What do you think, he asked 

His voice was menacingly inviting 

And he was right behind me

His hot breath literally chilling my flesh

We were in the art gallery where his work was displayed

I was one of his disciple 

Even though he was almost of my father's age

His irresistible charm was difficult to ignore

He flirted with everyone 

But maintained distance from me

I wondered why even though the undercurrents were unmistakable 

The deliberate graze of his fingers on my flesh

The locking of the eyes

But still the distance

When I knew he had been slaying women with his flair 

It's a magnificent composition sir, I replied

Without daring to look into his eyes

Not as magnificent as the canvas of your curves, he remarked 

I froze, speechless 

He hissed down my neck

Every pore of mine became delirious 

He knew his spell

Audaciously, he stripped my layers 

Stay right here, he commanded 

And I did as told

He collected his paint and brushes 

And started to paint on my bare flesh 

I stood still in spite of the feathery titillation of the brush on my back

Time elapsed...

And finally he commented I am through 

You are the masterpiece I had saved all these days 

To be curated and explored at leisure 

Saying so, he grazed himself in rhythmic movements on my back

Smudging the fresh paint

Messing himself

Biting and marking my flesh

This is ART, he articulated 

When the colors of passion 

Is embedded with the colors of paint! 

©LR