Unmasked (9 page)

Slowly, ever so slowly, without having said a word, Emma began easing her jeans down even further. It was exquisitely audacious. She buried her face in the pillows and hoped he would act. Seconds were as hours. Her hands were trembling; in the silence she was losing her nerve.

‘Stop there!’ he shouted. ‘I draw.’

She had only managed to ease her jeans down over her bottom. Her black briefs had rolled down too and now the elastic stretched across and pressed into her fleshy cheeks.

Marco stepped forward and poured more wine into Emma’s glass then, after taking another quick swig, set the bottle down beside it. He picked up
his sketchbook and took a charcoal stub from the tray.

Without warning he sat on the edge of the divan. Emma tensed. But then he hooked his fingers under her briefs and pulled them down an inch further. It took a second or two and he was done. Emma let out a breath when she felt him rise from the divan. He could have her, she’d made that clear. He chose not to. This was too much.

She heard the charcoal scrape across the paper. She pushed her head into the pillows. He was looking at her, he was drawing her. What was he seeing? A subject or a woman? She was ready for him. She was his to have.

Scrape, scrape.

Emma began to masturbate again. She spread herself a little more. She wanted to be sure he could see.

He stood behind her and the scraping stopped as he watched the tips of her fingers. He put the sketchbook down and Emma felt his hands on her left foot. He held her delicately and removed her striped socks. When he placed her feet down they were further apart than they had been. He knelt between them and placed his hands on the inside of her knees and pushed her legs slowly apart.
Emma’s fingers rubbed herself in slow circles. Staying where he was, Marco lifted the sketchbook and picked up his charcoal. Scrape.

‘Are you sketching me?’

‘No. I sketch pillows.’

The sound of his voice, his denial, his body between her legs, touching her … Emma sighed into the mattress. She turned her head, her eyes closed.

‘You fuck all your models, don’t you, Marco?’ asked Emma.

‘No.’

Emma’s hand was moving in faster circles now.

‘You’ll fuck me, too?’ she asked. She was done with being anything other than she was.

‘
Dipende
,’ he replied.

‘On what, Marco? On what?’

‘
Molte cose
.’

‘
Molte cose
? What’s that … Many things?’

‘
Si
.’

‘Like? Um …
quali cose
? What things?’

‘I say. You do.’

‘Yes … Oh fuck!’

Emma jolted as she came. It was lovely, short, sharp. Her whole body was awash with an intense wave of delightful sensation. She became still and lay in the warm shallows of her orgasm.

‘
Che era bello
,’ he said. ‘Nice.’

‘You have no idea,’ she murmured over her shoulder.

‘Now. Levi’s. Off.’

‘I can’t. You do it.’

‘
E’ responsabilità del modella
.’

‘Fuck responsibility.’

Marco dropped the sketchbook on the floor and grabbed hold of the top of her jeans and pulled them down roughly, lifting her feet as he did so and pulling them right off her. Next he lifted the bottom of her top and Emma helped by lifting her torso and raising her arms. The top ended up on the floor. Her underwear still clung to her thighs. Marco rolled them down slowly. All the way down till they slipped off the end of her toes.

‘
Ecco
!’

‘Yup. Nude,’ she said.

‘
Bellissima
.’

‘Fuck me.’

‘No. You want me sketch. I sketch.’

Emma sat up. She raised the glass of wine to her lips and sipped it.

Then he arranged her. He placed her so she was sitting up, half turned away from him. The leg closest to him, her left, was stretched out along
the divan, her right was bent and she rested her head on her knee.

‘But this isn’t flattering,’ she said, conscious of the way the position caused her belly to form what looked like rolls of fat.

‘You woman, not … doll.’

For five minutes nothing was said. He sketched her from the back, from the side and in front. Emma held her model’s pose. Her mind was predictably focused. She was afire. She had gone months without feeling this way, entirely sexless. He would bring her back. She wanted him to bring her back. She wanted to have this strange man. She would hand herself to him. And the more he resisted the more she wanted.

Marco sketched quickly. Page after page was flipped. He suddenly snorted. Emma looked up and he turned the book around to show her his work. It showed a thick charcoal line representing head, neck and shoulders running into the curve of her lower back, around her bottom and shooting along the line of her thigh all the way to the curves of her feet. It was Emma. One continuous line had captured her.

‘I love it. I love that line. Can I have that? Can I keep it?’

He tore off the page and handed it to her.

‘Sign it, Marco.’

He did.

The two of them had the whole afternoon to play with and there was no urgency on Marco’s part to rush the game. He was hard, painfully hard. His jeans were no help at all, far too tight to be very accommodating. But he continued on his path.

He moved Emma off the couch and she stood for a moment in front of him.

Their eyes meeting, Emma lifted her hands to the top button of his shirt and undid it. And then the next, and the next, till she could open it. She lifted the shirt from his shoulders and he let it drop to the floor. She ran her hand across the smooth, hairless, tanned skin of his chest and then down along the muscles of his abdomen. When she reached the top button of his jeans his hand gripped her wrist. He moved her away and forced her to pose on all fours on the chest. She could see herself in the mirror. It was a filthy pose. Now she felt naked.

Obeying him gave her an unexpected thrill. He circled her slowly. She was entirely exposed. She hung her head and shuddered, remembering Jason
walking around her that night in the backyard. But this was different. Marco was a man, a man with a past, a man who knew beauty, who knew what a woman wanted and could deny her exactly that if he so desired.

He circled her slowly twice. His movements were deliberate. He knew each second that passed added to the turmoil within her. She had given herself away. She was exposed in more than one way. He knelt behind her and gazed up at her pussy.

Emma’s paralysis turned her on. Her pose was dirty. She was an object. She stared at him through her parted thighs. He was sketching her. When he touched her she jumped, it was so unexpected. He pushed apart her buttocks for a moment then went on with his sketching. Emma moaned as the sensation of his touch faded. She closed her eyes in an effort to chase down the feeling. At one moment she felt his breath on her wet lips, but all her aching limbs received from him was his closer observation and the sound of his charcoal scratching on paper. It took all of her self-restraint to remain where she was. She wanted to knock him down and sit on his face.

‘Marco?’

‘
Si
?’

‘Please.’

He lifted his piece of charcoal and ran it along the flesh of her thigh. It gave her goosebumps. He stood up and Emma could feel the charcoal against her skin at the base of her spine. He paused as if undecided, then slowly drew a line down her spine. It was dry and rough against her skin but he touched her lightly. Emma shivered. As he leant forward to complete his line, as his charcoal ran under her hair, up her neck to her scalp, his crotch came up against her naked arse. Emma pushed back against him. He withdrew and placed his open palm against her thigh and ran it along the lines he had drawn, rubbing the black dust into her skin.

He was making her crazy. All she wanted was to be taken. She didn’t care how. Hard and fast and all over in seconds. It didn’t matter. She just wanted him to grab her, put his cock in her and fuck her. She wanted his cock in her. Now.

‘I paint,’ he said, and left her where she was, retreating once again to the canvases.

‘Fuck me! Come back here. Pull out your cock and fuck me!’

‘No, I paint,’ he said. ‘Don’t move. Be good. Do as I say.’

She followed him with her eyes but remained in her pose.

He returned with a glass jar and a large flat paintbrush.

‘What are you going to do with that?’

‘Paint.’

He stood behind her. He ran the wooden end of his brush up her thigh and gently, barely touching, across her pussy. Then ran the long edge of the brush between her lips, up and down. Emma closed her eyes. The sensation after so much teasing was strange yet exquisite. But like so many of his touches this ended as soon as it had begun. He ran his palm along the smudged line of her spine and over the edge of her bottom and down her thigh. The side of his hand now brushed the wetness of her lips.

‘I want,’ he said, grabbing her hips.

‘You want?’ she sighed.

‘
Si
, I want. You make me cry.’ He slapped her arse softly. ‘Too beautiful. Too beautiful.’

He moved back from her. Looking between her legs she caught him rubbing his hard cock through his pants. She wanted the games to end.

Then he dipped the brush in the jar of water.

‘You stay.’

The brush trailed along the smudge of his first line. He saw goosebumps rise again. Emma wriggled her arse. She couldn’t keep still. Her pussy was desperate for attention. When she tried to reach under to touch herself again, he stopped her with his brush.

‘No.’

He began to paint her bottom. He was covering it all. He drew the brush across her skin then down between her cheeks. When he reached her arsehole Emma let out a moan that shook her whole body. A moan that caused Marco to re-evaluate his plans. His cock throbbed at the sound. He dipped the brush back into the jar and returned to the spot. Cold and wet, the brush head circled her there. Emma squeezed her thighs rhythmically.

Then Marco moaned. It came forth involuntarily and surprised him. He put down the brush. He put down the jar. He held her hips. And for the shortest of moments Emma expected to feel his cock enter her. She waited. She could almost feel it. His grip strengthened. He looked down at her arching back, at her head hanging, her hair falling everywhere and saw an image that demanded to be sketched.

He picked up the pad and the charcoal and began a new sketch, more chaotic and unrestrained than any of those before. His hand would not stop shaking. His eye would not focus on the subject, but kept returning to her arsehole and the sex below. His cock strained against the denim.

He moved around Emma, trying to take control again. But he was lost. He reached out and cupped her breast. Emma lifted her face and saw he was close. She raised her hand and took hold of the button of his jeans. Marco began to sketch; he was not going to take any notice of her. She undid the top button, then unable to resist, stroked the length of him through the jeans. The thing pulsated. She began to release it. The buttons were difficult. He wore nothing beneath and soon he was in her hands.

He looked down at Emma and started sketching frantically. His cock was now centimetres from Emma’s mouth. She stuck out her tongue and licked the base of his shaft. The skin tasted salty from his swim. He ignored her efforts. He was satisfied with this new view, from her thick hair, down the porcelain skin of her long back, to the two round halves of her rump.

He made bold, full marks on his page, whilst Emma sucked one of his testicles into her mouth. He shaded and smudged with his thumb, giving the form movement, then in a moment of inspiration he began to add in an imagined lover holding her hips and giving her his cock from behind. Emma took his thick shaft into her mouth.

Marco’s sketch was coming along well. He managed to render the male lover anonymously, fading the lover away so that only his tense arms, hands and torso were visible. As Emma began to slide his cock in and out of her mouth in deep, long movements, sucking hard and pressing her tongue up against the underside of his shaft, another inspired piece of imagining came to Marco.

Apropos of nothing he began a small sketch in the corner of the same page, from memory, of a woman sucking lustily on the end of a thick cock. This was hastily done and managed to capture the movement of a woman busily at work on a cock.

Without warning Marco stepped away from Emma’s mouth and changed the page.

‘Fuck, Marco, what are you doing to me?’

‘No move.’

He was faced with a blank page. He was excited by a new challenge. He felt it necessary, as an artist
who valued symmetry, to make a drawing from the same height and perspective but from the other end of Emma’s body. He made his way to her behind, trailing his charcoal along her skin as he went.

Again he parted her cheeks but this time he boldly ran his fingers along the length of her wet sex.

‘I no have woman in two years. I no want woman. I only paint. Two years!
Capito
?’

‘
Si
,’ Emma said, her head down, her body aching for his fingers to return. She pushed her butt back towards him.

‘I make promise. No woman,’ he said, his hand returning to her. The place was impossible to resist. It was hunger. It was desire. The scent of her was everywhere. It rushed through his veins. He was intoxicated.

‘I am no woman,’ she said, willing his fingers into her.

‘You woman. You trouble. You too much woman.’

‘Do you want woman now?’

‘
Si
, too much. Too much. Too much.’

He stepped close to her so that his cock head was pressing against her and began to draw her. She turned and looked at him over her shoulder.

‘No move,’ he said, ‘I artist. I draw you. No woman. I cannot break promise.’

‘To who?’

‘To Marco.’

He pushed his cock into her.

Emma let out a deep groan as her body finally welcomed him. He kept still and wouldn’t withdraw. His marks on the paper quickly became the reverse of the previous sketch. But this time he shaded and smudged using the wetness from his fingers. The effect was quite startling, even to an old hand like Marco.