by R. R. Banks
Friday morning had come again and I got into the shower to ready myself for my journey back to the retreat. My date box sat in the living room, waiting to be brought along with my luggage. The card had been the same cryptic, vague message that I had become accustomed to over the last several weeks.
“ Express yourself”
I had just rinsed the shower gel from my skin when the temperature of the water suddenly shifted to scalding. I pressed myself back against the wall, trying to stay out of the blistering water, and pushed the door open so that I could climb out. My skin stung as I reached in to turn the faucet off. Shaken, I picked up my towel and dried off. I dressed and stepped out of the bathroom, turning toward my bedroom to get my luggage. Moments later I heard the high-pitched scream of the smoke detector. I ran into the hallway and immediately smelled smoke. Rushing toward the grey trail I saw forming near my ceiling, I found a small fire burning on the carpet of my living room. I ran into the kitchen to grab my fire extinguisher, but I couldn’t activate it. Feeling panicked, I ran out of my house and into the yard, shouting for help.
My hand touched my pocket and I realized I hadn’t grabbed my phone. I had no way of calling for help. I was tempted to go back inside, but even from this vantage point I could see that the fire was building in my living room. Tears were forming in my eyes and I felt my chest crushing. Suddenly a figure rushed past me and into my house. A few moments later I saw the glow of the fire stop and the windows open to allow the smoke to stream out. The chauffer’s face appeared in one of them and I felt myself sag with relief. I glanced behind me and realized that the limo had pulled up behind me without me noticing.
“Philip,” I said, the tears trickling down my cheeks now. “Thank you.”
“It’s alright, Snow,” he said. “The damage isn’t too bad. I’ll make some calls and make sure that it is fixed for you before you get back.”
I heard the wail of sirens and looked to the street to see a fire truck zooming toward me. The men rushed out and streamed into my house where Philip reassured them that he had the situation under control. They did a quick scan of the house and then came out to tell me that I could go in if I wanted to.
“I can get your things for you if you’d like,” Philip offered.
I nodded, not wanting to face whatever damage the fire had caused before he was able to extinguish it. A few minutes later he came out of the house carrying my luggage and my date box. He tucked them into the trunk and then went back inside the close the windows and lock the door. With another promise that he would ensure that everything was fixed when I got back from the cottage, he started on the now-familiar drive to the cottage where I hoped that I would be able to calm down and relax before my date the next day.
Lucille
I sat in the upstairs window of the house across the street from Snow’s, my anger tightening in my jaw until it hurt. I had been watching Snow’s house for the three weeks since I discovered that it was for rent and in that time, I had watched her come and go in that limo twice. Not knowing where she was going or what she was doing made me angrier with each passing day. The time away from the company was supposed to be giving me the opportunity to figure out a way to get rid of her. Instead, it seemed to be giving her even more of the adoring worship that she constantly received. It was sickening and more than ever I wanted to destroy her. The end of her leave was coming up quickly. I was running out of time before I was going to be forced to let her back to work and have to deal with her every day. Something had to be done.
I watched as the firefighters took a final sweep of the perimeter of her house and started packing up their truck. All of the fuss surrounding the tiny fire seemed ridiculous, just more of the pomp and circumstance that seemed to define Snow’s life. More people falling all over themselves to ensure that her life was nothing but rainbows and butterflies. It’s not as though I had meant for the fire to get out of control. I didn’t want to kill her. Ruin her day, yes. Piss her off, sure. Scare her and hope that it would make her want to cut her losses, go somewhere else, and start again where she could ruin someone else’s life, absolutely. It was a controlled burn, just like the shift in temperature in her water. Harmless.
My phone rang and I glanced down at it, rolling my eyes before answering it.
“Hi, Honey,” I said, trying to inject as much pleasantness in my voice as I possibly could.
“I just got a call from the fire department. They responded to a fire at Snow’s house. Do you know what’s going on? Is she OK?”
You have got to be fucking kidding me.
He sounded nothing short of frantic and it took everything in me not to throw my phone across the room.
“What do you want, Walter?” I snapped.
“I’m worried about Snow. You said that she’s on vacation.”
“Yes, she’s on vacation. She has been for weeks.”
“But there was a fire at her house.”
“And I’m sure that the fire department handled it. They are the professionals. Speaking of which, do you want to explain to me why they would be calling you to tell you about a fire?”
I was hoping to deflect the situation, make him feel guilty so that he would leave me alone.
“Any time that there is an emergency at the home of one of my employees, I’m notified,” he said. “It’s part of our insurance policy. They all agreed to my notification when they started working for me.”
“Well, I don’t like it,” I said, giving a sniff for extra emphasis. “You shouldn’t be thinking about her when you are away. You should be thinking about your wife.”
“I am, Darling. I’m always thinking of you. I miss you so much. In fact, I’m thinking about cutting my trip short and coming home to you.”
“No,” I snapped, a bit too quickly. “I mean, no, don’t do that,” I said more softly, trying to recover. “You’ve been so looking forward to this trip. Don’t give it up. We’ll have plenty of time when you get home.”
“Our whole lives,” he said.
I felt my stomach turn but I forced myself to make an affirming sound. I ended the call and tucked my phone into my pocket. Across the street a white van had pulled up in front of Snow’s house. A team of men in white jumpsuits climbed out and started carrying equipment into the house. More heroes already swooping in to rescue her.
This had to end. I couldn’t stand the thought of her coming back to work and having to look at her every day. I already heard her name enough just with people missing her and clients asking when she would be back. I couldn’t tolerate having to hear even more about her. Grabbing my keys, I left the house through the garage door and drove out of the neighborhood, heading for the Royal and Company offices. I wanted to do some more digging into Snow’s files. There had to be something there, something that I could use.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Snow
I was still unnerved by the fire at my house the next day when I arrived for my date. I was trying to get it out of my mind so I could concentrate on the experience that was waiting for me, but it was still frightening. When the limo stopped, I looked out and saw that we were in front of a converted industrial building. Intrigued, I let Philip help me out of the backseat and started for the door. I stepped through it into a large open space that I could only assume used to be a factory floor. Any manufacturing equipment that used to be there was gone now, replaced by paint-splattered tables, drop cloths, and stacks of crates filled with art supplies.
A man sat astride a stool in the center of the room, slashing at a canvas with a narrow paintbrush. He seemed unaware that I was in the room with him and I didn’t know if I should approach him. I took a cautious step in his direction, watching as he continued to create seemingly abstract lines across the white surface with black paint. It was the type of art that I could never decide if I liked it or not. On one hand it was fascinating, the often contrasting colors and harsh shapes juxtaposed with soft curves seeming to embody something that only the perso
n who created it could understand. On the other hand, this caused the pieces to be confusing, sometimes unnerving, making me feel like I was somehow out of the loop and missing out on something that others could see.
I was nearly to his side when the man looked back and noticed me.
“Hi,” he said. “I’m sorry, I should have met you outside.”
“That’s alright,” I said. “I’m Snow.”
“Michael,” he said, coming toward me and embracing me.
I returned the hug, immediately feeling at ease with him.
“This place is amazing,” I said when we stepped out of the hug.
“Thank you,” Michael answered, looking around. “It’s my own little world.”
“What are you painting?” I asked.
He looked at the canvas and laughed.
“Nothing,” he said. “I’m just got new brushes and I’m trying to get used to them.”
“Oh,” I said, feeling embarrassed.
I looked away so that he wouldn’t see the redness that came to my cheeks, but he cupped his hand under my chin to turn my face back to him.
“Don’t,” he said. “You should never feel that way about your thoughts. Art is different for everyone. I was trying out my brushes, but this might be art to someone else. It might be to you.”
“How could it be art if you didn’t make it to be art?”
“That’s a common misconception about art. Art does not exist because it’s created, art exists because it’s perceived. I can make something that I think is the most beautiful and meaningful piece that I have ever created, but if you look at it and see nothing but colors on a piece of paper, it’s not art to you. Likewise, I might not think that this canvas is art, but if it speaks to you when you look at it, then it is.”
His words struck me and I felt the worry and discomfort disappear from my mind. Michael started guiding me around the studio, giving me a tour of the pieces that he had been working on. I was fascinated by the pile of discarded partial sculptures that occupied one corner and several torn canvases that lay nearby.
“What’s that?” I asked.
“Graveyard,” he said with a hint of a laugh. “The corpses of pieces that will never be.”
“Maybe you can resurrect them some day,” I suggested.
“Ooo, zombie art,” he said. “I like it. A new genre.”
I laughed and continued on toward a row of easels that were facing the opposite direction. I walked around them and was confronted with a row of nude sketches. The extremely detailed pictures featured both men and women in various positions, most alone but some together, their bodies meshed in different ways. I gasped slightly, more startled than embarrassed.
“Do they make you uncomfortable?” Michael asked.
“No,” I said, shaking my head. “It’s just….” I looked back at the sketches and then at him, “do you use live models?”
“Of course, I do. There’s no better way to learn the human form than to recreate it. It’s the most spectacular of all subjects. No artist can ever create anything as beautiful and meaningful as a human being. Each one is different, completely unique in its details, and yet so similar. It’s like my paintings. At their core, they are all just canvases. All the same. It’s what I do with them, the ways that I enhance and differentiate them, that make them what they are.” He reached forward and took my hands in his. “Come here. Let me show you.”
He guided me to the other side of the room where a section of the floor was covered with a rug and held a wooden chair, an old side table, and several empty crates that created a makeshift sitting area. Michael started to undress me, stopping when I wore only my bra and panties. He stepped back and looked at me, his eyes traveling along my body appreciatively. Taking my hips in his hands, he took me with him as he walked back a few steps to sit in the chair. He touched a kiss to my stomach and then reached behind me to unhook my bra.
The lace fell away and I felt the air against my bare breasts. Michael opened his mouth and covered one of my breasts. His tongue encircled the taut pink nipple and drew it into his mouth so he could suckle me, bringing his hands to my waist to hold me still. My breath caught in my throat and I let my head fall back as I closed my eyes to enjoy more of the sensation. Michael mirrored his attention on that nipple on my other breast, and then let his mouth wander further until it touched the front of my panties. I could feel the warmth of his breath through the lace and a strangled gasp built up in my throat. His teeth grasped the elastic of the waistband. I parted my thighs to allow him to remove the scrap of damp lace and drop it to the floor. Suddenly I was completely naked in front of him and he hadn't even taken off his shoes.
I started to protest, but Michael lifted his eyes to me and shook his head as if he knew exactly what I was thinking.
“This isn’t about me,” he said. “You should appreciate yourself. Every part of you.”
Tightening his grip on my waist, he dipped his head forward to slip his tongue between my thighs. I cried out and grabbed at his shoulders as the tip of his tongue flicked the tip across my swollen, sensitive pearl of flesh.
“You are like a piece of my art. Beautiful. Completely unique. So many details to discover if you simply take the time to find them.”
He drew his tongue along me a few more times in long, tantalizing licks, and then I felt him turn me. He lowered me down to sit on his lap as he eased back to sit on his heels. The denim of his jeans felt soft and worn against my exposed flesh and I wiggled against the ever-hardening swell beneath me.
Michael lifted my arms so that he could drape them back around his neck. For a few seconds, he explored the underside of my arms and the ridges of my ribs with his fingertips. It reminded me of the first night that I was at the retreat and I stood in the cottage, touching my body in much the same way.
“Each of the curves and dips of your body was created for a specific purpose,” he whispered. “There is nothing about you that is accidental. Each hair, each vein is like a brush stroke.”
He slid his hands down my body and onto my legs so that he could gently part my thighs. I allowed him to position my legs so that I straddled him backwards, my legs tucked tightly on either side of him. His mouth came to the curve between my neck and shoulder and he tasted my skin. I felt a shiver ripple across my skin as he brought his hand down the front of my body to my hot core. I moaned at the first intimate touch and lifted my hips to intensify the sensation he was creating.
He slid his other hand up my arms to behind his head so that he gripped my wrists, pinning them together so I was completely at his mercy. He continued to explore my body, letting his fingers follow the dips and curves of my slick folds, showing incredible appreciation for every bit that he discovered. I moaned and rocked against his hand, dropping my head back against his shoulder. Michael turned his head to catch my mouth in a deep kiss, meeting each of my high, nearly frantic sounds with his tongue. He plunged his fingers into me and began to massage deeply.
"Are you ready to explore with me?" he whispered into my ear.
His teeth nipped at my earlobe and I nodded breathlessly. Michael released my wrists and eased me off of my lap. I lowered myself to recline on the floor and watched as he stood, starting to undress. Finally, the last piece of his clothing fell to the ground and I spent a few indulgent moments drinking in every inch of his beautiful, sun-kissed skin. Vibrant tattoos covered nearly his entire back and over both shoulders, spreading down his arms and over his chest. Almost unconsciously, my hand drifted down my stomach toward the wet heat he had created between my thighs.
“Do you like them?” he asked.
I nodded.
“They are one of the ways that I express myself. I’m going to teach you to express yourself.”
I was expecting him to come down onto the floor with me, but instead, he reached his hand down toward me. I put my hand in his and allowed him to pull me up off of the floor. We walked across the open space and around a partially c
ompleted mural into the smaller section of the room that it had created with its presence. What looked like a tremendous piece of canvas was spread across the floor and I noticed small pots of paint positioned around the edge, brushes resting across the open mouths of each.
“What’s this?” I asked.
Michael guided me into the middle of the canvas on the floor. He gestured at the paint.
“I told you that your body is like a piece of art. I’m going to prove that to you.”
“What do you mean?”
“When I create art, I put myself into it. I’m expressing everything that I’m feeling and thinking. You’re going to do the same thing. We are going to create a piece of art together as an expression of what we’re going to experience.”
He walked over to one of the pots of paint and picked up the brush, dipping it into a bright shade of blue. Stepping back up to me, he ran the brush from my shoulder along my arm. The paint was cold and slick, the contrast in temperature creating a shiver through me. When he was finished, he offered the brush to me. I took it and created a blue streak along the center of Michael’s chest. He nodded and picked up another brush, gathering deep purple paint and using it to coat my breasts. Each color that he added to my body broke through the veil of inhibitions that I realized were still in place and made me more and more aware of how my arousal truly existed throughout my entire body.
