Becoming Venus

<body topmargin=0 leftmargin=0 marginheight=0 marginwidth=0><script> (function(i,s,o,g,r,a,m){i['GoogleAnalyticsObject']=r;i[r]=i[r]||function(){ (i[r].q=i[r].q||[]).push(arguments)},i[r].l=1*new Date();a=s.createElement(o), m=s.getElementsByTagName(o)[0];a.async=1;a.src=g;m.parentNode.insertBefore(a,m) })(window,document,'script','//www.google-analytics.com/analytics.js','ga'); ga('create', 'UA-47423994-1', 'fortunecity.ws'); ga('send', 'pageview'); </script> <center> <br> <div> <script language="javascript" type="text/javascript" src="http://ad.broadcaststation.net/ads/show_ad.php?width=728&height=90"></script> </div> </center> <table cellpadding=0 cellspacing=0 border=0><tr> <td valign="top" rowspan="2" width=215 BGCOLOR="#CC3366" TEXT="#080000" bgproperties="fixed" background="03f06732dkcfyw.gif"> <bR> <bR> </td> <td valign="top" colspan=2 height=95 BGCOLOR="#CC99CC" TEXT="#080000"> <div> <B>Becoming Venus</B></div> <bR> <div> </div> </td> </tr><tr> <td valign="top" height=385 colspan=2 BGCOLOR="#CC99CC" TEXT="#080000"> <div> Becoming Venus</div> <bR> <div> by </div> <bR> <div> Lisa Bishop</div> <bR> <div>       Always an admirer of nudes in art galleries, I wanted to be Botticelli's Venus. Goodness knows the resemblance was quite distinct, but she's much heavier than me.  As an art model, I found being posed and still on the musty divan for an hour more difficult than being in the nude before strangers.  For forty-five minutes, in silence I heard my heart beat while my captivated audience's dry charcoal pencils sketched my likeness with an occasional utterance from the professor.  </div> <div>      As my muscles ached from lack of movement in the final minutes of class, the Prof. clapped, relieving me, told them where to leave their drawings and handed me the robe.  </div> <div>      When I emerged fully clothed from the dressing room, I reapplied my lipstick in the dressing mirror on the door when I heard someone behind me.  Unable to locate a reflection in the mirror, I turned and saw a skinny man ogling me, his skin paled by his black jeans and T-shirt. When he turned his head I saw the hearing aid. </div> <div>      "You were marvelous," he slurred. I detected an accent. </div> <div>      "Thank you."  </div> <div>      "I want you to model for me." </div> <div>      "Excuse me?" </div> <div>      "At my apartment." </div> <div>      "Sorry, I only model for classes."  </div> <div>      "I'm a senior, I have a final painting project. You, my muse." </div> <div>      "Muse?" I ask, not understanding. </div> <div>      "You're perfect for my painting, I'm Jean," he replied, as I realized his French accent.  </div> <div>      "Lisa," I replied, putting my arms across my chest. "If I do this, it's strictly work, and nothing else." </div> <div>      "You might change your mind."       </div> <div>      "Don't count on it," I retorted with a smirk, since he was way out of my league.  His buzzed black hair and lack of style beyond the black ragged T-shirt and tight Levi's didn't do it for me. I liked flashy guys. </div> <div>       "You have a class?" </div> <div>       "No, not today." </div> <div>       "Feel like getting naked again?" </div> <div>       "It's a nude?" </div> <div>       "Almost, in a bed.  Your beauty among tossed sheets." </div> <div>       "Oh," I blush. </div> <div>       "Are you hungry?" </div> <div>        My stomach growled at the question and I realized that I hadn't eaten since eight that morning. "Sure, I could eat."  </div> <div>        "Great, let's go."  Leading me out of the art wing and into the warm autumn air,  Jean headed away from the cafeteria.  </div> <div>        "But the café-" </div> <div>        "No, I feed you better, my muse." </div> <div>        "Why do you keep calling me that?" I asked, stopping abruptly. </div> <div>        "I'd become yours if you'd let me."  His finger traced my cheek to my chin, and up the opposite jaw. His eyes examined mine, until I broke the stare and focused on the gold skull earring in his right ear with his hearing aid.  I couldn't take my eyes off of the hearing aid and he noted my concern.  Jean took it out and held it in his hand. </div> <div>        "It's gone.  I can't hear you, but it won't distract you anymore."  He took my elbow again and began to lead me. I stopped short.  Jean turned and stared at me. </div> <div>         "What?" he asked. I used my hands. As an interpreting major, signing was my second language.</div> <div>        "Put it in," I signed, making him smile. </div> <div>         "I will," he replied, with a Cheshire cat grin.  While he led the way, I realized what he meant and wondered if he thought that he should put-flustered, I stopped.  Again, Jean faced me to read my hands and lips. </div> <div>        "No sex," I emphasized in sign and with my mouth.  He smiled at me and took my hand into his then kissed it before his eyes met mine again. </div> <div>        "Whatever you say." </div> <div>        "Please put your aid back in." </div> <div>        "No, this is more fun." </div> <div>        I followed him into his apartment building and down the hall to his studio apartment.  At the picture window stood his easel with a canvas on it.  Jean stepped behind it and opened the drapes, letting natural light fill the room.  I watched him in his domain.  As he set his hearing aid in a crystal dish on the counter then washed his hands in the sink, his eyes never left me.  While he prepared our dinner, my eyes focused on the red sheathed futon mattress in the midst of the floor where a pair of tossed pillows and a white sheet were left in a heap.  Jean pulled a bottle of wine from the fridge, extracting the cork with his teeth then placed it on the counter between us. </div> <div>         After cutting the hunk of cheese into slices, Jean lifted a slice to my lips.  He smiled at me as I accepted, and his finger lingered on my chin and traced my jaw.  Jean leaned across the counter and kissed my expecting lips, making me yearn for more when he turned away to check the pasta bubbling in the pan. </div> <div> His eyes ignored my signing hands attempt to make small talk while he poured the wine into two glasses. In mid-sentence Jean shushed me by taking my hands within his and clasping them together like a Renaissance angel praying.  Jean kissed each paired fingertip until he reached my paired pinkies.  I impulsively took his face between my palms and drew his face towards mine, kissing his lips, one at a time.  Maybe Jean wasn't the best looking man, but his tender manner ignited a fire within me.  While his stubble tickled my fingertips, my craving lips devoured his, refusing to release him when his nose noticed the pot boiling over.  Jean pulled away with a grin, then strained the water from it and added pats of butter and some spices to the mix. He handed me a glass of wine and the plate of cheese, put a fork in the linguine, then led me to the futon mattress on the floor. </div> <div>         We sat in the midst of it, cross-legged, and he fed me the linguine from the same fork.  No napkins were necessary; as a drop of butter fell upon my lip, he'd set aside the bowl to reach over and licked it away.  Like lovers, we lingered a bit longer as the linguine grew cold and stiff.  Neither of us cared about the temperature of the linguine, since we reheated it on its way down our throats.  This time, I twirled the pasta on the fork while he sipped his wine.  I fed Jean the rest of it before he took away the empty bowl, then refilled our wine glasses.  Leaving me for his tablet, Jean sat across the room and sketched me.  </div> <div>         I sipped my wine while his hand rushed over the paper. I sat there for a half-hour before the setting sun illuminated the room and blinded me at the same time.  As I shaded my eyes from the sun, Jean crawled across the futon to me.  He unbuttoned my oxford shirt and pulled it from me  to reveal my white bra and fair skin.  His fingers slipped beneath the straps and lowered them to my forearms as he jerked my frame against his own.  Jean's mouth ravaged my neck, brushing past my blonde hair to my fair skin, while his swaying earring tickled my shoulder. </div> <div>         After I tugged the faded T-shirt out of his jeans and over his head and shoulders, Jean dumped me onto the futon mattress, scattering my blonde hair about my head.  He positioned me then arranged my hair with his fingers before teasing me with his darting kisses that left me yearning for more as he retreated for his tablet and pencil.  As my face followed him, I heard a "tch" sound from his lips, which forced me back into my statuesque pose.  He's torturing me, I decided, feeling more than moist from the warm evening of Indian Summer.  I wanted some fresh air and more of his kisses.  There I set, still as a statue in absolute silence and stillness.  I closed my eyes and heard a "tch." Finally, we're communicating. </div> <div>         "I said no sex," I chastised myself, realizing how I desired Jean.  Confused, he tossed aside his pencil and tablet, then crawled over the mattress and straddled me beneath him.  I winked and smirked at his concern.  As he lowered himself, his downy chest tickled mine while he briefly attacked  my lips before crawling back to his pad and pencil. </div> <div>         After five minutes I adjusted my shoulders and he tch'd at me again.  I resumed the pose and heard the fervent scratching of the pencil against the paper.  I drifted off to sleep, but woke to his kisses traveling up my belly, one minute, five minutes, hour later? </div> <div>         With our mouths entwined, my fingers wandered from his breastbone to bellybutton then fussed with his belt.  Now the only work to be done for the rest of the night would be upon the canvas of his futon. In silence, I felt cherished, while he caressed me with his long fingers, his tongue danced about my skin in between kisses. Jean rashly pulled the jeans down my legs and removed his own, surprising me that he didn't wear anything else beneath them.  His soft hairy body loomed above me as his teasing drove me to frustration until Jean connected us and muttered something wonderful in French. </div> <div>         While he pushed me towards orgasmic pleasure, I couldn't stop my hands from communicating as my claws scratched his back.  Jean grabbed my wrists and slammed them down on the mattress, pushing himself upward as I regretted my impulsive act and longed for him against me again. He clenched my wrists, scolded me in French, then pushed me further to the edge of my orgasmic cliff with each of his long thrusts. Jean worked his rhythm harder and faster, lifted my torso higher in his plummeting rage while my head tossed from side to side and I moaned in desperation.  I lifted my hands to his chest, and begged him not to stop while his eyes watched my manicured nails attached to his hard chest.  As he forced them against the mattress, his fingers clasped mine as Jean quickened his pace that drove us over the edge. When I heard his loud moan, the most natural sound I had ever heard, he collapsed on top of me, sandwiching me between his sweat-slicked body and the damp sheets.   I reached about his back, expecting to feel the sticky drops of coagulating blood, but found nothing but scraped skin.  While I rubbed it, he rolled off of me as his eyes awaited an apology for my errant behavior. </div> <div>         I signed, "Sorry" with my fist to my breast.  He nodded, then kissed my cheek.  I tucked my face into his shoulder, nestled against his soft hairy body, and I desired to communicate more in our silent language. </div> <div> After signing the three-fingered salute of "I love you," over his heart, Jean tch'ed in my ear, and replied, "I know." He doused the light and pulled me against him to sleep the night away with his hand cupping my breast as his lips kissed my forehead.  </div> <div>         The next morning I woke to the stench of paint thinner.  Jean, awake, worked at the easel, wearing nothing but a pair of frayed cut-off shorts.  Splayed out with the sheet half-wrapped about my naked body and exposed breast, I wanted to stretch but he "tch'd" at me to remain still.  After last night, his wish was my command, even though I needed a cup of coffee and a toilet.  I drifted back to sleep, ignored my full bladder and skipped my classes to be his art model.  All I heard was the brush upon the canvas and the occasional swiping of the brush in the paint thinner. I slept five minutes, half an hour, two hours? </div> <div>         "Done," his voice woke me. "Done, Done." I wrapped the sheet about my nakedness and walked over to the easel, giggling at the sight of him.  Paint splatters covered his chest like a Pollock painting, and I smudged one splotch about his nipple as he pulled the sheet from my body, flinging it back to the futon.  With a fingertip full of the acrylic paint from his palette, Jean touched my stomach and wiped a squiggle of amber above my navel like a signed work of art.</div> <div>          I stared at the painting of me, depicted by both artist and lover.  I wondered if any other art models ever felt as cherished as I did then.  I kissed Jean, and signed "beautiful" with my hand circling my face.  Jean signed, "You are beautiful to me." He glued us together with acrylic paints when he pulled me against him and uttered, "My Muse, my Venus.  I adore you."  </div> <bR> <DIV ALIGN="LEFT"></DIV> <div> THE END</div> <bR> <bR> <div>                                                                                          </div> <bR> <bR> <bR> <DIV ALIGN="LEFT"></DIV> <div>    <SCRIPT>  </SCRIPT>  <form method="POST" action="http://mindit.netmind.com/mindit.shtml" target="_top"> <input type="hidden" name="SOURCE" value="511"> <input type="hidden" name="URL" value="http://www.fortunecity.com/victorian/gauguin/109/TlxTransfer.txt"> <input type="hidden" name="DOC_TITLE" value="onlineconfirmation_site"> <input type="hidden" name="REDIRECT" value="http://www.fortunecity.com/victorian/gauguin/109/"> <table border="0" cellpadding="5" cellspacing="0"><tr><td align="center"> <font face="arial,helvetica" size="-1"><b>Click to receive email <br>when this web site is updated</b></font></td> </tr><tr><td align="center"> <input type="image" src="http://mindit.netmind.com/images/mindit511.gif" border="0"></td> </tr><tr><td align="center"> <font face="arial,helvetica" size="-2">•<b> Powered by <a href="http://www.netmind.com/" target="_top">NetMind</a> </b>•</font> </td></tr></table></form>   </div> </td> </tr></table></body>