Becoming His Muse, Part Two (11 page)

“Do you like this, Ava?” His voice has a hard edge. It’s not that I don’t like it… but…that last smack hurt.

I feel tears pricking behind my eyes though I’m not sure why. I don’t feel scared, not in my mind anyways, but my body is reacting in its own special way tonight, a way I’ve never experienced. I’m not sure what I feel.

“I think so,” I whisper. I anticipate he’s going to smack me again, but he doesn’t. I feel him move behind me, between my legs. I hear him tear open a condom. That sound arouses me even more.

But this arousal is so different, so deep. The skin of my buttocks is throbbing lightly and feels hot, so that his hands feel cool on me as he draws me back toward him, as he guides my opening to his sheathed tip. I hold my breath as I wait for it. Will he be rough or gentle? I want him so badly and I say it.

“I want you,” I whisper into the couch. “I want you inside me.” I want this like I’ve never wanted anything before. I feel him just there, a slight pressure at my pussy’s opening. I lean back to take him, but he seems to lean back at the same time, the same short distance, and so I can’t gather him to me.

“You want me inside you, Ava?”

“Yes.”

“And you always get what you want?”

What does he mean?

“Because you’re spoiled. Everyone gives you everything you want?”

“No…Only if you want—“

“—Is it my turn to get what I want?”

“Yes. It’s your turn.” But still he doesn’t enter me. After all of our foreplay, how can he maintain so much self-control? I’m tempted to crawl forward, off the couch, and then turn around and push him down and sit on him and just take the pleasure he’s denying me right now. I moan with frustration.

“And if I want to spank you a hundred times, I can do that?”

A hundred times? Oh no. He’s massaging my buttocks now, which is going to make them even more sensitive.

“If you want to,” I whisper, trying to exert my own self-control. I’ll let him do what he wants. I was the one who suggesting the spanking. I won’t let it break my will.

Or will I? If it’s what he wants…

He smacks with one hand on one cheek and then the other hand on the other cheek. It takes an effort to stay upright, but the sting is sweet, and pain a mere memory. I lean back, anticipating another blow, but wanting to keep my pussy lined up with his cock, wanting him, desperately, to plunge into me. I whimper with
that
anticipation.

I look over my shoulder, along the length of my back, and see he’s looking down at me, at all of me. He’s rock hard and pulsing, and just beyond my reach.

I feel a tear fall from my cheek. I hadn’t even noticed they’d gathered enough to fall. Logan sees the tear.

“I’m hurting you,” he whispers. His eyes soften.

“No, I’m fine. Keep going. Please.”

I’m aching for release. He doesn’t realize how much. The tears don’t matter.

He settles back on his heels. “I don’t want to hurt you, Ava.”

All I’m aware of is the distance between the two parts of us that I want to come together.

“It’s okay. I trust you.”

I lean back towards him until I am sort of sitting on his lap, with the backs of my thighs against the fronts of his. His erection pushes into the small of my back as he wraps his strong arms around me.

His hands cup my tits and then slide lower. “You’re sure?”

I nod, my breath catching as his fingers part my thighs. “Oh, yes.”

I lift up and forward slightly. He pushes himself downward until he slips between the backs of my thighs and into my extremely wet and swollen pussy. I arch to get the angle right, to let his whole length penetrate me. He’s so deep in this position, but it’s hard to move without him slipping out, so he holds his hand against the two of us. The ridge of his thumb is against my clit and his fingers hold his cock deep in my pussy. He rocks his hips slightly and I gasp as he goes even deeper than I thought possible. The skin of my stinging buttocks is so sensitive that it tingles as I rub against him. That tingling, plus the sparks going off in my clit, and the head of his cock prodding my g-spot, all make me start to tremble so much he has to hold me tight with his one arm. Until he lets me go…

I fall forward. He follows, slipping out and then driving himself back in as he mounts me from behind. My legs are pressed together, so that he rubs between my thighs first and then deep in my pussy. The weight of him presses the air from my lungs for a moment and I gasp. I hear him moan in response. He bites my shoulder as he slides in and out with greater speed and determination. After my long drawn out arousal the intensity of driving desire pushes me to the cusp of coming. He slides one hand into my hair and pulls roughly as his teeth dig deeper into my shoulder again. I don’t mind the slight pain.

I am pinned under him and can only move my head a little to the side. I arch my neck, listening to his ragged, uncontrolled breath in my ear.

“Logan…” I whisper, haltingly on my out-breath as his length plunges in and out, faster and faster, setting my insides aflame. On my next in-breath, I release a high-pitched gasp. Fireworks of pleasure explode in my mind as an orgasm rockets through my body. Logan groans, drives hard for three more thrusts and then lies heavily, spent, against my back. I take small breaths, not wanting either of us to move.

“Are you all right?” he finally whispers in my ear.

There are no words for what I am right now. I’ve been blown apart and drawn back together, but some small part of me lingers in the intoxicated ethers of the union of pleasure and pain. I am more than all right. I am exquisitely alive.

My bottom is sweetly sore the next day. I walk around as if I’ve got a secret, which I do, and it’s twofold: There is the secret affair with Logan and there is the secret change I feel blossoming within me. Not only am I breaking the rules, I’m also breaking the limits of my body and mind. I feel myself changing, opening, risking more than I ever imagined.

In the weeks that follow, Logan and I can’t seem to get enough of each other. It’s as if we’re each other’s favorite food and no matter how much we eat we never get full yet always end up feeling satisfied. Until our appetites surge again.

I’m beginning to understand what it means to be his muse. His creativity is feeding off our mutual lust. But mine seems to be, too. I feel a renewed sense of inspiration. I’m excited to get to the studio to see what comes through on the canvas.

Sneaking in and out late at night through the parking door requires stealth and the sacrifice of sleep, which means I’m exhausted the mornings after, many of which are booked in the studio. My fatigue has added some looseness to my brush style. Figures and forms dance from my brush. As my paintings build in composition and structure, I feel more confident about putting together a good graduation show.

Dr. T meets with me more regularly to check on my progress for the show and to make sure I’m fulfilling all my other class requirements for graduation.

“Your paintings are coming along nicely.” He squints at a particular canvas. “Is that Jenny?”

“Sort of. She was my model for that one.”

He nods and then looks away from the naked form.

“You’re definitely developing your style, and creating a great body of work for your portfolio, which is more than I can say for some of the other senior students.”

“What do you mean?”

“Derrick and Casey won’t even show me what they’re working on. They want it secret until the show.”

I smile. “Suits their eccentricities I guess.”

“Either that or they’re not getting anything done and trying to keep
that
a secret.” He shakes his head. “I’m not sure what to make of those two.”

“They’re strange, for sure, but they’re pretty edgy artists. Maybe it’ll be a good surprise.”

“Lets hope, but I’m worried about Ronnie. He’s very behind on his sculpture pieces.”

That worries me too. I wonder if Owen’s been too much of a personal distraction.
My
personal distraction is having the opposite effect— I’m more productive— even though I’m dog-tired most of the time. In fact, I can’t suppress a yawn.

Dr. T sees it and chuckles. “Don’t worry, there’s light at the end of the tunnel, Ava. Your four year indenture is almost up.” He peruses my paintings again. “You’ve accomplished so much already and we’re only halfway through the year. I see a bright future ahead of you.”

He grins big when he says this. He’s proud of me, and it makes all the difference because my own father isn’t.

He looks concerned for a moment. “Is it true that when you graduate, you want to go to New York?”

I look down at my feet. “I want to, but my parents aren’t very supportive.”

“Yes, I’m aware of that. You’re father’s on the board here and he’s hinted that he’s hoping you’ll study something else, something “serious”. But listen, Ava. Art
is
serious. At times it’s playful but it’s serious play, the kind of serious play that has the potential to shape culture.”

“Tell that to my father.”

“When I get the chance, I will. For now, focus on making your exhibit as powerful as possible. I have a contact or two in New York. Maybe I can call in a favor and get my friend who’s a gallery owner to come up to the show. Maybe if your father could be made to see that you have a viable career ahead of you he’ll change his tune.”

“I’ll do the best I can,” I say. He leaves me to my work and heads off to a department meeting.

I’m grateful for Dr. T’s belief in me but he doesn’t understand the pressure my parents are putting on me to apply to law school. But I’m not going to. They won’t be happy to hear that I’m determined to live in New York after graduation, and maybe forever after that.

Sometimes I imagine living in New York with Logan, with him writing and me painting, but I stop myself. He never talks about a future together. But I can’t seem to help fantasizing. I’ve never felt so intensely about another person in my life.

I’m not alone in my admiration of him. He’s gotten more popular amongst the female student ranks, if that’s even possible. His hotness, paired with the double unattainableness of being a professor with a fiancée, has made him exceptionally intriguing. Sometimes my jealously flares when I see other students flirting with him, but mostly I feel a sweet guilty pleasure slipping behind the scenes and having him — every hard, sexy inch of him — to myself, and this pleasure far outweighs the jealousy. It’s even beginning to wear down my fear of getting caught.

I love my sexy, delicious nights with Logan. And he insists he needs me. His first draft is building chapter by chapter and he gives me credit for its flow and power. He won’t let me read any of it but one night, he tells me a bit about it while we lie naked under tousled sheets sipping wine.

“My pages are full of you, Ava,” he says. “Indirectly, every inch of you is expressed in a phrase, an image, a motivation. And it’s good. I never say that, because I can never tell, but I can
feel
it this time. It’s so different…” His smile is bemused as he looks at me, and then it disappears. I see a flicker of fear in his eyes, but then he blinks and it’s gone.

I curl up against his shoulder and whisper, “Is it full of raunchy sex?” I nip and kiss his neck as I make my way down to his nipples.

“There’s some sex, yes, but it’s… I don’t know…”

As my tongue slides across his belly, circles his navel, and heads lower, I feel his cock pulsing, filling itself with the magic blood that makes his soft skin go hard. He’s stopped talking, perhaps in anticipation of pleasure or maybe he’s unsure of what to say.

I lick the tip of his cock. “Is it good sex?” I take him into my mouth and I hear his breath catch.

“It’s more than sex,” he says huskily, and then his hands are in my hair and he’s guiding my mouth along his length. “It’s just more…”

And then we don’t need more words as we slip and writhe and press against each other.

When I sneak out later that night, I hear crying again. If it’s Madeleine, she doesn’t show any signs of her inner torment during the week, but her nightly sufferings sound tragic. I pause in the hall to listen for a moment, and then I remind myself to get a move on. In my tired state, I drop my bag, which thumps to the floor. The crying stops. I hear footsteps. I jolt to attention and dive for the door just before another door opens.

“Hello?” I hear from the stairwell. It’s definitely her voice. I hold my breath until I hear her door close and then start tiptoeing down the stairs to the parking garage exit.

Nearly getting caught makes me realize I’ve been tempting fate visiting Logan’s apartment so often. We need some other options. I leave another message for Derrick and Casey. I’m hoping they’ll show up to Dr. T’s lecture the next day.

On my way there, I see Madeleine Hare talking to Dean Ascott outside the auditorium. I freeze. Does she know it was me last night? Is she telling the Dean about it right now? She looks awfully serious.

She sees me and waves me over. I can’t turn around now. I have to keep moving forward.

Dean Ascott turns toward me. He seems to be sizing me up. He frowns.

“Professor Hare was just telling me I should keep my eye on you.”

I swallow hard, preparing for the worst.

“She says you’re in the running for the Promising Artist Award.”

I blink, and then let out a sigh of relief. Madeleine’s watching me closely. But if she knows something about last night, she isn’t choosing to tell the Dean about it right now. Maybe I’m just being paranoid. Dean Ascott is still talking. I force myself to listen.

“There’s a pretty generous prize attached to that,” he says. “Enough to set up a modest studio for a year.”

I know about the prize. All the visual arts seniors do, though we hate the idea of competing with each other for it. Secretly, we all wish to get it. It requires impressing established independent gallery owners, who are always the jurors for that award. Past recipients have gone on to be represented by reputable galleries. It’s an award that launches careers. And if I had that money, it wouldn’t matter what my parents thought of my future plans. I’d be able to do what I wanted.