I was at my easel, failing yet again to create something beautiful when I heard a knock at my front door. I looked at the clock and my eyes popped wide open: it was four o'clock and I realized that it must be my buyer standing outside my apartment.
Panic set in. I slammed my paint brush down onto the table and called out, "Just one moment," as I rushed to the kitchen. I dampened a paper towel with water and tried to wipe splatters of paint off my face and hands before meeting the man interested in my Giselle painting.
Praying that my messy appearance wouldn't send Mr. Marshall packing, I took a ragged breath and opened the door, a welcoming smile on my face. I was taken aback when I saw an elegant woman standing there...
~~~
Earlier that morning, I'd been working on what felt like my millionth attempt at a painting I named Rochelle. I had no idea what was wrong with me and I became more than a little frustrated. Not a single attempt looked right, no matter how hard I tried. The colors were either too bright or too muted and didn't blend in certain places. Or the legs, arms, breasts were disproportionate.
Not only was I annoyed, I was worried. How would I make a decent living if I couldn't paint?
I'd slammed my brush into the ceramic cup of mucky water and taken a deep breath before lifting my hands to fix my messy hair bun. I needed a break. So, continuing to fix my disheveled topknot, I walked into my small kitchenette to grab myself a glass of water and relax for a moment.
My apartment wasn't very big but, as an American working in England and being a budding artist, I couldn't afford anything expensive. In fact, I was lucky to have clothes to wear for my day job that weren't covered in art stains. I worked in a Brighton gallery as a part-time art appraiser, a position I'd acquired after finishing the last year of my degree at university. It didn't pay that well and most of my money went on bills and art supplies.
Painting had been a part of my life since I was in grade school and I loved it. Indeed, by age six, I'd decided to become a famous artist like Van Gogh or Picasso. Of course, I ditched that idea when I got older and learned that not a single of those famed artists made any money and weren't even famous until well after they'd died.
But painting always gave me a sense of calm and excitement while allowing me to express myself, especially when at my most emotional. Plus, I wasn't half bad at it. Good enough to be able to sell them at the very least.
When I started managing my own website at the start of the new year, my paintings began to sell and the feeling that gave me was even more astronomical. I was excited that people liked my work and I became more and more proud of myself with each one that sold. Eventually, I made a decent amount of money from them and I could afford regular food instead of noodles and cheap, pop-in -the-oven pizzas. Recalling chicken flavor packets and thin, burnt crusts made me feel sick. Argh.
Returning to living from paycheck to paycheck was not an option and, with the few paintings I had yet to sell, I thought I wouldn't need to go back to that for some time yet — if ever.
Having arranged an appointment with another potential buyer, I was certainly hopeful that everything would work out. I looked at the clock: 12:30. I had time to paint before I needed to shower and dress for the appointment with Mr. Marshall at four.
I walked over to my stool, sat, and picked up my paintbrush once more. I dipped it in a small amount of white paint and took a deep breath before pressing it to the canvas.
I made small intimate brush strokes, working to enhance her features. As I painted along her legs, I envisioned all the simple pleasures that would have brought her into the pose that I'd chosen. As I inched closer to paint her sex, I imagined my subject in a more salacious way. I immersed in the daydream of watching her hands roam down her body. I became lost in the way I thought of her nipples becoming erect as her fingertips tantalized them. I worked with beautiful pinks, reds, and flesh colors to bring her arousal to life and, all the while, I became a slave to my fantasy as I painted...
~~~
Having been so lost in thought, I hadn't paid attention to time and now here I was, a flustered mess, not greeting my expected buyer but looking at the face of a woman I didn't know.
I blinked and then blurted, "Oh, hello. What can I do for you?"
The woman smiled and proferred a hand. "Hello, I'm Marissa Paty... pleased to meet you."
I looked at her perfectly manicured nails and nervously wiped a grubby palm on my jeans before accepting the handshake. "I'm sorry," I said, "but I don't recognize your name."
"Ahh, no... that's because you know me as Mr. Marshall."
I released her hand and blinked again, puzzled. "I'm sorry, did you say Mr. Marshall?"
She nodded. "Look, I'm sorry for the confusion. I'm not making myself clear, am I?" I didn't respond and she carried on, "I am here about buying your painting. To be safe, I always use a fake male name when I'm dealing with artists over the internet. I apologize if this is strange or alarming in any way. I probably should have explained when we made this appointment."
I started to relax as I listened to her plausible explanation. Her accent was much thicker than those I'd grown accustomed to in the south and the sound of each word rolling off her tongue sent a shiver of delight down my spine. She had straight, blonde hair and wore little makeup. She didn't need much: her skin was radiant, not a blemish in sight, and she had high, rosy cheeks with small dimples and beautiful pink lips. She wore black stockings and black heels but the rest of her was concealed beneath a fashionable beige coat.
I wonder what's underneath? The latest fashions, no doubt. I bet even her bra and panties match.
Panties. The very word brought forth a sudden heat and my eyes fixated on her perfectly kissable lips. I wondered what it would be like to slowly remove each stocking from her long legs.
Oh my God. No! Stop that right now.
"I can understand if you don't want to show me the painting at this moment," she said as I continued staring into her piercing blue eyes, "but I can prove that I am who I say I am. And I can prove that I'm the Mr. Marshall you've been emailing these past few weeks."
She paused, and then raised an inquisitive eyebrow.
"Right," I said, suddenly aware that she was awaiting my response. "That's fine, I understand about the false name. Can't be too safe, can we?" I motioned to invite her in. "I'm Sara, of course," I added as she passed by.
A few steps into the apartment, she looked around. My art supplies were set up in a corner of the living room but she maintained an excited demeanor regardless of the lack of space. "So where is it?"
"Over here," I said and quickly closed the door before hurrying to grab her specific painting. I carried it to the kitchen table and laid it flat.
