“I am an artist, Flower. I create art in many different forms. As you know, there are different kinds of portraits one could make, and in the masterpieces we create today, I want to be able to be a part of that experience with you.”
He walked over to me slowly, his eyes darkening as he gazed up at me from head to toe. I wanted to avoid his piercing eyes as they began to narrow in on me, but I couldn’t.
“You know what to do, Flower...” My mouth went dry at the low tone in his voice. “Or do you need me tosay it?”
I gulped softly, my thighs tightening. I was almost excited to hear him say the word that had complete control over me.
As he looked down at me, he slowly ran his hand down the middle of my chest. My breath hitched as my body shuddered under his touch. It seemed to feed his ego as a rather satisfied look appeared in his eyes at my now natural reaction to his touch.
Leaning down, he spoke in a voice just above a whisper, ultimately putting me under his dark spell.
“Strip.”
Slowly, my hand found the bottom of my shirt, and I brought it over my head, never breaking eye contact. He grabbed the shirt from my hand, and I easily slipped off my wedding ring. His hand rose to stop me from going any further, and I was left only in my black bra and jeans.
Gesturing for me to sit, I watched him cautiously as he walked over to me with a paintbrush and a bucket of what looked like white washable paint. He bent down, and slowly, he painted my upper body with random but calculated brush strokes. The paint was cold against my hot skin as I watched him create his vision.
By the time he was done, I wasn’t completely covered: it had almost seemed like he was trying to emulate an unfinished painting on my skin.
After placing the utensils down, he fixed my hair the way he wanted.
“What are you going to do when the art exhibit is over?” I asked him softly.
He moved my arms. One was placed across my chest holding my opposite shoulder, the other hand placed between my legs on the stool.
“I’ll continue doing what I’ve always done: create art.”
“You wouldn’t think to continue doing more exhibits?”
His eyes found mine as he grabbed my chin and tilted my head back to where he wanted it. He then looked away as he walked behind the camera.
“There wouldn’t be a point. I don’t care for fame or recognition, no matter how good my art seems to be. Now, stay still.”
I focused my eyes on the camera lens as he took his first few shots. He pulled back after a moment, and he came over to me once again, positioning my hair again.
“Your art is one of a kind, you know? It should be appreciated and not stored away. I think it deserves recognition and praise for how hard you work on it…”
A small blush climbed my neck.
“I know you do… Head straight, eyes to the right.”
I followed his direction as he went back to the camera and took a few more pictures. After he fixed me in more positions and took a few more photos, he allowed me to relax as he spent the next five minutes going through the photos and editing them briefly with the few settings he had on his camera. Soon, he walked over to me, and when I saw the photos, I was thoroughly surprised at how good they looked.
“I’m going for a monochrome, slightly abstract tone with these,” he murmured, adjusting the camera settings as his eyes flicked over the image on the screen. “The contrast with your skin against the black, the white paint strokes across your body, it’s like capturing something half-finished. Something… caught in the middle. Delicate but unyielding. Light in the shadow.”
He seemed utterly fixated as he glanced through the photos, his mind analyzing the photo almost like it had spoken to him itself.
“The black and white will strip away everything unnecessary,” he continued, voice much lower and softer. “No distractions. No color to hide behind. Just form. Texture. Emotion. I could keep them like this. Raw, untouched—but for now… this is where we are.”
There was an unspoken weight behind his words, the way he lingered a second too long, lifting his eyes to find mine as I swallowed softly. He wasn’t just talking about the art.
He was talking about us.
“They’re beautiful,” I whispered, but he didn’t respond. Instead, he walked back over to the camera, adjusting the settings with careful precision.
I watched him silently, perched on the stool, my body still captured in the moment he’d created as he walked around to adjust the background again.
Then, without warning, he pulled his shirt over his head before he tossed it to the ground.
