Her naked skin trembles beneath his touch. And he was touching it all. Each fold. Each knot. He took his time. He was trying to consume her through his fingers. His eyes closed. And his hands free.
He painted her first in his mind. He wanted to perfect that image before he put it on to the canvas.
He wanted to burn it inside his soul. And duplicate when needed. He was the painter. She was his muse.
She had a home. A family. Children to look after. Chores to complete. What was she doing here? She asked herself this a million times. And she knew the answer. The gold was too hard to come by. And there was the harsh winter to get through. She lay still while he roamed free.
He did not love her. It was not even lust. He admired the creation that was in front of him. Perfect in structure. The eyes. The lips. The face. He cut her across in every angle and saw symmetry. He knew this was the master painters greatest creation. And he knew it was a crime to try imitate the master.
And so she lay there. Each night. And he worshipped her. Each night.
