Paint

My sister Becky says I have the easiest job in the world. I'm paid fifty quid a day to stare into space, to dream, to doze, to fantasise. Fair enough, I have to take my clothes off sometimes, but not always.

Today, I'm naked, sprawled across a chaise-lounge, one leg draped elegantly over the edge so my foot rests lightly on the floor. Almost like Manet's Olympia, one hand is placed on my belly, the other draped across the back of the settee. A brocade cushion supports my head, my hair all over the place as he arranged it. It was wet when I came in, thanks to the rain. I asked if he wanted me to dry it but he likes it like that, falling in ringlets he says he can pose it better. My face is turned towards him - Ben.

I've been here an hour already and I've only just realised this is the first time he's posed me so that I can actually watch him while he paints. He has done my back several times, had me sitting with my head turned away, painted me in profile too, but this is the first time he's painting me full on. I wonder whether I'm going to be able to recognise myself in this one. It's more than a job to me, this… it's my future. I'll be famous one day, a muse like Lizzie Siddal – recognisable as a beautiful young woman long after I'm old and grey – long after I'm dead, too, probably.

"No smile." Ben's voice is abrupt and almost makes me jump. It's been so quiet for ages, no sound except the swooshing of the paint on the canvas, and the pattering of the rain on the huge skylights above my head, his voice feels like a brutal interruption of my world. I can't reply – I'm not allowed. So I allow my face to drift back into the expression he gave me at the start – waste and void, waste and void. That's what he wants… space and peace.

I'm not used to watching him – this is a rare treat for me. I'm well accustomed to staring at a patch on the wall, a picture, a focus, something to stop my eyes from wandering. This time I get to look at Ben.

He's truly very tasty, in an intense sort of way. He keeps his black hair cropped close so that it doesn't flop in his eyes, which are dark blue and almost frightening if you don't know he's an artist. The way he looks at you. He frowns while he paints, looking up at me constantly, expressions chasing each other across his face. Outside the rain is smattering against the windows, in here it's getting very hot.

He stops and swigs from a bottle of water, moving out from behind the canvas to walk slowly around me. I know better than to move. I'm thirsty too, but I'm too professional to show it. It seems to be getting warmer in here, I can feel my skin getting damp. I don't need to tell Ben, if he notices the sheen on my skin he'll probably throw open the window to cool me off again.

As he moves around the room he stops at my feet. I can't see him because I'm facing the canvas, and I wonder what's fascinating him there. He's standing almost next to my knee – I can see his shape at the edge of my vision. I realise he's looking at my pussy, exposed as it is.

Suddenly he's back in my view again, stripping off his white, paint-splashed tee shirt and discarding it like a rag on the floor. His back is tanned and muscly, sweaty too, and I can smell him – masculine tang, deodorant, soap – something like that.

He's stripped off his top before but never where I can watch him.

Now, as he returns to the canvas, I'm suddenly distracted from my quiet dozing and nothingness.

"What are you thinking?" he asks.

Am I supposed to reply to that, or not? I glare at him without moving – I'm not going to speak or he'll be cross with me.

He's looking me steadily in the eyes, comes round from behind the canvas and squats in front of me so I can feel his hot breath on my cheek. His eyes stare right into my soul. I feel my cheeks flush. I'm used to being naked in front of him, but I'm not used to him being this close.

His face creases into a broad smile, revealing his even white teeth. He's unnervingly beautiful when he smiles like that. "Your eyes give you away, Sally, your eyes tell me no lies."

"What do you mean?" I ask softly, trying not to move, trying not to breathe.

He cocks his head on one side and says, "you watch me. Watch." He rocks back so he's sitting on the floor in front of me, his knees up. His eyes are locked on mine. "Ready?" he asks.

I'm still not moving.

With one hand he unbuttons those dreadful grubby cargo pants that sit loosely on his tanned hips, one button after another, until his flies are open and I can see he's wearing no underwear. At first there's just a dark fur of pubic hair, then I see that he's hard as hell, his cock revealed in all its glory just as he laughs.

"I knew it. Your eyes. Your pupils are dilating. How can I paint like that?"

I can't tell if he's angry or turned on, or laughing at me for revealing my lust.

I'm entirely passive here, but under my skin I'm fuming, and unbearably aroused by the glimpse of his impressive cock. He springs back up to his feet and saunters back to the canvas, swaggering a little, holding those cargo pants up with his left hand, his paint brush in the other. Then he stops, turns and looks at me again with his head on one side, regarding.

"I want to fuck you, Sally," he says casually, as if he'd asked me to turn my head slightly. He drops his brush to the table and picks up another, a sable-hair one he uses for watercolour sketches.

"You can leave if you want," he says, his voice low and throaty, "you go now and there will be no problem. You stay here, I'm going to fuck you."

I'm going nowhere.

He lets go of the waistband of his trousers and they drop to the floor, where he steps out of them and leaves them where they fell. His body is lovely, tanned and hard and solid, and his cock stands straight up, challenging, unashamed. I can't help but let out a little gasp.

He squats in front of me again, meeting my eyes, and I almost jump out of my skin as I feel the sable-hair brush touch my belly. He paints a leisurely line up my body, across my chest, circling my nipple which springs into hardness as if by command. The pressure is so light I can scarcely feel it, the tip of the brush grazing the valley between my breasts, down my middle, circling my navel, then down, swerving left onto my thigh, all the way down to my knee. His eyes leave mine and I watch them travel down my body following the path of his brush.

I still haven't moved, as if moving will break the spell, but when I feel the brush moving inside my thigh I close my eyes and suck in my breath in a long gasp. The brush dips into my wetness as if into hot paint and as it trails back up my body it leaves a line of moisture on my hot skin.

There's a clatter as the brush drops to the floor and his tongue is following the path it made, tasting my juices on my own skin, following the trail down my thigh and inside. As his tongue probes my pussy I can't help moving, opening my legs to give him access. Not quite cheating yet.

When his fingers move gently inside me I move my hand at last, to the back of his head, to guide him as he moves against me. I think he's been waiting for me to move, it's a kind of signal… He scoops my bum with both his hands and pulls my bottom round so I'm sitting on the edge of the couch, upright.

He lifts his head and kisses me, I can taste my juices on his wet face. His tongue explores my mouth then licks across my face, tasting my eyelids, my cheekbones, my nose…

He's holding his cock in his right hand, rubbing his hand slowly up and down the shaft, until at last he guides it down to my pussy before thrusting himself inside me with force. Outside the rain continues to pour, drumming against the skylights in time with the drumming in my head, the pulsing of his body against mine, the low buzz of the lights. I've forgotten all about being his muse, his Lizzie Siddal, and suddenly I am just a tangle of nerve endings and throbbing sex. He devours me, my face, my neck, biting, sucking, chewing at my skin.

When he comes he cries out against my throat and throws himself into me one last time. His whole body spasms against me and he lies very still. I've gone back to my policy of not moving in case it spoils the moment. Reality floods back and I notice a moth is fluttering around the lamp, damaging itself, shedding moth powder in little clouds with every crash. My heart is thudding hard but slows, my breathing returns to normal. I'm waiting for him to move. I can feel his cock subsiding inside me until it slips away.

At last he raises his head and regards me again with that inquisitive pose. "Don't move." He commands, as if he was still posing me.

Taking care not to disarrange my tangled limbs, he stands and takes three steps back. I can almost see my reflection in his eyes. My lips puffed from those frantic kisses, my cheeks flushed and damp with exertion, my chest pink with that sex flush I get when I'm aroused. My nipples are still hard and wet with his saliva. My legs spread, showing him my proud cunt, open and sated, with a slow trickle of our combined liquor running lazily down one thigh. He smiles, retrieves the paintbrush and runs it slowly up the inside of my thigh again, wetting it with the juice. Then he returns to the canvas and continues in silence, using the added moisture with the paint, just a slow smile remaining as evidence that he's enjoyed himself.

Hours later, he tells me he's finished for today, and allows me to dress. For a while I've been wondering what this new development means. I'm wondering if his sudden sexual release might have stoppered up his artistic creativity. I am, after all, just his model. I can't pretend to be any more. He used me just as he might have used a plate he'd painted as a still life. I'm not offended, or even disappointed. In a way, I'm proud. Proud too that there is more of me in that painting than people will ever realise.

When I'm dressed he allows me to see the painting, and even at that one glance I can tell it's one of the best he's ever done, certainly the best one he's done of me. He has captured the desire. I look at the canvas and up at his face. His eyes are shining with exhaustion and excitement.

"Can you come again tomorrow?" He asks, his voice hushed.

I find myself smiling at that wonderful double meaning. "Of course," I reply, "if you want me."

Fifty quid, I think, walking out into the rain, and a whole lot more besides.