Follow Your Fantasy: Deeper

Or...

  Do it. Get invited up, have a threesome.

  Do nothing. The client, Anton, asks you to deliver a jewellery package to Leon. Go to the theatre, have a sexual encounter with Leon and ice-cubes. He disappears.

5

You don't hesitate. 'Yes.'

'My studio's upstairs.'

'That's handy,' you say.

He shrugs and leads you to the back of the bar. 'Who says artists can't be practical?'

He opens a door leading to a narrow staircase and ducks his head under the frame to disappear upwards. You follow, nerves tingling with anticipation as you imagine you're entering a fairytale tower.

The studio is small, mostly taken up by a red velvet cushion heap in the corner and a paint covered table, holding pots, palettes and brushes. An empty easel stands in front of the table but a camera on a tripod has been set up in front of the cushions.

'You do photography as well?'

'I work with both and merge them.' He's already rearranging the cushions, moving some up and others to the sides as he looks back at you as if measuring you for a fitting.

Of course! That explains the very real quality amongst the unreality of his work.

'Do you need the heating on?' he asks as you continue to stand there.

'Oh, right!' You're supposed to get undressed. He turns his back while he goes to the camera and fiddles with it, removing a lens and screwing in another. You hesitate, and wonder if you're being too reckless. You don't even know this guy. But the idea of being painted and immortalised the way the girls in paintings throughout the centuries have been is too powerful and you slip out of your dress and panties.

'Should I…?'

'Make yourself comfortable. I'll help you in just a second,' he says, popping through another door for a second and returning with a bottle of amber liquid and a couple of brushes. 'Sable.' He waves them at you.

You clamber onto the cushions, which are more stable than they look and lay back. 'How do you want me to pose?'

At the moment, you're laying on your side, half curled up with your back to the wall and your arms in front of your breasts.

'It'll come to you, don't think about it.' He comes and sits on the edge of the pile and opens the bottle. A sweet but light smell wafts out and he dips a medium-sized brush into it, lifting it out and shaking droplets back into the bottle, releasing more of the fragrance.

'Just put your arms back for now and tell me your favourite fairy story.'

You think for a few moments, watching the oil as it drip, drip, drips. The studio isn't a tower like any tale you remember but the feeling of being above reality pervades. Towers makes you think of the painting of the girl with long hair…Rapunzel…what's that other one with R…?

'Rumpelstiltskin!'

Julian's eyes catch yours. 'Interesting!'

'I'm not sure it's my favourite but there's something about it all the same.'

'Tell me about it.' He brings the brush up and brings it towards you, to the soft tip against one nipple.

Your mind instantly empties of the half-forgotten story as the brush twirls over your nipple, puckering it even though it touches you with the faintest of grazes.

'I can't remember it now. A dwarf and-' You break off to gasp as the brush leaves and returns laden with more oil. '-a spinning wheel-'

He moves the brush to your other nipple and runs it back and forth across the tip, training his bright eyes on yours and making it even harder to recall the story you've not read since you were a child.

'And something about hair…and…gold.'

'Close your eyes and it'll all come back to you.'

You do, attempting to conjure up images in your mind that are something other than his eyes and your own nipples, hardening as they take on the shine of the oil. It's impossible.

'Wasn't there a King somewhere? Who rescued her?'

'Definitely not!' Julian says, trailing a painted line down the side of your breast. He shifts in his seat and the next brush stroke is broader as it circles from the nipple outwards and outwards in a spiral. 'The King enslaved her, and so did Rumpelstiltskin in a different way. Who would you be slave to? The King with his riches and cruelty? Or the fairy dwarf with his magic power to turn straw into gold?'

'Rumpelstiltskin helps her! I remember!'

'Yes and no. Do you remember what he takes from her in exchange for his help?' The brush moves downwards over your stomach, teasing a path downwards, slipping over your skin, tickling as it goes.

'Jewellery or something, right?'

'In the children's version, yes. But I think he would have taken something only she could give him. This was a creature that could spin gold from straw, remember? He could make trinkets any time he wanted. What could she give him instead?'

'Ahhh!' You'd never thought of that before but it makes perfect sense. Or as much sense as anything could under the bewitching of your senses at the aroma of the oil and the sensation of it working its way to the mound of your pussy. You let your legs fall open, outer thighs resting on the smooth velvet. 'Herself.'

'Again, yes and no. The King let her know he would marry her if she pleased him. That was her only way out of her slavery. From a miller's daughter to the Queen? Obviously, she'd take that way out if she could. But she had to guard the thing both men wanted the most while at the same time securing Rumpelstiltskin's help. So, on the first night – there were three nights in all, you remember? There are always three of everything in fairy tales, just like here.'

He sweeps the brush between your legs, with a gentle pressure at your clit, so fleeting your answering throb comes as if minutes later, and moves down to dip into your pussy and pass lower between your cheeks to your ass. You raise your hips in response – or request.

'My subject is almost ready,' he says. 'What does she do to Rumpelstiltskin on the first night?'

You breathe in and out and lick your lips, trying to gather breath enough to speak instead of the less coherent noises coming from the back of your throat.

'She lets him see her,' you say. 'She knows that she has to keep him from touching her – ah!'

Julian uses the brush as if he's painting you, in smooth strokes up and down, pinning your lips apart as the brush passes and whispers past your clit. You swallow and continue, picturing yourself in a candlelit, stone-walled cell, dropping a coarse, long sleeved robe to the floor.

'Rumpelstiltskin is paralysed, staring and panting. She lifts her long hair from her breast and turns around. The light from the flame plays over her and throws shadows of her curves on the wall. Her ass, her thighs, her breasts. And she's never seen herself because they don't have mirrors anywhere but in royal palaces. She's scared so she's shaking, but she completes one whole turn and, when she looks back – he's gone but the straw has turned to gold.'

'Teasing,' says Julian. You hear the clink of wood against glass and for the moment the brushing stops. 'The next night?'

You bring your hands to your own breasts and slide them over your oiled skin, pinching your nipples as hard as the oil allows before your fingertips nip at the air as they slip off. Your body has heated the oil so it moves like the finest of veils and you moan aloud as a smaller, more precise brush finds your clit. It swells under the brush, so full you can feel it standing up, eager for the pressure to increase.

'The next night, the king has left even more straw than before and she is half scared Rumplestiltskin won't come, half scared he will and about what she might have to give him.'

'Maybe she's scared what she might want to give him?'

'Mmmm,' you agree but the sound turns into a moan of appreciation as the brush swirls around and around your clit in pinpointed circles, closing in on the peak with each sweep.

'This time, he tells her his price is higher because there's more work. She doesn't know what to do, not even what more means because her father has always been so strict with her and she never had a mother to tell her what men want. She takes off her clothes again and when he comes towards her she steps back until she's against the wall.'

The brush is moving faster now, flicking your clit with just enough pressure to excite but not to tip you over the edge. Your hands are still toying with your breasts and you imagine yourself with the cold stone at your back and the ugly, dark-eyed face of the little man staring at you.

'He's watching her so intently she follows his gaze as he licks his lips and she sees that his eyes rest between her legs often. She thinks maybe she needs to show more and all she has left is what's there, under the hair she's started to grow but that she instinctively knew not to ask her father about. So she puts her feet wider apart and she knows immediately that it was the right thing to do as Rumpelstiltskin's mouth drops open and he smiles.'

Julian replaces the soft brush with something small but stiffer and he begins dabbing at your clit as if touching up tiny gaps in his work. You break off again, unable to speak even though in your mind's eye, the dwarf is standing closer, his face level with your pussy.

'He breathes in and then he dips his head forward so he's pressed right up against her. And she's never felt anything there before but her hips push out from the wall and she presses herself back at him before she even knows she's doing it. She can't see his face anymore but she can feel what he's doing.'

'And what's that?'

'His tongue. He curls it up and it's long and rough and he curls it right up inside her.' You can't cope with the dotting motion of the brush anymore. 'Please…your fingers, your cock. I need you inside me.'

'She's very knowing for an innocent miller's daughter,' Julian says and you can hear the smirk in his voice. 'Open your eyes!'

He gets up and everything stops, the tickling, the brushing, the pressure. But your clit is still throbbing, and your eyes flicker open, bleary and unfocused. It takes a couple of seconds for them to clear and, by then, Julian is behind the tripod, adjusting the camera that's pointed at you.

'Carry on,' he says, beginning to click the shutter. 'You're ready. You're perfect.'

You want to beg him to come back and fuck you but you can see that this is what he brought you here for. The canvas has been prepared and if anything else is going to happen, the art comes first. Literally.

You talk into the camera, still holding the images in your mind's eye and letting the story play out as if the characters are acting and you're just the witness, not the creator. 'Rumpelstiltskin's tongue unfurls right into her and it's fat and solid, but flexes and twists and she has to put one hand over her mouth in case she screams and the guards hear.'

Click, click, click. The shutter opens and closes in rapid fire.

'Then he pulls his tongue out, forever pulling and pulling with its rasping surface until he kind of slithers it against her clit. She didn't even know she had another place there. And she's so hot and wet and turned on and all these feelings she's never had that she orgasms into his face. And when he steps back his mouth and nose and chin are shining wet.'

'Good ending!' Julian straightens up and grins. 'Those are going to be amazing shots.'

'That's not the end though, is it?' Your voice is hopeful, almost pleading.

'Of the story? Noooo.'

You let out an aggravated sigh and prop yourself up on your elbows. 'Come on! You can't just take photos!'

'A good artist knows when to stop,' he says, but he comes back to sit on the cushions and you can see his shirt is sticking to his bony chest and an erection is pushing against his tight jeans.

'Lay back again and I'll finish it,' he promises.

You close your eyes and sink back as he starts talking.

'On the third night, the miller's daughter is sitting in a room piled to the ceiling with straw and the King has told her he will marry her for sure if she can turn it all to gold in one night. She's scared she looks different to him after her torrid night, so she keeps her eyes down and tries to look subservient while all the time she's thinking about Rumpelstiltskin and what he did to her. But she knows that whatever it is men want from women, it's more than what he took the night before and that she's in terrible danger.'

You gasp as something hard parts your lips. It's smooth and cool and it's definitely not Julian. But he returns a brush to your clit and you stay quiet as he moves what you realise is the handle of another brush inside you.

'So when he arrives, she asks him what he wants and he says this time he wants her. He tells her he is going to fuck her and she'll be the Queen he fucked. And she says no. He's angry, you know, he tasted her just the night before and he wants his prize. Giving her gold for straw is nothing to him but he wants what he wants. She's clever though. She tells him she will be the Queen he fucks instead. He makes her promise and he says he'll take her first born son if she doesn't keep her word.'

The handle and the brush work together now, plunging in and out, painting pleasure over and around your clit. You work your hips, rising and falling to speed yourself to the edge and over. The miller's daughter didn't get her satisfaction on the third night but you're going to. Everything pulls into the centre concentrated at the tip of your clit and then suddenly expanding outwards to take in your pussy, thighs and spreading upwards across your slick stomach, tightening your nipples and shaking your arms and legs. You cry out and the image in your head vanishes with Rumpelstiltskin's completion of the deal.

You lay limp against the cushions and the handle slides out of you. 'Story's over?'

'Not quite.'

You open your eyes expecting to see Julian stripping off but he's busy re-corking the bottle and wiping the brushes on a cloth.

'She becomes Queen and she forgets about Rumpelstiltskin. Until she has her first baby. Actually, even then she doesn't remember him. But then he appears in her bedroom and demands his price. She's used to her Queenly power now and she refuses. But he says he'll take the baby prince if she doesn't give him what he wants. But she still says no so he makes her another deal. That if she can guess his name, she is free of her debt. She makes two guesses on two days and gets them wrong. But the third day, after she's sent messengers everywhere to learn the name of the dwarf, one of them comes across him, dancing around a fire, singing about his victory and how she'll never guess his name is Rumpelstiltskin…'

Julian gets up and takes his camera off the tripod to bring it back and show it to you. You sit forward and curl your legs up, crossing your arms over your breasts. It's clear that he's not going to jump on the cushion bed with you but you can't complain. That was pretty sensational and, you have to admit, you're curious what the camera caught.

'When she guesses his name, he's so furious he stamps his foot all the way through the floor – here you are.' He holds the camera so you can see the screen. 'And gets stuck.'

He flicks through the images, close ups on your face and long shots of your whole body as well as very graphic photos of your spread pussy, everything gleaming with the oil he painted you with. Even in the pictures where you can see only your eyes, you can tell something is dilating your pupils and giving that glint you saw in the paintings.

'He's even angrier then and he tears himself in half trying to get out.' The last of the pictures whizz past. 'And they all live happily ever after.'

'That's quite the story!' you say, sitting up as he goes back to hook the camera up to a laptop and pulls his easel around.

'It was the way you told it,' he says, distractedly.

You can't help asking, 'Do you ever…ahh, go for the happy ending for yourself?'

'Nah,' he says. 'I never touch, remember?' Now what he said in the bar downstairs makes sense.

'Never?' You can't believe it.

'Nope. This is love, sex, fucking. The work. I'm, like, superstitious about it. What if I know and then I can't capture it here?' He taps the canvas with his finger.

'You can't paint the same thing forever though.'

'Maybe. Maybe not.' He shrugs. 'Do you mind? I'm really turned on and I need to channel.' He nods his head towards your pile of clothes. 'This next piece should be up in a week or so. Stop by and have a look. I think you'll like it.'

You get dressed. He's not unfriendly but you can just tell he's entering another mode and, although he smiles when he thanks you and says goodbye, you descend the stairs alone and let yourself back out into the bar. It's not much busier than it was before and you exit onto the street, sure you'll be back to see the painting.

Ten days later, you're at X3 again. Only this time you're dressed as yourself, casually. You find your painting hung in the centre of the wall in the most prominent position. You're instantly recognisable but the strange thing is, he's captured you more than Giselle by painting you as you were under the makeup you had on that night. Your hair swims around your ethereal face and you're reclining with your legs wide, just as you remember, in all your pink and slippery glory, nipples hard and glossed.

But between your legs he's painted something that wasn't there in reality – the grey, stunted form of the dwarf, bending over you on all fours. He has a long black tongue that's so realistic it strains with tension as it laps inside you.

You're not surprised when you look back up at the eyes – your eyes – and see they remember all too clearly the story that was spun that night.

The end

6

In the half hour you've been gone, the queue has tripled. You wander from the end of the queue to the front as if you're inspecting the linee and deciding whether it's worth joining it but, really, your decision rests on the guy who was there earlier. You've remembered who he is now. Jack Rogers, ex football pro, fitness trainer to the stars. Half of any red carpet owes its killer bodies to him and the other half has sampled his – if the rumours are anything to go by.

He's no longer anywhere to be seen and you can't face the queue on the chance he'll even still be in there, let alone unaccompanied, by the time you get in. If you get in.

You've missed your chance.

The end