Portrait Of A Lady 1

(She was on the phone. "No, Grace, I am not alone. Lauren Noakes is here. Yes, that's right, the artist. I've commissioned her to do a portrait of me. Let's call it my vanity project. She's working really hard.")

I'd been lucky enough to get Harriet Singer, a famous and highly attractive politician to commission me. She was a huge champion of gay rights, very left wing and yet, somehow, mystifyingly popular with people from all shades of the political spectrum.

Sessions with Harriet in my studio had been fun. On the first occasion she'd visited, she was a bit surprised that all I wanted to do was talk. It works for me. What we talk about matters very little. I like to see the subject in different but un-directed poses. See how their face works, particularly in different lighting, So we walked through my garden, sat and had lemonade, talked about what, if anything, she wanted.

She was tall and slender. Small breasted but with huge, blue eyes that seemed to beam from under a fringe of glossy black hair. The haircut was definitely not standard politico. The right side of her head was shaved to the arc of the crown. The left side, flowed to her shoulders and was purple at the rear. The nose ring was atypical too.

"Why do you want me to do your portrait?"

"Vanity, perhaps. I've gone further up the slippery pole than any other openly queer woman or man and I'm proud of that. "

"Why do you think you've achieved that?"

"Because I'm not a single issue, gay politician. I have other causes and I'm good at bringing people to account."

"Do you have a preference for the clothes you're going to wear?"

"So, I dont get to pose naked, Lauren?"

"Of course, if that's what you want but, it occurs to me, that you might prefer not to, given your position."

She had smiled. "No, you're right. There's still too much resistance to gay politicians no matter what the world thinks. And a gay nude might just be a step too far if I decide to hang it in my office."

"Even for you?"

"Yes, even for me."

"I could always do one for you privately?"

"We'll see how you get on with me dressed." We'd laughed but there was already, i felt, an undercurrent. The truth was, we had got along very nicely.

The next meeting, she'd come, as I had asked her, with a few changes of clothes. I like that. It's good to see how the subject feels and looks in different things. I'd done a few preliminary sketches for her to look at.

"I like this one." This was her standing, her back to a window. I'd loosely sketched in a sharp blouse, a pair of cutoffs and a pair of soft low heeled shoes. The blouse was partially open but nowhere near enough to reveal her body, just a hint of the shape of her. Her hands were on the window ledge and her arse just resting on it, as if she were about to get up.

She'd seen a few more, simpler, less developed sketches but, as i poured her a glass of wine, she said,"Oh, my." My heart stopped. I knew what she'd seen and I hadn't meant her to.

I'd sketched a scene from my own imagination. In it, she sat on a chair, legs wide, naked but her sex concealed from the viewer by, well, by the back of my head.

She took the glass I proffered as I tried to put a brave face on my embarrassment. "We've only just met." Her smile helped me to relax.

"I'm sorry, you weren't meant to see that."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, honestly."

"Can I keep it?"

"Yes, if you'd like to."

"I would." She tapped the head in the picture, then turned me around by my shoulders. "Goodness, that could almost be you."

"Let's see what clothes you brought."

"Changing the subject?"

I smiled, a little sheepishly. "Yes, I rather think I am." By this time we were on first name terms and, whilst I hadn't wanted her to see the sketch, I was secretly pleased at her reaction.

"Right, to business." She had brought three outfits. The first was a black suit, with trousers and a red satin blouse. At each costume change she retreated behind a screen i had especially for the purpose. The second was a pair of tight, black leather trousers with a white silk camisole, the third a simple pale cream, long dress in a soft, floaty material with buttons to mid thigh. It was no contest for me, the dress looked as sexy as hell without being cheap or overly revealing, but it drew the viewer's attention away from her eyes, which were so penetrating. I took a few photographs of each outfit and we sat at my computer desk to examine them together. I was very conscious of her, could feel her hair as it brushed my shoulder. Now, I always try to be professional but it's not always easy.

"Which do you think, Lauren?"

"I think the dress is glamorous without being too revealing, it shows a softer side of you, but maybe too feminine. The leather trousers speak to me and..."

"What do they say?"

'Butch, gay, but softened by the camisole. And the camisole does show your breasts off beautifully."

"And the suit?"

"All business and power."

"If it were your choice?"

"The leather."

"I'll think about it."

Our third meeting was a first sitting proper. I'd done more sketches as I'd promised her, showing a few poses and featuring the clothes she'd tried.

"Are these all the sketches?"

"Yes."

"No more like the one you gave me last time."

There was no point lying so I went to my easel and uncovered it. I'd drawn her in charcoal with some coloured highlights. She was standing, half turned to me, the leather trousers but with the red, satin shirt which was open, revealing one breast. I'd added a ring, that was straight from my imagination of her, to her nipple.

She peered closely at it. "Is that a whip?"

The whip was partially hidden, just the single tail with a little twitch on its end peeping out from under some discarded clothing. I nodded.

"My, my." She returned to examining the other sketches then looked up at me. "Do you have a whip like that?" I told her I did not. "Then you must come to my home one day. This one," she said, holding up a sketch of her in the leather trousers and camisole. "But, you're right, the red shirt looks better."

She changed once again behind the screen and I led her to the window i intended to frame her against. "Do I need to sit for hours?"

"No, no, Harriet. I'll make a quick sketch, take a few photographs, and then I can start work and give you a call when I need you to sit for me."

"Perfect. When you do, give me a call and I'll arrange for you to come and visit me at home. Will that be ok?"

"I prefer to work here."

"Even so." She had that way powerful women have, of making herself abundantly clear without throwing her weight around.

"Yes, sure, of course."

She pointed at my easel. "Can I have that one too?"

"It's not finished."

"Well, when it is. Oh, and put the whip in my hand, would you?" She gave me a wicked grin, kissed my cheek (actual contact, not an air-kiss) and wiggled her fingers as she walked out, without looking back. Some women just know when they've got you.

I went straight to my bedroom, couldn't get my jeans off fast enough so, with them round my knees, I rubbed my clit, hard and fast imagining her, no, seeing her in my mind's eye until I almost collapsed as a massive, messy tide of orgasm overwhelmed me. "Well," I thought, "that's professional."

Her house in the Mendip Hills was a creamy stone cottage with a thatched roof and surrounded by a meadow, one corner of which was an orchard. It was a warm summer day and, as my aged VW rattled up the rutted driveway, I saw the door open and there she was. She was wearing a yellow jump suit, a tight white belt around her waist and espadrilles on her feet.

"The summer recess," she said, "is a good time to be doing this. During 'term time' I'd be in my London flat or hopping around the country. Come on in."

As I walked through the door, she put a hand on my shoulder and kissed me; not quite on the lips but close enough for me to taste her breath. She smelt of citrus. It was a Friday afternoon and I was staying, at her insistence, for three nights. She was anxious to get all but the final tinkering done on the painting before I left. I'd carried my portfolio case in and left my bag in the car. I noticed, on the wall of the hallway, the sketch she had asked to keep, the one of me between her legs. Christ, I thought, she doesn't care what visitors think!

I went back to the car and got my easel and kit and she guided me through the house to a large orangery at the back. "Will this do?"

"Perfect, thanks."

"Fancy a Pimms? I have a jug all made."

While she poured it, I set up, pulled my smock over my t shirt and jeans and got everything ready.

I was all set to go when she returned with two large glasses of the pink and fruity cocktail. Open windows allowed a gentle warm breeze through the room.

"Have you finished the other picture?"

"Yes, Harriet. Would you like to see it?" She said she would, so I unzipped my portfolio case and got it out and put it on the easel. Her glass to her lips, she studied it. The whip was coiled and held in the hand nearest the viewer. It's wicked little twitch dangling like a threat. Her eyes, so blue, pierced me from the paper. Her nipple, adorned with the ring was dark, hard and pointing directly at the viewer, her nasal ring showed more as a hint than anything else.

"Come here." I moved to stand beside her and she put her arm across my shoulders, drawing me to her. "Is this how you see me? If so, you're very perceptive. I think you're going to do a wonderful job. Should we get started?"

"Will you change?"

"Change?" She smiled. "Oh, you mean my clothes. Yes, of course, give me a minute." A few moments later she came back wearing the trousers and shirt.

I painted until the sun had shifted away from the orangery. She didn't need to sit all through which was good because she had a lot to say and distracted me. Also, I could tell she was full of energy and sitting was frustrating for her. It was about 7 when she came into the orangery, changed once again, this time into the dress she had brought as one of her costume changes. I was just cleaning my brushes and packing away my oils when she arrived.

"Ah, good, you've finished for the day. Do you want to wash up before supper?"

"I'd love to please. I'll just nip out to the car and get my bag."

"No need, i did that while you were working. It's up in your bedroom May I see how it's going?" It's my usual practice to cover the canvas when not working on it, so I unveiled it for her. Once more, that arm went across my shoulders. She studied it for a while. "How much of it is me and how much is you?"

Time for standard speech. "A portrait isn't a record. I try to show a subject's character, not just her form. I want to show attitude and demeanour." I touched her lips on the painting. "These are wrong, somehow. I'll get it though."

She patted my shoulder. "Go and clean up and we'll have a drink." She told me how to find my room and I went upstairs, along a landing and found my room, door ajar.

My bag was on the large double bed and, next to it, lay a whip. Not identical to the one I had drawn but similar enough to make my heart stop. I touched it, picked it up and weighed it in my hand and that old craving, long-suppressed, rose in me. Pulling myself together, I put it back on the bed and stripped off. There was an en suite shower so I stood under it, washing away a day's grime and, temporarily, some, if not all, of my cravings.

When I came out of the shower, she was there. "Just wanted to make sure you were ok?" She was holding the whip. She looked at it. "I knew I'd left this somewhere." Her smile was feral. "I hope it didn't frighten you. Come down when you're ready, the gin's cold." Her dress floated around her as she walked away. Was she wiggling her arse? Jeez.

I got into my clothes; a long pale blue skirt, a white blouse, sleeveless, and a pair of strappy sandals. I brushed my long, chestnut hair, checked makeup and made my way downstairs.

"There you are. Come in," she was in her kitchen, "There's a g+t on the table for you. Is that ok?" I said it was more than ok. "Have a seat, I'm just finishing our supper. I hope you like fish?" I said I do. "I like what you've done so far. I'm not going to interfere, you just do your job, I have confidence in you." Wiping her hands she turned and leaned back against her counter. "Tell me about the whip."

"It was just something that sort of seemed right."

"Have you felt one?"

"Yes."

"I expect you'll tell me more in due course. I knew you were gay when I commissioned you. It wasn't why I commissioned you. But I'm very glad I did. I didn't invite you here just to work, although it is more convenient."

We ate at a table in the garden, the warmth of the evening lingering as we enjoyed the fish stew with salad and cold Chablis.

"So, do you prefer me like this," her hands moved in front of her body, "or butch?"

"I think butch is more attitude than clothes."

She smiled. "I do too. I like wearing a dress sometimes. Not to look femme, but because it's comfortable." As she said this, she took my hand and looked at me intently. "How did you feel when you saw my whip on your bed?"

"It seemed like a calling card."

She smiled. "Tell me more about you and the whip."

"I was in a relationship, a D/s relationship for some years. It was a special time in my life."

"Why did it end?" She may have seen the pain in my eyes. "Don't tell me. It isn't necessary. She whipped you?" I nodded. "Punishment?"

"No, never for punishment. She whipped me because we both, well, needed it."

Squeezing my hand, she said, "You don't need to explain, Lauren. I understand. More wine?"

We sat out in the dying light, occasional touches, more wine, until it began to get a little chilly. "Let's go inside. Your nipples suggest it's cold." Still holding my hand she stood and I followed and she led me into the house. "Tomorrow, we'll go for a walk and I will get to know you better. Time we went to bed."

If I'd hoped that was an invitation into her bed, I'd have been wrong. She kissed me, her tongue entering my mouth gently and exploring while her hands roamed feely over my body. "Not tonight. I know you'll go to bed and masturbate thinking of me, as I will of you. But you're going to have to wait. I may fuck you, I may hurt you, but not tonight."

I stripped off and got into bed. She wasn't wrong about me masturbating. It was a frantic, determined assault on my clitoris, there's no other way to describe it. Eyes closed, I fingered and squeezed and rolled her between my fingers until, I have no idea after how long, the banks burst and I had to press my face into my pillow to muffle my scream of orgasm.

When I went down to breakfast, she was there, in her kitchen again. No floaty dress today, she was all butch: black jeans, a pale blue, denim shirt with sleeves rolled a little way up.

"Grab some breakfast and then we'll take a walk."

I had tea, toast and marmalade and then we went out into the warm morning air. I was wearing a pair of khaki shorts, a white blouse and a pair of flat sandals that, she assured me, would be fine for the walk she had in mind. We walked for about an hour, mostly through woods. When we were out of sight of her house, she stopped.

"Did you masturbate last night?" I confessed I had. "So did I. I was imagining you."

I decided to ask a question that had been occupying my mind. "Harriet, why exactly am I here?"

She stopped walking and turned to look at me. "You're painting my portrait."

"No, I'm not. I'm walking through beautiful woodland with you."

"Well, that's true at this moment but there's plenty of time. And I want to get to know you."

"You could do that while I am painting."

"I could, but the questions I have for you might be a little distracting. You sketched me with a whip. You've told me you have experienced the whip. I have too, but from a rather different perspective from yours. How long where you with her?"

"Eight years."

"It ended badly, or sadly?"

"Sadly."

She held me then. It was a tender, understanding moment. "Then we wont open old wounds." She looked into my eyes. "Do you think you're ready to delve into your, our needs again?"

"With the right woman, yes."

She lifted one eyebrow. "Is that saying, not me?"

"No, I didn't mean that at all. I just meant that I'd need to know someone was right for me."

"Define 'right.'"

"Well, let me start by saying I don't expect to replicate what I had before. I know I need to adapt to form a relationship. Right means," I took a deep breath, "being willing to learn about me, and willing to teach me about her. Does that make any sense?"

By way of answer, she kissed me. It was a firm, intrusive kiss. "Perfect sense. We'll take our time."

She didn't take much time to kiss me again. We'd walked a few yards deeper into the woodland, her hand holding mine, when she stopped and turned so we were face to face. Her free hand reached up and stroked my face, then curled behind my he'd and pulled me to her. We stood there for hat seemed a lifetime, our lips almost touching, and then they were. The kiss was firm, only slightly parted lips until she pressed her tongue hard into me and, unlike the gentle exploration the previous evening, this was a statement, a raid. He hand let mine go and held my breast firmly, her thumb caressing my braless nipple through the linen of my blouse.

She broke the kiss. "Come along, time's a-wasting and I'm paying you to paint my portrait. Cant have you enjoying yourself on my payroll."

I asked her to sit for me for a while. "I'd like you not to talk for a few minutes, if that's ok. I'm having trouble with your lips."

She laughed at that. "You didn't seem to earlier."

I ignored her and concentrated, mixing, shaping, adjusting until I'd got it to my satisfaction. "That's better."

"Let me see."

"Just a moment." I was brusque as I so often am when working on a knotty problem. Her left eyebrow rose in an arc of what looked like an angry question and I said, "Yes, like that, hold that." It was perfect. I'd seen it in so many of the photographs of her, that incisive, forensic questioning look.

It was a relief and I felt almost exhausted.

I turned the easel so she could see. "I look like I'm about to give someone a good bollocking."

"You don't like it?" I was crestfallen.

"On the contrary, I like it very much. One of the great pleasures of being a senior politician is the opportunity it provides to tear a strip off some self-satisfied mandarin. I'd like my pictorial record to reflect that." My relief must have been obvious. "I'm delighted with it, thank you. How much longer do I have to be motionless?"

"I'm done with you for now, thank you."

She stood. "Are you indeed?" Before I could apologise she came to me, kissed my mouth, slipped her arm yet again across my shoulders and studied the painting. "You have a good eye for detail." She rested her finger close to the tip of her nipple under the red shirt. "My lack of a bra is apparent. Do you know why my nipple was hard?" I said that I didn't. "Because yours are. Are you done for today?"

"I need to clean my brushes and I'd like to a bit more before I stop." It was about 2 in the afternoon. I looked up into her eyes. "Would that be ok?"

"You'd know if it wasn't."

I finished about 5. I cleaned up my brushes and palette, covered the picture, but not before standing looking at it for a while. Was I ready to 'delve' into my needs again? Oh, I fancied her, no question about that. But could I face am emotional involvement. I'd never been one of those who could pay a 'professional.' It wasn't about the pain, it was about the connection, the deep intimacy of mutual need and trust and vulnerability. But the painting was one of my best, I knew that, and it seemed like a statement of my feelings toward her. I wanted it to be the very best I ever painted. For her.