I was still unnerved by the fire at my house the next day when I arrived for my date. I was trying to get it out of my mind so I could concentrate on the experience that was waiting for me, but it was still frightening. When the limo stopped, I looked out and saw that we were in front of a converted industrial building. Intrigued, I let Philip help me out of the backseat and started for the door. I stepped through it into a large open space that I could only assume used to be a factory floor. Any manufacturing equipment that used to be there was gone now, replaced by paint-splattered tables, drop cloths, and stacks of crates filled with art supplies.
A man sat astride a stool in the center of the room, slashing at a canvas with a narrow paintbrush. He seemed unaware that I was in the room with him and I didn’t know if I should approach him. I took a cautious step in his direction, watching as he continued to create seemingly abstract lines across the white surface with black paint. It was the type of art that I could never decide if I liked it or not. On one hand it was fascinating, the often contrasting colors and harsh shapes juxtaposed with soft curves seeming to embody something that only the person who created it could understand. On the other hand, this caused the pieces to be confusing, sometimes unnerving, making me feel like I was somehow out of the loop and missing out on something that others could see.
I was nearly to his side when the man looked back and noticed me.
“Hi,” he said. “I’m sorry, I should have met you outside.”
“That’s alright,” I said. “I’m Snow.”
“Michael,” he said, coming toward me and embracing me.
I returned the hug, immediately feeling at ease with him.
“This place is amazing,” I said when we stepped out of the hug.
“Thank you,” Michael answered, looking around. “It’s my own little world.”
“What are you painting?” I asked.
He looked at the canvas and laughed.
“Nothing,” he said. “I’m just got new brushes and I’m trying to get used to them.”
“Oh,” I said, feeling embarrassed.
I looked away so that he wouldn’t see the redness that came to my cheeks, but he cupped his hand under my chin to turn my face back to him.
“Don’t,” he said. “You should never feel that way about your thoughts. Art is different for everyone. I was trying out my brushes, but this might be art to someone else. It might be to you.”
“How could it be art if you didn’t make it to be art?”
“That’s a common misconception about art. Art does not exist because it’s created, art exists because it’s perceived. I can make something that I think is the most beautiful and meaningful piece that I have ever created, but if you look at it and see nothing but colors on a piece of paper, it’s not art to you. Likewise, I might not think that this canvas is art, but if it speaks to you when you look at it, then it is.”
His words struck me and I felt the worry and discomfort disappear from my mind. Michael started guiding me around the studio, giving me a tour of the pieces that he had been working on. I was fascinated by the pile of discarded partial sculptures that occupied one corner and several torn canvases that lay nearby.
“What’s that?” I asked.
“Graveyard,” he said with a hint of a laugh. “The corpses of pieces that will never be.”
“Maybe you can resurrect them some day,” I suggested.
“Ooo, zombie art,” he said. “I like it. A new genre.”
I laughed and continued on toward a row of easels that were facing the opposite direction. I walked around them and was confronted with a row of nude sketches. The extremely detailed pictures featured both men and women in various positions, most alone but some together, their bodies meshed in different ways. I gasped slightly, more startled than embarrassed.
“Do they make you uncomfortable?” Michael asked.
“No,” I said, shaking my head. “It’s just….” I looked back at the sketches and then at him, “do you use live models?”
“Of course, I do. There’s no better way to learn the human form than to recreate it. It’s the most spectacular of all subjects. No artist can ever create anything as beautiful and meaningful as a human being. Each one is different, completely unique in its details, and yet so similar. It’s like my paintings. At their core, they are all just canvases. All the same. It’s what I do with them, the ways that I enhance and differentiate them, that make them what they are.” He reached forward and took my hands in his. “Come here. Let me show you.”
He guided me to the other side of the room where a section of the floor was covered with a rug and held a wooden chair, an old side table, and several empty crates that created a makeshift sitting area. Michael started to undress me, stopping when I wore only my bra and panties. He stepped back and looked at me, his eyes traveling along my body appreciatively. Taking my hips in his hands, he took me with him as he walked back a few steps to sit in the chair. He touched a kiss to my stomach and then reached behind me to unhook my bra.
The lace fell away and I felt the air against my bare breasts. Michael opened his mouth and covered one of my breasts. His tongue encircled the taut pink nipple and drew it into his mouth so he could suckle me, bringing his hands to my waist to hold me still. My breath caught in my throat and I let my head fall back as I closed my eyes to enjoy more of the sensation. Michael mirrored his attention on that nipple on my other breast, and then let his mouth wander further until it touched the front of my panties. I could feel the warmth of his breath through the lace and a strangled gasp built up in my throat. His teeth grasped the elastic of the waistband. I parted my thighs to allow him to remove the scrap of damp lace and drop it to the floor. Suddenly I was completely naked in front of him and he hadn't even taken off his shoes.
I started to protest, but Michael lifted his eyes to me and shook his head as if he knew exactly what I was thinking.
“This isn’t about me,” he said. “You should appreciate yourself. Every part of you.”
Tightening his grip on my waist, he dipped his head forward to slip his tongue between my thighs. I cried out and grabbed at his shoulders as the tip of his tongue flicked the tip across my swollen, sensitive pearl of flesh.
“You are like a piece of my art. Beautiful. Completely unique. So many details to discover if you simply take the time to find them.”
He drew his tongue along me a few more times in long, tantalizing licks, and then I felt him turn me. He lowered me down to sit on his lap as he eased back to sit on his heels. The denim of his jeans felt soft and worn against my exposed flesh and I wiggled against the ever-hardening swell beneath me.
Michael lifted my arms so that he could drape them back around his neck. For a few seconds, he explored the underside of my arms and the ridges of my ribs with his fingertips. It reminded me of the first night that I was at the retreat and I stood in the cottage, touching my body in much the same way.
“Each of the curves and dips of your body was created for a specific purpose,” he whispered. “There is nothing about you that is accidental. Each hair, each vein is like a brush stroke.”
He slid his hands down my body and onto my legs so that he could gently part my thighs. I allowed him to position my legs so that I straddled him backwards, my legs tucked tightly on either side of him. His mouth came to the curve between my neck and shoulder and he tasted my skin. I felt a shiver ripple across my skin as he brought his hand down the front of my body to my hot core. I moaned at the first intimate touch and lifted my hips to intensify the sensation he was creating.
He slid his other hand up my arms to behind his head so that he gripped my wrists, pinning them together so I was completely at his mercy. He continued to explore my body, letting his fingers follow the dips and curves of my slick folds, showing incredible appreciation for every bit that he discovered. I moaned and rocked against his hand, dropping my head back against his shoulder. Michael turned his head to catch my mouth in a deep kiss, meeting each of my high, nearly frantic sounds with his tongue. He plunged his fingers into me and began to massage deeply.