Aphrodite's Chosen

Half-past twelve. There were enough empty seats at the bar that no one had to sit next to anyone else if they didn't want to. Brent Carr didn't want to. He sipped his scotch and water slowly, avoiding the inevitable trip home. Tomorrow was gonna suck. Fridays were always crunch time; having a hangover wouldn't help. Getting drunk was stupid, but it broke up the monotony of waking up, working so he could eat, eating so he could work. He had two kids he saw on alternate weekends, and he tried to make his life about them, their future, and their college fund. Two weeks was a long time to slog through to get to a few days that mattered.

Someone sat in the chair next to him. Annoying, but if he didn't look at them, he could pretend they weren't there. He turned in his seat to get them out of his peripheral vision, but not before noticing his neighbor had a low-cut blouse and firm, full breasts.

Last weekend he'd asked his kids what they wanted to do for a living. Toby had said he wanted to be a Software Developer. Sandra had said a Lawyer. The sort of thing most parents like to hear. But he asked the follow-up question—why? Money. He was working to make money, so that his kids could go to college, so they could work to make money, so that ...

Life didn't seem to have much of a point beyond perpetuating an endless cycle.

"You seem sad," said the woman.

"You seem observant, and nosy." He glanced her way, taking her in finally. She had long, almost black hair, and an exotic beauty whose origins he couldn't place. Latina? Middle Eastern? He'd been wrong about the blouse. It was a cocktail dress, with a deep plunging neckline and a short hem. Her breasts were perky enough that they were managing without a bra, and he couldn't help but stare at her cleavage for a moment before jerking his head up to look into her sapphire eyes.

He hadn't intended to make eye contact, because he hadn't wanted a conversation. But instinct told him he should look up to avoid her thinking he was staring at her boobs.

"Being observant isn't my strongest point," she said. "But I'm far from stupid. You can look if you want to. I wouldn't be showing them off if I didn't want people to look."

"You're a very attractive woman," he said, and gazed into his scotch instead. He had a good memory. He wouldn't forget those breasts for even without another peek.

"Thank you. My name is Kalisha. What's yours?"

"Brent. Yeah, I'm sad. Talk to me long enough, and you will be too."

"Really?" She had a lovely laugh. He felt an urge to tell her an unbroken string of jokes to keep her laughing. If only he was in a funny mood. "You're that persuasive?"

"Life," he said, "is a long pointless exercise from cradle to grave. We keep ourselves going long enough to create another generation to do the same thing. If we're lucky, we'll stop from destroying the planet and keep the whole meaningless cycle going."

She smiled. "That's heavy."

"Yeah. There's no point in it."

"Sure there is," Kalisha said.

"Hmm?"

"Tits."

He nearly spat out his drink. "That's what you got?" he said.

"Well, it's not all, but most people like them."

He chuckled. "No, I mean that's your best argument? It's easy to see that they are there to get the next generation going, and to get men interested in procreating."

"Sunsets. Fall Leaves. Swans flying, and roses blooming."

"Chemicals in the atmosphere—and the rest is all cycle-of-life stuff."

"No, Brett. You're missing the point." She moved closer and twisted, and he was very aware of the point of her hardened nipple as it brushed against his arm. Was the juxtaposition of word and action intentional? She certainly wasn't like most women he'd met.

"The point of existence, Brett. Not just to keep yourself going. It's beauty. It isn't what those things are made of, or what their function is, it's about your ability to see it all, and know, for a moment, that there is something there beyond functionality that matters. Or you can turn away, like you've turned away from your painting."

"How do you know about my painting?" he asked. He hadn't picked up a brush for two years now, not since the divorce. He used to paint Sheila, his now ex-wife, and landscapes. The landscapes were still as willing, but he'd left his supplies behind when he moved out.

"I'll show you, if you like."

His eyes narrowed. What did he have to lose? He nodded.

She led him outside. "This way." She headed directly away from his apartment, and he knew it would be a long walk home. People stared at Kalisha when she walked by. He couldn't blame them.

After ten blocks he asked, "Where are you taking me?"

"Just a little further. If I can do this in heels, you can do this in loafers."

He had been aware of the clacking sound on the sidewalk, and her long legs, but he just now noticed that her heels were at least three inches, maybe four.

She took a right turn, walked one more block, and he knew where they were. They couldn't go any further. The river was in the way. It was no place special, just some cobblestones, a few plastic benches, and a brick wall three feet high to stop people from falling into the river, but the view of the city lights was magnificent. A big burly man and a slender dark-haired beauty sat on one of the benches. A good, romantic spot. Once, late at night, he had set up his easel here. He'd meticulously captured each light with a dot of his brush, racing to finish before sunrise.

"This spot is where you knew the truth," she said. "You knew why you were here. To capture this—no, a photograph could

capture

it. You were here to enhance it. To decide what was most beautiful about it and bring it to life."

"Sheila has that painting now. It's hanging in the living room."

"No. She sold it. It reminded her of you, so she got rid of it. I bought it at auction and tracked you down. If you did nothing else in your life but paint that one painting, your life would have meaning, and purpose. But that painting shows you'd honed your skill on other paintings before it."

He shrugged. "I don't have my paints and brushes anymore."

"That's the best you got?" she mimicked.

"I could buy new ones."

"I'm sure high-quality supplies are best. But you can do something with almost anything, can't you?"

"Yeah."

She walked over to the couple, her heels clacking on the cobblestone, and picked up something from the bench they were sitting at. They looked up at her, but said nothing. She returned to him with a block of watercolor paper, and a compact set of paints. She handed them to him. A good brand. It would come with a brush.

"I'll take these home and paint with them," he promised her.

"No you won't. You'll go home and fall asleep, and in the morning you'll find an excuse to do something else. You need to do it now."

He shrugged. "Can't paint with watercolors without water," he said.

"Fortunately, I palmed a shot glass and put it in my purse." She took it out, not seeming to mind that he could see a purple vibrator as she rummaged around. She spat into it.

"No excuses," she said. "Make it work."

"Okay," he sat down. He heard thunder rumbling in the distance. "It's going to rain."

"Not here it isn't."

How could she know that? Oh well. So he got rained on, although it would wreck any painting he did. He opened the paints and added some of his own spit. He knew he wouldn't get far this way, but it felt good to mix some paint. "The night that I painted the painting you had," he said conversationally, "was perfect. Just the right amount of moonlight. Fewer clouds. But this night is still good."

"I want it to be perfect," she said, and for a moment he thought she was a spoiled princess. "Was the moon brighter?"

"Yes."

She turned toward the two sitting at the bench. "Selena," she asked. "Could you brighten the lights a little? And Thomas, if you could move the clouds just a little out of the way of the moon?"

"Sure thing beautiful," said the muscular blond man at the bench. "Will take a few minutes."

Amazingly, the moon got brighter.

Kalisha walked toward the wall. He didn't want to tell her she was in the way. He filled in a little of the river and the night-time sky. The lights would come last, if he could outrace the storm that she seemed so unconcerned about.

She reached behind her neck, unfastened a clasp, and let her dress drop to the floor. She was stark naked in the moonlight. His cock responded by becoming like an iron bar, instantly.

"Standing?" she asked. "Or on the wall, like this?" She got up on the wall, and lay down on it, one leg out long, the other bent at the knee, her torso twisted to look at him. She was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen, more beautiful than Sheila, sunsets, or cityscapes at night.

"You're crazy. We're going to get caught and arrested."

"No one is going to brave the rain to come here tonight," she said. He heard the clouds rumble, and then the rain hitting the pavement. It was pouring. Yet somehow he was still dry.

"We're going to get soaked."

"Not us. If you'd like to paint me all wet, we can manage that," she said. "Or paint me in the storm. But trust me, you, and your canvas, will stay nice and dry."

The big man moved with surprising grace and clapped his hand on his shoulder. "I got ya. Whatcha think, you want her wet?"

"Uh, sure?" Brent said.

Damned if it didn't start raining on Kalisha, ten feet from where he was. "I think she looks good in a storm, don't you?" asked Thomas.

"I think she'd look good anywhere. But I need the light on her again."

"Oh, yeah. Can't have rain without clouds. Takes a minute... it'll be gone."

"Not yet, big boy," said the other woman. "Hi, I'm Selena. Thomas is awesome, but he thinks with his gut." She took the shot glass of water and walked toward Kalisha. Holding it in the rain, she filled it, dumped it, and filled it again before bringing it back with nice, crystal clear water. "I think he'll need clean water now and then. Can you keep the cloud within his reach?" Selena asked Thomas.

"Women! So demanding!" said Thomas. But slowly the little area of rain moved until it was out of the way, and just a foot away from Brett.

Brett stared at it for a moment, but it stayed perfectly in place.

"Who are you people?"

"Thomas is the avatar of the god of Thunder," explained Selena, as if it was the most sensible thing in the world. "And my province is the Moon. But she--" she pointed to Kalisha. "She is Beauty, and Love. And you have a chance to paint her, so give it your full attention."

He nodded. He didn't know what the hell was going on, but he was sure that whatever it was he had only one chance to paint it. And if he had to do it with an inexpensive paint kit and just one size of brush, that's what he'd do. He focused.

Selena kept his water clean, taking the shot glass when he wasn't using it and refreshing it. He barely noticed, as his brush traced the curves of Kalisha's body. He captured the way the moonlight reflected the water on her skin, the moment a drop clung to a hard brown nipple before it fell to the stone below, and the lusciousness of her red lips. Time lost meaning, and so did the storm that raged behind him. His hard-on didn't matter, either. Even Selena was merely a hand that stretched from behind him, although he was vaguely aware at some point that her clothes had come off and that Thomas was fucking her from behind. It didn't matter, as long as she kept taking care of his water.

"It does matter." Kalisha said. "All acts of love and pleasure are my rituals. But it doesn't matter as much as beauty, does it? You've always felt in contact with the divine when you paint."

"Yes," he said, brush moving quickly, dipping in and out of water and paint and applying it carefully to canvas.

"Is it what you create, or what you see?" she asked.

"Both." He knew the conversation mattered, too, but he didn't want to waste time forming too many words.

The first traces of light appeared on the horizon. Soon the sun's light would overcome the moon's and everything he was observing would change.

"I need another hour," he said.

"There are things we control," said Kalisha, "and things we don't. I've been still for a very long time, and could use a stretch."

"I'm not finished," he said.

"No," agreed Kalisha. "And you never will be until you die. But you gave up for a while, and now you're back." She moved from her perch on the wall, and walked toward him, still naked. He wished he could paint her in every pose, a dozen, no, a hundred paintings of her walking. With moonlight. With a sunrise. Naked, clothed.

She was staring at his crotch. He was hard. He'd been hard the whole time. She knelt before him and unzipped his pants.

He set his painting down. "You're a goddess," he said.

"The avatar of one," she said, as she pulled his cock out.

"Shouldn't I be on my knees before you?"

For answer, she wrapped her lips around his cock and slid them along his shaft.

Selena and Thomas had gotten dressed again and watched from their bench. It was strange, being watched, but who wouldn't want to watch Kalisha? Even if cops showed up, they'd probably watch her, transfixed, as long as she was naked, no matter what she did.

He was about to come in the mouth of a goddess. Not any goddess. The goddess of beauty. The goddess that he'd worshipped almost all his life, without realizing it, and who he had somehow lost. She had found him now, and he would never be lost again. His cock swelled. He was on the edge. He should say something.

"Gonna..." he said.

She touched him just right, in the place just below his balls he always liked to be touched, and he erupted. Her knowing exactly what to do made at least as much sense as the moonlight and the selective rainstorm did.

He felt like he came for minutes, although it couldn't have been that long, and when he was at last spent she pulled back, showed him her mouth full of cum, and then swallowed. He'd always wanted to see a girl do that, but he'd never had the guts to ask.

"Uh... can I please you?"

"Yes." She stood up. "Take that painting home. Hang it on your wall, to remind you of your purpose in life. Worship me with the best art supplies you can afford, and find beauty wherever you can—nature, cities, other women. Sell them, enough to make a living, but never think that's the point. Make prints of them, show them off on the internet. Think of me, smiling at you approvingly, whenever you're fucking someone. That is how you please me."

Brent nodded. He supposed he should tuck his dick away. It wouldn't need any attention for a long time. She had drained him.

She put her dress back on. She was still a little wet, and it clung to her body.

A few minutes later, Selena, Kalisha, and Thomas were gone, leaving him with a shot glass, a brush, some paints and a painting of a moonlit naked beauty against a skyline that was far better than it should have been given the paints he had. He put the brush in the little tin the paints came in and wiped everything dry with his hand. The sky was clear, the storm gone with the sunrise.

"That's the best use I've put a shot glass to in quite a while," he said. He got everything in order. Then he walked home. He'd call in sick and spend an hour or two shopping for art supplies before seeing how much painting he could get done on no sleep.

Kalisha had mentioned women. It was time he started dating again. And the thought of painting new women naked brought a smile to his face that didn't go away for the entire long walk home.