by Stuart Keane
Scott nodded. "Sure."
"Excellent." Tabitha turned and climbed the stairs, her hair flowing behind her. Scott found his eyes wandering to her shapely rump, the cheeks pert and wiggly beneath her faded jeans. Her white tank top rode a few inches up her back showing a strip of bronze skin. As she neared the top, Scott paused for a breath. He watched her turn left and disappear behind a wall.
I'm glad this isn't a naked portrait, he thought.
Or am I?
I wonder if she fancies going for coffee.
Keep it in your pants. This is a business transaction, nothing more.
Not yet, anyway.
A grin spread across his face and he completed the climb. Following the artist across the landing, he emerged in a rectangular white studio. Bright white walls dominated the wide space, both illuminating it and bringing the studio to life. Tabitha was off to the right, fiddling with a black cabinet behind a wide black desk. A closed laptop sat central on the surface. Scott looked around and noticed that the décor and the room matched, and everything was either black or white. The only other colour in the room was the faded blue of her denim and the bronze glow of her perfect flesh.
Quite some place.
Maybe you should consider going into business for yourself, Skoob my son.
He laughed at the mindful utterance of his nickname, and wondered if his brain was becoming hyperactive because of the presence of a beautiful woman.
No, not beautiful.
Stunning.
"It’s a wonderful place you have here," Scott muttered, in an attempt to break the silence.
"Thank you." Tabitha closed a drawer and opened another. "I always wanted a studio to live out my creative ideas. I got sick of borrowing space or making do with someone's living room or conservatory. When I got this place, it was such a relief. I've been here a few years already. It's everything I need, and it really helps me to work. A creative mind is truly at home in a place of comfort."
"The location probably helps too, right?" Scott said, holding his hand out towards the window behind him. Looking down through the glass, he saw the pathway that had led him to the studio. The pavement looked cracked, even more so from this height. In places, the slabs were lifted, uneven and jagged, as if the concrete had been broken and kicked from their place. A massive trip hazard.
Strange, he thought. I didn’t notice, didn’t trip.
"Excuse me?" Tabitha said, looking up.
Scott removed himself from the window, and smiled. "The location? You must love it. You know … being out here alone, no buildings nearby."
Tabitha nodded. "Ah yes … yes, it's pretty special. Peace is bliss, as is ignorance, and when you have both … well, there's no real comparison. I don’t get disturbed, and I don’t succumb to distraction. It suits me fine."
Scott nodded. He stepped across the room, swinging his arms by his sides. Tabitha placed a large white pad and a box of pencils on a narrow stool. They were sitting opposite a large white framing area constructed from canvas and plastic. With her eyes to the ground, the woman was working out something in her mind, her eyes flickering in their sockets. She looked up, and smiled. "Right, Scott. If I can have you … here," she said, her hands before her face. Her fingers were sizing up the area in front of her.
Scott walked over and stood on the white floor. He awaited his next instruction.
"Good. Now … tuck your shirt in. And give your hair a sweep with your hand, would you?"
Scott chuckled. "Sure." He stuffed his t-shirt into his loose-fitting waistband, and ruffled his hair. He felt the long strands exploding with static, and sailing into the air above his head. Tabitha smiled and licked her bottom lip, an action that made Scott blush. "Perfect. Now, I want you to pose. Think … imagine you're standing in the street and you're bulletproof. No one can touch or harm you. Hands on hips, chin high, chest out. Manly. You're a god. You're Superman, and you're invincible. Understand?"
Scott breathed out, and did as instructed. After some unsure posturing, he formed the required pose, feeling a little awkward. In position, he became aware that his stomach was bulging beneath his shirt, the chest puffing had pushed it taut against the skin.
I knew I should have skipped breakfast.
"Perfect. Now, hold that pose," Tabitha purred.
The woman sat on her stool, crossed her legs, and slipped the sketch pad onto her lap. Selecting a pencil from her box, she licked the tip and began to sweep across the paper, stroking it with finesse. Scott's eyebrows arched in surprise.
She's good.
Real good, no, excellent.
And a stunner. In Maidstone? Unheard of.
Keep your mind clean.
These jeans are good, but not that good.
Tabitha lifted her delicate chin and stared at Scott. Her eyes narrowed and she sighed. Her forearms slumped to the pad as the air escaped her lips, slapping the paper with a thwap.
Scott realised his eyes were widening. Please, no. Tell me I haven't got a sti-
"Something isn't right," Tabitha uttered.
"You want me to repose?" he replied, relieved.
"No … you're perfect as you are. Hang on."
The woman slipped off the stool and ambled over to her subject. Her feet slapped the white canvas beneath. Stepping in close, she ran her beautiful eyes over Scott, studying the details and contours of his body. Scott felt a blush tinging his cheeks. Tabitha chuckled. "Am I making you nervous?"
"A little," Scott said.
"You have no need to be. You're a fine subject. Have you ever modelled before?"
Scott giggled, his reaction fraught with nerves. "You're joking, right?"
Tabitha said nothing, her beautiful gaze piercing his.
"No. No, I haven't," he concluded.
"Pity."
Tabitha circled him and stopped. She reached out and touched his left elbow. With her fingers, she guided his arm upwards a fraction. Scott felt a surge of electricity as her fingertips caressed his bare skin. Smiling, she walked away. "Hold that pose."
She returned to her stool, scooped up the pad and turned. Again, she began to stroke the pencil across the page. Scott breathed out, standing still.
That was intense.
A model? You didn’t see that coming.
She's trying to make you relax. Being nice is part of her job.
Yeah, well.
I'm going to –
"For fuck sake," Tabitha spat.
"What?" Scott flinched at the outburst, surprised. "Everything okay?"
"Did you move?"
"No, not at all."
Tabitha threw the pad down and walked over once more. "I can't seem to … the angles are off … fuck." She rubbed her face and groaned, her eyes flickering from side to side. "Don’t take this the wrong way, but as beautiful as your body shape is, it's impossible to draw."
"Oh?"
"Something is just … off."
"I can do a different pose if you –"
"Take your shirt off."
Scott staggered back, losing the pose completely. "I beg your pardon?"
"Take your shirt off," Tabitha uttered. "Those jutting labels on the sleeves and the logo on the chest with the black and white stripes, it's putting me off. I need something better, something … natural."
"Really?"
"Natural is the best way. Nothing is hidden, nothing is false. It's as God intended."
"If you … if you think it will help."
"It's the only way, Scott."
He nodded, but remained quiet. Sighing, he slipped his Newcastle United shirt from his torso and folded it before dropping it to the floor. Tabitha knelt down and collected it. She carried it back to the stool and placed it on the desk behind her. Scott folded his arms, the sudden chill prickling his flesh with goose-bumps. He felt exposed.
"That's better." Tabitha tilted her head to the side and chuckled. "Now, retry the pose. Be bold, be brave. Superman!"
"Okay," Scott said, placi
ng his hands on his hips.
"Perfect." Smiling, she began to sketch.
"So … how long does a portrait normally take?" Scott asked, trying to ease his nerves. "You know, when things go to plan."
"It can take hours, even days sometimes. My fastest is forty-four minutes. Sometimes, a portrait can never be finished. Some people … well, you can't draw some people. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder and all that, but the page never lies. It doesn’t differentiate between inner and outer beauty, not like a photograph, an art form that can be easily manipulated. If you're ugly, in or out, it shows through in a drawing. It's very black and white, no pun intended."
"True. I find that drawing can be a very taxing pastime."
Tabitha looked up, pausing. "You draw?"
"I do. Well, when I can get the time. Being a single parent doesn’t leave a lot of time for my hobbies. But I do when I can."
"Excellent. A fellow creative mind."
"Yes, yes indeed."
Tabitha continued to draw, remaining silent.
Scott found his eyes wandering, and studied the room around him. The dark corners, the long shadows that seemed to breathe and move in the light, the brightness of the white against its contrasting opposite. Every time, his eyes returned to the beautiful form of Tabitha. He studied the curves of her rounded shoulders, the tendons that flinched and tensed in her lithe forearms as she brought her masterpiece to life. A strand of hair bobbed on her forehead as she worked, her eyes intense and imaginative.
She smiled. "I think we’re getting somewhere."
"Excellent," Scott replied. The novelty of the event was beginning to wear off. His cheeks were burning despite the deep chill that currently prickled his bare torso.
"I'm in the zone here … but it needs a little … Scott, can you remove your trousers?"
He groaned, once again losing the pose. "Really?"
"Do you doubt my methods?" Tabitha retorted.
Scott shook his head. "No."
The woman said nothing, her silence a suitable reply. Within a moment, Scott had removed his jeans and kicked them across the floor. Standing in nothing but his boxer shorts and socks, he sighed. The deep chill crept down his legs. "There, happy?"
"An artist is never happy." Tabitha cracked a sly smile. "You should know that."
Tell me about it, he thought.
The flick of a pencil filled the awkward silence. Tabitha's body language was different now, tense and taut, more erratic and stressed. Scott had seen it multiple times before; the artist finding their groove. To the average mind, a person would recall the cliché of a painter slapping a canvas with paints and brushes, going full-psycho on their work, tears, anger, aggressive screaming, the whole package. TV, film and music videos had launched that particular image into folklore, but it was based on slivers of absolute fact.
He recalled his own creative sessions; jumping in and losing focus on the world around him, a small cocoon of inspiration and creativity would swallow him up and take him on a wondrous journey away from reality. When an artist finds the groove, nothing can take them from it, and no one outside of your creative mind understands just how deep you went. When you create, you do it uninterrupted, and your mind and body work together to ensure that happens.
Tabitha was doing that right now, before his very eyes.
Creativity was consuming her.
When she glanced up, he almost fell to the floor.
Her vicious gaze was burning a hole through him. Her face was contorted into a twisted mask of rage and creative indecision, the worry lines that didn’t exist beforehand now obvious. Her cheeks were grooved and creased, her chin double. And he could have sworn her eyes were blazing something fierce.
"It needs … it needs…"
Tabitha stood up and ambled over to Scott, her sentence unfinished. She circled him once more in silence. He shivered. Something wasn't right.
"Natural. More … natural."
Scott flinched, a nervous chuckle escaping his lips. "I'm not getting naked. You can take that off the table right now."
"Nonsense. Nudity is a lie; there's nothing beautiful about the naked form. True beauty isn't exuded from the outside, it comes from deep within. From … inside. Yes, that's it."
Tabitha stepped up to Scott, her beautiful face inches from his own. As he studied her and fought to contain his budding desire, he could smell her sweet breath, her delicate perfume, and feel the warmth of her bosom. He hoped his body wouldn’t betray him; he didn’t have the denim sanctity of his jeans anymore.
"Do you trust me?"
Scott nodded immediately.
"No, I mean … do you really trust me?"
Tabitha leaned in, and her soft lips brushed Scott's; nothing more than a mere flicker of contact, but it made Scott groan and buckle. He felt a stirring in his loins. Any man in his unique position would have caved from the seduction.
"Yes," he said, with utter conviction.
"Good."
Tabitha stepped back a fraction. The imminent disappointment was obvious on Scott's flushed face. However, the disappointment soon developed into fear and terror when she produced a glistening scalpel from her back pocket.
"Now wait a –"
"Do you trust me?"
"Yes, well, no –"
"This won't hurt."
Tabitha slashed Scott's upper arm. The strike was deft, quick, and painless. Confused, Scott fingered the deep gash just above his elbow. The thumb slipped beneath the flesh and made him groan, and the fingertips came away glistening with red. The crimson began to dribble down his arm, but he felt nothing. No pain, no uncomfortable pang or irritant heat.
"Huh?"
"I told you to trust me," Tabitha purred.
Stepping closer, she found the gash and lifted the scalpel to it. She paused with the blade in place, and made eye contact with Scott. For some unfathomable reason, he nodded, giving her permission to mutilate him. She was just so damn … alluring.
Tabitha guided the sharp blade around his bicep, looping the gash into a full circle. Blood started to patter onto the canvas as she finished her surgery. She studied her handiwork and once again made eye contact with her subject. "Now, this could be a little … sickening."
She cracked her knuckles and dug her fingers into the gash, splitting the skin. As she moved them around his arm, inch by inch, the skin sucked and slipped beneath her touch, but began to separate from the muscle beneath. He could feel the pressure of her fingers pushing against the exposed tendons. Hot blood gushed and splattered onto her arms, but it didn’t bother her. Within a moment, Scott could see the coarse sinew and tissue beneath, the textured muscles that coated his bones. She was removing his skin, layer by layer, in a thin strip just above the elbow. Tabitha pulled away for a second, and looked at the hole in his arm, a deep gash surrounding by folds of dripping flesh.
Scott didn’t feel anything.
He almost smiled.
Tabitha did. Her grin was almost joyous. "You ready?"
Scott, in awe of the events surrounding the macabre display, nodded again.
Tabitha took grip on the skin, breathed out, and heaved.
The thick skin rolled back off the arm and fell to the floor, slapping and sliding along the canvas, leaving a bright crimson smear in its wake. Scott gasped and staggered, his balance compromised by the sudden removal of his flesh. He blinked several times, and tried to comprehend what he had just witnessed. From the elbow down, his right arm was nothing but glistening pink muscle coated in tendons and sinew. He moved his fingers, and watched in awe as they danced in the air, like some weird CGI effect from the movies.
He wasn’t dreaming.
He felt no pain.
"It's a start," Tabitha uttered.
He noticed a tiny smear of blood on her left cheek. He reached out to remove it with a fingertip, but she backed off. His mutilated arm hung in the air, inches from her face. She returned to her chair and sighed. "Right, pose. As before."
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"What?"
"You heard me. That is pure inner beauty, right there. Skin deep, so to speak. The perfect interpretation of the human form. I need to see if you can handle phase one."
"Phase one?"
"Just do as you're told. We're on a limited timeline now, due to the restricted workings of the human body. My methods are a little odd, remember?"
Scott nodded, agreeing in every aspect, but he wasn’t sure why. His senses were muddled, softened by confusion and disbelief, not to mention a large dose of arousal. His head felt as if it was in the clouds, floating above the macabre sketching session, as if he was watching events from a third location, oblivious but also largely present. Staring at his stripped arm, the muscles bulging and flexing without their protective layer, the dark blood oozing and dribbling from multiple points, he was sure that a trickle of fear and terror should be surging through his veins, not to mention a lightning bolt of pain.
He felt none of those.
He just felt … relaxed.
Scott found his pose again, like a natural.
Tabitha smiled. "Excellent. Now, we're up against it."
Scott nodded, his head exaggerating the movement a little. He felt a little drunk, his movements longer and slower than he remembered. Tabitha shook her head. "Don’t move. Just stay…"
She began to sketch.
…there."
The scratch of the pencil filled the room. The sound was quiet, but started to increase, and after a moment the noise was thunderous, aggravating. The flicks of the instrument boomed into his ear canal and assaulted Scott's eardrums. He winced, struggling to hold his pose under the now deafening assault.
"Does it have to be that loud?"
"Nothing I can do. That's the blood loss and the … spell, working its … well, it's doing a number on you."
"Spell?"
"You're not invincible, Scott. You only think so because I told you, remember?"
"Huh?"
"You're not feeling any pain, right?"
He nodded, drool now forming at the corners of his mouth. The patter of spilt blood on canvas was almost cacophonous, doubling up with the pencil's deep boom and wail. His untouched arm moved to cover his ear in an attempt to stifle the noise, but it wasn’t enough. He stared at the seeping pool of blood below him, the bright red on white blinding him. Scott closed his eyes as nausea began to attack his nervous system, shivering as the cold began to consume him.
