1

Maggie Sanderson was a stalwart of the community, served on a number of committees that were charitable in nature, and she was a vocal member of the parish council. She didn’t suffer fools gladly and was not slow in giving voice to her opinions, often arguing the merits of a case when challenged on anything that she was in control of.

Divorced, for some years now, of independent means and soon to turn fifty, she could scarcely remember what it felt like to have a man in her life, either permanently or by association and that gave them both what they wanted: the certainty of companionship. Her volatile moods seemed too much for some to take and so she sought distraction in painting, in her art. It was often a lonely hobby to pursue, but the weekly art club gathering was usually a time to be in the company of others and to talk as they stood at their easels, while others fashioned works in a variety of materials that she could only wonder at, for their imaginative use of what had been brought to the gathering.

But over that pursuit she had little control, no matter how hard she worked at mastering even the most basic of skills, such as perspective, when she drew or painted, those around her more gifted and willing to put their work on display at two annual events that the group organised in the spring and again in the autumn.

‘I keep on at it because it helps me to unwind,’ she had been overheard muttering at a session two weeks ago and when a mentor was doing the rounds of those in attendance.

‘Try Sex…’ someone close by had offered, the speaker hidden by their easel and those closest to him. Her personal circumstances had not gone unnoticed.

‘True, but not with you…’ she had been quick to answer.

The giggles, and disbelieving laughter, all around her had caused some embarrassment, even some loss of face, but she had been surprised to have an ally in Glen Powell, no less, a man who was an undoubted master of his craft and a member of the Royal Academy.

Glen was again seen to look her way as these exchanges played out and he was brief in his comments to those he stopped by as he offered to help in mentoring once more. His intention was clear, to be with her and she would be glad of it, more to engage with him than to gain some insight from him on her work and how to improve. Time pressure meant that no one could take up his attention for long, and it went that way with others who attended as mentors.

‘Let me see where you’ve got to with this…Maggie,’ he suggested, his deep voice kept low, ‘what is easy for others just takes a little more work and guidance…from the right person.’

Glen had taken in her appearance as Maggie stood at her easel, a look of frustration ruining what was for him an attractive, open face, framed by an unruly tumble of her long sandy-blonde hair that she had tied back. Maggie was a big woman, full-breasted, broad hipped and voluptuous; a woman with an engaging smile and direct gaze of her eyes. For a woman he had heard others speak of, in unfaltering terms, she looked surprisingly ‘well,’ his term for a captivating woman who brought much to the eye. It was a word often deployed on his sitters, those who agreed to pose nude for him. Recently, a rich Londoner, of eastern European origins, had commissioned four pictures of ‘his woman,’ but sittings were out of the question. Instead, he was to paint them from only too clear, and graphic, digital images that left nothing for him to imagine, or wonder how to capture on canvas.

‘They will be for my private work room…as you English say, ‘study’,’ he had laughed in his knowing ways. ‘My woman will like them…’

Glen hadn’t doubted him for a moment.

 

2

She looked at him, then at the abstract picture of a man’s face that she was working on, the subject set by the class coordinator. ‘It’s a mess, I know…’

‘Don’t be so hard on yourself, Maggie…’ he said, his deep voice friendly even consoling, and reaching out to take her brush from her unsteady hand. ‘Let me show you a trick…for applying the paint…’

‘Thanks,’ she answered, dismayed that he had offered to do so and how Glen had spoken, and was provoked into asking, ‘why now?’

‘I thought it was time…’

She took in his long thick fingers on a strong hand, his deftness as he applied what paint was left on the brush, the look of concentration but his confidence unmistakable. She could take in the man beside her, felt the occasional sweep pf his arm against her, that moment’s bond between them broken as he took a barely noticeable step away as if to be close was also to be familiar. She felt an uncommon ache in her belly provoked by his actions, saw the straight hairline to his almost grey black hair, his furrowed forehead. Glen’s beard and moustache bushy and also greying, but with an uneven pattern that would look odd, save that the stare of his eyes and thoughtful gaze obliged you to think it was all part of the man, unpredictable, even self-absorbed. How odd to be possessed by a sudden, raging longing for him, a strong broad-shouldered man with a lightness of touch and evident passion for his craft.

‘Long, wide strokes to apply the base. then quicker dabs and swirls, deep and thin…lighter touches to create the illusion of depth and texture…the base still to be seen, just. Leave something for the viewer of the picture to imagine.’ He smiled as he moved to take her palette from her hands, murmured a few words, his gaze averted. ‘I could help you some more, Maggie…you know where my studio is.’

‘Yes. I might just do that…take you up on your offer,’ she replied on an uncertain voice, finally meeting an undoubtedly appraising look upon her.

He stepped away from her, the palette still in his hands. ‘Gather round everyone, if you want to see this…?’

‘Don’t embarrass me…’

‘I won’t…you have the makings of an interesting piece of work…Maggie,’ Glen told her, but in a vice loud enough for everyone to hear.

♥

She remembered all that had been said to her, what Glen had done to be of help. Maggie also sensed that he had, in his muted ways, expressed an interest in her that went far beyond a wish to be a mentor in her art, or ‘daubings’ as she had called them. The club’s meeting had finally broken up and the room was filled with noise, the scrape of easels over the floor, the snap of fastenings to art boxes, sharp; chairs being stacked against the walls until the place looked just as it had been found nearly four hours earlier.

Few remained in the hall, and she now went to him, saw Glen put away his large sketch book, the deftness in his movements. His denim shirt had a few flacks of different colours of paint, but they seemed to have been ‘washed into’ it and leant him, along with somewhat grubby chinos and deck shoes, an only too dissolute appearance.

Why should he care, he made money from his art, a great deal of it she had heard from work both commercial and private.

He smiled. ‘I hope you weren’t too embarrassed by the lesson?’

‘No, I was thinking of what you said about my picture…more by what you said, just to me.’

Glen tucked the pad under one arm and Maggie saw his unbuttoned sleeve ride up, a few interlaced leather wristbands to be seen along with a chunky watch. The sensitivity to be seen in his work, in drawings and finished paintings defied the beguiling masculinity now to be taken in without anyone interrupting them, or their exchanges being overheard.

‘I meant it, wondered on how I could meet you…couldn’t simply call out of the blue…what we do binds us…’

‘I’m left in your wake, Glen, ‘ she couldn’t help but laugh softly.

‘You try…keep on trying, and I like that in you…’ They were talking as he led her to the doors that led out into the small entrance hall, then the glass doors that opened out onto the car park. ‘I meant what I said, Maggie…’

‘I know…know that with every moment that passes, and I see from that look of yours on me…’ They lingered. ‘Tell me…before you go…about the four paintings of women that you were commissioned to paint?’

‘I could do, would like it more if I showed you my client’s proofs…first ideas before I set about hte paintings themselves. They’re all nudes…a woman on a rocky shoreline, a mirror nude of a women lying on a couch…one I have in my studio…then there are two young women with shawls, or soft blouses lying on their sides, their face averted, the fit of their blouse, the sense of the thin fabric, like a veil, shaping her…leaves the viewer to imagine the rest…’

‘I never knew any of this…’

He met her doubting look. ‘Special commissions…that’s what they were, and I don’t get too many of those…nudes I mean.’ He gave a disbelieving laugh, did that as he pointed his key-fob at his car and the alarm bleated once.

‘Have I said too much?’

‘No, I just live and learn…about you, Glen.

‘There’s more…’

 

3

‘I have wondered about you…thought of you…for some time, about the woman who seems only to be able to express something of her other self through painting…good or bad as it is…and your use of colour reveals a deeper instinct in you…that you want to be recognised, not for what you do for others,.but the woman you are….’

Glen saw her lips set as if she struggled to snap back at him, what he had told her only too fanciful, but he had read it often enough in the eyes of his sitters. The smears on the canvas, the smallest detail captured had revealed whom he had seen.

‘That you should see and think that about me…’

She saw him walk over to a table laden with his artist’s paraphernalia, its surface none too tidy, and garb a sketch book.

‘Stand still, don’t move…this will only take a few minutes.’

‘What are you doing….?’ She asked needlessly.

‘Drawing you,’ he answered tonelessly, his eyes drifting over her and the charcoal scratching on the paper’s surface. ‘I could ask what brought you here…?’

‘How you were at the class…what you said to me…said in a way that no one else could hear.’

‘I didn’t say that I wanted to kiss the woman before me…’

He did so now, his mouth crashing onto her lips and his arms embracing her, the pad still in one hand. Maggie heard it fall to the floor. She gasped as his lips pressed against her breasts and sought her hardened nipples, clenched on them; these claims arousing a rush of longing and dismay that she should have gone to his studio, wearing only too workaday clothes, but her sleeveless top shaped the heaviness of her breasts and she had felt, on seeing the man, her nipples tingling and hard against her cotton vest, her jeans shaping fleshy thighs and shaping her bum. She looked after herself; had not thought to attract the lustful interest of Glen, a renowned artist…womanizer also, perhaps.

She wanted to risk everything, to succumb to his impetuous claims on her as they began to undress, the couch in the studio the likely bed for their rut. His gaze had paid overt attention to her breasts, how she filled her tank-top and jeans. She felt guilty at brazenly showing up, but his website had informed her when he was at work, te times he could be seen and not interrupt him.

The man before her seemed so alive, unashamedly dressed just as he wanted, and she had again seen a look upon er quite different from those on the women in the art club. She had seen his first sketches of the four women they had spoken of, had been disconcerted by the effect that they had upon him, could see the bulge in his chinos and had taken to wondering if she too had this effect upon him.

She had no excuse to leave him; instead, the gnaw of longing for the man had again taken a hold in her, his look only to flattering and sending her hopes flying, the ache in her nipples as they pressed against her top impossible to ignore.

‘You’ve not much space left to hang up your work…’ she sighed, disconcerted by the silence that had fallen between them. She felt dazed and, turning, she met again Glen’s appraising look, how he seemed to breathe over parted lips.

‘Glen?’ she asked, her voice catching her throat.

She felt the lightest of touches to her breasts, the sweep of Glen’s fingers over her heavy, sagging breasts before they brushed over her erect nipples, so proud under her top and she dismayed that it was so. Just being in the man’s presence, seeing his sketches, had brought her on, toa strange place she had not visited for some time.

‘I’m so glad you’re here…’

She should have stopped him in his claims upon her, the pretext so brazenly opportunistic, but a virile man was touching her, and she was consumed by the wet rush of excitement, did not recognise the woman who was now behaving like a bitch in heat.

‘And…and I don’t know who I’ve become!’ She squirmed on feeling his hands to her skin as he lifted her face to kiss her. She felt delirious with lust and felt she had lost all control; that she would succumb to the primitive frenzy of being taken, to have a man see her naked body and for them to pursue sexual pleasure, to seek solace and gratification by whatever means they could discover with each other.

Glen pressed against her. There was no mistaking the effect that she had on him…she! His hard and erect phallus could be felt against her belly as Glen embraced and kissed her, moved to let her know just what he sought from her and the visit to his studio.

The cool breeze could be felt from the louvred vent high above their heads as they undressed. Whatever he had begun she would seek to share and to end.

 

4

‘You start,’ he commanded, happy to let things play out between them and as Maggie may wish, at least to begin with.

‘I’ll try…’ she answered in dismay, the absence of any finesse something new, She kissed all that she could of his body, his bearded face, slicked her tongue over his lips and felt his moustache graze her lips. She kissed his neck, chest, squatted and kissed his stomach as her hands found him.

‘In a moment!’ he growled and pulled her up to him, kissed her mouth and felt her suck on his lips, let her in when Maggie’s tongue lustfully pushed into his mouth and they shared in raging kisses as if they were, had been, continued to be madly in Love with each other for so long and yet still succumbed to these ways.

‘There’s art and…and there is this!’ she gasped, kissing and groping him, their breathing becoming snatched and quick. ‘You could have warned me about how you felt!’

‘I had to be sure…’

‘How?’

‘The drawing…your….’ He gave her a knowing smile, then brushed his fingers over her hard, erect nipples, a darker red standing out from her breasts.

She looked down even as his fingers brushed over them. She held his head as he pressed his lips to them, caressed her belly before he drew her to him, his erection straining against his briefs. She could feel her Pussy tingling, felt the aching heat and flush of moisture. ‘Let me see you…what you have!’

Maggie slumped down on her knees, her face level with his crotch, his briefs all that was between her mouth and his dick, a length of flesh that from the pictures she knew he had painted, of women, would have been brought to those who had posed for him. Of that she did not think.

‘Go on…no messing about, woman!’ His voice held a note of desperation, and she met his stilled gaze down upon her, felt the clamps of his hands to the heavy tumble of her breasts, the gentle tug upon them, the pinch of fingers to her nipples, his touches lifting them before they sagged once more. She hesitated, her look up on him met by deep, snorted kisses as she began to work him through his briefs. She pulled them down over his hairy thighs, felt it to be longer than she had feared it might be. There had been something about his wild-eyed looks on her, his ragged mop of hair and that beard, his moustache, which alerted her to this man being far from ordinary. ‘Take it!’

‘Glen!’ she yelped, his erection springing Free and its size and girth alarming her. He had waited for this moment, a moment to bring that to her…all of it and its thick girth, its veined surface and glistening tip, his phallus, rock hard and trembling, jerking up as she breathed on it. ‘You want this from me?’

‘Yes…go on!’

She began to jerk him off, slowly at first as she toiled to reacquaint herself with these ways of it between two people. But the impetuousness of falling for him bewildered her. She was given no time as she began to jerk him off slowly, alternating between staring at the enormous size of what Glen had and looking up to meet his stare.

‘I’ll see to you…don’t worry.’

She kissed his thighs as she worked him, jerked his length and circled the tip with her flickering tongue, its sides, before she felt his hands on her head and she opened her mouth. She felt him slip into her mouth and trembled, felt she would gag on it and find it difficult to breath. She breathed in his heat, the musky aroma of his arousal and she shivered, clenched her lips on the tip of his penis and let him know that feeling. She gripped his length and bent to suck on his sac, felt its weight, and heard him groan.

‘It’s been a while,’ she smiled, looking up at him.

‘I’d never have known…or that the woman I see painting has her wilder and passionate side to her nature. Do I have to choose between them?’

‘No…I’m the same woman.’

‘Good…we’ll live and learn together.’

Even as he smiled up at him, Glen’s hands were in her hair, then on her body, her mind raging at what she was doing and sharing with him. She stood up, and Glen bent to kiss her breasts, clamped on them and squeezed as his mouth sank over them, his tongue swirled around each nipple before he sucked on them, in turn, the brush of his beard and moustache unlike anything she had ever known.

‘Go on…go on!’ she called out, her hands in his hair and keeping him to her, her moans and shivers urging him on as a hand now grazed over her Pussy and his fingers entered; one then two, the slow strokes over her clit making her moan and buck her hips forward to meet him in his claims.

She wanted him in her, to take her body and to become lost in the moment, to have Sex and…and yes, as some would say it…to be fucked and to fuck. She moved her body on those fingers, felt them stretch her Pussy walls and to go deeper. She shivered, found her own rhythm as he caressed, kissed and fingered her body; took prolonged delight in her breasts. She languished in the pleasure of his fingers taking her until he stopped suddenly.

‘Glen…Glen?’ she said on halting breaths, looking up to see why he had stopped. She was glad for a moment’s rest from his claims upon her. She gasped as he made her turn round and felt the edge of the bench seat against her knees. His feet pressed against hers, then a thigh slipped between her legs, and she was persuaded to part them, the clamp of his hands on her breasts impossible to bear.

‘I want you…want you…here!’ One hand worked her Pussy lips as the other made her lean forward and his embrace the only support offered. She threaded the fingers of one hand with his. ‘Yes…oh yes, Maggie…so warm and ready for me!’

He kissed her back and slowly pressed forward, his long hard penis gradually opening the way for him to take her.

‘Go…go slowly…it’s been a while for me!’ She only heard him grunt in reply.

Glen grabbed her hips and eased into her warm slicked heat, his movements soon arousing soft yelps of pleasure and wayward ecstasy after such a long time of denial. She’d pleasured herself when the impulse had arisen, and she had felt particularly lonely and down. Now a wild man, an artist with this side to his nature so cleverly concealed, was taking her. She felt him slam against her fleshy buttocks, surrendered to his rhythm and she convulsed in abject pleasure, Glen’s presence in her body only a few minutes old and yet she felt uncommon and unknown pleasure from the man and his ways.