Freezeframe

I discovered a major side effect of not sleeping when I was bored to tears at work. Or maybe it was a side effect of depression. Or I suppose I might be some sort of mutant like in a comic book, but I think it is the not sleeping thing.

Anyway what I have discovered is that I can stop time. I can make everyone else freeze, but I can continue moving around. This can go on for as long as I want. Days even. This is how I discovered it, and what has happened up until now, as of this writing.

I broke up with my girlfriend. I didn't have a good reason to do this, so maybe I was already depressed. I know I was uninspired at any rate. We had been together for two years, Sandra and I, and it had been very, very comfortable. At first it was passionate, and exciting, but finally it had become clear that she had way more going for her than I did. I was stuck. It felt like the best thing to do would be to let her get on with her life and find someone going someplace.

That was probably self pity, and most likely a ploy to get her to fight to stay with me, but instead she got pissed off and yelled at me about how lazy and self-destructive I was. She shouted about how much she had given me of herself and how I was throwing it all in her face, and basically told me what a worthless human being I was.

After that conversation I felt she was right.

I stopped sleeping. At all. I suddenly found I had eight extra hours in my day to stew on how fucked up I was, and how much I missed Sandra, even though I broke up with her. Time moved at a snail's pace. I just wanted each day to end as soon as possible so I could get over Sandra. You know; Time Heals All Wounds. But for me it slowed down more and more.

I tried to fill the time with work, I am an artist, and I paint. Women mostly. I cannot get enough of the female form. Even when I was a little boy I loved women's bodies. I love their minds as well, most of my best friends are women, but their bodies are like sunlight to plants for me.

Except now that I was single, and sad, with endless amounts of time on my hands I had no inspiration. I couldn't finish any drawings, or paintings. Each time it just evaporated in my mind and I couldn't see anything. The work I forced myself to finish was terrible, so I stopped.

Time crawled along dragging me behind it.

At work (I have a job because I am an artist, and you can't make a living as an artist unless you are famous.)time slowed down even further. I worked at a huge retail outlet. A massive warehouse of clothes, food, toys, household items and electronics. The dozens of people that worked there with me all had their own ways to make the time go by faster, but I had never learned how to do that even before I broke up with Sandra.

Now though time passed so slowly it felt as though I was trapped at the edge of a black hole, all time pulled to a stop. Then one night I saw a beautiful woman walking down an aisle toward me and I willed time to actually stop so that I could look at her beauty longer. I wanted so badly to be able to paint this woman, to capture the lines of her face, the glow of her skin, the powerful sexual lure of her body. I just needed more time to get it all.

And she stopped. She froze right there in mid-step. I thought at first that she had seen me staring at her and was angry, but when I looked at her face she was looking passed me at something else. I turned to see what she saw and noticed that everyone along that aisle, and beyond were frozen. Not a soul was moving, and the sound had stopped. No voices, no music, no beeps from cash registers. Nothing. I moved toward the end of the aisle, fascinated by the fact that I could move and no-one else could.

When I peered out from my aisle I saw the whole front of the store and no-one was moving anywhere. I looked back at the beautiful woman and she was still exactly where she had been before. I went back to her and waved a hand in front of her face and her eyes didn't move. I asked her if she were alright but she didn't answer. I pressed a finger into her arm and she didn't flinch or react at all.

Her skin was soft and warm, and yielding. It was like touching a lover sleeping beside you, intimate, but safe. I ran my hand along her bare arm and caressed her soft, smooth skin. It felt so strange touching a woman I didn't know like this, and the forbidden nature of it excited me a lot.

It was summer, and warm out and the woman wore a light sleeveless summer dress that tied behind her neck. The material clung to her body and showed her curves excellently. She carried a basket on one arm with some small items in it. I slipped it off of her arm and placed it on the floor next to her. In a sort of trance I reached up and undid the ties around her neck and pulled the dress down over her breasts exposing her. I pulled the dress down as far as I could, to her waist, and then stepped back to look at her.

She looked like an angel. Her hair was long and flowing, and a beautiful light brown with golden highlights. Her face was heart shaped with a wide forehead and pointed chin. Her eyes were a soft brown and very large. Her nose was small and straight. Her mouth, slightly parted, was soft and luscious, with pink glistening lips. Her neck was long and delicate. Her shoulders small and smooth.

And her breasts.

Her breasts were round and high. Full, but not large. The nipples were a light coral colour, and soft. They looked like the breasts of a Centerfold, proud and available. They were wonderful.

You might think that I would immediately want to touch them, or suck them or something, and I did, but the first impulse I had, being who I am, I wanted to draw them. I wanted to paint her which was why I had stopped time in the first place.

So I went to the art section of the store and grabbed some pencils and a big pad of artist paper, put them on a rolling desk chair and wheeled over to her. I sat and drew her for over an hour I'm sure. The work was some of the best I had done in years. I captured her perfectly. She looked, in my drawing, like the angle I saw with my artist's eye. Nothing I had ever drawn before compared to the work I did with her. I was utterly uninhibited because she was frozen, unaware of me as a viewer, not at all self conscious. The look on her face was pure and unadulterated by knowing she was being looked at.

As I was putting the finishing touches on the sketch I decided I wanted her nipples to be hard. I wanted the shadow of them to fall on the swell of breast below; the line would be stronger and more poignant. Rather than just adjust that myself in the drawing I decided to try getting her skin to react to my touch.

I went over and began to brush her nipple with my finger. The skin didn't react right away, but the thrill of touching her perfect breast was so amazing that I continued just for the hell of it for a moment, but then it did react. Her nipple pointed out slowly and then I began to rub both her breasts, massaging them and kneading the supple flesh. This was me acting as a man, not acting as an artist.

When I began to get an erection I knew I had to stop, so I went back to the chair and finished drawing her with the hard nipples I wanted.

The drawing was perfect, a true rendering of the gorgeous woman before me. I was reluctant to let this end, but I put everything away and dressed the woman again and then looked around at the store, so quiet and peaceful. I liked the solitude and the freedom I had gained by stopping time, but I thought I should start it again, so I put the basket back on her arm and walked a little ways away, then told time to start again.

It did. The woman completed her step and glanced at me, then walked passed as if nothing had occurred. Sound started again, the noise and bustle of the store, and I went back to work with a smile on my lips for the first time in what felt like ages.

I stopped time two more times that night, just to make sure I still could. Once for no reason other than I was afraid I wouldn't be able to again, but I did, and second to look at another woman.

This one was a pretty teenage girl in a t-shirt and jean shorts. She wore flip-flops and was listening to her headphones and smiling. I just impulsively froze time and went over to her. I kissed her on the cheek just because I was so happy. Then I stepped past and started time again.

I still wasn't sleeping at all, but now I had something to occupy my time. I began to paint the woman I had drawn, and the painting was even better than the sketch. I took my paints and canvases with me everywhere, and whenever I saw a beautiful woman I wanted to paint or draw I would stop time and do it.

Each time I did so I took off as much of her clothing as I could, I loved painting nudes, but also I felt powerful and sexually charged knowing I could see any woman I wanted in her most intimate state. I could move their limbs as well I discovered. I could bend an arm here or a leg there and position them any way I liked. It took effort, especially the legs. The muscles were held firm, but not totally rigid. This movement allowed me to undress them and pose them in more interesting, and natural positions.

I drew women in malls, on the street, at work, anywhere I saw them. More and more I froze time and wandered the city looking for women to draw, or paint. When I saw one I wanted to capture I would look at her and try and see the real person inside, not just the beauty readily apparent. When I felt that I had caught the true essence of a woman I would then strip her, and pose her in such a way that I could reveal that inner self more. Many times I didn't need to move them at all. They were already utterly themselves. Most often this was when they were by themselves. I started going into people's homes looking for those uninhibited maskless moments.

I found people doing the most intimate, and unexpected things. A woman vacuuming naked, a woman singing into a hairbrush, a couple playing what looked like strip chess. I painted them all.

Wandering the city looking for more subjects I saw a dance studio. I went inside and found a class of young women dancing in ballet tights, their hair pulled back in firm buns. Feeling like a horrible person I stripped each of them and revealed their strong young bodies to my artist's eye. They ranged in age from around eighteen to twenty and their bodies were all small, lean and muscular. I had frozen them with their arms over their heads, with their legs extended, on their toes.

It was easy to get their tights and body stockings off and when I had their taut rigid muscles looked great. Once I moved them it was difficult to get them balanced on their legs again, the precise balance very specific to one position, but I had all the time in the world so I continued to work at it until all of them were placed upright in lines.

Manhandling them into the spots I wanted had forced me to touch them a lot, and rubbing those tight smooth bodies had gotten me really horny. It was awful, I knew, but I began to caress them, squeezing their breasts and rubbing their bums. I had a major erection, and all this nude, beautiful flesh was exciting in the extreme.

I thought I could probably focus that sexual energy into my work so I set up and began to paint. Before long however I realized that I was not going to be able to get on with things in the state I was in. These delicate, helpless women frozen in moments of tension, with the beautiful muscles of their bodies tight and compelling were too amazing to stay aloof from.

I took one of the most beautiful of the girls and lay her on the floor. I began to lick and caress her. Her warm skin was pliant and yielding even in her stretched out taut position, and the feeling was powerfully arousing. As her nipples puckered and hardened I found myself able to pretend she was pleased by my attention.

I parted her legs and began to taste her pussy, the soft folds of her slit were pungent with her exertions, and the smell was intoxicating. As I licked and nuzzled her sex I felt her grow more and more moist. I couldn't be sure how much of that was my saliva or her lubricant but the smell grew more and more musky, the smell of sex.

Soon I couldn't hold back and I took off my clothes and moved her legs apart further to place myself between them. I fucked her there on the floor of her studio. I could move her body into any position I wanted, and I took her in many positions, her sweet pussy wet and warm. The skin of her chest grew red and I could see her pupils dilate. She was feeling aroused too. It was amazing.

I'm not proud of what I did, I know it was wrong, but I did it and it felt fantastic. I came inside her, which was also wrong but it was one of the best orgasms of my life.

I left her on the floor and painted her there lying legs parted arms loose at her side, naked and used. Her pretty pussy was red and damp and I captured the appearance of it perfectly. The look was lewd and frank, the epitome of freshly fucked femininity. It was the best painting of my career up to that point.

After I finished her I painted the rest where I had left them. That painting too was inspired. Before I could dress them all again I went and found a pub and had a beer and some food, which I had to cook in the big kitchen in the back. Then I returned to the studio and dressed each of the girls and balanced them on their toes once more.

I knew I had crossed a line and that I was in a moral red zone now, but who could stop me? Who would know? I felt untouchable.

I suppose that it is only natural that I wanted to visit Sandra now. I had felt powerless to please her during our relationship, but now that I felt powerful and unstoppable I went to her house and stopped time.

I went inside and used the key I still had to get in. The living room was exactly like I remembered it, cluttered with books and art and still looking tidy. She wasn't there. I went to her office where she spent hours working on her novel. Empty. The bathroom was empty, but I found her in the bedroom.

When I had stopped time it had been early evening for the world, but she was here in the bedroom, in bed. With a man.

The covers were thrown on the floor and her naked body stretched along the mattress, legs over his hips, her arms clutching his shoulders. Her breasts were flushed and the nipples tight and pointed. Her face... Her beautiful face was contorted in a grimace of sexual desire. Eyes squeezed shut, mouth open teeth clenched. The rosy cheeks were damp looking and hair was plastered to her forehead with perspiration.

He was her agent, the man helping her sell her novel. The one she wasn't even done yet. He was way older than us, but in good shape. I knew he had wanted her for a long time. I could tell, and now he was having her, his cock wedged deep inside her.

I sat beside the bed and looked at them. I really looked. They were straining toward ecstasy, the perfect example of sexual release. Sandra and I used to have simultaneous orgasms to a long time ago. But that hadn't happened for a while now.

She was a very passionate lover, and seeing her like this reminded me of the many times she had brought me to the most fantastic climaxes of my life. Her soft womanly body, so small and yielding, was sexy and exciting. I had forgotten that. I had begun to see her as a friend, a sister more than the powerful sexual force I was seeing here with him.

The more I looked the more I realized what I had thrown away. I was seeing her for the first time in a long time. She was a woman who needed to be wanted. The most beautiful she could be was when she was being loved and desired. I had stopped doing that, and she had ceased being so beautiful to me.

Right now she was more beautiful than words could describe.

So I painted her.

I painted them as they were, reaching for bliss, their faces contorted in effort.

I cried the whole time for what I had lost, what I could remember, and what I would never have again. The painting was beyond amazing. I was in awe of the work that came out of me. I felt like an observer to the lines and light spilling out of my brush, a mere conduit for a force outside of myself.

I packed up and left. I went home and curled up on my bed and pretended that I remembered how to sleep. I didn't.

I felt more wounded and more vulnerable than ever before. I threw myself into my work, stopping time more and more wandering the city looking for others in my pain. I went to bars seeking the rejected, the depressed the emotionally broken.

I found a woman outside a bar leaning against a wall crying, her hand on her cheek wiping her tears. She wore a skimpy outfit designed to attract someone, but it had clearly failed. Working carefully, trying to maintain her position of abject defeat, but baring her body to my eye. I was able to strip her completely nude and keep the pose nearly pristine.

I began to paint her, the blotchy cheeks stained with tears, the expression of sorrow, shock and loneliness. Her stomach was clenched with a sob, her breasts full and succulent, and unwanted by the right person. Her freshly groomed sex was nearly bare, with just a small strip of hair above, her legs soft and waxed. I sought to capture all the effort she had vainly gone to.

The odd neon light seemed lurid, and the stained grungy wall behind her added to the misery of the moment. I was there for hours adding details to the painting that exposed her pain and mirrored my own.

When at last I was done I dressed her again and returned her to her lonely grief. I stashed my supplies and went back to her. I started time again and went up to her and asked her if she could use a hug. So great was her sorrow, and so sincere my offer that she submitted to my consolation. We hugged and cried together for a long time, alone in the alley beside a loud nightclub.

I found a teenage street walker, a whore with the old eyes of a survivor, and the face of cheerleader. Standing on a corner she was looking for her next trick, or her next fix, and the look on her face was worn, tired and miserable. Like I felt.

I stripped her of her tawdry come-fuck-me clothes and found her slender body was bruised and had needle marks on the arms. I painted her there with the harsh shadows of the streetlight making the dark lines on her face and body look like slashes of black on her pale, abused skin.

After I had rendered a full body pose, I went in closer for a painting of just her face, the fatigue, the grief, the hidden anger, and the youth. It was powerful. I held her there for a long time, and completed three more painting, each a different angle of her tortured spirit.

When I left her I dressed her in clothes I found in a nearby store. I covered her and gave her face a cleaning, erasing the sleazy make-up. I went across the street and when I started time watched her terrified reaction to her sudden change of clothes. She screamed and tried to run, but stopped over and over as she tried to discover what had happened to her body. People stopped and tried to talk to her and finally someone called the police. They took her away in an ambulance and I hoped somehow she found her way to a better way of life.

I was well aware of the hypocrisy of what I was doing, but I was depressed and not really thinking clearly. At the time it seemed like a great idea using these women like that. Revealing them to my canvas was acceptable to me in my state. And so was doing more.

The next wounded woman I found was a young professional in a suit with classic dark skirt and jacket with a bright blue shirt, stockings and heels. Her hair was pulled back and she wore trendy glasses. She was outside a tall building standing in the sun looking up with her eyes sad and unfocused.