Posted:
BURNING SIENNA
Omkara just couldn't find the inspiration, He sat for nearly an hour staring at the three bold blue vertical lines on the canvas feeling like they were the start of something, but the next move eluded him. Paint sat drying on the palette as he sought the rest of the mental image and then began to mix colors absentmindedly, with no actual goal or plan - at least not at first.
He suddenly looked down - the color on my brush was her...a shade of dark brown that exactly replicated the color of her long, wavy hair. His hands were inspired and he began working on the background behind the blue lines. First two wispy lines that met at a near point not straight like the sides of a triangle, but slightly curvy as though simulating hair on a crudely drawn stick figure. More mixing; his hands moved frantically to create a pale flesh tone for a center to the somewhat triangular shape, followed by a deep red - almost maroon - that emulated the color of the dress she'd worn the first time he saw her.
More colors appeared; grays and blues in the foreground, warmer colors in the background. By the time his brush had completed its work, it felt much like he was gazing at an abstract version of her through the bars of a prison cell, her warmth and beauty just beyond his reach.
"Do you really feel trapped?" she said as the clickety-clack of her heels signaled her entry into the studio.
"What do you mean?" He had not even noticed the door opening. "Wait - what are you doing here?"
"The painting - do you really feel trapped, as though you're looking at me through a cage like that?" she whispered as she wrapped her arms gently around him from behind, completely ignoring his question.
Omkara was amazed at how well she had read the painting - it was not overly detailed; essentially an abstract, but somehow she had figured out exactly what it felt like to him. He stepped his way out of the hug.
"I - I don't know. I guess...well, it feels like you've somehow captured me; like I'm under some sort of hypnotic spell."
She did not reply immediately; instead she grasped his hand and locked her deep, beautiful eyes onto his for what seemed like hours.
"Do you want to be free?" she finally breathed into his ear.
He could not answer, He could barely breathe at that moment. He stared at the floor, then at the painting, and then back at the floor.
She abruptly changed the subject. "I've never tried painting before, but it's always intrigued me."
She paused, a sly grin crossing her face.
"Teach me?" she queried.
"Well, I...really...I mean, I would not know how to teach someone any of this - it's not like I actually know what I'm doing."
"Look at that canvas - really look at it. Was I wrong about the meaning?"
He focused on the painting for a few moments, then shook his head. I couldn't deny it - she read the meaning aptly.
"So then if I could figure it out from one look, it's pretty safe to say you know what you're doing. Give yourself a little credit."
She trailed a fingertip across his cheek.
"Teach me?" she asked again.
He handed her a wide brush and gingerly lifted his still-damp work off the easel, placed it on the workbench and grabbed a fresh canvas from under the bench.
"I'm not really certain how much I can show you - I can't claim to know any actual techniques or styles; honestly, for me it's all about feel. Much like my writing used to, the paint just kind of flows, almost as if I'm unconscious."
"So it's all about the feel?" she murmured, a hint of seduction in her voice.
"Not automatically. Some might tell you different. But for me, yes it is."
"Then make me feel it," she whispered, grasping his hand.
He led her to his stool and motioned for her to sit then settled the blank canvas onto the easel and grabbed a palette.
"What's your favorite color?" He asked.
"Hmmm...red, I think."
"Tell me why," He said, taking a tube of red acrylic from the bench.
"It's bold and strong, plus I like warm colors - although I suppose red might fall into the category of hot rather than warm."
He reached to the bench for tubes of yellow, burnt sienna and white.
"But maybe the best thing about red," she continued, "is that it's such a passionate color. Red makes no compromises or apologies for its fire, strength or boldness - it's about power, desire; maybe even lust, if that's possible for a color."
He squeezed a dollop of the red onto the palette as she spoke and grabbed another brush. He added a small dot of yellow and a tiny dab each of the burnt sienna and white and began mixing.
"I thought the first tube was already red. Why do you have to mix?"
"You don't just like red," He explained. "You breathed life into it; put a picture of a very specific red into my mind. So that's the shade of red I will create for you."
He mixed and tweaked for a few minutes. Suddenly she gasped softly.
"That's the red you love, isn't it?" He whispered.
It really was a stunning shade - just enough of the yellow and sienna into the mix to take the red a tiny bit toward orange; a fiery mix that walked the line between bold and sensual. The shade matched the feeling her smoldering eyes drove into his soul every time she looked at him.
She didn't take time to answer; instead she dipped her brush immediately into the paint and prepared to attack the canvas. But she stopped short of the first brush stroke.
"I don't know what to do," she giggled. "I've never done anything more than crayons in my life."
"Remember, it's about feel. Close your eyes for a moment and feel the image inside you, just dying to come out."
Her first brush strokes were tentative; slow, almost as if she were fighting to coax her imagination into action. Then her hand began moving more quickly, creating a series of lines radiating from an empty center - much like a child might draw the sun, but without the circle in the center of the image.
"I told you that you could do it - what did you feel?"
"It's not right," she griped. "The lines are all clumpy and thick."
"You just needed a softer touch on the brush, and maybe a tiny bit less paint. You develop a feel for those kind of things."
"Make me feel it," she whimpered again, melting him with her alluring eyes.
He stepped behind the stool, taking her hand in his to lead it. She leaned against him ever so slightly; it took his breath away for a moment to feel the intimacy and closeness of the pose. They dipped the brush together, and he led her through removing the excess paint from the brush before they approached the canvas for a few gentle practice strokes.
"Now, a light touch is all that's needed - and loosen your grip on the brush a tiny bit."
The brush fell into her lap, leaving a bold red stripe on her favorite yellow dress.
"Not quite that loose," He chuckled.
"HEY! You painted me!" she exclaimed, feigning indignation.
She picked up the brush and dabbed his cheek with it.
"There. Now we match," she said with a smirk.
"Not exactly," He corrected, taking her mixing brush to dab her cheek in the same spot. "There, that's a better match."
"Oh, you did NOT just do that," she said, giggling through her attempts to sound stern. She ran her brush down the entire side of his face.
I thought you didn't know how to paint," He teased as he painted a squiggle across the portion of her chest exposed above the neckline with slight hint of that cleavage.
She leaned in closer. "I have a great teacher," she whispered in his ear. Then she laughed as she painted his forehead.
He pulled her close to him , devouring her lips in a passionate kiss. She dabbed paint on his other cheek and smirked again.
"Apparently I have a pretty good student, too," He laughed, dotting the tip of her nose with his brush as he spoke.
"This lesson seems to be getting a bit messy," she said, her fingers teasing his painted skin.
His hand moved back to her face, and still looking at her mouth, he ran his thumb across her lips, gently. His eyes followed it. She had to control herself from reaching out for his thumb with her tongue.
She didn't think she could take much more. She could barely breathe. She closed her eyes tightly. He could see it. See her body tense. See her struggling to breathe. "Look at me," he said.
She opened her eyes, and looked at his mouth again.
This time it was her hand that moved to his face, to his mouth. His lips. With her forefinger she traced his lips, moving closer, her eyes staying on his mouth now. His hands moved to her sides, down, and to her hips, which moved up to his touch, inched closer to him. His fingers tightened on her hips as she moved them, moved closer to his mouth with hers, still touching his soft lips with her finger, then moving one hand, then the other, behind his neck.
She wasn't nervous. Wasn't scared anymore. His hands squeezed and let go of her hips, looked at her mouth, watching her lick her lips, caught her eyes, and saw no fear. Feeling her hips rise in his hands, rock slightly, and he moved closer. She wanted this. He wanted it too. Inching closer together.
Her fingers in his hair. "Do it," she whispered. His hand moved down to her thigh, now teasing her mouth with his, and to her knee, lifting her leg, and she wrapped it around him, as he moved his hand up her leg again and back to her hip.
She felt his mouth brush hers, and felt her eyes flutter, and he brushed her mouth once more, twice and then, then his mouth took hers. He kissed her.
Her mouth was so warm and soft. Her lips were full. Her head turned to the side so he was over her, kissing her, and her arms wrapped tighter around his neck, the kiss innocent so far, just kissing her lips. She thought she could feel the air crackling with electricity. He pulled away from her lips and returned, leaving her breathless, always focused on the tease, the wanting more, and she shifted, moving closer, his fingers digging into the small of her back as his mouth opened slightly and she felt it. And then all she could think was Oh. Oh yeah.
Felt his tongue gently, so gently, not letting go of her mouth now, find hers, and her leg tightened around him.
He heard her sigh into his mouth as their tongues found each other and he understood why. It changed the kiss. Changed it good. So good. Where before he was softly kissing her, his mouth got more aggressive. Before, he controlled the pace, controlled the kiss, but when he found her tongue, and their tongues met, he couldn't pull away anymore.
The kiss controlled him. Both of them. She kept her arms around his neck tightly because, honestly, she did not trust them anywhere else. She could feel his manhood getting harder as the kiss got harder. Warmer. Wetter. Taking on a grinding, seductive life of its own. His fingers dug into her back under her dress now, into her bare skin. Scratching her.
Her chest was tightly against his now as her head was turned to the side, holding onto his neck like she was drowning, and their bodies couldn't have been more tightly together, his fingers letting go of her back and onto her sides.
Their tongues were deep now, so deep, their lips working together, and she lost where she was. His mouth worked hers aggressively, hard, and so good, feeling her hands in his hair, pulling it with her fists tightly in it, pulling his down, forcing his lips onto hers harder, harder.
He felt his hands on her skin and knew he had to stop. Any further up, or down, and things were really going to get out of hand. His brain was overwhelmed with her mouth, her tongue, but he had to hold onto some form of control. He squeezed her sides. He could feel the warmth of her breasts just inches from his hands. It was bad. It was hard.
He pushed her down holding her wrists in the lower of her back and followed her mouth with his, and she was just as eager, pulling him back to her, not wanting to lose that heat, those lips. That tongue. His hand held her hip again as he leaned over her, him on his side next to her ... the canvas almost forgotten, always over her, on top of her, in charge, dominating the kiss, dominating her.
He knew that mattered for her, but he also knew he could not do it any other way. It was who they were.
Her hands left his neck and ran down his arms, and to his hips, and her fingers moved into the tops of jeans, under his shirt, feeling his warm skin, fluttering her eyes, and he pushed away from her mouth for a second, looking into her eyes. He stroked her mouth again with his thumb and this time she did lick it, kiss it, as he whispered.
"Just a kiss, remember. Just a kiss," he said. She nodded absently and pulled her hands reluctantly from his pants and back to his neck. While she wanted to rip his clothes off, she would have agreed to walk over hot coal at that moment -- anything to keep kissing him.
She knew he was struggling with it too, their tongues twirling together, their lips hungry, starving for each other, and his hand was again under her dress.
comment:
p_commentcount