0 comments/ 9478 views/ 0 favorites New York Minutes By: EnigmaDoll Though it could have been easily at his disposal, there was no limo awaiting her as she hauled her luggage from the conveyor belt into the strange streets into which she had found herself. She came to follow an artistic prophet, a man who could pull anything out of the air and make it real on canvas or paper or even a napkin, she guessed. A portion of his work was forever emblazoned onto her right shoulder, a piece of his genius that she carried with her wherever she went. Yes, he was a magician, perhaps born on a tarot card instead of screaming into this world that many have come to loathe yet still holds so much wonder and awe and majestic power. He met her in the rain; he smiled, he spoke, but it was a blur as if in a dream. Her bags were loaded into a once pristine yellow cab and soon they were off. The cold New York rain scattered across the windows as she envisioned his paint might have on a night when he had loaded himself sufficiently with any given vice and thrown upon his inanimate victim a vast array of color. Would she also become a canvas? She hoped, she dreamed, all while studying his arms as he pointed out various landmarks that she knew she should have been memorizing profusely. But she was mesmerized. Here was this modern Rembrandt, this entirely real and living color Da Vinci beside her, face transformed by raindrops and streetlights. Here was an idol within her reach. Would she play the card of the star-struck harlot? Or would she spend every moment learning everything that she possibly could from this mortal deity? Only time would tell... ______________________________________________ We arrived at his studio and he carried my things through the door without speaking. I wandered wide-eyed into the the open space, hypnotized by the countless canvases of frozen emotion gleaming back at me. When he returned I looked across the seeming miles of polished hardwood to meet his gaze. He stood with those wicked arms folded over his chest, reading my every thought, invading my mind, observing my soul as I had his work. I was speechless. He floated over to me, eyes perpetually locked on mine, and I stood paralyzed as he undressed me. Effortlessly he undid buttons and released latches until I stood before him completely naked. Any other time I would have protested, I would have tried desperately to cover myself, but I could not move. I was no longer a human. I was a model, HIS model, and he was determined to immortalize me with his magic hands. He took one of my hands and twirled me around slowly like a ballerina, studying my attributes and imperfections. Inwardly I wanted to disappear, I felt hopelessly embarrassed, but as I whirled around to meet his eyes once again he raised a finger to his lips as if to silence my self-consciousness. "You're lovely." He whispered, the first words I could remember having heard him say since we met that night. I felt a tremor creep through me. He lead me to a large white canvas in the center of the room that took up a good portion of the floor. He guided me to the middle and let go of my hand, walking around me once more. I could feel his eyes like some sort of astral caress slipping over my shoulders and down to the small of my back. I quivered. He smiled and walked over to a large table covered with what looked like hundreds of bottles of paint. He picked up a red one, looked it over, and then brought it to me. He opened the bottle and poured the paint straight into his left hand, so much that it ran and dripped and made pools on the canvas beneath us. "Open your hands." He said with a smile, and I obeyed. I cupped them together and he poured carelessly until they overflowed. "Are you ready?" I could only nod. And so it began. He rubbed his hands together and then cupped my breasts, massaging them gently and fingering my nipples. I bit my lip, and involuntarily threw my arms around him. I froze suddenly, realizing that I may have just ruined his shirt. I looked at him fearfully, but he only chuckled as he pulled it over his head and tossed it carelessly to the floor. Feeling more at ease, I began to fall into the groove. We smeared each other with the paint, stopping only to squeeze more from the bottle, and then for the first time our lips met. We kissed hungrily, savagely, and I bit his lip so hard at one point that for a moment I swear I could taste the sweet metallic essence of blood. His already throbbing erection swelled against my leg through his jeans and he pulled me closer. I turned my head and his lips caressed my neck briefly before he returned the favor and sank his teeth into my flesh. I cried out; slightly from pain but mostly from the incredible ecstasy this sensation produced. It was alien to me but not unwelcome, a pain that I relished. We tumbled onto the canvas, a mass of flesh and paint and blood. Walking by the gallery one day I saw it suspended from the ceiling, a few ritzy prestigious types attempting to decipher the meaning of the abstract form before them. It was simply titled "Passion". I grinned, and kept moving. My mentor had shown me the true meaning of expression, and I still have the scars to prove it. New York Minutes Ch. 02 For a moment before I was stripped of most of my clothing, time seemed to slow to an excruciating crawl. The only sounds were the soft rhythms played by the rain on the windows of his studio, and my own increasingly audible heartbeat. As the moment grew ever closer I began to have an overwhelming feeling that I could never go through with it, though it had been a dream of mine to be immortalized by his genius. I studied him from over the glass of water I drank from nervously ever since he had handed it to me. I knew that he could sense the overpowering apprehension that surrounded me like some suffocating aura. He grinned as he prepared his paints and brushes. My eyes were drawn as always to his hands as they twisted the caps off of different tubes; I observed carefully the way that his forearms flexed and stiffened in various fashions. God, how I adored those hands and arms. "Are you ready?" He asked, turning to me, mask of professionalism in place. I wondered if it concealed even a hint of lascivious intent. Hell, I hoped it did. I nodded reluctantly, choking momentarily on a last gulp of water. "Here, let me help you." Effortlessly yet gingerly he lifted my shirt over my head and slung in carelessly out of sight. He unclasped my bra and sent it the way of my shirt, glancing momentarily at my stiff nipples. "Cold?" He inquired, feigning concern as he unbuttoned my jeans. "Because you are going to get pretty hot under those lights." Under the lights? I thought, I'm hot right now, watching you take my clothes off. He tugged them down and I stepped out of them, and as he slowly rose back upward I felt his warm breath pass over my thighs. Eventually his eyes were penetrating my suddenly timid soul. He smiled, breaking the electric gaze. "Maybe some wine would suit you better. Wait here." I folded my arms over my bare chest and looked around, observing but not really seeing, until her returned with a rather large glass of wine. "Vintage Who-gives-a-fuck." He said as he handed it to me, back in artist mode. I followed him, drinking deeply, into the middle of the floor. After a few minutes I began to feel the velvet tingle in my veins that is synonymous only to wine. I giggled at nothing in particular as he adjusted the lighting. "Come here, silly girl." He commanded, and I obeyed. He permitted me to pose in any way that I liked, and so I did just that. I must admit that I assumed the most suggestive positions possible, my buzzing head magnifying my attraction and diminishing my inhibitions. At one point I was on my hands and knees, trying desperately to reconnect that deadly gaze from before, and I began to pout a bit each time he looked back to his canvas. Suddenly I had an idea. "Do you think we could experiment with some bondage poses?" I asked, studying him critically for any signs of interest or excitement. Without even looking he dropped his brush and grabbed a roll of masking tape. "Sit up on your knees and put you arms behind your back." Without hesitation I followed his direction, and soon he had my arms crossed at the wrist and bound to my ankles. He tilted my head to a certain angle, and adjusted my shoulders before returning to his paints. Beads of sweat were forming on my skin, and in my dizzy head I felt as if I were covered with tiny sparkling diamonds. In that state I felt the complete opposite of my usually uptight and constricted self. I felt gorgeous and I couldn't understand why he didn't just forget about the damn picture and fuck me. The look I gave him when he turned to me once again had to say it all, at least it did in my slightly twisted sense of perception. But when he dropped his brush and came back toward me I froze up like a naked deer in the headlights. "I forgot about these." He said, as he took hold of my panties with both hands and ripped them off of me. I gazed down at my exposed body, unable to see it but knowing that he could see every detail of my moist pussy. I felt myself begin to quiver a bit; the heat from the lights added to my intense desire to be savagely fucked mingled with the sudden inkling of self-consciousness was getting to me. "You want some more wine, princess?" He smiled deviously as he grabbed the glass from a nearby table. I could only nod in reply. "Open your mouth and tilt your head back a little bit." At first he poured slowly, letting the sporadic drops drip onto my tongue one at a time. Once he decided that I had had enough, he redirected the flow and poured the rest down the center of my chest. It made a sort of violet river as it flowed over the stark white skin between my breasts. I could feel it rush over my clit before it rained on the floor beneath me. He poured until the glass was empty. The feeling was inexplicable. The breeze from a nearby ceiling fan kept the sensations alive on my wet skin. "Taste me!" I pleaded, helplessly bound and desperate. He shook his head as he threw the glass across the room. I heard it shatter somewhere to my left. "Not yet. And don't move. This is perfect." With that, he returned to his cursed canvas and began painting furiously. After a few moments I could stand no more. I began to writhe around, trying to free myself from the tape. Finally he put down his brush and picked up a razorblade. He came back to me, but did not cut me free immediately. He dropped to his knees and held me gently as if I would shatter. He traced the curve of my lips with his tongue before kissing me with a passion that I did not know one could suddenly call upon for someone that they barely knew. He bit my lower lip, sucked it, and then continued downward with his hot kisses. He licked the space where he had poured the wine, stopping only to tell me how good I tasted, and teased my nipples with his free hand. The hand that contained the razor blade remained behind his back. Finally our eyes met once again as they had when he was undressing me. I saw my intense lust reflected briefly as I watched him work, lower and lower, his tongue lapping the few drops of wine that had collected in my naval, down until I could only see the top of his head. I felt my clit cradled in the warmth of his lips, his tongue dancing all over it, and my head rolled back. I sighed, my arms and legs weak from the strain of that constant pose, but I dare not say a word for fear that he would stop. He kissed and sucked me for quite sometime, and I felt myself on the verge of cumming right there in his mouth. I sighed deeply and somehow he must have known I was close. In a flash he had abandoned his work and cut me free. Frantically on our knees we struggled to get his clothes off. I fell back onto the floor, legs wide, begging him to give it to me. "I was so close, I couldn't bear to lose it now, please let me have it, I'll do anything..." And he gave it to me. He slid his massive cock into my sopping cunt almost too easily, and I shook momentarily as a wave a pain reverberated through my body. So big. I wrapped my legs around him, trying to get him as far inside of me as I possibly could. And then he began to move. He had one hand on the small of my back, holding me up. The angle was almost too intense, and I came almost immediately. But he wasn't finished. He flipped me and turned me and twisted me like a ragdoll until he had had his fill. Then he pulled out and sprayed my belly with his hot load. "Now I've painted you twice." He said with a sly smile, as he wiped me clean with one of his nearby rags.