The Canvas

The morning fog has been burned off by the warmth of the April sun which now fills the loft with a diffused light There are, as yet, no shadows. It is perfect painting time. He stands there in front of the easel, brush in hand staring at the painting. This painting is for his love; of her, seen through love's eye and crafted with a lover's touch.

A nude, lying on mussed silken sheets of a Victorian canopied bed. The sheets match the deep forest green of the canopy and are finished. The silken sheen so real he can almost feel it. She is just etched in as yet. A vague shape thus far, but he can see the curve of an arm extended beyond her head, her coltish legs splayed in abandon. Her head is thrown back, pillowed by the mass of her red-gold hair so vibrant against the deep green of the pillows piled beneath her head. Her expression still to be painted in, her eyes, possibly shut, but he knows they are new-leaf green: for what else could they possibly be. He has seen them change color with her moods, has imagined them caught in the moments just before waking, when she drifts in the caress of a lovely dream.

She stirs, still deeply asleep, bringing an arm above her head where it rests near the carved mahogany post of the ancient four poster bed. Restless sleep, perhaps....or....or...something else has caused her to kick the top sheet down into a verdant puddle at her feet. Her long mane of russet curls pillows her head, entwines around a wrist as she sleeps on.

The artist reaches for new oils to add to his palette: corals, pinks, a bit of peach, a touch of magenta, a soft rose, a dab of white. He thoughtfully mixes his colors achieving the distinct hues he envisions in his mind. The breast begins to form, first in his mind's eye and then on the canvas. A darker peach where her one breast rests on her arm, lighter on the swell then blending to a darker hue, more of a pink on the other breast. He changes brushes as he dabs in the corals and magentas forming a nipple. One that might have sprung to the gentle touch of a lover's kiss or of fingers brushing it to wakefulness; at once alert and sensitive to its surroundings though she still sleeps. A few brush strokes and the other nipple comes into being. He frowns. Taking up the palette knife he gently scrapes away where there is just a bit too much paint; creating a sharper edge, defining and giving depth to his artwork.

She takes a deeper breath. Her breasts move as she breathes; her nipples ripen, turn rosy as they visibly grow and become taut as if straining for a touch. A quick intake of breath and she arches her back slightly, as if some unseen hand or her dream lover has taken a nipple between forefinger and thumb and tweaked it suddenly.

He fills in the planes of her stomach, working now in varying shades of peach; pinking then fading to white on her belly He creates deeper hues in the swirl of her navel. He shadows her ribs, beneath her jaw and the curl of her ear. Inspired, the artist paints in a curl, then another, vibrant against the pallor of her throat. He mixes paint hues touching his brush gently to his pallet before adding a hint of a blush to her cheeks, then deepening the fullness of her bottom lip that seems to almost, to just barely hint at a smile.

She stretches catlike in her slumber then taking in a deeper breath. A slight shiver curses through her body as if unseen fingers brushed along her ribs, lightly traced her jaw. She settles, then snuggles deeper into her dream; a faint smile gracing her wine red lips.

Mimicking the tresses that curl in halo-ed abandon around her head, he paints in twirls and curls on her pubic mound using a fine camel's hair brush twisted in the paint resembling the sharp point of a feathered quill. His delicate tracings, applying such attention to detail. It is a labor of love, a tribute to her beauty, as he paints one hair at a time. It is as if he is forcing himself to wait. Changing brushes now for one with shorter, soft smudging, once more he mixes magentas into a darker hue. He adds thinner for extra moisture as he carefully creates the rose petals of her womanhood; the delicate folds, the petaled softness just hinting at her pleasure center peeking out from under the darker rosed hood.

Her dream deepens. Her legs spread further apart as she dreams of his touch She dreams of his tongue swirling around the very core of her being, teasing, now coaxing as his teeth nibbling at her bud of pleasure, as his fingers spread her wide--wider yet. His tongue lapping as her nectar pours forth as his fingers push deep within her, all the while moving back and forth. Repeatedly he moves, bring her almost to the brink again and again until he brushes against that magical place Finding it, he presses hard as his tongue dances that fiery dance. Her orgasm erupts in a whirl as her world dissolves into an array of pure color and he drinks deeply of her essence.

He stares at the painting and watches. His eyes deepen. The artist is mystified as iridescent drops of moisture appear; pearlescent droplets of dew on the part of the painting he'd just perfected. He stands there amazed at the colors no brush ever portrayed before: his painting complete with a living essence--so real, so perfectly true.

"Hey honey! Wake up...you've GOT to see this—"

He runs into their bedroom and stops dead in his tracks. He stands there, then sinks to his knees at the edge of the bed staring at the swirls of paint soaking into the sheets.