting the butterfly arrangement. It’s the tone of his voice that feels like he’s fucking me without even trying or wanting to. I can’t have anything to do with those feelings. This needs to stop now.
I guess I’m off work today. So today would be as good as any to hit up the art stores in the area and select the right canvases. If I hadn’t been drawing like this for the past ten years doing charcoal work I would probably do sketches first. But I like the freedom and the urgency of only having a single canvas to create the perfect art.
I hop out of bed. It’s too early for Becka to be awake so I have to make sure to be quiet. I pull on some jeans, a white tee and my jean jacket. I tie my long hair into a high pony and slap on some eye shadow and gloss. I can pull off casual quite nicely. I grab my purse and a wad of cash out of my giant safe in the back of my closet. Some people use banks to store money. I use the bank to store only bill money and the rest is all held up in my large bulletproof heavy as hell safe. It weighs 783 pounds and has a keypad on the front that only I know the password to. There is thousands upon thousands of dollars stored meticulously inside.
It’s a balmy sixty-five degrees out today. It’s the end of September so the weather from the summer is calming down. Some days it’s warmer as others it’s chillier. I’ve grown up in this climate my entire life and New Yorkers are used to the change. Even though I’m not a native New Yorker I’ve been here the past seven years. And I am not moving away any time in my near or distant future. I love this city.
Five blocks down; after passing store after store I’ve finally arrived to the art shop. It’s a little off the beaten path and unique. But it’s one of the hidden wonders in Queens. A door dings as I enter.
“How may I help you, ma’am?” the Hispanic shop owner greets.
“Yes, I need two thirty by forty-eight stretched canvases, some matte spray and a box of charcoal sticks.”
“Do you need pencils too?” he asks.
I shake my head. “No thank you I have a huge set at home. I just run out of sticks rather quickly.”
He collects my order in a timely manner and I wait by the register to pay. It comes to a little over a hundred. I stuff the sticks and spray into my pockets and carry the canvases. They are rather large and awkward so I carry them over my head the five blocks home.
Lying them next to the front door I unlock it and push it open.
“Where’d you go?” Becka asks, standing in the small kitchen buck ass naked, making some coffee.
“I got a call from Brad this morning. He finally procured my number and I’m doing some art for him.” I carry in the canvases and lean them against the wall. I kick off my tennis shoes and drape my jacket over the back of a chair.
“Oh, he just wants art?” She asks plucking her nipple with her finger.
I roll my eyes. “No, he wants to be my ‘friend.’” I make animated finger quotes. “And stop that, will you? I know you have nice tits but it’s distracting,” I tease, watching her play with herself. She’s a pervert big time. Becka is one of those women who if she doesn’t come every day she becomes cranky and ends up masturbating frantically like her life depends on it. I hear it in her bedroom on our days off. I can go a few days in between but not her.
“My clit’s pounding this morning. So sue me. And he just wants to be friends, huh? What did you tell him?” She quirks up a brow and sips from her white mug. Her legs squeezing together to stimulate her arousal.
“I told him no. But I did offer to do the art work.” I pull out the charcoal and show her.
She nods. “I see. So the man you like more than you should...you’re going to draw him some beautiful artwork that he will get to look at every day and expect him not to want to be friends with you? Sounds like torture. Not that I’m opposed to delayed male gratification; there is something wonderful about that. But this goes beyond. I can tell you aren’t going to give him what he wants. Not that I blame you. If you like him like I think you do, it’s smart to cut him loose. I’d do the same,” she explains and leans up against the counter, opening her stance and placing a finger between her folds.
“Do you have to play with yourself in the kitchen?” I giggle, observing her.
“I’m fucking horny this morning. I don’t know if it’s because I only had one orgasm last night or what. But I’m on fire,” she purrs pushing a finger inside of herself. I can hear the wetness as she slams back into her hole. I’m not going to lie, it’s kind of hot.
“So the kitchen is the place to finger yourself into an orgasm?” I tease and lay my art supplies on the table. I head to the bedroom and throw off my white t-shirt. Drop my jeans to the ground. Pull my easel from my closet and my pencils. A giant plastic mat is tucked back into the corner so I have to dig around clothes to grab it. It has my apron wrapped around it. I slide my apron over my head and tie it in the back. I’m wearing only a pair of black thong underwear and a matching black satin push up bra. My breasts are C’s so I’m not huge like Becka’s. She wears a DD only because hers are fake. But when I draw I do it nearly naked. It’s artistically freeing.
I take the armful of supplies out and carry them into the living room where the best natural light comes in and set up the easel by the window that I pull open. I know it faces the street and everybody can see me but I could care less. This is how I work.
I enter back into the kitchen to find my best friend fingering herself into a furry of moans and bucking her hips into her fingers. I stand to the side and wa
tch her. She’s very beautiful even when she does this. I find myself turned on a little and I can feel my clit whining to be loved. “Oh yes,” she cries out between breaths. Her head is thrown back and she’s plucking a nipple with her free hand, her eyes closed.
I shake my head to stop staring and make my way to the table and retrieve the rest of my art supplies. She opens her eyes and just as I stare back and she locks them into mine. And licks her lips.
“Oh no you don’t.” I shake my head. I know that horny look. I’ve seen it before. This isn’t the first time she’s come on to me. I’ve never given in but about once a month sometimes more in the past four years she’s tried to get me to play with her or her to play with me. She’s not bi that I know of. But she’s grabbed my ass more than playfully a few dozen times and once she sucked one of my nipples into her mouth when I was doing my makeup. I’m not saying it doesn’t come across appealing sometimes. But I’ve never considered myself bisexual even though each time she does this it makes it a bit harder to say no. She’s sexy. And that speaks to me and makes me super wet.
She takes a step out of the kitchen naked, her fingers still buried inside of her cunt.
“C’mon, Alexis. Please,” she begs and takes another step.
I shake my head rapidly, warily staring at her. “No, damn-it. I’ve said no a hundred thousand times, Becka. I’m not eating your pussy or fingering you. We have clients for that. I’m a woman,” I state firmly. Even though I feel weak at the knees.
She takes another step and I back against the table with my art supplies in hand.
“But Alexis. Please. I don’t need you to fuck my pussy or eat me out. Let me do it to you and I’ll come quicker that way.” She pouts and pulls out that cute bottom lip. Her blonde hair falls over her shoulders perfectly framing her beautiful face. Damn this shit. I have go to get to work. I need to get this art done. The sooner I get it finished, the sooner Brad’s out of my life.
“Don’t give me that look, Beck. You know I don’t fuck women. And I sure as hell don’t let them tongue me.” I stand up straight and confidently puff up my chest, standing my ground. Even though inside I can feel myself breaking down. I’m a big bowl of mush. This isn’t good. Maybe four years of come-ons is too much to handle. Or maybe it’s the fact I just got off the phone with Brad. I can’t be sure.
She stills herself halfway between me and the kitchen. “Fine. One of these days, Alexis, I am going to make you let me let eat you out. And after I start you won’t ask me to stop. But I need to come so why don’t we both go into the living room. You start your project and I’ll finger myself so you can watch and this might help give you some good ideas to draw,” she offers.
I nod. “Okay, that might actually help.” I suck in a long breath to calm down. My pussy is sopping wet.
I carry in my supplies and a canvas and set it up on the easel in our white living room. One wall in our living room has exposed brick. The floor is hard wood. The walls have my art all over them. We have a giant fifty four inch flat screen that sits on top of an electric fireplace. Our couch is a tan leather and we have an oversized dark brown square leather coffee table that is multifunctional as a seat or a foot rest. It’s taller than most coffee tables but we love it. Becka takes a seat on it and opens her legs with her fingers deep inside her folds. The sun is pouring through the windows and the light makes the wetness of her pink pussy glisten and shimmer just perfectly. I open the charcoal and instantly an image comes to mind. She starts to fuck herself again and I watch without paying much attention to my canvas. I follow the strokes my brain is creating.
“Becka.”
“Yeah?” she pants and stills. I can tell by the flushness of her face and deep bellowing moans that she’s close to climaxing.
“Can you stand and bend over, spread your legs and finger yourself that way? I need a good ass shot and fingers between your folds,” I request professionally. Even though I could really use a cold shower right about now.
She does as I ask without any objections and I get a perfect view of her ass and all the folds of her pussy; it’s a perfect angle.
I get back to drawing and she fucks her pussy without remorse. It’s obvious she’s not shy about masturbating in front of anyone.
The curves of the woman on my canvas are deep and beautiful, her back curved and a leg is perched on top of a foot stool. She’s slightly bent over so the gentle folds of her vagina are faintly exposed and one of her hands is resting upon her butt cheek. Her head is slightly turned so I get the silhouette of her face and just the slight side of her breast. Her nipple is sizable and protruding. The woman’s hair is flowing in soft waves down the curve of her back. Her eyes are closed like she’s either deep in thought or sensually aroused.
Deep lust filled cries erupt in the room as Becka fucks herself harder and harder. I stop to watch the magic unfold as she looks over her shoulder and locks eyes with mine and busts into a body convulsing orgasm. Her body jerks and she screams falling forward onto the coffee table ottoman. She flips like a fish coming down from her loud climax. I wipe my dirty hands on my apron and go to her. Kneeling on the floor next to the coffee table. She turns her head towards me with a giant smile.
“Are you okay?” I ask, concerned.
She jerks unexpectedly and inhales deeply. “Yes,” she exhales in a wispy voice.
“You’re sure?”
She nods. “Yes, now go back to work.” She winks and turns over exposing her big breasts to me. I can’t help but look. I’m too horny not to. That was hot to watch.
I blink rapidly to break my gaze and stand and go back to my drawing, observing my work. I draw even better when I’m turned-on. This is awesome. I smudge the edges with my fingers and smooth the lines that need to be smoothed. I get into a blending artist trance as the pounding in my clit intensifies.
Whoa! What the hell? Someone has hands on my ass cheeks and a nose gets shoved between my legs. I freeze.
“What the fuck are you doing Becka?” I bark trying to concentrate but this is making it impossible.
“I’m going to suck you off as you do your work,” she says; her words are dripping with unrestrained yearning. This is not my best friend. I think some sort of alien has inhabited her.
I squeeze my legs together hard and I can’t swat her away. My hands are coated in charcoal and it would make a huge mess.
“No you’re not. You’re going to stop being a horny bitch today and take a shower to cool down and let me work,” I order firmly. Although I want to open my legs to let her go to work on me. But that’s wrong. Probably just as wrong as me wanting Brad.
She pulls my thong out of the way and slides a finger through my tightly clinched legs.
“You’re wet too, Alexis. I’m tired of waiting for this. You shove a finger in my ass twice this weekend and I nearly come and you still won’t let me touch this.” She wiggles her finger in the tightness. It barley moves.
“I didn’t know that almost made you come. I thought it was sore. You whined that it was sore and wanted me to put more inside,” I argue. I remember it perfectly.
“I did want more but it wasn’t because I was sore. I made it seem that way so you’d actually touch me. My butthole itself hurt but the insides didn’t. I just wanted your finger in me. And it was so hot. I’ve had a hard time thinking of anything since,” she admits and my mouth drops open.
“You’re straight, Becka. We’ve went over this many, many, many times. I don’t like women. I don’t let women fuck me. Period. Let it go. I’m sorry I turned you on. It won’t happen again. Now go take a shower and let me get back to work,” I instruct stringently. I’ve had enough.
“I’ll pay you,” she blurts.
“What!?” I croak out angrily.
“I will pay you three hundred to suck you off.”
I push my ass back hard and knock her over and her hand falls from between my legs and I turn and face her. I know my eyes are huge and I can feel the heat of agitation
pulsating from my flushed cheeks.
“What the hell is wrong with you?!” I scream.
She scurries back a little and curls into a ball like she’s just been whipped. I instantly feel like a jerk. Shit!
“I’m sorry Becka. I really am.” I lower my tone into something sweet and caring.
“Why won’t you let me?” She whines. Her blonde hair is like a protective layer covering her arms that are tucked tightly around her knees.
“I’ve told you; I don’t like women.”
“But you’re wet. I know I turned you on. Am I ugly?”
I shake my head back and forth, not understanding this at all. This makes no sense.
“Why do you want to so bad? That is the question,” I ask nicely.
“I’ve fantasized about it for years. I’ve slept with women before, a couple of times for work. You know men love when two women fuck. It was alright. But the longer you make me wait to do it the more I want to do it. It started out as a little curiosity when we first met. I tried to flirt with you about it. Then I’ve gotten more aggressive. But after the stuff this weekend, I feel like I’m going to combust. It’s terrible. I’ve masturbated, thinking that will help. But it won’t. You’re like the only forbidden fruit I can’t have a part of and it’s killing me,” she explains.
I just stand here staring at her. Contemplating. If I let her get her way will she let me go? What if I like it and I want more? What if she wants more? What if she doesn’t? What’s the harm? What does it matter? What if she really likes me and wants me as a girlfriend? That’s totally weird. But no is no. She has to give it up.
“I’m sorry Becka. I do think you’re beautiful, you know that. Not wanting this has nothing to do with you. If I chose a woman it would be you. But I don’t like them that way and yes it was hot watching you but it’s not enough to make me cross over into that territory. I’m sorry,” I apologize sincerely. I don’t know how else to explain this. It’s not like she isn’t hot or sexy. It’s not like I’m not tempted to walk the line into bisexuality. But I don’t want to. I don’t even like the fact I get turned on watching her masturbate. That’s more than enough to tell me this is a bad idea. So cutting off her desires at the knees is the only sure fire way to leave our friendship successfully intact. Crossing that threshold is dangerous, just like it is with Brad. Making it a no-no in my book. I’m a stickler for self-preservation.
Artful Attractions Page 9