by Aja James
Clara beamed an adoring, mischievous smile back at him, as if she was enjoying his present predicament, as if she’d been the one to send in the tiny marauder to besiege his hair in the first place.
“We got you some clothes,” she said, and disappeared from view briefly to retrieve a bag labeled Marshalls filled with newly purchased items.
Excitedly, she pulled out each item and displayed them proudly before him, as if she were putting on a private fashion show just for the three of them.
“Here we have a Minion shirt,” she said proudly, holding up a black T with bright yellow blobs that had goggle-like eyeballs, “a must-have for any occasion. Annie wanted to get you a Lady Bug and Cat Noir shirt instead, but I convinced her Minions were more appropriate for boys.”
Eli was confused. Was he supposed to wear that thing? He was most certainly not a “boy.” He was a full-blooded warrior male.
Whatever that meant.
But he was pretty certain he was one, given how he felt and the things he’d done with a sword a couple of weeks ago.
“You can match it with these black cargo shorts—I had to get everything with drawstring waistbands because there are no pants long enough for your legs, big enough for your, ahem, derriere, and still fit your narrow waist. Your proportions require tailor-made clothes, I’m afraid, which I can’t afford.”
This, Clara said somewhat apologetically, as if she wanted to buy him clothes that fit perfectly if she just had the money.
Eli was feeling rather overwhelmed that she bought him clothes at all.
“And here’s a nice polo to bring out your green eyes,” she continued, pulling out another black shirt with light green accents, strategically placed in areas to emphasize the breadth of a man’s chest and tapered waist, especially for those men who didn’t have the ideal physique but wanted the illusion of one.
Eli thought that shirt was more his style until she turned it around to show the back of it, which sported, in block letters, the words “I’m great in bed (I can sleep for days).”
“Yeah, I know,” she said as she noticed his slight wince. “These were on sale though, so I went with it.”
“I did splurge a little on this one,” she said and pulled out a long-sleeved, black Henley with white piping around the buttons and collar, “to go with these trousers.” Black, flowing material that could be worn in the summer without getting too hot.
“And,” she drew out the word with relish, “I also got you sandals and Calvin Kleins.”
She coughed a bit here.
“Hope they’re not too snug.”
The sandals or the underwear? From her slight blush that emphasized the freckles sprinkled on her cheeks and across the bridge of her nose, he assumed she was talking about the underwear.
He refrained from responding that they wouldn’t be too snug because he didn’t wear underwear. It seemed wise to hold that thought in while little Annie was sitting beside him still braiding his hair, and when Clara had spent effort and money buying him the boxer briefs in the first place.
“Why don’t you get dressed while Annie and I lay out dinner,” Clara suggested, eyeing the way he was still clutching the bedsheets to his neck.
“We’re having lasagna tonight. Afterwards, I have to teach my senior art class at 7pm.”
On cue, Annie finished up her last braid, scooped up her Barbie and midget brush, and followed Clara into the common area.
Eli spent the next half hour as a silent third wheel at the small fold-down breakfast table, focused on devouring his food while Clara chatted cheerfully and Annie responded with her lively facial expressions.
Not that they excluded him. In fact, Clara often tried to engage him in conversation, and Annie smiled at him a lot, all but blinding him with her innocence and joy, like a shiny new penny blazing brightly under the full blast of the summer sun.
Eli murmured one word responses or noncommittal grunts at appropriate moments, but he didn’t really participate in their half-audible, half-silent dialogue. He simply observed and tried to be less of a hulking intruder.
He wondered about why the girl was mute, whether it was a physical disability or more of a mental block. Though he seemed to be a practicing psychiatrist with only one patient, he could recall all the knowledge he’d accumulated as part of his profession, but he couldn’t remember where or how he’d acquired it.
There were signs that Annie’s muteness was not due to physical issues, but that she might suffer from selective mutism, perhaps because she’d gone through some sort of trauma.
Strangely, Eli felt equally protective of Clara and Annie. He didn’t understand it, but a shiver of guilt ran through him whenever he looked upon the little girl.
“Well, I better get ready for class,” Clara said after she cleared away the dishes, efficiently washing and rinsing them in the sink.
“Annie, could you play up here? Today’s class is a bit too advanced for you, honey. You wouldn’t like it anyway. We’re going to draw naked people.” Clara said the last sotto voce, as if it was a dirty little secret.
She smiled as Annie predictably made a face, showing just how disgusted she was by that prospect.
“It’s not so bad. I don’t have a live model so I’m just going to take a couple of plaster replicas from the attic and have the class work on—”
Clara broke off as Annie pointed rather excitedly at Eli with both her hands, her eyes rounded into saucers to emphasize her silent point.
“Oh. What a great idea!”
Clara turned to Eli and grinned beatifically, making him tense with dread.
And that was how Eli got recruited as Clara’s nude male model for the night.
Chapter Eight
The Creature indulged in a game of chess, lying languidly upon its gigantic bed, the board spread before it on a large tray with all the pieces arranged carefully.
Its well-trained soldiers had easily located the target, along with Lord Wind, as the Creature had predicted. Since then, it traced the target’s movements and everyone the target came in contact with. Shortly, it would be able to make its move, but it needed to wait until the target was out of Lord Wind’s range.
A visit to the psychotherapist’s office would be the perfect context for its extraction of the information it needed. It would only be a matter of time before the appointment occurred.
In the meanwhile, the Creature could afford to be patient. It had many other plans to put into motion, after all—new alliances to build, old ones to break, and as always, recruiting more soldiers for the Mistress’s army.
It focused its attention on the ongoing chess match before it.
The white side was missing one Knight, with another off in a corner seemingly detached from the battle.
Like a stray wolf apart from its pack.
Much easier to pick off, no matter how strong and ferocious the wolf.
The black side’s Queen was licking her wounds behind a barricade of pawns, while one black pawn had advanced beyond the half-way line into the white side.
The Creature had held this piece stationary for a long time now, letting it do its job gathering intel and reporting back to it without raising suspicion.
The Pure Ones never knew that they had a traitor in their midst, though the Creature sometimes wondered whether the pawn was truly loyal to the Mistress or simply advancing her own agenda.
No matter, as long as they achieved the same ends.
And if the pawn was ever at cross purposes with its plans, then it would simply eliminate her from the game.
As it was, the Creature found the pawn exceedingly useful.
She supplied the black side with plenty of humans with which to experiment, with a perfect cover to hide the truth. Unlike the Mistress’s mind-controlled minions, she could think on her own, adapt quickly to any situation.
She was cunning, resourceful, manipulative, and best of all, she provided the Creature with a regular infusion of Pure blood, whenever it
required, to maintain the façade of red-blooded humanity without expecting services in return.
Once in a while, the Creature wondered what the pawn’s motives were.
The Mistress had never explained (not that she ever explained anything) what her relationship with the pawn was and how she got recruited into their nefarious fold. But they had an understanding of sorts.
So the Creature decided to play the pawn again, by moving her not farther into the enemy White lines, but toward the stray Knight off in his own corner.
As if she were driving the Knight straight into the thickest of the Black battalion.
*** *** *** ***
By the time it was five minutes to seven, Clara’s art studio on the ground floor of her apartment was full to bursting with gregarious senior citizens, many of whom were already friends before they started taking her class, and others quickly became friends through her class.
As they bustled about setting up their sketch pads and charcoal, chatting and catching up, Clara cleared her throat at the front of the large classroom.
“Thank you for coming, my darling pupils,” she welcomed with an engaging grin, and a few members of the class chuckled at the ongoing joke—it wasn’t everyday a twenty-five year-old had fifty, sixty and a few seventy year-olds as her students.
“Tonight, we’ll practice sketching the human body with our charcoal. We will do a series of sketches over the next few classes, so that you get a sense of form, contour, lines, light and shadow depending on the subject.”
She began to stroll leisurely around the class as she spoke, making eye contact with every student, as if she were having an intimate conversation.
“You all have heard me say this many times: beauty is everywhere, in everything around us. And for me, though you know I hate to compare, the human body is the most beautiful of all. Whether the subject is young or old, male or female—and we will practice all of these forms—every person is beautiful. Do you know why?”
She pivoted on her heel to look around her, gaging reactions.
“Because at my age I don’t often get to see a nubile young body up close and personal?” Greta, one of Clara’s self-proclaimed brazen-hussies, cracked with a cackle.
The rest of the class laughed with her, making Clara shake her head with a smile.
“That is a very good reason indeed,” she rejoined. “But I was going to say that the reason every person is beautiful is because we are all alive.”
Clara’s eyes fairly sparkled with enthusiasm as she continued, “Just as your laughter is beautiful, Greta.”
She nodded to another woman. “And your shyness, Lauren. Your ever-twitching mischievous mustache, Gonzalo. And your frenetic energy, Joe,” she said to each of the students she named.
“There is beauty in character, in the simple yet complex myriad of emotions, in the experiences that shine through our eyes, and how we project our thoughts onto others.”
She walked back to the front of the room, having thoroughly engaged all of her students’ attention and imagination.
“I want you to practice your skills on the basics of sketching a human body tonight. Practice makes perfect, and we can all use more practice. But more than that, I want you to try to capture the essence and energy of what you see, which will be a combination of what the model projects as well as the artist’s own emotions and interpretation. Remember, the lens through which we look at the world is as important, if not more so, as the world itself.”
“We’re ready if you are, fearless leader,” Joe said from his seat, one foot tapping nonstop on the lower rung of the tall stool.
“Just tell me we’re starting with a lovely young lady, not that I’m lascivious or anything—”
“You’re a professional gentleman artist to the bone, Joe,” Clara inserted solemnly.
“Too right,” Joe quickly concurred, “It’s just I’d like a change of scenery from what I see in the mirror every day.”
“You see a wrinkly old woman in the mirror every day, do you, Joe?” another senior citizen joked.
Clara waited for the good-natured teasing to subside and focused everyone’s attention back on her.
“Actually, we will be sketching a young male tonight,” she said, and called out more loudly toward the back entrance to the studio from her private stairs, “Eli, you may enter now.”
No one appeared.
Clara cocked her head and called once more, “Eli?”
Still no movement or sound.
Just when she was about to go over to see what was keeping her model, Eli hesitantly entered the classroom.
Clara heard a collective indrawn breath at his appearance, but no one seemed to exhale.
He strode smoothly to her side at the front of the class and regarded the dozen or so senior men and women stoically.
The room was so silent Clara could hear crickets chirping in the small park outside. She had the sense that everyone was holding their breaths, as if they couldn’t quite believe Eli was real.
She could empathize.
She was awe-struck every time she looked upon him.
She was awe-struck even now after not seeing him for only a few minutes. Despite how fast her heart was hammering in her chest, she couldn’t seem to draw enough air into her lungs.
He was wearing the black ensemble she’d just gotten him, long-sleeved shirt with flowing trousers. His raven’s wing, hip-length black mane shone under the bright studio lights with glints of red. The tiny braids Annie had woven in parts of his hair made him look like an ancient warrior prince, adding a dash of potent fantasy to an already exotic, foreign beast.
His heavily lashed green eyes shifted to hers, looking at her questioningly, awaiting instruction.
When she merely gawped back at him, as if she’d never seen him before in her life, he put his questioning look into words.
“Shall I disrobe now?”
Someone in the back found their voice before Clara did.
“Please do, honey, and make it slow,” one of the elderly women said, as her aged female friends nodded their heads fervently.
Keeping his eyes on Clara, Eli crossed his arms, gathered the bottom of his Henley, and pulled his shirt up and over his torso in one smooth motion, the stretch delineating starkly all of the steely muscles—obliques, serratus, abdominals, pectorals, deltoids, trapezius—one after another, the sleek shift and glide under satiny skin mesmerizing in their movement.
“I’ve died and gone to heaven,” another woman whispered.
“No you haven’t, Ethel. You’re still on earth with me,” the man who must have been Ethel’s significant other grunted sourly.
“Shh,” yet another female student said, “he’s about to take his pants off.”
“Oh sweet baby Jes—”
Clara finally snapped out of her trance in time to halt Eli’s hands as they were untying the drawstring of his trousers.
“I think—” she croaked, and had to clear her voice and start over.
“I think we’ll focus on the upper body today.”
A collective groan of disappointment swept the female half of her student body, while the male half exhaled in relief.
As if they really weren’t looking forward to going home with wives who’d seen something even their younger selves would never have been able to live up to. Or going home to look into the mirror with the memory of the pinnacle of male beauty still fresh in their minds.
After all, nobody liked to compare unfavorably (grossly unfavorably in this case) versus anyone else.
“Eli, if you’ll sit here on this bench, please,” Clara gestured to the seat in question and Eli obligingly mounted it.
She arranged his arms and legs a bit and tilted his head slightly away from the center of the classroom.
He draped a hand over his lap as her brisk touch made his wayward cock harden and rise despite his command to stand down. She noticed the salute and blushed prettily, making freckles pop out all over her cheek
s.
“You don’t have to tense all of your muscles,” she said close to his ear, then flushed a deeper red at her own unintended double entendre, “just relax. You’ll get cramps if you keep this up too long.”
Lord! She couldn’t stop sounding dirty no matter how innocent her thoughts.
Well, maybe they weren’t so innocent after all. It took superhuman effort for Clara not to stare at Eli’s groin.
“I am not contracting my body,” he told her.
“Oh.”
So the sharply etched muscles on display were there all the time underneath his clothes. Clara licked her lips as her mouth went dry.
Having seen all of him in the shower, she didn’t know why she was surprised, but she hadn’t realized how much power he leashed within his body.
What would it be like if he let go of his tight control?
Clara mentally shook herself to get a grip on the present. She angled one standing lamp to cast half of his face and torso in light, half in shadow.
“Try not to move much,” she told him quietly as she pulled his hair away from his chest to cascade down his back, leaving only a few braids draped over his shoulder.
Eli didn’t respond.
He would do everything she required of him. He’d sit on the bench in the position she’d arranged him in for hours, even days, if he had to.
And he could do it too, without moving at all. Being so still he barely breathed for extended periods of time was something he knew he could do easily. It was hard-wired into him.
His body remembered its training, even if his mind did not.
Finally, Clara stood before her own easel with a large, blank pad of Strathmore 500 series pastel paper.
“Let’s begin, class,” she instructed, “and remember what I said about the essence of the subject.”
A chorus of screeching chairs was heard as half of the class scooted their seats closer to the “subject” in question, to get a better look up close and personal.
One of the women got very close, not two feet in front of Eli on his bench.
“You’re blocking my view, Chelsey,” Greta complained from behind her.