SEVEN DAYS (26 page)

She kept her eyes on his as he worked. She enjoyed this give and take of power. She fought to remain in her seat, because what she really wanted to do was rush across the room, knock the easel over and pin him to the floor.

“Work faster,” Judy said after a few minutes.

Mark grunted and switched pencils. No more broad strokes. He filled in minute details, the room silent except for the sound of lead on cloth. She'd remember that sound forever. It would always make her bite her lip.

A few minutes later, Mark winced and then threw his pencil carelessly across the room. He stepped out from behind the canvas.

“Done?” Judy said.

“Done,” he said.

She met him somewhere between the chair and his easel. Their bodies collided and their mouths found each other quickly and easily. The taste of her. The taste of him. It was better than either of them had anticipated. His hands traced the contours of her waist, then gripped her hips. Unable to wait, she reached down between his legs and held him, feeling his cock in his jeans. She squeezed and he responded by kissing her hard.

“Take this off,” she whispered.

“It comes with the body,” he said.

“The shirt, silly.”

He unbuttoned his shirt and she ran her fingers over his chest hair, enjoying the feel of him, so soft and yet so strong. He was such a marvellous array of contradictions, so many opposing forces that seemed nonetheless to complement each other.

Like us,
she thought.

She let her forehead rest against the hairs of his chest and breathed in the scent of him. He smelled of the studio, of oils and chalk, paper and charcoal.

She tasted him, enjoying the feel of his hairs against her tongue, knowing that every single one that was moved by her licking and kissing communicated pleasure to him.

He let the shirt drop to the floor while she worked on his belt and continued sucking on one nipple.

It was not easy and she decided to concentrate on the task in hand.

“Need some help?” Mark asked, but then Judy snapped the leather back and slipped it out of the buckle. She undid the button, lowered the zip and helped him step out of his trousers and shorts.

His cock was hard and taking the shaft in her left hand left plenty for her mouth to do. She closed her lips around his bulbous tip.

Slowly.

He shuddered.

She slapped her tongue with his cock, looking up into his eyes, willing him to come in her mouth.

She plunged him between her lips once more and sucked hard while pouting, accentuating her every movement and her every sound. She groaned as she took him steadily deeper and deeper into her mouth.

“Beautiful,” she murmured and she licked his penis from base to tip with one long stroke of her tongue.

“Sit,” she commanded him.

He sat in the wicker chair and now it was her turn to paint him, using her tongue as the brush. She began with his inner thighs and then tongued his balls before returning to plunge the shaft into her mouth again, sucking gently, but long and slow, so she could feel every ridge of him sliding over her wet lips and then rubbing against the surface of her tongue. She bobbed her head, but ever so slowly, agonising him with the pleasure of it. He sighed with each down stroke and groaned with each upstroke.

She paused long enough to ask:

“Who has the room above us?”

“I don't know,” he muttered, impatient for her to continue.

“Then we'd better be quiet,” she said and reached up to cover his mouth with one hand. The other she kept on the shaft of his penis, stroking him while she tongued and mouthed the tip.

His body was so hard. Not only his cock, but his thighs, his abs, his arms, his fingers plunged into her hair. He was so hard, so capable, so confident, so fearless, having let go of years of work and thrown away a tome that was larger and more respected than anything she would ever create, simply because he 'didn't want to be that guy', this young man who had swept an entire group of strangers up and along with such joy and kindness and a kind of beautiful anger in his heart, and here he was, wanting her, here he was, unable to resist her.

She stood over him now. They were equally naked. Equally vulnerable. Equally strong.

“Do you…?”

“Bedside table,” Mark said and started up.

“I'll go,” she said.

She went into the adjoining room and, after a moment of confusion, followed by a moment of disbelief, discovered that there was no bed. It took her a while to realise this, because the room was in the same state of disarray as the other, only worse, as if the chaos of the entire building had been tumbled into this one apartment. He appeared to have made some effort at organisation and then decided to forget that and build a private studio around it instead, so that there was antique furniture draped with paper and rolls of lino and dust sheets splattered with paint and ink.

“Confused,” Judy announced.

“When I said 'bedside',” Mark said, joining her in the room. “I meant 'technically'.”

“Really, where do you sleep?” Judy said.

“Really,” said Mark. “I'll sleep when I'm dead.”

He uncovered an unassuming 'bedside' table that she would never have spotted alone.

“You need to look after yourself,” Judy said. “We need you.”

He broke open the condom's wallet and tossed it away before stretching the rubber over his cock, still hard.

“I need you,” Judy said. “How many more of those do you have?”

“Two,” Mark said, glancing at the table.

“Then we'd better pace ourselves,” Judy said.

Since there was no bed, she sat astride him while he sat in the wicker chair. It creaked with their combined weight and the sides rubbed against her bare legs, leaving white scratches on her pale thighs.

“You okay?” Mark said.

Judy writhed against him, taking his breath away. She pulled back soon after so she could see his face, curled and contorted, torturing him with how good this felt.

He kissed her breasts gently and she relaxed into the feel of him, allowing her head to loll back and her hair to fall deliciously over her back, giving him full access to her breasts, which he held firmly with those wonderful, masterful hands, and she felt like a lump of clay that he was moulding into a beautiful shape. She felt confident enough to let go. She trusted him to hold her. She trusted him to know what she wanted.

He slid from the chair, still inside her, and lay her on her back on the floor amid discarded papers, books and a shirt in which he had been painting. She grabbed his shoulders when he put his full weight on her and pushed his cock deeper inside her. Now it was her turn to groan, an animal sound that she wouldn't have believed was coming from her except that when Mark put his hand over her mouth it stopped.

“Shhh,” he said and they both laughed, shhhing each other for giggling.

His hips began moving quickly, his balls slapping against her. She reached down and spread her lips while he arched his back and used his full weight in every thrust, knocking the wind out of her. Her hands were so wet. Her mouth twisted with longing.

“You feel so good,” she said and she shut her eyes and let herself succumb to the sensation unfurling within her, spinning like potters’ wheels, taking her higher and higher while he moved faster and faster.

A crashing orgasm brought her back to the room. She opened her eyes, startled by the force of it. She could feel her body gripping Mark's cock and bringing him closer to orgasm too.

She grabbed his ass and encouraged him to fuck her harder, as if that was possible. His skin was flushed and slick and her hands slipped from him, sought him, grabbed his strong forearms, which he had set either side of her head.

Her orgasm continued, so intense that it frightened her.

“Look at me,” she gasped.

He stared into her hazel eyes and came, long and hard, the muscles of his arms taut, sweat glistening on his shoulders and chest, no sound emerging from his mouth, his eyes now squeezed shut, his body trembling, as hers had been for a long, long time.

His body kept thudding against hers as he came. He shuddered, emptying himself.

“Yes,” she said.

And then his arms folded and he lowered himself onto her, kissing her neck.

“You’re so beautiful,” he said. “I wanted you so much.”

As Judy’s heart rate returned to normal, she stroked Mark’s hair and trailed her fingernails up and down his spine.

His body was solid and sleek. It was at its best when it was against hers like this.

Ten minutes later, Judy was still on the floor as if her limbs had turned to rubber. He was up and making them both a drink, but she was bathing in the memory of their lovemaking.

When that wasn’t enough, she passed her hand over her breasts, over the ridges of her abs, which had become so much more defined than usual in the last few weeks, over the neat mound of pubic hair. She sought her clitoris and wasted no time.

Mark poured milk over the carpet.

“Watch what you’re doing,” Judy breathed.

“Easy for you to say,” Mark replied.

Her pussy was slick again and she spread her knees as far as she could, partly so Mark could see her clearly, but also because she loved this feeling of being open and exposed. Mentally and physically, her default position had always been to cross her arms and her legs and her ankles, her fingers, her heart.

Now she used the fingers of one hand to spread her lips and the other hand to tease the nub of her clitoris.

Mark was slack-jawed, forgetting to stir their coffee, holding the spoon as if it was merely a decoration for his fingers.

His cock was hard again.

”I’ve got something hot and wet for you,” Judy said. “And I guarantee that it will keep you up for hours.”

The coffee cup hit the ground.

“I don't need anything, but you,” said Judy.

“You’ve got me,” Mark said.

For now
, Judy thought. Tomorrow was another matter.

Chapter Nine: Wednesday—Found Art

Maurice Denis:
“Remember that a picture—before being a battle horse, a nude woman or some anecdote—is essentially a flat surface covered with colours arranged in a certain order.”

Wednesday started in the dump, but Judy couldn't have been happier. She could have been anywhere and would still have worn that same ridiculous, slightly smug, contented smile. Even Maggie's jibes and snide looks didn't bother her today.

Their task that morning was to find some art. The local dump, Mark assured them, was a treasure trove for an artist.

Judy wondered what he'd forgotten to do today, but as far as she could see he didn't drop anything off or pick anything up. This really did seem to be part of some kind of plan.

Well done
, she thought, and looked around the yard, feeling as though she owned the place, because Mark was with her and Mark was behaving as if he owned it too.

What's mine is yours and what's yours is mine.

Body.

Mind.

About a dozen, large, metal skips were situated around the yard, each one labelled with an almost indecipherable image and a word or two in French, each one designated a different material, such as metal, cardboard, plastic or wood. There were also palettes laid out for white goods, electronic equipment and oils, as well as the usual recycling bins for newspapers and magazines, glass and clothes.

The group split up to explore the environment, needing little instruction or encouragement from Mark today. He'd done his work well and they were all motivated and, best of all, open to possibilities. No matter that this was a place where people threw their rubbish away. What was rubbish to one person, they understood, was beautiful to another.

Everyone went their own way, except for Kevin who was thankfully hand in hand with Yvonne as they headed towards the cardboard.

Judy glanced at Mark, who was surveying them all with a look that was as close as he got to pride. She wanted him to take her by the hand, too. She wanted him to take her. She could barely wait until this evening, although they hadn't agreed to meet. Quite the opposite. Mark had warned her to be careful, telling her that what they were doing might be fun, but it was not a game. He could lose his job over this if there were complaints.

“I can keep a low profile,” Judy assured him. “I've kept a low profile all my life.”

But here she was now, grinning like an idiot at him, and there he was, smiling back, equally struck.

Judy went over to the skip that said 'Divers', the place where they put things that didn't fit neatly into any other category. Mark would have headed here first, too.

Immediately, she found something that called to her. It was amazing. She saw a tan-brown, female dress-maker's dummy, waist and shoulders above a wave of detritus. She was even looking in Judy's direction, as if she had heard her approaching steps and had turned to call for help.

“All right, Sandy,” she said, naming the dummy instantly. She swung her legs over the lip of the skip and dropped inside. Had she thought about what she was doing, she wouldn't have dared. She'd have asked someone for help, but her single-minded desire to have her shoved everything else aside.

She tugged and pulled at the dummy, freeing her from the 'junk' and then hauling her to the side. She had a tear in her back and her metal stand was bent, but she would stand again. Judy would see to it.

As she attempted to climb out of the skip, she saw that others had found interesting objects for the exhibition too. Bernard was thinking about exhibiting the innards of a television set. Maggie had an idea regarding the unused oil. She wanted to have a bottle of flammable liquid on one stand next to a lit candle, providing the naked flame that the writing on the bottle warned of so clearly. It would simulate the anxiety that nakedness can make people feel, she said. Mark wasn't sure they'd be allowed to do that in the gallery, or in the street, or anywhere, but he was giving it serious thought when a little man in a fluorescent jacket came striding out of a cabin and yelled at him.

Mark didn't seem perturbed. He was used to people yelling at him and indeed he seemed to know the man in uniform. He reached out to shake his hand, but the man was gesticulating furiously, even stamping his boots in the dirt.

“Non, non, non!” the man said. “Pas de tout!”

Mark remained calm and spoke to him in slow, even tones, also gesturing towards the group, putting forward his case. As usual, he was improvising. As usual, he was bending the rules.

“Hurry up,” Judy said to the group. “We've got about 90 seconds.”

Bernard helped Judy get the mannequin out of the skip and into the minibus in return for her help with the broken television set. The man in the uniform yelled at them to stop.

“Keep moving,” Mark said. “I'll take full responsibility.”

* * * *

On returning to the studio, Mark gave them a brief lecture on composition and then announced that they would have free time now to work on the major component of their exhibition, a work in the media of their choice as long as it was on their chosen theme.

During her free period, Judy's feet found their way to Mark’s door, but there was no answer to her knock. She later discovered that he had excused himself, because he wanted to get their lunch ready. He was having to do everything himself since Andre had departed.

The table in the canteen was beautifully laid and, on seeing him serving food, Bernard, Yvonne and Judy all jumped up to help him. Everybody pitched in and told him that they would clean up too and that tomorrow maybe someone could help cook if he showed them where everything was.

“Go sleep,” Judy told him.

“I'll sleep when I'm—”

“Now,” Judy said.

“Three pm, in the studio,” he said to everyone. They nodded and waved him away and he left, striding as if on his way to an important meeting. He made every moment count. He did everything as though it was the most important thing in the world. The moment he left the room, she felt lost.

“Don't worry,” Kevin said to her. “I won't really make you wash up.”

“Don't be daft,” said Yvonne. “She doesn't care about the washing up. I think we're all a bit in love with him, but Judy's head over heels.”

“Don't be silly,” said Judy.

Yvonne held up her hands in defence.

“Don't mean to step on your toes, love. Just pointing out the obvious.”

Judy returned to her seat, but not before noticing that Maggie was appraising her. Maggie's expression said that she couldn't believe that Judy would have feelings for someone so way out of her league and that the idea that Mark might have feelings for her too was incredible.

It was true that it was incredible, but not the way that Maggie thought.

* * * *

Mark was first in the studio that afternoon. The power nap appeared to have done him good and he was in good form, attentive and insightful. He had just the right balance of instruction and experimentation so that nobody felt out of their depth or pressured, nor aimless. He seemed to know just what to say to people to energise them.

“Don't forget to breathe,” he told Judy as he passed by her work in progress. She wasn't holding her breath because she was concentrating. She was holding her breath because he was near.

* * * *

The day's teaching officially finished at five-thirty. Judy was at his door in a ruffled, pink skirt and a pastel blouse, buttoned neatly at the front.

“Hello,” said Mark.

“I've come to make sure you get an early night,” Judy informed him.

“Oh. You'd better come in then.”

He closed the door behind her.

The first kiss was exceptional. She slammed him against the wooden door and pressed her body against him. He was surprised, but responded quickly and easily, always improvising.

His hand caressed her neck and suddenly all tension ebbed from her body. She felt light and liquid and washed against him.

Then he closed his fingers around the back of her neck and kissed her hard and the tension was back, her body a spring being coiled tighter and tighter.

Once again, she pushed him against the door, this time so she could look him up and down and see what she was about to get. Then, impatient, she returned her lips to his, but he was hesitant now.

“Technically,” he said, between tiny kisses received and delivered, “you shouldn't be in here, because this is not an official study room.”

“Technically,” she said, licking his lips, “this is no longer an official study day. It's six.” She reached between his legs and cupped his balls. “So you're no longer my teacher and I'm no longer your student.”

“I don't think they'll see it that way,” Mark said, taking the weight of her breast in his hand and squeezing her until she squealed a little, then nibbling at her neck and ear.

“I wouldn't worry about Them,” Judy said. She raised one knee and slid her thigh up and down his leg, trapping him against the door, as if he really desired escape. “We can handle Them, but …” She stopped and took a step back. “But you need your rest.  You need to lie down. On your back. And not move. Can you do that?”

“What's in the bag?” Mark asked astutely.

“Oh. This little thing?”

She slipped her bag from her shoulder and revealed three small tubs of edible body paint.

“I thought that while you were relaxing, I could do some homework. I just need a canvas. Do you know where I can find a naked guy in Trignac at this time in the evening?”

“On a Wednesday? Good luck.”

“Hey, how about you!? Are you doing anything right now?”

Mark looked around.

“Me? Well. No, I'm not busy.”

He led the way into the bedroom where there was now a fold-out bed, neatly made, in the middle of the room.

“Did you know I was coming?” Judy asked.

“If you didn't come,” he said, “I'd have found you.”

Pleased, she gestured for him to undress.

He did so, first removing his shirt and throwing it on the floor.

She tutted.

“Clean freak,” he said.

“Get on with it,” she replied.

His body was beautiful and he seemed even more defined and toned than the night before, perhaps because she was seeing him at a distance, or perhaps because he'd worked so hard to please her yesterday and it showed already on his body. Also showing were three red lines on his shoulder where she had dug her nails into him.

“I'm sorry about that,” she said. “Do they hurt?”

“Yes,” he said, “but I know that you're not sorry.”

He kicked off his trainers and socks and stepped out of his jeans, kicking them towards his shirt.

“Off,” she said, pointing to his black shorts. “You'll sleep better without any encumbrance.”

“You're right,” he said.

He slid them off in one movement and stepped out of them.

It was her turn to observe him. She did so openly, unselfconscious, standing before him fully-clothed while admiring his body. His chest was broad and strong and his flat stomach let her eyes sweep down, down over him to his naked cock, semi-hard already. His legs were muscular, but not overly. They were the legs of someone who got where he wanted by walking, mile after mile, the long, hard way.