What They Call Sin

by Philippa Grey-Gerou

  She proceeded to give him the grand tour, which included the contents of every drawer and cupboard. “The oils have all mostly dried out, but my watercolors seem to be salvageable. The pens are all hit or miss.” The bathroom included a stand up shower and sink as well as a small linen closet. The kitchenette pantry was bare save for a few cans of soup. “I haven't been here much, so it didn't make sense to keep it stocked.” Up the spiral stairs in the loft was a small office, complete with phone and fax, as well as a small bed and dresser.

  She led him to the railing to look down into the studio. “This was apparently the machine floor for whatever the company was that originally built the place. The floor is six by sixes throughout to support the weight of the machinery. I could do welded sculpture up here and no one in the offices below would even know it. Not that I'd want to.” She turned to lean her back against the railing. “This was the foreman's office. He could sit up here and take care of business while still keeping an eye on the work floor."

  "I must say, pet, this is a pretty amazing place."

  "It's way too big for what I do with it. But Gabriel owned the building already, and I was a sucker for those windows. So when he sold it to some business developer, he stipulated in the contract that this would be mine outright."

  "That must have cost him."

  "Not really. Even with the lost space, he still more than doubled his investment."

  He laid his coat and jacket over the railing. “So. What do we do now?"

  "I want to finish doing the base coat on this canvas. And then I'm going to put my newest model through his paces."

  "What?” He followed her down the stairs. “Now wait just a..."

  She turned and kissed him, a smile on her lips as she slid them over his. He gathered her close and reveled in her, knowing the battle was already lost. But somehow he never minded losing to her.

  Finally she pushed him away, still smiling. “I won't be long.” And she went back to her canvas.

  He watched her work for a few minutes, the wide brush she was using making dark washes of crimson and marigold on the canvas, spritzes of water from a spray bottle helping them to merge without actually blending.

  Eventually he drifted away to the storage cabinets, to the racks where she kept her own work. The stretched canvases showed mostly figurative works, rich in color and detail, but very static. The models were obviously posed, nothing organic or natural to them. While she was good, the subjects all had a two dimensional quality to them, perhaps the source of the Lichtenstein comment in her review. But he had never seen anyone use color the way she did, especially in the watercolors. To him, watercolor always meant wispy paintings of dreary British quaintness. But she brought out jewel-tone depths from the paints that he wouldn't have imagined possible. Her representational skills may need some work, a change that simple life experience may have wrought, but her mastery of pigment was absolute.

  "So, are you ready?” She spoke from behind him, and he turned to find her bouncing up on the balls of her feet, her eyes sparkling in anticipation.

  "What do you want me to do?” He surrendered. There wasn't even any point in pretending to fight this.

  "Nothing difficult, I promise. I don't need a contortionist. Run up and grab your coats while I set up."

  He did as he was told, and when he came back down, she had traded the large rolling cart for a smaller plastic one and a large sketch pad. “Which do you want to do first, suit coat or duster?"

  "Figured you'd want to get me starkers as soon as possible,” he smirked at her.

  She quirked her eyebrow at him. “Don't worry, we'll get there. Here, put on the duster and go stand by the wall."

  He slipped his arms into the coat and moved to stand against the bricks as she shifted her stool and sat down. She opened one of the drawers in the plastic caddy and pulled out several drawing pencils, putting them and a gum eraser on top of the car. She flipped open the pad and looked at him critically.

  He flung his arms wide in a tragic crucifixion pose.

  She laughed in surprise at his silliness. He changed postures, wrapping his arm around his face to peer over it at her in dastardly evil. He vamped and vogued, and she laughed until she almost fell off the stool. “Enough!” she demanded finally. “Just ... lean, will you?"

  "Yes, ma'am.” He grinned and leaned his shoulder against the wall, letting his head turn and tip to rest there as well.

  "That's good, don't move."

  He heard her pencil scratching across paper and let his eyes fall closed.

  He didn't know why he had protested modeling for her. He had done it often enough at Columbia. The crowd he hung with demanded it. He had posed in a myriad of ways and states of dress, even had some of the results back home.

  Maybe it was the fear of getting caught. If he sat for her, there would be documented evidence that they knew each other in more than an impersonal way. He didn't want to make any more trouble for her.

  He was also a little afraid to see what she thought of him. It was the nature of art to draw out the artist's inner feelings regarding their subject. But he and Lindy didn't talk about feelings. It wasn't appropriate, considering what they were doing. He didn't know if he was ready to see hers. Or worse, to see that she didn't have any, that she simply saw him as a model.

  "Could you drop your head?” Her voice startled him. “Maybe support it with your hand?"

  He turned more fully profile and crossed his arms over his chest, resting his forehead on the fingertips of his right hand.

  "That's great.” She turned a page and began sketching again.

  It was a revelation to see her in her own element. He hadn't known she had so much joy in her. He had seen the potential for it, of course. It was part of what drew him to her. But he suddenly saw that this place, this life, her art was where all her potential was realized. Here she had mastery, had knowledge and control. She wasn't afraid to ask for what she wanted, and expected to get it without question. Once again he felt a surge of hatred against Gabriel for taking her out of this life. He would rather she had been left where she was happy, even if it meant he would never have met her.

  He was startled by a sudden flash of light, and looked up to see her with a camera to her face just as she fired the flash again. “Bloody hell, woman!” He blinked and squinted his eyes, trying to clear away the blobs of color that swam in his vision. “Give a bloke some warning, will ya?"

  "Oh, don't be such a baby,” she chided. “I didn't want to lose the detail. Put your head back down."

  "Bossy chit,” he grumbled, but did as she asked. There was another flash, this time accompanied by a whirring sound. He dared a glance to see her pulling film out of a Polaroid camera. She caught his look. “They catch the light differently,” she said, explaining the two cameras. “Plus the whole benefit of instant gratification. I'm done with this, is there anything else you'd like to do?"

  He thought for a minute, then leaned back against the wall, one foot up against the bricks. He crossed his arms over his chest and smirked at her.

  She grinned, raised the camera and shot again.

  "Dammit!"

  "Shut up,” she said good naturedly. She picked up the pad again, her hands flying over the paper to capture his image.

  When she finished, she shifted her position. “Okay, lose the coat and put on your jacket."

  He did as she asked. “Want me to put the tie back on?"

  She tipped her head, studied him up and down for a moment. “On,” she said finally, “but don't tighten it.” He slid the loop of the black silk tie over his head and settled it in place. “Now have a seat on the stairs."

  He sat on the second step, feet flat on the floor, straight and proper.

  She giggled.

  "What?"

  "You look like you're waiting for a bus. I'm trying to capture the essence of you, Michael. Just ... sit there like you would sit there."

  He pulled his feet up onto the bottom step,
resting his forearms across his knees as he leaned forward.

  "That's more like it."

  This time he watched her as she worked.

  Her focus was totally on the page, and on the way her brain translated the images she was receiving through her eyes. Her gaze was unfocused, and he had the feeling that she wasn't really seeing him. After a preliminary study of him, she barely glanced at him, her eyes occasionally flicking up to confirm some detail as her pencil danced across the page. Her hand never stopped moving except to flip the page over, and he was surprised to see she had already used a third of the book.

  "Okay, now lean back."

  She changed pencils and continued on.

  Her focus was incredible. He wasn't sure at this point if he could distract her, had he wanted to. The longer she worked, the more distant she seemed.

  It was interesting giving himself up to her like this, when she had no hesitancy, needed no encouragement from him. He was surprised how much release he found in that, in sacrificing all pride, all vanity, all ego and trusting himself to her artistry. So he surrendered to her, following her curt directions unhesitatingly, sometimes asking for clarification, sometimes teasing her gently.

  She undressed him slowly, pose by pose, but seemed almost unaware of his growing nudity. The jacket, tie and his shoes came off for him to sit with his knees up on the sill of one of the tall arched windows, looking down into the street. His shirt was opened for him to lean against the arm of the sofa, his arms braced on either side. She had him take off the shirt and sit in one of the arm chairs, one leg crossed over the other.

  Finally she tossed the sketch pad aside. “Okay, take off your pants and grab a book off the shelf.” Her voice and expression told him she was still very far away, lost in whatever vision she had that required a naked him and a book. He wondered what it was like in her head, all the color and imagery flowing around for her to gather up and splash on canvas.

  He went to the shelf first and scanned the shelves, looking for something that might suit her purposes. Amongst the art books were various text books, bestsellers and classics, scattered throughout as though all her books from school were just put up on the shelves haphazardly without any consideration for content or application. Maybe they had been.

  He selected one, then set it on the couch to slip out of his slacks, tossing them across the back of the couch, leaving him nude in the middle of the large room.

  He wasn't shy about his body, nor was he uncomfortable being naked. He spent half his time with her in the all together, so it was hardly an unusual state for him. But there was something vaguely erotic about being objectified by his lover like this, and he could feel his body responding to it. He gave his lengthening member a gentle stroke, more as acknowledgement than for any real stimulation, and called to her, “Where do you want me?"

  "Lay down on the rug, like you're reading,” she called back. He settled himself down onto the carpets, opening the book as she returned with two long canvases. One she set up on the easel, the other she leaned against the cart. Then she came over to him. “Here, put these on.” And handed him his glasses.

  He took them in surprise, looking up at her as he unfolded them. “Sure you'll be able to resist me if I do?"

  She smiled vaguely. “Probably not. Do it anyway.” She adjusted his legs so they lay flat, the top one crossed over the bottom. He supported himself on his lower arm, while she bent the top one so that the forearm and hand draped over his lower chest. She moved the open book so it was close to his body, forcing him to hang his head to look at the pages. She stepped back to study him for a moment, then reached down to scrunch her fingers through his hair, releasing his curls from the prison of gel that held it smooth. Then she leaned down and kissed him. Hard. All lips and teeth, grinding and nipping. His free hand curved behind her neck, holding her steady as he returned the kiss with equal ardor. He was about to pull her down on the floor next to him when she pulled away and examined him, running her thumb over his now-swollen lips. “Perfect,” she decided, and stood back up.

  "Lindy,” he groaned.

  "It won't be much longer. Now sit still. And put your arm back where it was."

  "You're trying to kill me, aren't you?” But he did as she asked.

  "Mmm-hmm.” He could tell she was already gone again, picking up the thirty-five millimeter camera to line him up from several angles before popping a couple of Polaroids as well.

  She was more careful with the pencil on the canvas, taking time to capture fine detail, studying shadow and contour more closely. He peered over the top of his frames at her occasionally, but satisfied himself with paging through the book absently.

  He was surprised to feel her warm hands on his face, slipping off the spectacles. She set them on the work table, then went to the wall to turn on the track lights, the small halogens bright in the fading daylight. She adjusted the individual spots until she had him highlighted in bright white light. Then she came back to him. “Lay all the way down,” she said softly, her eyes seeing the picture in her head. She stretched his bottom arm out straight, hand palm up, so he could pillow his head on the bicep. She set his other hand flat on the floor by his throat, allowing his arm to fall across his chest. She copied the posture with his legs, bending the upper one at the knee, setting the foot flat on the floor in front of his other knee, keeping his hips squarely forward. “Is that comfortable? Can you hold that?"

  He nodded. “Yeah, I'm fine."

  "Good. Close your eyes now.” She took up the cameras again, carefully capturing the pose from all angles, front and back. Then she went to her easel and swapped the previous canvas for the other one she had brought. He could feel her studying him intently for long moments before he heard her pencils begin skritching again.

  He should feel exposed, vulnerable, but he didn't. He was hers to shape and mold, as much as he claimed to be shaping her. Lying here under her gaze, shaped to her demands, he found that he was happier than he had been in a very long time. Perhaps since even before Hope. Yes, he shared passion and sensuality with Lindy, but there was also peace, contentment, a quiet sense of companionship. She grounded him, healed him. Completed him in a way he hadn't realized he needed.

  He loved her.

  The realization snatched away his breath, and his eyes flew open.

  She didn't notice, continuing with her sketching, unaware of the radical shift in his world.

  Oh god, no.

  Loving her was the last thing he had intended. What was he supposed to do now? His whole world was thrown into chaos. He felt panic welling up inside him.

  "Roll over on your back now."

  He followed her command automatically, instantly, then cursed himself as he realized just how fully she possessed him.

  What in God's name was he going to do now?

  A soft click of metal drew his attention, and he turned his head to see her slowly unhooking the catches on her overalls to reveal the caption “Artists do it with small strokes” on the t-shirt underneath. Her eyes, still unfocused and slightly distant, never left the image she had created on the canvas as she dropped the overalls to the floor. His breath caught at the sight of her bare legs and the delicate scrap of blue covering the junction of her thighs.

  She pulled the shirt off over her head to reveal her bare breasts, heavy and full, the same warm honey color as the rest of her skin. Her eyes shifted to him as she reached up and unclipped her hair, allowing the chestnut curls to fall across her bare shoulders. He looked into her eyes as his desire for her rose. She looked the way he's imagined someone with second sight might look, as though she saw him, but saw more of him than was reflected in a mirror. Entranced, his panic replaced by fascination, he reached out a hand to touch her magic.

  She slipped the narrow waistband down over her hips and stepped towards him, leaving the panties on the floor behind her. She knelt at his side, one hand resting on his heartbeat as he curled an arm around her waist, his other hand reaching up
to caress her soft cheek. She bent her head and offered her lips to him.

  His mind might be in turmoil over his realization, but his heart had no such problem, accepting the truth as given and throwing itself wholeheartedly into the abyss. His hand slid under the curtain of her hair to draw her closer in a long, slow, patient kiss that expressed the depth of his feeling for her. She stretched her body out next to his, and he shifted her to lay atop him, indulging in the decadent feel of full body contact as their lips and tongues danced in growing eagerness.

  As hard as he was for her, as desperately as he wanted to bury himself deep within her and never come out, this time he was actually not being driven by his dick. His heart had taken control, and used every touch, every kiss, every contact to express the feelings he couldn't give word to. He thought she felt the difference as well, as she was quickly writhing against him, whimpering softly.

  He took her hips in his hands and gently guided her over him, hissing in a breath as she took him in hand to guide him to her center. He almost wept as she slid down around him, enveloping him in her sweet womanhood. He gathered her close, allowing only subtle movements as she rocked back and forth, her head pillowed on his shoulder. Her soft gasps puffed against her shoulder as the intensity within them built, the gentle undulations of their bodies building more fervor than their most aggressive coupling.

  He felt climax crawling down his spine, felt words he dared not say clawing their way up his throat. He slid a hand between them to find her sensitive nub and grind against it firmly as he thrust deeper with each stroke. She lifted her head to meet his gaze, and he saw her eyes were now clear, sharply focused and fully present. “Michael,” she sighed and jerked against him. He felt her clench tightly around him, felt her spasm against his hips, saw her mouth open in a startled “oh” as the unexpectedly powerful climax swept over her.

  He pulled her head back down to his chest, kissing the top of her head as his hips worked in time to the chant screaming in his head. “Love you, love you Lindy, love you so much, god I love you.” His own release seized him moments later, and he buried his face in her hair as he sobbed out her name.