Unmasked (10 page)

Again he finished off by sketching in an imaginary lover standing before Emma. There was no great jump in the imagination of the viewer to deduce that she was sucking that lover’s cock. Just as Emma began to push back against him the sketch was done and Marco, the artist, was standing a foot or two behind her, making another sketch of her glistening sex.

Emma climbed off the chest and dropped to her knees and fell to sucking his cock, one hand gripping the base, the other sliding in and out of herself. Marco was trying to think but she was so distracting. He always found his models distracting. He even let out a moan, which pleased
Emma so much she squeezed her legs together over her hand and moaned into his cock. She wanted release so badly but wanted Marco to be her deliverer.

‘No. No. I not finished. Sit. Sit.’

He sat her down on the chest and knelt between her knees. He started another sketch but paused and, bending down, kissed her pussy. Emma threw her leg over his shoulder and stretched her arms out behind her. She rested on her elbows. He started to lift his face from her and she gripped his hair and forced him back down. He knew what he was doing. She wasn’t going to let him get away again.

‘You’re going to make me come. And then you’re going to fuck me like you’ve never fucked anyone before.’

Marco started to lift his head but Emma kept him there. She lay back on the chest and Marco began in earnest. Emma knew it wouldn’t take long, she was too worked up. All she needed to do was let it come. When he lifted his hand and gently pressed his fingers into her she was there to receive him. He read her. He knew. He drew it forth.

When it came it was big. It rose from somewhere deep and shuddered through her like an earth tremor. It had no end, though. It lingered. It
seemed captured within her. She knew what this meant, too. Though her body wanted her to stay where she was, she moved quickly onto her knees and, grabbing Marco’s hand, said, ‘Now fuck me. Fuck me!’

Marco gripped her hips and began to fuck her, but this wasn’t enough for Emma.

‘Fuck me, Marco. Fuck me hard. Harder. Harder! Don’t stop. Fuck me!’

The two bodies clashed in gratifying disharmony.

Emma put her head down, closed her eyes tightly, the second orgasm was still there. It was within reach.

‘Marco! Marco! Fuck me! Fuck!’

Marco’s hands were gripping Emma’s hips so tightly he was dragging her to him with every thrust. He had never thought to fuck someone this hard. He was beyond his own orgasm. He had lost that in this divine rush toward physical oblivion, a complete crush of flesh. He pounded her without restraint. Full painful force. And then he heard it. He could feel it. Her body was shuddering. It rose up within her again, the most thrilling sound. It was a moan, then a groan, then, when it came, it was a scream.

Two orgasms seemed to merge for Emma. The first taking so long to leave had been caught by the second. She was overwhelmed by it and collapsed onto the wooden chest, her knees bumping the edge as they fell heavily to the ground. She was unsure whether she was laughing or crying. Her breasts heaved spontaneously.

Marco was out of breath. He picked up his tools and staggered toward the divan where his knees buckled, toppling him over onto the cushions. He started to laugh.

Emma made a pathetic grab for him but he was out of her range. He lay back on the divan, stretched out along its length – the sketchbook in his left hand, the chunk of charcoal in his right. His cock stood erect. Emma lifted her head and saw that he was sketching her as she lay. She saw the cock, too. This was not a sight she could see without something stirring within her. A moment before she was wondering if she might ever be able to move again. She stared at the cock for a long time. It showed no sign of diminishing. The more she looked, the greater the urge to move to it. Desire returned. She was as she was before. It was as if nothing had happened. She began to need it in her.

She reached again for him without success.

‘No. Not finished.’

‘Neither are you.’

She crawled to the divan. Her knees hurt. She climbed up onto it and lifted a knee on either side. She took hold of his cock and angled it upwards and eased herself down till she swallowed the full length. She sat there, holding his cock with her vagina, clamping on it, and closed her eyes. Marco started to sketch like a man possessed.

‘
Bellissima
,’ he mumbled to himself. Emma paid him no heed. She just sat and clenched, then released, then clenched, then released. His cock felt wonderful to her.

Marco sketched her alabaster skin, her full round breasts and her lovely slightly rounded stomach. He sketched her face, capturing the full satisfaction of her present mood. He exaggerated the madness of her hair and sketched her hands amidst the tangled locks, though in reality they were steadying her, one grabbing the largest of the pillows and the other on his thigh.

Emma lifted slowly, just an inch or two, then lowered herself again. The pleasure of this small act was overwhelming. She was at such a pitch, she was open and receiving all sensation.
If Marco
hadn’t been so busy, if he had dropped the book and had come up to suck on her breast …
Just the thought was delicious.
And if he was to bite down on her neck instead of sketching it. Ohhh. And if he would kiss me, just once. Just one lingering kiss.
She lifted up and lowered herself down. The full length of his cock, warm and hard, in and out, touching her, caressing her. Her movements became more persuasive. She began to lift and fall, lift and fall, faster and faster. Her breasts began to rise and fall. She brought her hand to her nipple and rubbed and pinched herself there.

Up and down. His cock was so hard and running so deep.

Marco looked on over the top of his sketchbook. Her attentions were distracting him from his work. He closed his eyes. He stretched out his hand and touched her thigh. Emma’s hand grabbed his and squeezed. Marco began to thrust up to meet Emma’s heavy downward fall.

Emma took the sketchbook from his hands and tossed it across the room. It slid along the floor and ran into the mirror. Marco smiled and, thrusting up, lifted her over onto her back without withdrawing from her. He fell on her, his full weight, body to body, skin against skin, and began to
slowly, and deeply, fuck her. She wrapped her legs around him and threw her arms about his neck. Then staring into each other’s eyes, they shared their first kiss.

From where Emma was sitting she could see the marks her bare arse had left on the dust-covered work bench. She also noticed there was dried come on her thigh. The divan had a suspicious stain right in the middle of the mattress. She could see charcoal marks everywhere. On cushions, the chest, the walls. Marco’s dirty hands had marked her all over too. But they were her hand prints on the mirror. Marco had fucked her against the mirror as he wanted a self-portrait. Emma had the sketches in front of her. The effort had been worth it, in her humble opinion. She looked up at her hand prints and she could just make out the mark her face had left when Marco had dropped the sketchbook and had driven home his point.

Emma was still naked. She felt worn out. So physically exhausted she could not move. She was shuddering uncontrollably, everything turned her on. She was fuck. She was orgasm. Her exhaustion left her defenceless. The slightest movement
made her wet all over again. She flicked through the pages, the record of the afternoon’s romp, and was thoroughly happy. Marco had made all their fucking look fun and beautiful, even the dirty, dirty bits. She was in love with the sketches of herself. She was in love with her sexuality and impressed by it. She admired her sexual power as captured by Marco.

He had left her. He was done, he said. He also said in his broken English that he was pleased with the work they had achieved, complimented her on her patience as he knew it was hard work modelling for hours on end. He had put his jeans back on, left his shirt on the floor and had walked out of the studio. Where he had gone, Emma had no clue. It was dark out. He had stopped for a moment at the door and given her a smile which had satisfied every doubt Emma could possibly have in his absence. Emma had smiled then and was still smiling two hours later.

TWELVE

‘I don’t know.’

Emma was on a payphone near the station.

‘I know you’re worried, but I’m fine.’

Marco was waiting for her. He was sitting on his bike about five metres away.

‘I’ll probably look for work in London before I go home.’

She was talking to her mother.

‘I know I can’t work there legally. I can’t work here legally, either, but I am.’

Marco pointed to his watch.

‘I don’t want to hear about David. I have to go,
Mum. I’ll call you in a week.’

She smiled towards Marco.

‘Okay, Mum. I love you, too. Bye.’

Emma hung up the phone and walked back to Marco. He kissed her on the lips and gripped her bottom. She felt like a teen again every time he kissed her. He was a good kisser, and the kiss was the end, not a means to an end. She loved that.

She climbed on the back of his bike and they rode to work.

Emma now worked with Marco behind the bar at the club two nights a week. Summer was here. Otranto was changing quickly. Up and down the coast holiday-makers were arriving. The resorts were filling. Rows and rows of umbrellas and chairs clogged each stretch of sand. Private beaches. So unlike Sydney’s beaches.

Every rocky inlet was becoming a beach. Families would send their youngest sons or nephews down to claim their positions early in the morning. Towels and beach chairs would be set up on any flat surface and the family would come and go throughout the day to swim, to sunbathe, to laugh and eat until dusk, when the camp would be dismantled again.

Marco’s sister rented out some of the inlets along her stretch of coast and it was her job to ensure only paying beach-goers took up residence. Three or four times a day she would wander along the border of her small kingdom, carrying little Marco, followed by her dog, chatting to the paying guests, selling them drinks, evicting squatters or negotiating new fees with them. Her fee was minimal. It had to be because the private beaches offered so much more comfort. It was small change but it all added up. And Elena enjoyed the work.

Elena also collected rent from Emma now, too. Having spent every night in his bed since they met, she had moved into Marco’s building and had insisted on paying the same amount she had been paying in town. And now that Marco was working again in the bars at night and in Club Med a couple of afternoons, the family’s overall financial position was more secure. Elena’s husband, Giovanni, was planning on working through summer, too. It was his busiest time. The only thing Elena was unhappy about was that since Emma arrived Marco had stopped painting. She had always hoped that one day her mother’s dream would come true, that Marco would be hailed a great artist and that their lives would be
transformed. That was why she had put up with Marco’s strange existence.

But now it wasn’t painting he was obsessed with, it was Emma.

‘What?’ Emma leant across the bar towards the handsome young American.

‘Are you Emma Benson?’ he shouted.

The club was full, summer had truly come, and the live band was ear-splittingly loud at times.

‘Who wants to know?’ she shouted back.

‘A man just boasted that he knew you.’

‘Which man?’

‘The big guy just over there,’ he shouted and turned to point. ‘Wait. Where did he go?’

‘What did he look like?’

The music was louder now. ‘What?’

Emma laid her body across the bar and shouted in his ear, ‘What did he look like?’

The attractive face just stared back at her. Emma jumped up onto the bar and swung herself across. She took the American by the hand and dragged him through the crowd and into the ladies where it was marginally quieter. The small room was full of women but she managed to push
him into a corner. The expression on his face told her he would be disappointed by the next thing she was going to do.

‘What was his name?’