1. Becoming His Muse

Transcript

Most days the gallery is dead quiet. I spin around in a $1,400 mid-century modern desk chair, listen to true prime podcasts, and curate online shopping carts I never check out. But not today, because I left my AirPods and laptop at home.

Instead, I'll be installing the new exhibit, A Solo Show. The owners are taking a shot on Guillermo Brick, a 20-something up-and-coming Brooklyn-based painter. Guillermo's signature thing is figurative paintings of soaking wet women.

As far as I can tell, he finds a hot model, dumps a bucket of water on her head, and paints her. The show is imaginatively titled Wet. Congratulations for discovering that a white shirt turns see-through when drenched.

Ooh, how avant-garde. Sorry if I sound salty. I've just dealt with one too many Brooklyn-based trust fund artists to know exactly what to expect.

A guy who thinks drinking black coffee is a personality trait, and that selfish arrogance breeds artistic mystique. Let's just say I'm not surprised when Guillermo pulls up an hour late to unload the paintings. Does he realize the opening is tonight? That him and I are solely responsible for hanging two dozen portraits by 3 p.m.

? Hey. That some of us have bosses to report to? Hi, I'm Guillermo.

Thick, dark eyelashes outline wide, bright blue eyes that meet mine with piercing vulnerability. He's looking into me, not at me. Anna.

We shake hands, or rather, Guillermo takes my hand and holds it in his like we're doing some kind of group meditation. For someone whose work is about to be scrutinized by world-renowned critics in mere hours, Guillermo is disturbingly calm. You're kind of late, or later than I expected, so we're going to have to really- Anna.

Guillermo repeats, slow and deliberate, like he is memorizing a password. I watch his lips, heart-shaped and heavy, move to accommodate the specifications of my name. His mouth is framed by second-day scruff, and a mustache he strokes thoughtfully as he takes his time digesting the full extent of my name.

I'm about to point to the clock and the fact that we really don't have time to write poems about each other's names when- Ugh, torrential downpour. Oh, shit. I, uh, I can't carry pieces from the truck in the rain.

I didn't bring material for waterproof coverings. Of course he didn't. That would have been far too responsible and thoughtful.

I open the weather app. Rain is projected to last 20 minutes. I check the time.

We have four hours. I guess we can wait it out. Are you sure about that projection, Captain Anna? Is he mocking me? The sky goes dark.

We look around the empty gallery. I've removed everything except a small Persian-area rug. Guillermo pulls the rug towards us, takes a seat, and pats the spot beside him.

What's the projected likelihood of me making a joke about a magic carpet ride? Okay, fine. So he is funny.

Very high. I sit. The carpet barely fits us.

The hair of his forearm tickles mine. I mean, we probably can't ride anywhere above midtown if we have any chance of making it back downtown in time. He smells incredible.

Musky sandalwood and eucalyptus. Okay, fine. He's hot.

He's really hot. But you're neglecting to account for the wind speed. Guillermo licks his finger and holds it up as if assessing the breeze.

If I position us to take advantage of these stormy winds, we can go far. Guillermo takes me in, staring at my thighs. His eyes travel up my torso to my sternum, slowly over my cleavage, up my neck, pausing on my lips.

I inadvertently open my mouth. Our faces are unnervingly close. I can feel the heat coming off his body.

In fact, I think we have just enough time to go to that spot you've always wanted to try but never have the time to get to. He blinks, and I notice a fleck of white paint on his eyelid. You've got to just hold still.

I steady his face and pick the paint off. His sharp jawline rests in my hand. His stubble tickles my palm.

I show him the paint on my finger. A bit of paint on your eye. Just a work hazard.

I didn't notice his dimples until now. Hot, artistic, funny, and cute? I wish you had something on your body that I could help take off.

Guillermo's smile is boyish and devious, but his gaze is sincere. I want him to see all of me. He might be an arrogant art boy, but why shouldn't I have a little fun? It's not like I only sleep with good boys.

I'm wearing a silk slip, black with a plunging V-neck, no bra. I smile back and move my finger slowly towards my chest, then down under my dress, wiping the paint from my finger onto the edge of my areola. I think I might have gotten some paint on myself.

Could you help me get it off? Guillermo licks his index finger, slowly dragging it down his tongue. A shiver runs through my body as blood rushes to my pussy.

A slow throbbing starts to build as Guillermo's wet finger nears my chest. I can feel the heat from his hand before he touches me. He brings his face so close to mine, the end of his mustache hairs tickle my nose.

With his hand down my dress, he runs his finger around my nipple, then pulls it out and holds his finger up to fill the half inch of space between our faces. Is this the paint you were referring to? He holds his finger up.

I blow on his finger, sending the paint across the room. No, I don't think you got it all off me yet. You need to check again.

I drop my shoulder, letting the left strap of the dress slip right off. I do the same to the other side, letting my tits out. Guillermo's face immediately finds its place nestled between my breasts.

His thick, wet tongue trails up my décolletage. I throw my head back, right in time for him to trace a line up my neck and then slip his tongue into my open mouth. His hands position my head just where he wants it.

Our heads perfectly interlocked, our tongues intertwining. Our kisses are heavy and sloppy, too full of energy to contain themselves tidily, like we're spilling onto each other and soaking each other in, blood gates opening. I pull away just enough to bite his lower lip and climb on top of him.

Straddling him, I can feel his hard cock against my swollen clit. I rock forward and back, holding onto the crop of curls at the back of his head. You are the perfect canvas.

Guillermo whispers in my ear. He tucks my hair behind my ear to clear away for his tongue to outline the contours of my face, my earlobe, my jawline, back to my lips. His hands are cupping my breasts, squeezing one, then the other, then both simultaneously.

Not mechanical, but rhythmic. There's an internal poetry to his movements. But like I said before, we just don't have time for poetry.

I take Guillermo's hand and place it on my thigh. He brings both hands back up to hold my face an inch from his. No, no, no, no, no.

Can't rush a masterpiece. I want to get each stroke. He slips his thumb into my mouth, and I suck on his finger until it's as wet as my pussy.

I grab his hair again, this time yanking a little in defiance. I am many things. Patient is not one of them.

The rain stops. The sky clears. Getting nailed, we'll have to wait until after we do some actual nailing.

We have a gallery to fill and paintings to hang, but I'll be thinking of something else I want filled by someone I sense is already very well hung. I'll be thinking of something else I sense is already very well hung.