“Close your eyes, let your passion guide you…”

My dear Ernst, how I always look back in fondness of him. Ernst was a painter and artist who tried in vain to gain recognition in the world of creatives.

We first met at a soiree hosted by a mutual friend, whereby Ernst had been spotted as an up and coming star of the art world. I was quite taken with his vociferous passion as he spoke about his work. He asked if I would model for him, naturally I accepted this offer, for there is nothing nicer than drinking in the passion of youth, (And this was naturally what I intended to do.)

I arrived at his home on time, and was graciously let in and met with a warm smile. He took me through to his painting quarters. A sparse and small space with a stool, a very large pile of cushions  and various swathes of material. “Thank you Madame, for agreeing to sit for me.” His enthusiasm knew no bounds. “You are quite welcome.” I smiled, knowingly. “How do you wish to pose me?” I fought back the side smirk that I could feel creeping into the corners of my mouth. “Ah well, I was thinking about possibly have you reclining if you would be comfortable with that?”, “Of course” I answered as solemnly as I possibly could.

He coyly passed me a robe and guided me to a screen where I could change. I toyed with the idea of walking out without the robe brazenly to impress upon him, but decided against it. After all there is more fun in lengthening the game.

For the first few sittings I behaved as well as I could, observing the young painter who seemed frustrated, (It was etched through his face and brush strokes). By the third sitting Ernst exploded. “It is pointless!” he erupted, throwing his paint brush and knocking over the easel panting in anger with himself. I sat up and looked at him. “What is wrong?” He slumped down into a nearby chair and clutched at his head. “Everything, no matter what I do I am not capturing your essence Madame.”

At this point I rose to my feet and removed the hair stick that held my hair in place and let it tumble-down my shoulders in raven rivers. Ernst looked up at me as I walked over to him and then knelt in front of him. “You try to hard”, I answered. Ernst looked at me puzzled, “What do you mean exactly?” he asked. “Your not letting your soul guide you..” I picked up one of the paint brushes and handed it to him. “Try again”, I smiled at him. This time let your sense guide you. I placed my hand over his that clutched at the brush and moved his hand to my chest, guiding it downwards between my bare breasts. He looked at me in wonder and confusion, as I moved the hand holding the brush back to the paint. Bewitched and entranced, I let go of his hand and he began to paint me.

Our sessions improved greatly after this, Ernst would have me pose and pick up his brush and start to paint my body. His brushstrokes would sensually glide over each curve of my body. He would contour my breasts, my hips, my thighs with feather like strokes. Spending careful time on the smallest details such as my nipples. Until one day when he made the decision to put the brush down and instead paint with his hands and fingertips.

The slick of his oil paints and the warmth of his hands were quite beautiful. Not once did he act inappropriately (That is, for a man who would touch me as intimately as he did.) But the care he put into his work became exceptional. he would begin each session painting me, but afterwards he would use what he had learnt through touch to transfer onto canvas, and his work after that became almost ethereal in quality. It was only then that I stopped sitting for Ernst, He had learnt his lesson and now was able to walk proudly amongst his peers.

And what did I gain from this encounter?

Why a favour of course. One of which I shall call upon when required.

Madame X

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