Topangas Love

When Madeline left, she took everything but his art supplies and easels. "Let your art keep you warm, cook for you and fuck you. That's all you love and care about, Topanga," she said, bitterly as she slammed the door upon leaving. The house was stripped down to its bare necessities. He would be lucky to find a spoon. She left him the worn out queen size mattress but took the brass bed frame. Topanga didn't need much, as Madeline was right about one thing-his emphatic love of his art!

As the city's most famous artist, he didn't starve for work, work starved for him. He had more commissioned paintings to finish than the hour had minutes. When he married Madeline, he explained to her how important his art was to him, that it came before anything else, even his beautiful young new bride. After six months of wedded life, the idealistic Madeline realized that he had meant what he said, and became jealous of his devotion to his art. Realizing that she could not change him any more than she could the moon, she decided that divorce was her only option.

Of all the valuables that she took, she left an important one, which was his love for her. It filled the empty rooms and illuminated the walls. Half finished paintings lay scattered around him on the floor, as he sat in front of an easel, holding a blank canvas. As he lifelessly stared at it, all he could see were Madeline's brown doe eyes and lush thick black hair. His art suffered from the pain in his heart. Madeline was all he could think of and no amount of will power could get him interested in his work. He had lost the power to create. Now his days were full of pain, tears and hungering for Madeline. What time he spent away from staring at his empty canvases, envisioning her face, he slept and dreamed of his life in its hopeless turmoil without Madeline. This went on for over a fortnight.

At night he always had dreams of Madeline. The dream, which was on of great morbid sadness was repeated every night. In it he searched for her in a long dark hallway with many rooms, calling for her and hearing nothing but echoes, as tears streamed rivers down his face. All the doors were gray and locked, with the doorknobs burning his hand when he touched then. In the dream one dark night he heard a voice calling his name saying, "Topanga, my Topanga, why have you forsaken me?" He cried her name in joy, "Madeline, my belle, I am here!" He ran down the hated hallway, looking for the gray doors that were always locked but not finding them. He heard the silken voice again, "Topanga," it asked, "why?" He stopped to stare at the walls and ceiling, realizing that the voice was not that of Madeline. "Who are you?" He cried!

A crack of light appeared as a door opened at the far end of the hall. The brilliance of it blinded him, as a force more potent that any he has ever known drove him towards the light. Shielding his eyes from the blinding brightness, he stood at the entrance of the door. The voice hummed in his ear, "Topanga, come to me." His eyes beheld a lush fertile paradise more bountiful than any mortal could ever imagine or dream about. His artistic mind drank in the viridian, cerulean, carmine and gold of the surrounding trees, sky and flowers. For a brief moment, he glimpsed the feminine form of the most perfect woman that his eyes had ever beheld in all his forty-five years. But before he could make a mental imprint of her upon his brain, he was wretched from sleep.

Panting, he sat up in bed with sweat seeping from his pores. The moon hovered outside his window, lonely and wan. The urgency of painting suddenly over-whelmed him. He threw back the covers, pulled on some faded jeans and went into his studio. The bare light bulb did not give off the same radiance that the vision in his dream did. But this would do, as his mind was embellished with the images in his dream. He put a blank canvas on his easel, squeezed out various colors of paints and proceeded to produce canvas upon canvas of marvelous paintings, showing the beauty of the paradise that his dream had unfolded. He spent hours, working until mid-afternoon until his urgency left him. He fell onto the floor exhausted. Surrounding him were ten paintings, which showed more of his dream than he remembered: images of kings blue skies, flourishing greenery and blooming flowers that proclaimed the existence of Eden without the threatening sin that was it demise.

Topanga ate an apple, thinking of the paintings that he had created in so short of a time. Never in all his artistic years had he painted with such passion and urgency, nor had he produced such exquisite work. The curator of the gallery would go crazy over these paintings, as they were his greatest. For the first time in years, Topanga had surprised himself, and for the first time in weeks, he had forgotten Madeline. He tried to recall her voice, but instead heard the sweet hummingbird voice of the garden Goddess. He closed his eyes, willing his mind to recreate the dream. No luck. He found himself exhausted and went to bed, not caring that he was covered in paint. He felt into a deep slumber immediately.

He awoke to find himself within a maze of ripe green shrubs, listening to the wind as it blew and the birds as they sang their chirping songs. Silence of other sounds was of the golden type all warm and cozy. Fleeting images of Madeline's mocha skin remained in his memory. He wondered if he would find her here. He began the difficult task of search of searching the maze. His luck was not good, as he ran into dead ends of foliage at every turn. As exhaustion over took him, he fell to his knees in the middle of the maze. Panting, he ran his fingers through his thick black hair in a frantic manner, his mind at a loss as what to do next.

"To...pang…aaaaaa," a siren's voice sang softly on the wings of the wind. "To…pang…aaaaaaaaa," it sang its chorus once again. He turned his head to the direction that the whispering sweet singsong voice ventured from. "Topanga, if you find me, then you shall find true happiness," the sensual soft voice purred. He caught a glimpse of a pale lily-white bare arm, waving to him from inside the next turn of the maze. Its movement was graceful and hypnotic. His blood surged and boiled, stirring within him a desire to see more of the mystery woman, imp of the woods or Goddess sprung from the deep lush green folds of nature. He stomped and crashed through the maze, spying brief glances of her sublime frame, then losing her within the dense green tapestry of the maze.

He awoke on an ocean of sweat with a thirst like none other. He drank water form the tap in the bathroom before stepping into the shower to let the cool water wash away sweat and paint. His mind rewinding his last two dreams, trying to unravel the enigma of his dream, as he fought the urge to paint. He leaned against the tile, allowing the cool water to dance across his fevered skin. As the impulse took command, he quickly shut off the water, and briskly toweled off, before entering his studio naked.

Canvas upon canvas, he painted from his dreamscape, scenes of her gliding through the maze, shadowy and blurred. Never focused, the shapes implied grace and elegance. Topanga painted until he ran out of stretched canvases. With his naked body covered in paint, like a mad man he stormed, through the house searching for something to paint upon. No longer was he the master of his domain, his compulsion to paint drove him, beating him and controlling him.

Finally, he found in his storage room, a huge 6-foot roll of unprimed raw canvas cloth. He dragged it into his studio, flinging it on the floor for it to roll out yards and yards of pure virgin canvas. Not caring that it was not primed for painting, he squeezed tube after tube after tube of paints and pigments upon it until a world of rainbows lived on the canvas cloth; creating geometric patterns parented by the mingled paints. His tattered mind could not piece together the fragments of the visions that he had glimpsed of her in his dream, the sharp point of an elbow, a sculptured calf, the roundness of a tender buttock. In his head, he heard her appealing giggle and sultry voice. Falling onto the paint soaked canvas; he rolled and turned on it until sheer exhaustion set into every fiber of his body. He lay naked, vulnerable and spent. In no time he fell into sleep land.

He opened his eyes to the beauty of Eden and its soft alluring voice, "Topanga, when you give me all your love, I shall become yours and only then will you know the piece of mind of a sane man." He cried up to the heavens, falling to his knees, as the voice caressed him and molded his heart pushing out all memories and what love remained of Madeline, "I want you, I need you and by all that is holy, I love you." Before him appeared the most beautiful woman his heart had ever seen. Her soft form was round and curvy, supple and nimble all at once. Her lily-white skin was translucent. Her chestnut brown hair glowed with radiance of gold and red highlights. Her lips were drawn like a red rose bud that hinted of a beauty when in full bloom. Her eyes mirrored a kaleidoscope of turquoise, violet and peacock blue. Her full milky breasts glimmered, as the tawny nipples stood taut at attention. Her mound of Venus held the secrets of sensuality and carnal knowledge. His cock stirred at the sight of her beauty.

She smiled, causing his world to spin and his heart to swell with love. "Topanga," she said, " we must consummate our love or I shan't become real and you'll live the rest of your life in agony. Come, my love, take me." She lay upon the carpet of green grass with her gentle hand stretched towards him. He lay beside her on the grass, gathering her in his arms while his mouth claimed hers in a deep kiss. His strong hands caressed her firm breasts and soft toned stomach. He rained soft kisses all over her face and neck, as she whispered, "My Topanga, love me." Her tender nipple caught his attention. He teased it into alert stiffness, as she moaned. Then he did the same to the other one, as it wasn't in his nature to leave stones unturned. She moaned under his tongue. He had to taste her. He fired quick butterfly kisses down her stomach until he reach the soft mysterious folds of her mound. The scent of her womanhood was a combination of flowers and spices. The taste was pure honey. He dove in licking and teasing her lips with his tongue as she writhed underneath his mouth. Her wetness was abundant like a cool blue lake while her center was warm hot pink like glowing embers.

His cock stiffened and thickened, wanting to posses her. He positioned himself between her legs, letting his torridness find its new home within her feminine heat. When he sank into her, he knew what it felt like to be a God on Mount Olympus, tasting Ambrosia. She urgently whispered, "Topanga, love me." He pumped his cock's full length into her, his thrust driving her into the green blanket of grass. He had never experienced such wetness and carnal heat. His heart sang when he looked into her gentle eyes, seeing her love reflecting his within their dark recesses. With her rose bud mouth forming an O, her body tensed. He felt his own orgasm built along with hers. He closed his eyes, savoring the intensity of this beautiful moment.

He opened his eyes to see that he was awake and back in his studio on his stomach with his hard pulsing cock thrusting into the wet paint covered canvas cloth, its once wrinkle free surface now a moving mass of wrinkles and folds. Although, he was awake, he couldn't stop fucking the canvas, as it felt soft, warm and tight like the beauty in his dreams. He let out an orgasmic induced whelp, as he started to come, pumping his hot thick release into the paint. As he came into the canvas its fold seemed to take form and shape. Within its folds a life grew. He felt a defined human form underneath him and the cloth.

He weakly rolled off the shape underneath him, to lie immobile on the floor. The form animated, shifting toward him. He helped move the heavy paint laden canvas cloth so that he could see what was underneath. As he puzzled over why he wasn't afraid. He pinched his arm to make sure that he was awake. Sharp pain shot through the skin, turning his suspicion into reality. He was very much awake. The sultry loving voice of the siren in his dream spoke. "Topanga." The perfect vision of his love, his life and his dream stood before him, bringing to him the joys of the heavens and the peace of mind that one finds there. She smiled her radiance blossoming smile, "Topanga, come my love, we have paintings to create. You'll never be alone again as long as you have me."