AN #1: I have debated for a long time about this chapter, about whether or not to include it. I even toned it down (a lot) from its original version. But it is fun, so I decided to go ahead and just... do it.
AN #2: I haven't said this for a few chapters, so here goes: Don't own, just borrowing, please don't sue, etc., etc., etc.
AN #3: I tried a different approach here, writing in the present tense. Thought it might be fun to "peek in" on events as they arise... err... unfold...
AN #4: Suffice it to say that this chapter is mature in content. Young'uns, go read something else!

A Thousand Words
Chapter 7
An Artist's Work Is Never Done

The buzzer for Apartment 4B doesn't have a name. I notice this as I press it, and I think to myself that I really should ask him about that. Oh yes, now that I've slept with you and all, I really do think I should know your last name? Erik doesn't answer the call, he just buzzes me in.

Inside the inner door of the building, a row of mailboxes lines one wall. I look there as well: just 4B, no name. There are others with names, N. Starks-4A, R. Vargas-3B, K. Johnson-2A, but no name graces the mailbox of 4B. Strange.

Upstairs, the door of Erik's studio stands open. He looks up as I enter and smiles, his grin lighting up the visible half of his face. I make sure the door is closed securely behind me–I certainly don't want anyone waltzing in while I'm lying naked on the sofa!

I have been worrying about the cut on his hand, so I stopped at the Duane Reade on my way over to pick up a few things: antibacterial ointment, gauze, adhesive tape. I examine his wound, then clean and re-bandage his hand. We wouldn't want it to get infected, now would we? He winces and carries on as if I was performing major surgery without anesthesia. Men always act like babies with the tiniest of injuries! I smile inwardly as I apply the final strip of tape, protecting the wound from his paints and solvents.

Erik no longer pretends to look away as I prepare for the day's sitting. I remove my boots, my jeans, my sweater; his eyes are watching me the entire time. He doesn't make me feel uncomfortable, far from it: I actually want to put everything back on so I can take it all off again!

But we have work to do.

Soon I am back on the sofa, in my now-familiar pose, feeling sexy and oh-so-decadent. By now I know exactly where to place my arm, how much to bend my knee, how far to turn my head. It's all second nature to me. Erik glances at me, then at the canvas in front of him, satisfied that I'm in the correct position, and he begins to paint.

I find it very hard to keep still, to maintain my pose for him. I squirm a bit, but it's not from discomfort. I just can't keep still in Erik's presence.

I notice that his gaze at me is different now; no longer is it clinically observing, now it is hungry and lustful. I feel his desire as strongly as my own. Then there's that tightening in the pit of my stomach. Now I can no longer contain my desire; I crook my index finger in a "come here" gesture, and he immediately rushes to me. We share a hungry kiss, a deep kiss; he smothers me as I sink further into the pillows beneath me; I can't breathe. All I can think is that his clothes have to come off, I have to feel his body against mine.

Can he read my mind? He sits back and removes his shirt, exposing his smooth chest, then he struggles to remove his trousers, never taking his eyes off me. I reach out to him, to touch him and taste him... but in an instant I find myself flung over onto my stomach. Oh, the shivers that run up and down my spine as he places gentle kisses between my shoulder blades, down my back. What is that, is he biting me? A handful of my ass in his hand and he grazes his teeth over it. I love it; I am trembling with desire. Where are your lips, I want your lips, but my hands are pinned under me and I cannot move under his weight. I writhe in anticipation of what will come next.

Darkness. Smooth, silky blackness.

It's the sash from the kimono; he's winding it around my head, covering my eyes. It feels so smooth, so soft, so cool. Around and around, then a gentle tug as he ties it securely.

He lifts me off of the sofa and takes both my hands as he leads me–Where are we going? Shhh, don't ask questions. He guides me down to the floor onto something soft, a blanket or quilt, and lays me down. I want to see you. I feel his hand over the blindfold; he wants me to keep it on. His warm, soft hands, their gentle touch, caressing my eyes through the satin, moving from my face to my throat to my breasts. Lingering there, circling the nipples, toying with them. I writhe under his touch. A pinch, a twist. Hands going down my stomach to my navel, down, farther down to my–no, instead, down my leg, caressing the skin of my thigh, my knee, my ankle, my foot. I twitch, my feet are ticklish! My leg is raised into the air, he glides skillful fingers along my calf, to the sensitive crease behind my knee, continuing along the back of my thigh, yes, oh yes, keep going. But he stops. He gently places my leg back on the floor. Where are you going? I hear him moving away. No, don't leave.

What is that touching me? A feather, drawn between my breasts? Its firm tip barely touches my skin. No, not a feather, it's too stiff. Yes, that's it, it's a dry paintbrush teasing my naked flesh. Erik, oh Erik. Up my throat, tickling my earlobe, stealing its way over my face. Moaning; is that me or him? His lips on mine, hungry, wet, insistent. Tongues meeting, dancing, curling around one another. Brushstrokes down my arm; I can almost see my nerve endings flutter at every touch. Long, slow strokes on my belly–up, down, up, down–hypnotizing. Lips grazing my nipples, tongue rolling around them. I can't catch my breath. Strokes on my stomach are different now, broader; another brush? Bigger? Yes. Wide, with soft bristles. I can feel each bristle as the brush glides on my skin. It feels so good!

Then it disappears. No, where are your lips? Where are you?

Hands caress my legs, bending my knees, parting my thighs. Cool air against the wetness already there, oh, it feels so good! Not the brush! Long, slow strokes, barely touching the skin. Fingers firmly holding my leg. Strokes, merciless strokes. Take pity on me! But no. Strokes harder, faster, circling, searching... I can't contain myself. Colors exploding inside my head like fireworks on the Fourth of July! Never felt this before, climaxing blind. Tiny convulsions keep coming. My hips don't stop moving; I can't stop them. Ohhhh, Erik, where are you? Let me see you! Faint scratching from his beard stubble on the inside of my thighs. Oh yes, yes, kiss me there... One long, slow, languorous lick, following the path of the brush, so deliberate, so lovely. Then he's gone. No! Why do you stop?

I'm panting, got to catch my breath. Reaching for him, finding only air. Where are you? Oh yes, his delicious lips on mine. His familiar taste mixed with mine. I can feel the contrast between his warm, stubbly cheek on one side of my face and the cool, smooth surface of his mask on the other. Its lower edge even bites into my top lip as the kiss continues, but I am past caring about that.

His hand caresses the satin sash over my eyes; what has this man done to me?

What is that dripping on my breast; cold, wet? Then the brush again. Oh, dear God, he's painting me! How can I endure this? I tense at each cool drop that touches my hot skin and slowly spreads. But these are not oil paints; no, too smooth, too thin for that. I feel the paint running, coating my breast. Then the other one. Dripping like syrup, thick and slow. Sharp pricks all over my breasts, they feel like tiny stings. He's painting polka dots! Around and around my nipples then, swirling, occasionally flicking the hard nubs. Can I take any more of this? What next? Oh, there, yes, the bigger brush stroking my stomach again, then the smaller one; he must be painting stripes!

Where are you? I search with my hands, there he is. Firm muscled flesh covered with soft hairs–his thigh–he's kneeling beside me. I creep over his thigh, searching, seeking... ah, there you are! Can't quite reach, squirm a little for better position, there, now I have you in my grasp! Oh, so beautiful, even though I can't see, so long and hot and hard. I caress the silky skin, silky yet hard underneath, then take hold tightly.

Yes, now he's moaning; good. Not just me who's getting pleasure.

I struggle to my knees and turn towards him. I'm bending over to take him in my mouth, but he takes my head in his hands and brings it up to meet his. His lips cover mine, all but demanding my surrender to him. I readily comply. Both on our knees, our bodies meet–thigh to thigh, belly to belly–and we slip and slide through the wet paint. His tongue demands entrance and I invite him in, breathing a soft moan as both our tongues engage in the eternal mating ritual that has been around since the days of Adam and Eve.

He sits back and guides my legs around him, astride him, and I feel his hardness rubbing against me. He is there, ready, waiting to plunge in. Oh, the fullness, the warmth! Sliding in fully, stretching me to my fullest. I lose my grip of him; my hands are slippery with paint. He puts one arm around me to keep me close, while the other creeps down below, rubbing against me, bringing me to the brink of another orgasm.

Being temporarily blinded, I put my hands on either side of Erik's face as a way of "seeing" him. My left hand meets with the cold, hard surface of his mask. In an instant he freezes, then claps his hand roughly over mine. Don't. His voice is hard, threatening. He thinks I meant to take off his mask. I wasn't going to, I just wanted to feel you. Just don't. I'm so sorry. I pull my hand away. Burying my head in the juncture of his neck and shoulder, I gently caress his arms. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry...

Erik sighs. He takes hold of one of my hands and kisses the tip of each finger, then places a kiss on the palm. I raise my head and he captures my lips in a sweet, soft kiss that soon ignites into a passionate, raging fire. One thrust of his hips reminds me that he is still firmly embedded inside me, and he is still incredibly hard. I wriggle against him and he moans against my mouth. It doesn't take long for us to resume our previous rhythm.

We move magically together; every thrust faster and deeper. In darkness–just feeling him–deeper and deeper–faster and faster–I'm going to come, I'm going to come... My muscles contract around him, holding him tightly inside me. Moaning in my ear. One more thrust, and he's spent as well.

I feel his heart beating wildly in his chest, I smell his delicious scent, I taste the saltiness of his sweat, I hear his labored breathing. I just cannot see him. I caress him, his hair, the back of his neck.

Hot tears soak the satin band around my head; I reach to caress his face–the good side of his face–to find wetness there as well. I can't let go; I hold on to him. He loosens the blindfold and pulls the satin sash from my eyes. I can't look at him. I keep my eyes closed.

My breathing–did I breathe at all during this?–returns to normal. I finally summon up the strength to gaze into the depths of his hypnotizing green eyes. No words. No sounds. Now that I can see, my other senses have ceased to function.

I cast a tentative glance around us. What a mess we've made! Paint all over–on our bodies, on the blanket, on the floor, splattered everywhere! Paints of all different hues mixed and mingled together to create colors that never existed before.

I look at Erik with streaks of paint on his face, in his hair, on his normally pristine white mask, smeared over his body–I must look even worse! My skin tightens as the paint begins to dry. I giggle as I manage to stand, reaching for his hand; I lead him to the bathroom for a long, hot shower...

XXXXX

When I emerge from the bathroom after drying my hair, wearing my jeans and sweater, I see Erik stretched out lazily on the sofa. He is dressed simply, also in jeans and a sweater, with socks but no shoes on his feet. To me, he looks wonderful. Music plays softly from a small radio. Erik glances up at me as I draw nearer to him and he gestures to the coffee table: an array of Chinese takeout containers covers the tabletop. There also is a bottle of wine, already opened, and two glasses. Again, it is a rather expensive wine.

"I didn't know what you'd like, so I ordered a little bit of everything."

"How did you get it here so fast...?"

"I have my ways," he tells me with a sly smile.

"It smells wonderful; I didn't realize it but I'm really hungry."

He pats the sofa cushion next to him. "Come."

I sit, and he opens one of the containers of food.

"Mmmmm, cashew chicken? My favorite."

He smiles, picking up a pair of chopsticks and digging into the container. He brings a piece of succulent, juicy chicken to my lips and feeds it to me. Then he takes a piece for himself. He continues to feed us both–chicken, shrimp, beef, vegetables, eggrolls, a little bit of everything available to us on the table–in between sips of wine.

When we are finished eating, he lays back against the sofa cushions and pulls me to him. We relax together, arms around each other, just enjoying the moment.

"Do you have plans for Saturday night?" he asks.

"No, I don't think so. Why?"

"A friend of mine is showing a few pieces at a gallery opening, and he's invited me. Would you like to come?"

"Sure, I'd love to. I've never been to a real gallery before."

"I'm not much for going to these things myself, but I would be honored have you as my date."

He leans over for a long, slow, sweet kiss.

We sit together in silence for a few moments.

I open my mouth to say something, but not knowing how to form my thoughts into words, I stop.

"What is it?" he asks me. He has the unmistakable look of trepidation in his eyes; he must be expecting "the mask" conversation.

"Well, I... I won't be able to pose for you much longer."

He breathes out, but not in relief. Does he think I'll stop coming because of the incident with his mask?

"Why is that?" as asks carefully. "Is it because of... what happened earlier?"

"No, of course not! Erik, I'm so sorry about that. Really. Truly sorry."

He looks down at me and smiles a little smile. "I know. And I am sorry I reacted as I did."

"There's no need to apologize to me," I reply.

"So, tell me why you cannot be my model and muse any longer," Erik murmurs as he tightens his arms around me.

"I've told the hospital I'm ready to go back to work."

"Back to work? Are you sure you're ready?"

"Yes, I think so. If I don't go back soon, I'm afraid I never will."

"I think that's tremendous, if you're truly ready," he says, looking me square in the eyes. "And I've almost finished the painting, so I won't be needing you. For posing, I mean."

I glance up at him. He is smiling that devilish grin that I've come to recognize in the short time I've known him.

"But I would like to continue seeing you–in another capacity."