Trini, an art model, was often nude. Totally nude, as the lustful eyes of young artists gazed upon her firm, supple form with thinly veiled hunger. Yes, Trini was tall and tan, young and lovely, though not from Ipanema. And yet today, Trini was not nude. At least not yet. Trini knew that silky, skimpy lingerie teased not only the viewer, but also the wearer. She felt the appeal of the fabric and colors. She liked the secret power and sexiness just feeling the luxury lingerie beneath her clothes. It provided a concealed, sensual, knowledge, and inclined her mind subtly and daily toward the pleasures of the flesh.
Paul Batiste scowled in distaste at his rendition of his model's sleeves. The white lawn of fabric was proving difficult to paint. He'd always heard that white was the hardest color of all, to be layered with washes of color so that the undertones gave body to the painting.
Body. Hard. These were words often associated with Trini. She was lithe and entirely luscious. Her lightly tanned legs were hardened by years of dancing and aerobics. Gazing at her firm, seductive body, Paul struggled to concentrate on the task at hand. He tore his mind away from salacious thoughts and thought about one of his favorite works, Renoir's depiction of a snow-covered Pont Neuf with passersby providing relief from the whiteness. He'd heard that Renoir's brother engaged pedestrians in conversation so that Renoir could capture them in paint, but Paul felt a paid conversationalist would not only confuse his model, but distract him. There had to be a better solution.
Sure, he could ask Trini to change her shirt, or even put her in a baseball jersey with contrasting sleeves, but where was the attraction of painting a simple joyless red or purple? No, he needed a different strategy to knit up the raveled sleeve of care.
Then Paul recalled John Ruskin's sneering comment about another Pont Neuf painting. Monet's. Ruskin abhorred the work. In fact, he said Monet's subjects were reduced to mere "tongue-lickings" of paint. Hummmm...it could work. Not that he would actually dip his tongue in the tempera, but perhaps a difference canvas. If he painted on actual skin, the natural luscious cafe-au-lait color of Trini's skin would show through and forget the layers of washes.
Ah, that skin. His professionalism lapsed whenever he gazed upon it. Like coffee lightened just so, Trini's skin glowed in the light streaming through the studio windows. Pausing to admire her skin, Paul felt a certain rigidity begin. But this was work. Like Elvis, Paul wore a ring with "TCB" on it. Taking Care of Business, that was Paul's approach. He sought to separate lust from business. Alas, his business involved long stretches of time looking at lovely models clad in very little. To hide any erectile activity, Paul had taken to wearing chambray work shirts with the tails out.
Trini had been almost asleep in her pose, the sunlight of the studio and airy Mozart playing softly to induce a looseness of limb Paul felt necessary for the painting. As she idly watched the dust motes dancing in the brightness, she almost dozed off, and her eyes closed, only to fly open as she felt the silky tip of the sable brush against her tan skin. The cool liquidity of the paint was barely perceptible, but tickled slightly as Paul drew the brush in a wide arc just under her breasts.
Paul's fingers pulled up her blouse and brushed her ribs. She arched her back slightly, feeling a sudden warmth while savoring the slippery wash of paint over her skin. She squirmed slightly as her pulse began to throb. The sensation changed, becoming even more slippery and she realized that he had, after all, exchanged the brush for his tongue. What kind of work was he going for exactly? Was he doing minimalism? Could she be reduced to a mere cone, a sphere, a cube? Trini found the idea curiously satisfying, and immediately became amenable to artistic innovation.
As Paul's tongue moved back and forth over her tummy, Trini noticed that her sighs were growing to a crescendo in counterpoint to the Mozart. This distressed Trini because she did not want to become personally involved in the act of artistic creation. She viewed her work as a model as part and parcel of the process of getting her Ph.D. in art history. Throughout her studies, though, Trini had wrestled with the question of her passion. For her, art was life itself. She appreciated artists like Picasso in almost a visceral fashion. And so Trini felt that being a model was an inherently active endeavor, not merely a passive time of being viewed and painted.
Because of her educational and vocational goals, Trini wanted to assure that her passion for artists did not overwhelm her need to maintain a scholarly demeanor. Thus, Trini found that a long, sensual shower before a posing session tended to lessen her own personal tension and make her a more professional model, one less inclined to be drawn into the intrinsic passion of posing. That particular morning, however, Trini had overslept. Upon arising, Trini realized that she simply lacked the time to enjoy her customary morning orgasm before meeting the artist. Thus, Trini felt a bit more vulnerable to desire that morning as Paul's tongue ran back and forth over her stomach.
