His Canvas

Barely breathing, she feels as though she's getting her air supply through osmosis, so determined she is to keep still for him.

Her legs are slightly spread, arms at her sides, fingers splayed, her whole body still and silent on the bed. The room is hot, sultry. A tiny rivulet of sweat runs between her naked breasts. She hopes it won't spoil the effect. He notices and wipes it off, before switching the fan to high. That's better, she thinks, until the breeze ruffles her hair. She's worried it might disturb his concentration, but, no, his focus is impenetrable.

She thought it might tickle, but instead his long silk brush maps out a delicate erotic butterfly trail around her body: over hot-pink painted toes, around the inside of her knee, across her pussy and into her belly button.

The brush circles her breast, slowly spiralling its way towards her nipple, like a solitary climber on an expdition to reach the peak. As the soft fibres caress her nipple she gives into the most gentle of orgasms. He waits patiently, before resuming and tracing his path to her throat where she can feel her veins throbbing.

He is her Raphael, her Millais. She is his Elisabetta, his Ophelia. She is his masterpiece: a spectacular cloud of colour, texture, light and shadow.

In truth, she knows who she is and she loves being her. But she revels in these rare moments when she puts that aside and becomes whomever, whatever he wants to create.