Painting.

A friend calls you to ask if you would be interested in doing some PR work for a charity auction. There is an internationally renowned artist donating some of his paintings, and you are interested to meet him, so you agree to take the project on.

You call the number you have been given, expecting to talk to a secretary, but he answers the 'phone himself. He has a slight Scottish accent, and sounds humorous, if somewhat laconic. You chat about the project, and agree to meet the next day at his studio.

That evening, you do your due diligence, spending your time researching him and his work. What you see is a mixture of conventional portraiture, and some exceptional abstract works, putting you in mind of Kandinsky, but not in the least derivative.

The man himself appears well dressed and smiling in his public appearances, but in the few articles where he is pictured in his studio, there is a look of intense concentration on his strong features, and his striking blue eyes are focused only on his work, seeming to ignore the camera.

You find him attractive, even though he is somewhat older. He plainly stays in shape, and you find his intensity interesting. The next morning you dress carefully, wearing a slim black skirt, and a white silk blouse.

Arriving at his studio, a large converted warehouse on the outskirts of town, you are impressed to see a black Aston Martin outside. Plainly this man is successful. You are aware his portraits are often commissioned for a great deal of money, and evidently he is not afraid to spend his money well.

You press the entry bell, which is simply labelled with his name. He buzzes you in after a minute, and you spend the intervening period looking at the area - it is obviously an industrial zone, and the majority of the neighbouring units are disused, with heavy equipment rusting in dank buildings. It's an interesting place to find a £150,000 car.....

An elevator descends before you as you step into the building. The entry way is dark, but the elevator itself is well lit, one of the old steel cage types you recognise from your stays in Parisian apartments.....

As the elevator clunks to a stop, the doors of the cage are opened by the artist himself. He is casually dressed in jeans and a tight black tee shirt, both of which are spattered with bright paint of different hues. He wipes his right hand on his jeans, and offers it to you.

"Welcome, I'm very pleased to meet you, and thank you for coming all the way out here. I know it's not the most salubrious of neighbourhoods, but you will know why I chose it when we get upstairs."

His quick smile, slight Scottish accent, the firm pressure of his handshake, and his easy vitality put you instantly at ease. You reply that you are very much looking forward to seeing his work, and he smiles and nods "Oh, you will see plenty of my work today. I don't often admit visitors to this studio. I have what I call my 'display studio' in New York, where I keep many fewer canvases. But here is where the bulk of my work is stored, and where I really like to paint."

As he finishes speaking the elevator reaches the next floor. He pulls the gates open, and you are stunned by the amount of light that is present in what is a huge space, stretching almost 100 yards in front of you. The walls are painted a uniform bright white, and the windows are around 20 feet tall, stretching down both sides of the building. There is also a glass roof, and the floor is of some kind of light wood. The overall effect seems to amplify the morning sun that shines into the East facing windows, and the sense of space and light is powerfully affecting, after the darkness of the lobby.

He smiles, enjoying the effect that the space has on you. "I have a confession to make. The lobby downstairs was much more open too, but I deliberately enclosed it, and I keep it dimly lit, so that this space has just the effect you are experiencing now. All art is performance, and all performance is art. I bring clients here. It relaxes them. The guys I deal with are often corporate lawyers, investment bankers - those who can afford my work. I don't like discussing money with such people, I have an agent who does that. I find they are less inclined to argue prices with her once they have seen this space."

You murmur your admiration for the room, and he smiles again "why don't we step into my office, I have some tea ready." The ceiling is some 40 feet above you, and as you walk beside him towards the centre of the building, you see many canvases, some complete, others either in progress or abandoned, lining the walls.

His office consists simply of a large desk, covered in paint streaks and spatters, with a telephone and a laptop, and a silver tray, on which is a teapot and two cups. Rather than walls, the space is enclosed by large canvasses, and as he pours the tea, you examine them.

Each canvas has a scene, apparently from Africa, of children in various states of play. One shows a boy of around 6, his eyes wide as he is offered a soccer ball. Another has a girl of 10 or so, sitting cross legged with her back against a tree, intently reading a colourful picture book.

There is a luminous joy in all of the faces, which is affecting. He hands you your tea, and you ask him about the series of pictures, noting that they are nothing like his usual portrait work.

"Every artist has a project which is close to their heart," he says, ushering you to a comfortable leather sofa, and seating himself on a stool, again covered in paint splashes. "My work brings me considerable financial reward, which is nice," he says, crossing his legs, and balancing his cup on his knee. "Frankly, even if I weren't paid, I would continue to paint - that is the true definition of an artist for me - someone who has to perform their art, whether or not they are rewarded for it."

"I find the amount of money people are prepared to pay for my work frankly obscene. I have more money than I can possibly spend. I have my studio, a home in Paris, New York and Barcelona, several nice cars, and beyond that I have very few needs. I have no wife and no children. I visited Malawi a few years ago, on a photography tour of Africa, and I was struck by two things. The extreme poverty, and the extraordinary resilience, and capacity for happiness of the population - especially the children."

"I found the contrast between the poverty I witnessed there, and the over-consumption and sense of entitlement I see here, very difficult to square with my own ethical sensibilities," he continues, gesturing at the smiling faces on the large bright canvases surrounding you. "I decided to do something to help, as far as I am able. I have used my money to build, and staff and equip, a hospital and three schools."

As he speaks, you see the same look of intensity on his face you saw in the articles which showed him painting. He is frowning slightly, as he runs his fingers through his steel grey hair, and his gaze moves over the pictures behind you. "I think it's extraordinary that we spend billions trying to establish if there is water on Mars, when there are tens of millions of humans who don't have access to clean water on earth."

"So, you see, these paintings are more than art. They represent a pictorial record of my friends, of my life's work, of possibly the one truly useful thing I have done on this earth. This isn't the kind of thing I display. I keep my work and my life separate."

You congratulate him on capturing the emotional response of the sitters. He smiles at you, sips his tea, and stares directly at you for some time without speaking.

You return his gaze. He smiles again, "Emotion is what a good artist captures. Look at Picasso - he pulls emotion from a few lines. That takes real skill. My work is of a lower order by far, I don't want you to think I'm making the comparison. But I work hard to capture feeling in my work. Would you like to see some more of my personal work? I think you will appreciate it."

You say that you would very much like to see more of his work. He rises, takes your teacup from you, and gestures for you to follow him. You walk some 20 yards further into the vast building. He stops in front of ten or so canvases laid against the wall, sufficiently large that the top third of each canvas is covering the bottom of a window.

Each painting is covered with a sheet. As you stand before them, he pulls back the first sheet. What you see makes you gasp involuntarily.

The painting depicts a woman, tied face down on a table. Other than stockings and a garter belt, she is completely naked. The artist had structured the painting in such a way that the viewers eyes were drawn to her face, which is contorted in ecstasy. Her back was arched, partially because the other subject in the painting, a man, was pulling her long blonde hair. He was also fucking her - you can see every vein in his thick, hard cock, as he is evidently about to thrust it deep inside her.

The man's face is indistinct - it seems half in shadow, but his muscular legs and torso are certainly similar to the artist that stands before you. The style is hyper-realistic -it could almost be a photograph. You find the picture powerfully affecting, and an incredible turn-on. You feel your nipples hardening at the sight, particularly because you suspect that the man in the picture is the same one that stands before you, enjoying your reaction.

"What do you think?" He asks, smiling. "Not quite the style of my public work, is it? And yet, I think you will agree that I have captured the emotion of the moment perfectly."

You nod, and say that you like it a great deal, your voice thick with what you acknowledge to yourself is desire. Desire to be in exactly the position depicted.

"Would you like to see more?", he asks, and you nod your reply, acutely aware of his intense blue eyes on yours.

He pulls the covers off several more paintings. In one, the man is lying back on the floor, and a woman, dressed in a black skirt and silk blouse, just like yours, is riding him - her skirt up around her waist, her blouse open. The man's fingers are on her nipples, obviously pinching them, and the look on her face is of intense pleasure. One of her hands is on the man's chest, the other is pulling her panties to one side and guiding his cock inside her. Again, the man's face is in shadow, turned away from the viewers gaze.

The third picture has a woman, completely naked, her hands between her legs, which are spread wide open, the same man, judging by his body, is straddling her chest, holding her glistening breasts in his hands as he fucks them. The moment has been frozen at the point that his cock is at her mouth, her head bent to flick her tongue over his glans.

Another canvas is uncovered. This one is a close up view of a woman's ass and lower back - the man's cock is halfway inside her, and there is an unmistakeable red handprint on her left cheek. Neither face can be seen in this one, but the realism of the picture, and it's subject, bring a slight moan unbidden to your lips.

"You will have seen many of my portraits, I am sure," he says, "the relationship between an artist and his sitter can be intense. Sometimes, if my subject wishes it, it passes into a physical relationship, and these pictures are the result of that. The faces you see here are the same faces that adorn offices and homes of rich men, who have no idea that I have captured their wives from a very different viewpoint."

You ask him why the man's face is in shadow, and if he is the man depicted. "That's an excellent question. It is me, these pictures are uniquely personal. In fact, you're the first woman who has seen more than one of them. I'm still not sure why I showed them to you. I think perhaps because your reaction to my Malawian pictures showed a true understanding of what it is to capture a moment of existential truth, of authenticity. I like that. That, and the undeniable fact that I find you extraordinarily attractive. I would love to paint you....."

You smile, and tell him he hasn't answered your question about why his face is in shadow. "Yes, that deserves an answer," he smiles, gazing up at one of the pictures, "I give each of my sitters a photograph of their painting. They know it's me. But they can also imagine that it is anybody they choose. That generates many more erotic possibilities for them, and I prefer that - what is hidden is often more exciting than what is displayed, no?"

You smile and nod. You ask him if the ties in the first picture were his idea, or hers. "Ah. Another excellent question. You do like to get to the heart of the matter, don't you? I flirt with BDSM, of course - not in any depth - I have never found a partner in whom I perceive the total trust required between lovers that is needed. But many women have read the execrable 50 shades books, and seek at least a taste of that experience. I am happy to provide it."

"The experiences that people remember most sharply are those where we are taken to the edge of the void, where all control is apparently lost. Let us take the example of parachuting, or bungee jumping. In an amateur, these things generate sheer terror, and although there is exhilaration, it is that of the fairground ride, a temporary increase in adrenaline that fools the uninitiated into thinking they have conquered death."

"A few hardier and more reflective individuals recognise the experience for what it is. A sensation to be embraced and refined, and finally mastered - and those are the ones who wring the greatest sensation from these activities. The same applies to sex - most people are satisfied with simply achieving orgasm. But I am prepared to push the boundaries, to approach the edge of the void, to achieve a greater satisfaction. I sense that you might be prepared to push those boundaries too."

You reply that you have never tried it, and he smiles and shakes his head. "That's not a worthy answer, and you know it - the majority of the ladies in the pictures I showed you had never been in those positions either. You pressed me for answers, now I feel entitled to a response...."

You reply that you have often thought about it, but never taken it further than that. "Ah, well, since the thought is father to the action you are most of the way there. Let me paint you. I promise nothing more unless you desire it."

At that moment you desire nothing more than to be taken right there, bent over his sofa. But you tell him you will consider it, and he leads you back to the elevator, kissing your hand - an extraordinarily old-fashioned gesture, but which feels somehow appropriate from this Scot.

A day later you receive a package at your home office. On opening it you find a note. It reads 'Please come and sit for me. Your are too beautiful not to be captured for posterity. If you want nothing more than to be painted it shall be as you wish. But if you think you might like to go further, please wear the enclosed for your sitting.'

You peel back the layers of delicate tissue paper. Within is a pair of black lace and silk panties. The kind of expensive work that contrives to make a thin slip of material worth 300 pounds. And a black brassiere, again in black silk and lace. Both are exquisite, and you check the size to realise he has got them exactly right. This is obviously a man who knows how to read a woman's body......

Beneath the lingerie is a card with a time and date on it. The date is the next day, and the time is 7pm. You drop the card and note back in the box, and place it in your desk drawer. You attempt to get on with some work, but now all you can think about is sitting for this man. This man you hardly know, but who attracts and excites you in a way you didn't think possible on so short an acquaintance.

The next day you wake early and sit at your breakfast table with some coffee. You know you have a decision to make, but you also know that you have already made it. You decided as soon as he revealed that first painting. You will sit for him. Wear what he has sent you. See what the evening brings beyond that.

That evening you take a long shower, and dress carefully- pulling on the lingerie he sent you, it feels feather-light and beautifully soft against your skin. You choose a black dress, tight in all the right places. You have no jewellery on, and no makeup. If he wants to paint you, you know he won't want you pre-painted......

You climb into your car, driving in your usual fast but controlled style. You arrive 5 minutes early, but you don't get out. You can feel your heartbeat - the rate is elevated, and you have a final argument with yourself, but you know you came this far for a reason, and the outcome of your internal dialogue is assured.

You ring the bell, and the door clicks open. He comes down in the lift to meet you once more. He is dressed in a white tee-shirt, tight against his chest, and black trousers. There is no paint on his clothes tonight.

He escorts you into the elevator, taking you by the hand. The feel of his hand on yours sets your heart beating quickly again. You can feel the tension between you, but try to be as casual as possible.

"I'm so glad you came," he says, "I wasn't completely sure that you would." You reply that you weren't sure you would either, but that you had never been painted, and you thought any new experience was worth trying. He smiles, and looks you directly in the eye, a twinkle in his intense blue eyes....

"That's what I hoped," he says, and opens the elevator door. The scene is very different from your daytime visit. Instead of blazing sunshine, the room is lit from above by the moon and stars, aside from an alcove a third of the way down, which has bright while lighting from a couple of studio lamps on stands.

He leads you to a chaise in black velvet which is set against the wall between the two lights. "Please make yourself comfortable," he says "I shall want you to hold your pose while I make my preliminary sketches, and I don't want you to suffer any discomfort."

He offers you champagne from an ice bucket that sits by the chaise. You accept a glass, and settle back on the chaise, laying on your left side, and acutely aware now of your bare arms, and that your dress reaches only to your knees....

He picks up a large sketching pad and pencil, and gazes intently at you. You had been looked at by men before, of course. Some furtive glances, some frank appraisal, some leering, but never with the intensity that this man is looking at you. His eyes take in every part of you, and his attention makes you feel extraordinarily connected to him. Never before has a man focused so deeply on your face, your eyes, your body.

He begins to sketch, and as he does so, he says "in the interests of full disclosure, and since I abhor any idea that I might make you do something you didn't truly want to do, I gave you the champagne to relax you. I know it's difficult to model for an artist - not everyone can bear the level of attention. But I don't want you to think I'm trying to get you drunk. In fact, if you did, I would put you in a cab and send you home. But I do want you to be relaxed enough to be yourself."

You thank him for his words, and tell him that one glass won't impair your faculties. He smiles at the expression, and asks you about your earliest memory. You tell him, and as he sketches, and you converse about life and art and fast cars, and you relax completely.

You know that he wants you. You know that you want him. Every atom in your body cries out for the touch of his lips on yours, his strong hands on your skin. Watching him sketch, his eyes moving between your face and the pad, you begin to fantasise about being taken the way you saw in the first picture he showed you.

You lift your right leg to get comfortable, your dress slides down your thigh, revealing bare flesh, and the lingerie he sent you. You make no move to pull it back up. In fact, you open your legs wider, so he can see.