Viola and Simon (closed)

[saedo]

Closed for Aladyswallows

I couldn't fully explain why I liked the painting so much. It aroused me on a deep, almost primal level. The blood pooling in my groin was testament to that. But why? Why this painting?

It was a nude, but hardly even pornographic. The young beauty was turned partially away to the observer, her naked back tilting away down to the gentle curve of her buttocks. The impressive swell of her breasts were partially concealed by one arm clutching their bounty to her in a hint of modesty. Only her face was fully exposed, the beautiful features arranged in a look of surprise, delight, and mystery: the young lover caught unaware, but eager.

That such a piece should be found here flummoxed me as well. The artwork of a couple dozen different hands adorned the wall of the coffeehouse. Miniscule price tags adorned them all from the starving artists hoping to part some of the hipster clientele from the money that might otherwise spend on weed and cappuccino.

Attending a meeting in this unfamiliar area of town weeks ago, I'd stopped in here for a caffeine infusion. The customers half my age and generations away from my relevance should had warned me away. The coffee had been too overpriced and bitter to warrant a return, but yet I'd been back four times since. That painting . . . .

It was foolish of me to have come tonight. The visage always aroused in me a potent hunger. My wife had thusfar been the beneficiary. Or perhaps its victim, depending on her mood at the time. (Sometimes I think Katie primarily enjoyed my prodigious endowment in the s for the same reason she enjoyed my hefty annual income: for the bragging rights it provided with her friends.)

But tonight Katie was away on a trip to her sister's for the weekend. It was foolish of me to inflame my libido only to go home to an empty house. Why torment myself in this fashion? Yet still I had come.

"You like it?"

I turned towards the voice to find one of the clientele. Female and young Too young, like everyone else in here. Probably curious what brings a man of my status amongst her kind. I felt a surge of irritation at the interruptions of my reverie and turned away.

But then I saw her more clearly and stop. Her hair is different: tied up in a messy bun rather than cascading down her naked back. It's lighter, too, a pale strawberry blonde rather than the dark auburn of the painting. But the face . . . yes, the face is too similar to be mere coincidence. She is the face from the painting.

My eyes swept over her form. Her shapeless sweatshirt draped her form poorly, providing only the vaguest hint that a female form lurked beneath. Could it be the curvaceous beauty on the canvas before me?

"Yes," I stated slowly, my tone redolent with caution. "I like it very much. It . . . ." I pause, searching for something honest yet not overly revealing. ". . . it stirs me."

 

[Aladyswallows]

I yawned, and got to my feet. I stretched, twisting my back, working out the kinks. This latest painting was hard. The pose was hard to maintain while I studied it, and hard to come out of when I was actually ready to paint. I looked at the canvas. A girl on her knees and elbows, with her ass raised up, presenting herself to, and looking back at, the viewer. I wore a red silky thong, both on my body and in the painting, which kept it from being terribly explicit, but the pose was straight out of a skin magazine.

It was coming together, I needed to touch up a few areas, particularly around the crotch. It was turning out to be much harder than I thought to capture the way the silk caught the light, suggesting the shapes underneath. The face, I thought, captured the right degree of vulnerability. The mixture of fear and lust, shame and pride that every girl feels when she puts herself out there. It was something of an obsession of mine. My studio was decorated with no fewer than nine self portraits, all nude or partially, all bordering on pornographic.

The smart move would be to sleep. I had to go to work at my crappy retail job tonight, and I hadn't slept for close to 24 hours already. I was close, though. I was in the moment. If I just made some coffee and pushed through, I knew I could get it done before it was time to go to work. I went to the kitchen, but there were no clean mugs, and the situation in the sink was disturbing to say the least.

I grabbed my smock, an old sweatshirt some dude had left behind that hung almost to my knees. I didn't wear it to paint much, because I was usually nude and looking at myself in the mirror, but it was the easiest thing to pull on in a hurry. I rolled the sleeves up so they didn't hang far enough past my hands that it looked like a straitjacket, and stepped into my flip flops. I twisted my hair up in a quick knot and hurried down the stairs.

I knew I looked like a homeless person, but I didn't want to waste a bunch of time fixing myself up just to grab a cup of coffee to go. The coffee shop on the corner was my second home. Every single person I knew in the whole city I had either met there, or been introduced to by someone I met there. I got my job at Best Buy because the assistant manager was dating one of the baristas. The owner had even agreed to hang one of my paintings, to see if anyone would buy it.

I let myself in through the back door and went through the kitchen and straight to the counter. Hal was working, he was the owner's off-and-on boyfriend, and one of my favorite people. He poured me a cup of coffee and made a double shot of espresso to fortify it, and when he handed me the cup, he pointed to the front room, where the seating area was.

"Go check it out," he said. When I tried to blow it off, he insisted, so I went through the beaded curtain to the front. There was a man looking at my painting. An older man, well-dressed, handsome. Intent. I stood for a few moments, looking at him almost as intently as he was looking at me.

"He's been here a few times," Hal whispered in my ear. "Always stops to look at that one. I think he's saving it for his spank bank."

I giggled silently and rolled my eyes, shooing Hal away. He was a sweetheart, but his idea of romance was a hole in the wall in a men's room somewhere. Still, he gave me the courage I needed to approach the man. For a few seconds I stood beside him, before I realized he wasn't going to notice me.

"You like it?" I said.

He looked at me for a moment, and I blushed. The first glance reminded me of how I looked, in my shapeless clothes, old make up, hair in a knot. Dammit, Hal, I thought. I was about to retreat when he spoke.

""Yes," he said, speaking carefully. "I like it very much. It . . . it stirs me."

I couldn't help grinning.

"It stirs you?" I said. I was pretty sure what it stirred. "That's what art should do, don't you think?"

 

[saedo]

That's what art should do, don't you think? " There was a hint of amusement to her voice,. She was playing with me on some level. Yet also curious. Interesting.

The curve of her lip convinced me. The artist has clearly based this portrait on this girl. The similarity was too strong otherwise.

I couldn't fathom an artist devoting that level of detail to reproducing her face accurately without reserving similar fidelity to the rest of her. That meant that beneath her rather shabby attire lurked a most stunning physique.

The temptation was to confirm my supposition with a fresh reexamination of her figure; however, I resisted. I kept my eyes on hers. I can't have been the first man to notice the resemblance. But perhaps I could be one of the few who did not ogle her.

Perhaps that's why I noticed the slight smudge of paint below her right ear. Curious. A mere model wouldn't likely get that. But an artist absent-mindedly brushing away her own strand of hair? Yes, that might leave such a mark. Model and artist, perhaps? My interest in in her increased significantly.

"Yes," I replied, my gaze calmly on hers. "Yes, art should. But as the other attempts at art on the walls of thie establishment amply demonstrate, most art does not move its audience in the slightest."

I turned back to the painting. "This does. Thus artist has insight. Insight and dedication. Capturing the beauty of this woman so arrestingly took both talent and effort."

I swung my gaze back to her. "Are you familiar with this artist? I've not seen seen her work elsewhere, but I would like to."

 

[Aladyswallows]

"Yes, art should. But as the other attempts at art on the walls of thie establishment amply demonstrate, most art does not move its audience in the slightest," he says, and I look around. For the most part, he's right. Mostly the art hanging in here is as pretentious as it is unimpressive. At the same time, though, his tone raises my hackles a little. Most of the artists here are my peers, many of them are friends to one degree or another. Who is this old square to come in and trash talk them? Before I can come to their defense, though, he turns back to my painting.

"This does. Thus artist has insight. Insight and dedication. Capturing the beauty of this woman so arrestingly took both talent and effort." My indignation mostly disappears. He's just saying what I've said, in a different way, really. And he obviously sees something in my work that he appreciates.

I blush. Complimenting my beauty and my talent in one sentence was enough to make me forgive everything. It's enough to make my heart race and make me want to run, and the way he's looking at me makes me want to crawl into his lap and stay there forever.

"Are you familiar with this artist? I've not seen seen her work elsewhere, but I would like to." I giggle. He knows. I'm pretty sure. He has to. Unless I look that bad. Of all days to come down here with no make up on and my hair in a ratty knot.

"I, um, I don't think she has anything hanging anywhere else?" I stammer, wishing I could take this whole moment back. There's finally someone interested in my painting who hasn't said anything about porn, or sleaze, or said I must be a slut or a whore to paint myself this way, and I look a total wreck. "Maybe the, uh, cafe has contact info or something?"

"Oh please," Hal says, walking by with an empty tray to collect dirty dishes. He turns to the man. "She's the artist. I don't know why she's acting all shy when everyone who's walked in this room in the last month has seen her naked." He waves his tray towards the painting, and then turns to me. "Just take him to your place and show him your stuff, girl. For fuck's sake." He passes by without waiting for any kind of response and busies himself clearing tables.

I stare at him, wide eyed, my face turning roughly the color of a ripe tomato.

 

[saedo]

Her reaction surprised me. Her cheeks shifted rapidly from pale to pink to full blush. Her eyes widened with what looked like anxiety. It seemed a curious reaction from one who hung a self portrait of herself in such a public place. Then again, she'd hardly be the first artist who could be bolder in their creations than they could be in person.

"If you have more, I would very much like to see it," I declared, my eyes on her green pools. I heard the vague entendre lurking in the words as I spoke them, but it was too late to call them back.

I gestured to her portrait. "I am far from an expert, but I know enough to recognize good from not. Yours is good." I returned my gaze to hers. "If you have more paintings, I would like to see them. Perhaps make an appointment . . . ?"

Courtesy finally shouldered past past my curiosity. I was, after all, just a stranger to this young woman. "But forgive me, I have not introduced myself. Simon Idris." I kept my right hand loose in case she was the type of woman who shook hands.

"And how may I address you? Do you just go by 'V'?" I inquired, referring to the one legible letter in the artist's signature in the lower right corner of the portrait.

 

[Aladyswallows]

"Um, no," I say. "V Viola." I saw his hand swing a little, and put mine out to shake. It was a strangely formal gesture, but something about it helped me pull myself together. I didn't get to go back and fix myself up before I met him, but at least I could go forward not acting like a complete idiot. "Viola Harrison."

I think about an appointment. An appointment would be good. I could get dressed, do my hair and make up, and then at least I would know that I looked good. I could clean up the apartment, so you wouldn't see my clothes scattered all over the place, or the dishes overflowing the sink. It would also give me time to finish the painting I'm working on.

I gave a snort at that. There was no way I was going to be able to focus on that painting if he was coming over. I looked at him, biting my lip, and I realized what was happening. I wasn't flustered because I was a mess, or because he liked my painting, though that helped.My heart was racing because I was crushing on him. He was handsome, yes, but he was obviously old enough to be my dad, and he was a suit. A standard, middle class, old dude who had somehow wandered into this coffee shop and seen my painting and liked it.

"I, uh, live just up the street," I say. "If you want, I could show you my, uh, the rest of my paintings." I have my coffee, I take a step towards the door, looking back to see if he's following or not.

 

[saedo]

"Viola," I repeated. "Pretty name. It suits you."

She held my gaze for a few beats, her mind obviously chewing over something. At last, she declared, "I, uh, live just up the street. If you want, I could show you my, uh, the rest of my paintings."

Her voice grew in confidence towards the end of her statement, apparently drawing strength from her commitment to action. She then stepped to the coffeehouse door and turned back to face me. Her eyebrow lifted in an obvious query: was I going to follow?

The answer to that question wasn't automatically "yes". I'd known her all of two minutes and now I was following her to her apartment in a strange neighborhood. Moreover, while Katie wasn't the type to get jealous and paranoid about every woman I might meet, this was some hipster twenty-something artist who'd painted a nude self portrait and who was now inviting me back to her place. That's assuming she even was a twenty-something; she could be an unusually mature 16 year-old for all I knew. The optics were grounds for caution.

I brushed my hesitation aside. The younger generation was bolder these days. I was just as much a stranger as she, but she seemed fine with it. If she was comfortable inviting me to her home, I'd be silly to refuse. "Of course," I declared, following her out of the shop.

We spent the short walk discussing the neighborhood. I remembered it before gentrification when it had been warehouses and low industrial manufacturing. Now it sported coffeehouses, bars, bookstores, vegan cafés, and all the other trappings of millennial culture.

Viola lived on the upper story of what clearly had been a warehouse before being renovated into retail on the first floor with apartments above. "I can see why you choose this place," I observed, noting the high ceilings and large windows as I entered her place. "That natural light must be nice to paint with."

Her apartment showed the casual lived-in clutter of a person not expecting company. An empty glass and plate stood in the sink. An assortment of clothes lay heaped on a table; given that the pile contained both whites and colors and at least two different bra straps, a pair of jeans, and multiple socks, I wagered it was unsorted dirty clothes gathered for the next round of laundry. I found it strangely appealing that she was confident enough to display her home in its actual condition. Au naturel, like her painting.

The living space had been segregated out via partitions from what I assumed was her work area. I nodded in its direction. "Is that where your other paintings are?"

 

[Aladyswallows]

I blush as he looks around the front room, and I wish I'd asked him to come back later. I herd him quickly into the other area, which is both my bedroom and studio. The painting I had been working on is still on the easel, the palette sitting on a milkcrate beside it. The gigantic mirror I always model in leans against the wall, and about half my paintings are hanging, the others are just propped up against the wall.

"Well," I say. "here it is." I look down at the unmade bed and see my silver dildo in the middle. My eyes open wide, and I look at the dresser. The drawer with all my toys in it is open. "Uh. Sorry about that."

I grab the vibe off the bed and drop it in the drawer, pushing it closed, blushing fiercely. I know I shouldn't be ashamed, but I am. Somehow the painting of me sliding it into my pussy is less embarrassing than having you see the thing itself.

"Just, um, have a look," I say. "If you have any questions, just ask. I'll just be in there. I'm going to, um...," I gesture to my face, and then I turn and go into the bathroom to put some make up on. I take off the sweatshirt and pull on a robe I had hanging. It's short, and ever so slightly sheer, but it's pretty, and that's more important than modest right now.

I open the door so we can talk as you look at the paintings. Like the one at the cafe, they are all either nude or in some skimpy lingerie. Some are suggestive, some are explicit, but all suggest a mixture of desire and vulnerability, shame and defiance. In each, my inner self is as exposed as my outer.

 

[saedo]

Viola escorted me deeper into her apartment. Beyond the kitchen area was her bedroom. It was not a room per se given the apartments general lack of walls; rather, the arrangement of the surrounding space gave a semblance of separation to the bed.

Like the rest of the apartment, her bed was unmade, or at least half of it was. The rest appeared unused. Perhaps Viola lived with an incredibly conscientious neat freak, but I thought it more likely that she lived alone.

My suspicion gained more traction when Viola suddenly lunged towards the center of the bed and picked up a shiny object. I'd hardly noticed it amongst the rumpled sheets, but her swift action caught my attention. She tucked in a bedside drawer, but not before I identified it as silver vibrator about the size of my index finger: slender, smooth, and blunt-tipped.

Lives alone, but still has a libido with needs. Yet another bit of data to file away.

Viola gestured to her work area beyond. " Just, um, have a look." A partially completed painting stood on an easel, which I took to be her current project. The third of the painting taking shape appeared to be a well-rounded female ass, naked save for a slender red thong. The unpainted portion leaves unclear whether the rest of her body or face will be featured or not.

"If you have any questions, just ask. I'll just be in there," Viola pointed to what I can only presume is the bathroom and then indicated she wanted to wash her hands and face. She disappeared behind the partially ajar door and the sound of a running faucet followed soon thereafter.

Her work area also contained a collection of various other completed works. I found a couple landscapes and still lives, but the most common subject proved to be Viola herself.

I found several paintings from the last six months all depicting Viola in various states of undress. In some she is wearing lingerie, whereas in others she is nude save for a carefully angled arm or leg shielding her most intimate parts.

Her attitude varies significantly as well. In one, her gaze is ferociously bold despite her near nudity: a sexually powerful woman to which any lover would submit. At the other extreme is one showing such vulnerability and timidity that I immediately felt the urge to comfort her.

Underlying all of them was an eroticism that I found irresistible. Despite my best efforts to restrain my libido, I felt the familiar warmth as blood pools in my groin. Soon my arousal is swelling southward along my right thigh.

Concealment was hardly an option. The fat cylindrical bulge would be unmistakable to any adult observer. Holding a pillow front of my crotch would be both silly and draw her attention to my arousal. I decided in the spirit of her casual presentation on her unvarnished home that I won't try to hide the truth. If she sees, she sees.

"So what inspires you to do so many self portraits?" I called back over my shoulder.

 

[Aladyswallows]

I quickly wash my face, and then start to apply my make up. I am going as fast as I can, but at the same time, I don't want to look like a three year old made me up when I was asleep. Meanwhile, all quiet on the Western front. You're either studying my art, which is thrilling and terrifying, or you're collecting my valuables and sneaking out the door. The only thing of any value I have is my paint and some nice brushes, but it would break my heart to lose them, I steel a peek. Your back is to me, and you're studying one of the more erotic works.

"So what inspires you to do so many self portraits?" you ask, and I retreat back to the mirror. I am too nervous to do anything really fabulous with my face, but at least I got the basics covered. Foundation, blush, lipstick, eyeliner, mascara. I walk out, and I realize I'm still wearing the red thong. I wonder if you'll see it through the robe. I wonder if you'll recognize it from my work in progress.

"I don't really know," I say. "I'm, um, not really good at, well, people and stuff. I get shy. But when I'm up here?" I shrug my shoulders. "There's this other side of me that wants to, you know, be seen." I feel myself blushing. "Not that anybody ever sees this stuff. Other than that one painting at the coffee shop, I've never had anything shown in public. I've, um, you know, tried at different galleries? But, they always say no. Either it's too smutty, or it's too anti-feminist, or it's not art at all, and I'm just some kind of, uh, slut."

I bite my lip and look up at you, like I'm awaiting sentence at a trial.

 

[saedo]

Viola responded to me as I examined her work. " I've never had anything shown in public. I've, um, you know, tried at different galleries? But, they always say no. Either it's too smutty, or it's too anti-feminist, or it's not art at all, and I'm just some kind of, uh, slut." "

I nodded slightly. "A couple of these, yes, I could see that. They do seem more . . . gratuitous. But three others . . . . Yes, there's an element of sexuality, but I think it's more about the exposure of the self. The way you capture the conflicted emotion in the set of her eyes, the tilt of the head, the trace of a smile . . . . "

I paused to think. "I know a couple of people who might offer a better venue than the coffeehouse. I can't promise anything, but I think if you put forward the more subtle pieces . . . maybe . . . maybe they might consider it. Maybe not; I don't know. But I can at least open a couple doors, get you a meeting . . . ." I shrugged.

I heard the soft pad of footsteps on the floorboards behind me. I glanced back to find Viola standing a couple yards from me. I'd assumed that she'd merely been cleaning up a little, but she'd clearly done far more than that. She'd donned makeup that turned her "just rolled out of bed" appearance into one humming with vivacious intelligence and sexuality.

She'd also ditched her ratty sweatshirt and jeans for a satin robe. I recognized it as the type thing a woman wears when putting on makeup. It's easy to put on and provides a but of warmth and modesty compared to sitting around in her underwear. Intellectually, I recognized that it was not worn to titillate.

But the satin robe barely extended to mid-thigh, leaving a lot of of smooth, supple leg on display. The neckline offered a bit more than a hint of cleavage visible and the knotted sash at her waist only emphasized just how impressive a bosom lurked beneath. On a primal level, I found it irresistibly stimulating.

I'd held out some hope that I'd have more time to calm my libido before Viola returned. The visage behind me ended that notion. However innocent her intentions might be, my lust was beyond reasoning with.

Trying to talk to her without facing her for the next several minutes was hardly reasonable. Left with no diplomatic means of concealment, I opted for an absence of subterfuge. I turned fully towards her.

The human eye's natural attention to movement swiftly drew her gaze to the bulge along my right thigh as it crept another inch closer to my knee. I could see the slight shift in her expression as her mind recognized that the man opposite her sported a painfully obvious erection beneath his pants.

Although I'm usually more capable of preventing such ostentatious displays, this was hardly the first time I'd been caught out in this fashion. I tried to keep my face neutral as I braced for her reaction.

A mixture of embarrassment and social awkwardness was a fairly common one. She'd notice, try not to stare with mixed success, and attempt to muddle forward as if it weren't there.

Outrage was also a possibility. She was a serious artist trying to have a serious conversation about art and then this crude Neanderthal pops a boner in her apartment because he's an unenlightened male who thinks about nothing but sex. I knew not to argue the point. If she took offense, a swift departure from her apartment was the safest recourse.

A more distant potential was curiosity. While perhaps above average in length, I rated at the extreme end in girth. Some found this vast disparity from their expectations too compelling to either ignore or condemn. They just had to stare in fascination.

Regardless of her reaction, I refused to shirk from it. If she had such artistic honesty, then I would at least stand openly before her.

 

[Aladyswallows]

I couldn't believe what I was hearing. He was actually talking to me about my paintings as if they were worth talking about. I knew he was right, in some of them I let my lust overwhelm me, and anything other than plain desire was lost. They can't all be great works of art. I'm pretty sure Michelangelo painted a lot of crap, too, before he woke up and did the Sistine Chapel. But here he was, talking about my work showing emotion, complexity. I just stood in the bathroom and felt the most amazing feeling wash over me. Validation. Somebody at least believed in me, saw value in my work.

As I walked out, he was talking about introducing me to people, helping me find someplace to hang some of the better paintings where people would see them. Galleries? Collectors? I had a thousand questions on the tip of my tongue when he turned to face me. My eyes were drawn down, to the bulge in his pant leg. It was perfectly obvious that he was rock hard, and that he was thick.

My eyes opened wide, and my cheeks blushed hot red. I felt my mouth hanging open, and I quickly closed it. My hand went to cover it, but my fingertips brushed against my lips instead, parting them. It wasn't like you were the first guy I'd ever seen with a boner before, but, despite the implications of the paintings on the walls, I hadn't had that much experience. Certainly not with anyone your age. Yours was definitely the biggest I'd ever seen, and for several long seconds I just stood and stared.

Then I looked up, and I giggled nervously.

"I'm sorry," I said quickly. I didn't want you to think I was laughing at you. "I just didn't expect...." My eyes dropped down and I swallowed. I could feel my skin turning hot, the flush spreading down my neck, even reaching my breasts, I wondered if a person could burn themselves by blushing. I took a deep breath. I had to get it together. I had to stop acting like a virgin. I just didn't know how to react. Another breath. What would a lady do? A lady would be gracious. Another deep breath, and this time I wet my lips with my tongue. Was I staring? Oh God, I was. I looked up, meeting his eye.

"I'll take that as a positive review," I said. It was more of a whisper, actually. It was supposed to be offhand and witty, but it fell flat.

"I'm sorry," I said again, even more flustered now. "Is it, um, uncomfortable?"

 

[saedo]

Viola's eyes went wide, then slightly wider, then slightly wider still in quick succession. It was the rapid transition from "that man has an erection" to "that man has a very big erection" to "Oh my God, look at the size of that fucking thing!"

She started to gasp, but stood there silently. Her tongue moved against her lip. Clearly she was surprised, but I noticed horrified. That was good. I'd had a few women regard my arousal as an imminent threat of physical violence, as if I'd raised a baseball bat to my shoulder in preparation to swing.

She met my gaze momentarily, babbling an apology, but then resumed her stare at the cloth-covered bulge. A tinge of pink in her cheeks and ears stole rapidly downwards. Soon her neck and even chest had a distinct blush.

Viola apologized again, then asked "Is it, um, uncomfortable?"

I tilted my head slightly. "Well, I am embarrassed to at my lack of self-control," I acknowledged, prepping an apology in my mind. But judging by her expression, I found myself pivoting in mid-stream. "But that's not what you were asking, is it? You want to know if it's physically uncomfortable. For me."

The novelty of the question gave me pause, but I saw no point in being disingenuous. "Yes, somewhat. I'm a bit on the large side and there's not quite enough room in my trousers for it to fully expand, so yes, there is a bit of a pinch."

"Look, I don't mean to cause you offense or embarrassment, so if this is a problem . . . ." I trailed off, giving her room to decide how she wanted to handle the situation.