her attention. It was of a woman lying on her back with her eyes closed, knees up and her legs spread wide. A man, she assumed it was Marco, had his face buried between them. His muscled arms came around and his hands seized her breasts while her right hand clutched his head by the hair, holding it to her. Her left hand was stretched out towards Emma and was gripping the bed sheet tightly. There was so much tension in her hands. Even her feet, whichrested lightly on his back, were arched. And the expression on her face, though her eyes were closed, gave the impression that she was reaching out, searching, for release. She seemed just on the knife edge.
Emma remembered that feeling.
Never in her adult life had Emma gone so long without sex. Paul was the last man she had been with. That was back in November. She had stopped wanting. She had stopped playing with herself. She had had no desires. But now the sum total of all of Marco’s sketches was too much for Emma. His scent was all over the divan, the scent which had awakened her as she climbed onto his bike and wrapped her arms around him. She remembered him diving into the water. She saw again his broad chest, his muscled arms, his lean waist. She turned page after page of the sketchbook. So many women. She didn’t doubt what she was seeing. She lifted her hips and opened her jeans. She wriggled them down slightly and began to play with herself.
If Marco returned now he couldn’t deny her. She wouldn’t let him. She knew his truth. These sketches were moments in the life of an attractive artist. His sister was wrong about him. Marcohad lived many years away from home and had had many women. Maybe he was living as a monk now, but he was once a debauchee. Each face was unique, each body beautiful and flawed in its own way. There was nothing left to the imagination. Where some men took photos, Marco sketched. And how much more erotic were these sketches! She turned pages and found more and more. There was a sketch of an orgy. This was too much for Emma. As her eyes darted from scene to scene, from entwined flesh, to ecstatic faces, to a woman with a man’s face between her legs, from a huge cock being sucked, to deep passionate kisses, from a man being fucked in the arse, to a woman being fucked by two men, there was no stopping it, her orgasm came and overwhelmed her.
Marco returned to find Emma on the divan fast asleep. She lay on her stomach, her cheek pressed into a cushion, her hair covering much of her face. She was lying on her hand, and her jeans were slung low, halfway down her bottom. His sketchbook was open on the floor beside her. Miles Davis was oozing out of the stereo; the volume was still turned down low.
Marco, noting the page, closed the sketchbook and picked it up, flinging it onto the chest. Taking the bottle of wine in his hand he walked back beyond the easels and stood there. He was staring at the woman on his divan. He popped the cork out of the bottle with his thumb and downed the little Emma had left him. He was shaking his head and muttering to himself, his eyes fixed on the flesh of her bottom. He reached out and traced a line or two on the covered canvas closest to him. He felt himself go hard. No, no, no, no, no, he repeated softly. He took a few steps towards Emma. Bellissima , he whispered. He shook his head more energetically and went back to the door, his hand on the latch.
Near the door there was a low bench with cupboard space below. With his hand still on the latch Marco knocked one of the cupboards doors with his foot. The door swung open revealing a bright red metal toolbox. He glanced back at Emma. A canvas hid her from view. He rested his forehead on the door and slowly and softly tapped his head against the wood. He reached down and lifted the box onto the bench. Flipping open the lid he lifted the tray out and carried it to where Emma lay. It contained ink pens, pencils and charcoal pieces.
He sat on the edge of the chest,
Emma remembered that feeling.
Never in her adult life had Emma gone so long without sex. Paul was the last man she had been with. That was back in November. She had stopped wanting. She had stopped playing with herself. She had had no desires. But now the sum total of all of Marco’s sketches was too much for Emma. His scent was all over the divan, the scent which had awakened her as she climbed onto his bike and wrapped her arms around him. She remembered him diving into the water. She saw again his broad chest, his muscled arms, his lean waist. She turned page after page of the sketchbook. So many women. She didn’t doubt what she was seeing. She lifted her hips and opened her jeans. She wriggled them down slightly and began to play with herself.
If Marco returned now he couldn’t deny her. She wouldn’t let him. She knew his truth. These sketches were moments in the life of an attractive artist. His sister was wrong about him. Marcohad lived many years away from home and had had many women. Maybe he was living as a monk now, but he was once a debauchee. Each face was unique, each body beautiful and flawed in its own way. There was nothing left to the imagination. Where some men took photos, Marco sketched. And how much more erotic were these sketches! She turned pages and found more and more. There was a sketch of an orgy. This was too much for Emma. As her eyes darted from scene to scene, from entwined flesh, to ecstatic faces, to a woman with a man’s face between her legs, from a huge cock being sucked, to deep passionate kisses, from a man being fucked in the arse, to a woman being fucked by two men, there was no stopping it, her orgasm came and overwhelmed her.
Marco returned to find Emma on the divan fast asleep. She lay on her stomach, her cheek pressed into a cushion, her hair covering much of her face. She was lying on her hand, and her jeans were slung low, halfway down her bottom. His sketchbook was open on the floor beside her. Miles Davis was oozing out of the stereo; the volume was still turned down low.
Marco, noting the page, closed the sketchbook and picked it up, flinging it onto the chest. Taking the bottle of wine in his hand he walked back beyond the easels and stood there. He was staring at the woman on his divan. He popped the cork out of the bottle with his thumb and downed the little Emma had left him. He was shaking his head and muttering to himself, his eyes fixed on the flesh of her bottom. He reached out and traced a line or two on the covered canvas closest to him. He felt himself go hard. No, no, no, no, no, he repeated softly. He took a few steps towards Emma. Bellissima , he whispered. He shook his head more energetically and went back to the door, his hand on the latch.
Near the door there was a low bench with cupboard space below. With his hand still on the latch Marco knocked one of the cupboards doors with his foot. The door swung open revealing a bright red metal toolbox. He glanced back at Emma. A canvas hid her from view. He rested his forehead on the door and slowly and softly tapped his head against the wood. He reached down and lifted the box onto the bench. Flipping open the lid he lifted the tray out and carried it to where Emma lay. It contained ink pens, pencils and charcoal pieces.
He sat on the edge of the chest,
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