WARNING! This chapter contains strong language and sexual scenes. (Not that the others didn't, a little...) Stay away if you might be offended.

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Chapter 11 – The Real Fun Begins

Otis placed a new sheet of paper on the easel. "Show me what you can do."

I opened my eyes wide. "Right." I took a deep breath, then began gathering several of the paint tubes. Not sure how to proceed, I picked the navy blue one, turned the tube upside-down and squeezed some paint out of it, collecting it with one of the new brushes. I stood there, looking at the cheap piece of paper in front of me. "Otis, you don't use canvas?"

"Nah, fucking expensive pieces of fabric. Who needs them?" he shrugged. "What about you – you don't use a palette?"

"But of course I do!" I improvised, quickly locating a dirty palette on the floor and fetching it. In the process, the amount of paint hanging in the brush fell. "I like to make a visual inspection of the paint before I use it, especially if it is new. Call it quality control." Heck, I am getting good at bullshitting! I congratulated myself.

"You're too fucking nitty-picky" he criticized. "I make my own paint with whatever I have; plants, vegetables, human material. There ain't such a thing as quality control."

I took my self-congratulation back. "You're probably right; I can be a little exaggerated at times."

Getting back at work, I mixed some blue and yellow paint on the palette, beginning to paint my obra-prima. I was forming random shapes on paper, trying to make it as interesting as stupid random shapes can get. My hands were shaking a little – I was too conscious of Otis attentively observing me. I usually have trouble working under pressure, or with somebody peeking over my shoulder. If that someone just happens to be a psychotic murderer, and the pressure involves me pretending to be something I am not, just so I can get out of the situation alive, it's no wonder that I was so freaking nervous.

Stupidly trying to make an especial effect – I was desperate to impress, since my painting sucked so far – I squeezed some red paint directly on the brush, then using my fingers I pulled the brush's hair downwards, releasing it soon after, spattering the ink on paper and producing ugly red spots on top of my already ugly work. Looking at my tinted fingers, I clumsily cleaned them on my pants, smiling as if I had it all under perfect control.

Will Otis notice that I am not an artist – not even an amateur one? I wondered, growing more and more concerned with my ability to act. I was shaking more visibly by the minute, constantly aware of his fixed stare raising the hair on my neck.

All of my muscles became rigid as I sensed Otis approaching, slowly and deliberately, standing just one step behind me. One freaking breath away. I kept on painting, trying to act natural, but my heart was already hammering on my chest. As I felt his hand touching my hair, gently pulling it all behind my shoulder, I involuntarily jumped.

"Relax, I don't bite" he spoke softly. After hesitating for a couple of seconds, he added with a soft chuckle: "Actually, I do bite. But I won't." He kept smoothing my hair with his fingers. "Not right now."

The multiple ideas instilled by those short comments, added to Otis' touch, made my pulse accelerate to maddening levels. My hand was growing weak, and I was having increased difficulty in holding the brush firmly. Not to mention breathing.

"You seem awfully nervous" he stated, faking concern. "What's the matter?"

The bastard knew what the matter was. Or at least half of it – he wasn't stupid and he wasn't born the day before. He knew that I was so damn attracted to him, and he was teasing me. But I wouldn't admit it. Still painting, my back turned to him, I said: "It's just... I'm probably not very good at this. You must know a whole lot about art, when I'm just starting to study it. You probably think my painting sucks, and you're wondering why you're even wasting your time with me."

Otis chuckled. "Self-conscious, huh?"

So I was, in different ways. He got that right.

"Believe me, I don't feel at all that being with you is a waste of time." He placed a hand on my shoulder, slowly running it down my arm, up to the level of my elbow, then up again. It was a slow, titillating massage.

I was having trouble to breathe normally by now, feeling that I might faint. And I just couldn't find my voice to reply to his comment.

"So tell me what you are painting there" he bent over my shoulder, almost rubbing his beard on me, pretending to be interested in my disastrous painting. "What does it mean?"

"I-" I gasped for air as I felt his other hand casually resting on my waist, his body coming even closer to mine. "This- this is a, uh, representation of a mental state," I was having difficulty in articulating the words "and, uh, it means that the person-"

A soft moan escaped from my lips as Otis gently threw my hair forward, leaving my back exposed. What was I saying? I tried to concentrate. "Well, the painting is trying to convey that, uh, some sort of anxiety for-"

I didn't know what I was saying anymore, as I felt his knuckles gently touching the base of my neck and running them down my back, then in circles, wherever there was naked skin. Which wasn't much; my shirt was conservative enough. Still, it gave me pleasant shivers anywhere he touched.

I could feel his warm breath on my shoulder now, and I was quickly and surely losing self-control. "...uh, clear mental picture of-" I felt his breath slowly moving from my shoulder to my back, without touching, until he reached the spot just below the base of my neck. Then, unexpectedly, I felt the tip of his tongue making a wet, small trail in there, licking my skin. "... trying – oh God!" I exclaimed aloud, almost in a scream, moving forward panicky and knocking the easel down, making a loud bang.

Laboring to breathe and no longer trying to hide it, my face hot as if all my blood had decided to go there, I glanced quickly at an evil-smiling Otis and said: "I think we should continue this tomorrow – I mean the painting!" and practically ran past him.

Or so I tried. He grabbed my arm and, with a strong jerk, pulled me towards his chest where I landed. Grabbing me by both arms and keeping my face dangerously close to his, he spoke in a hoarse voice: "Don't run on me again." His breathing was also faster than usual.

I never found out if it had been a request or an order; I didn't challenge him to find out. I just kept staring at his eyes, unwilling to fight, breathing through my mouth, waiting for what was going to happen.

And then, in a matter of seconds, I forgot why I wanted to resist in the first place.

Possessively, Otis held the back of my head and lowered his face to mine, taking my mouth in a savage kiss. All the air came out of my lungs in a gasp, and I think I forgot to breathe for a few moments. My knees instantly weakened as I felt the wetness and warmth of his tongue invading my senses, and I hung to the back of his neck for support. I didn't think it would be possible, but this kiss was even better than the first one; probably because, this time, he was hungry too.

Let me tell you – Otis knew how to take a girl's breath away. No chocking required - his touch or kiss was more than enough.

Otis broke the kiss and I whimpered in protest; but soon enough his mouth was exploring the sensitive skin of my throat – not in a soft trail of kisses, but hungrily, in an almost predatory manner. I gasped out loud, feeling my whole body melt like hot butter, as his lips and tongue teased me, and his beard scratched my already-too-sensitive skin.

That was my version of paradise. Just for that, my entire trip – with its ups and downs – had already been worth it.

And just like that, Otis stopped.

Thankfully his hands had moved back to my arms, holding me. I slowly opened my eyes, fighting dizziness, as if I had jumped out of a too fast merry-go-round. Blinking, I stared at him, as if asking why he stopped.

"You are liking this, aren't you?" he asked, but it was more like a statement. Teasingly, he slowly ran his thumb along the line of my jaw.

"Very much" I confessed, blushing. That pause was agonizing - I wanted more.

"You want me to stop?" he took a step away from me, a wicked smile on his face.

Now I know that he wanted to test me and provoke me, but at that time, the perspective of him stopping made me panic. "No! Please don't stop." I grabbed him by his shirt, stepping near him again, looking at him with begging eyes.

"So tell me: what is it that you want?"

I stared at him, a little annoyed. "Uh?" What stupid question was that?

"If you don't tell me what you want, I don't have a fucking crystal ball to guess" he teased, raising his brows in a challenging manner.

Now was embarrassed, and without patience. Why didn't he just shut up and continue? "I want you to kiss me" I admitted.

"Very well." He planted a small, insignificant kiss on my lips.

"No!" I protested vehemently. "You know what I want!"

"Then say it!" he instigated, running his fingers on the back of my neck with one hand, and applying pressure against my lower back with the other, drawing me closer to him. He was driving me crazy.

I forced myself to say: "I want you to, ah, show me what you can do best with a girl." Saying that made me blush vividly (I know it because I felt my face burning).

Otis chuckled, apparently very amused. "Are you asking me to kill you?"

I blushed even harder, now angry and feeling ridiculed. "You are just making fun of me" I accused him, trying to get away from his hold. "Let go off me."

That only made him smile. Moving his both hands to my upper back, he pressed me tightly against his body, holding me there. "Uhm, so sensitive. I like that."

I fought to get away, to get some distance and breathe; that would allow me to recover from those wild, strong, contradictory feelings and sensations. But Otis had other plans for me. Taking my mouth in another of his mind-blowing kisses, my anger and weak rebellion quickly melted away. In a matter of seconds, he had me wrapped around his finger, completely under his spell.

Raising his head, he asked once again, in a teasing voice: "Are you gonna tell me now, what you want from me?"

At that moment, I would have told him anything, to get what I needed. "I want you to fuck me."

He sent me an unpleased look. "I don't think I've heard it right; say it louder."

"I said: I want you to fuck me!" I said loud, hoping that nobody could hear us.

Otis smiled wickedly. "That's a good start. Take off your clothes."

He wasn't making it easy for me. I stared at him silently, not accustomed in being treated that way. Had it been anyone else, I would have walked away immediately, but Otis...

"Take off your clothes" he repeated with some impatience.

Blushing with embarrassment, I did. Small price to pay for the fun I'll have soon, I told myself. With no further delay, I kicked my shoes away along with my socks; I took my shirt off and dropped it on the floor; then opened my jeans and stepped out of them, shoving it away with my feet. I stood proudly, facing him on my underwear, trying to look confident – which I wasn't at all.

"Good" he whispered hoarsely, backing me against the bench. "Now tell me, 'I wanna be your fucking whore'."

Geez, what a jerk! I thought, getting indignant again, but unable to avoid the pleasant aching in the pit of my stomach. "I am not saying-"

He placed a hand over my mouth, interrupting me. "Say it" he ordered firmly.

I took a deep breath. "I wanna be your fucking whore." I said it aloud and clear, to avoid having to repeat it.

"That's my girl." Reaching to my bra, he removed it in two seconds (those were experienced hands!) and my panties were torn into pieces before I knew it. Still completely dressed, he stood back, gazing approvingly at my body, which only made me feel even more vulnerable.

Suddenly, his hands and mouth were everywhere, completely overwhelming me. My knees buckled beneath me, and my awareness of my surroundings vanished. Lost somewhere on Cloud Nine, I never saw Otis getting undressed; I just felt his arm reaching past me and heard the crashing of metal against metal (him shoving the knives away, making space). Next thing I know, he lifted my body and sat me on top of the bench, pulling my legs apart and standing between them, pulling me closer to himself.

"Can you say that once again?" he asked, in no more than a whisper now.

Say what? Which planet am I in? I wondered, lost, being swept away by multiple sensations. Then I remembered. Somehow finding my voice, I said "I want to be your fucking whore."

In one swift motion, he thrust inside me all the way. "Granted."

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A while later, when I finally got up from the bench, I weakly leaned against it for support. I gave myself a few seconds, my eyes still closed, trying to regain my balance and come back to earth. I was finally able to open my eyes and focus on the handsome man in front of me, staring at his strong, lean body. His naked chest was heaving, sweaty, as he watched me, too. He was a hell of a sight.

I weakly smiled at him. "Otis, that was the most amazing, ever-"

He interrupted me. "Was? Honey, I was just getting you started. I didn't want to scare you right off, so I took it easy on you." Then he added with a wicked smile: "Now is when the fun starts."

I grinned, delighted, stepping ahead and wrapping my arms around him.