Artistic License Ch. 01

The young woman in front of me was sitting … no … perching, on the chaise longue, the swags of a richly red robe loosely draped about her hips, her long, slim legs artfully positioned for maximum visual benefit and minimum exposure of her pudenda. Stunningly pretty, with thick black wavy hair in a sensuous cascade over her shoulders, her full breasts simply demanded attention. I had taken the photographs I needed and was now doing the preliminary sketches for the portrait her husband had requested. Francesca; 28 and in the prime of her beauty, married to a city slicker with a full portfolio of brains and a paperclip of charm … and a filing cabinet of cash.

The door to my studio opened. I looked round at the unexpected noise, pausing mid-curve of the 4H (my drawing career started with a T-square and a drawing board in an engineering works, and I still couldn’t sketch with anything softer) my brows rising in quizzical surprise. The sudden entrant was my daughter-in-law Kate. I quickly glanced back at Francesca — a trooper! — didn’t budge, didn’t scream, didn’t hurriedly don the richly red robe, just Malatya Escort turned her head and stared at Kate in a sublimely cool, appraising way. Not a hint of expression.

“Oh, sorry, didn’t realise you … um … were … um … working … sorry …”

I turned back to Kate.

“Yes, it’s what I do … in my studio … I’m an artist.”

She stood frozen in the doorway, her eyes wide, looking at Francesca, rabbit-like, as if mesmerised by Francesca’s magnificent headlights, a slight pink flushing her face.

“Er, yes, sorry … ” this directed at Francesca “but I’ve got the tickets for Les Miserables … thought I’d let you know. Sorry. Should have knocked …”

“Yes, well, thank you Kate, I’ll be finished in about an hour.”

“Ok, bye … ” again, this directed at Francesca “Sorry.”

She turned and left quickly.

“She’s hot.”

I turned back to Francesca “Pardon?”

“She’s hot. Who is she?”

I was momentarily taken aback. “Oh, that’s my son’s wife. Kate.”

“Lucky guy. Have you painted her like this?”

I laughed. Malatya Escort Bayan “No! Of course not!”

“Why not? She’s gorgeous.”

I thought for a moment. “Well, yes, she is, but it wouldn’t really be appropriate, would it. I don’t think Joe would be very happy.”

I resumed sketching, moving to a couple of different angles to get alternative views of her. She really was magnificent.

Half an hour later I had finished. “Ok Francesca, I think I’ve got enough to go with — thanks, you’ve been a very good model.”

She stood, not bothering to put the robe on and stretched in a languid, almost feline display of her physical power, looking full at me as she did so. I smiled knowingly at her.

“Yes, you’re hot and gorgeous too … and you know it.”

She grinned. “Yes I do! But thanks.”

She walked over to stand beside me and look at my sketches as I flipped through them for her.

“That one.”

I nodded in agreement. “Ok, but we have two more sessions, so we can explore some other settings and poses.”

Up close she was stunning. Smooth, Escort Malatya buffed skin, her slim body toned, and at five feet ten her legs were long, and athletic, leading to perfectly-proportioned hips and a pert, muscled bottom. A tiny V of short-trimmed hair pointed down to a neat vulva. Her breasts were full and firm, with small pink areolae and perky nipples. All-in-all, one hell of a package.

She disappeared to the small changing room as I began to clear up, and reappeared five minutes later dressed in her jeans, blouse and high-heeled boots, a small bag dangling from her shoulder.

“Ok, same time Thursday?” I asked.

“Sure. See you then.”

“Can you bring some of your favourite lingerie, stockings, etc? Oh, and an evening gown or cocktail dress?”

“You asking me out for a date?” she asked, one eyebrow arched quizzically.

“No,” I grinned at her ” … twenty years ago I would have, but no, it’s just to get some other poses.”

“Twenty years ago I’d have been eight … that would have been really bad … I’d have looked stupid in lingerie and stockings.” She winked at me and turned to leave. “But I wouldn’t have been married.” She paused in the doorway, turned, fixed me with a devastating smile and said “Anyway, I’m disappointed you didn’t.”

With that, she left. I stood for a moment, staring at the door, then shook my head ruefully.