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Before I start, I glance at the sketches to my left. They are of Katherine.
My Katherine.
I like thinking of her in terms of mine. She is mine. I know it.
My lips curl into a smile and tiny butterfly seems to be slowly flying through my innards.
Katherine.
Eight letters. Just thinking about her drives me insane. I’m not sure what it is about the woman that I can’t help but have this frenzied desire well up in me every time I think of her.
Almost involuntarily, guided by my artistic spirit, white fades into an explosion of colors as I finally start another masterpiece.
From time to time I pause, stare at my creation as it takes shape, before I continue. Boy this feels good.
After about an hour, I stop. My neck is aching and I need coffee. As I walk into the kitchen I perform a few stretches. Left right, back and forth. I feel the tension release.
Sometimes I can get carried away for hours in my work and afterwards find my muscles seize up. Over the years, I have learned to take little breaks from time to time to loosen everything up.
Katherine sure knows how to loosen me up. I grin. Everything seems to be about her now.
I love painting. I love it nearly more than sex. At least until the other day, before Katherine and I –
I try and stop the thought process.
If I start thinking about Katherine in the nude I doubt I will get back to my artwork.
As I watch the rich, black liquid spill into my cup, I allow myself a little frolic.
The image of Katherine pressed against the kitchen bench is too strong to push away. Her breasts right in my face, her nipples so pink and hard, begging to be sucked and pinched.
I almost jump when the machine makes its familiar burping sound to indicate the process of making coffee is over.
If I did not know better, I’d say the woman is a witch. Only a witch would have such strong powers over me.
Cup in hand, I drift back to my studio.
I can’t afford to daydream all day. Besides, what’s the point about of simply dreaming of having sex with Katherine? It would be far better to have her here and actually do it with her.
Before I go back to painting, I pick up a couple of the sketches I have made of her.
My brow furrows as I examine them.
I’m not happy with them, not at all.
Sure, they are technically correct. A lot of other artists would be envious of the near-perfect likeness of my subject; but not I. I know it is Katherine because I have drawn her but at the same time it isn’t her.
For some reason I can’t quite capture the little quirky manners she has that make her so special, so deliciously unique.
I picture her nose wrinkle ever so slightly when she takes a sip of coffee. I doubt she’s even aware of it. But I love it. Every time I watch her do it, I feel like grabbing her there and then and putting my dick into her.
Not to mention the way her eyes widen in total innocence when she looks at my paintings. Her pleasure in what she is looking at is so sincere it hurts right in my gut.
Part of me still cannot believe she posed for me, in the nude.
I have painted plenty of nudes, some of them of exotic beauty, but I have never had a problem keeping sex out of my work, not until I met Katherine.
Painting her in the nude has been my biggest challenge. The woman oozes sex appeal and does not even know it. And that’s just a tiny fraction of it; it goes beyond the sex. There’s a certain innocent rawness to her, and I somehow managed to capture that while she slept.
