"Nice," said Fetishdoll. I knew from our conversation in the restaurant that she was interested in art, and was particularly fond of Mucha, another, but very different, art nouveau artist. "I'll show you some of my pictures later," she continued, nodding casually at her rucksack. She got up to inspect one of the pictures more closely, her jaw protruding in concentration, brow furrowed, eyes fixed on the detail of the print. Her hair still sported the extraordinary blue and green strands with beadwork woven into them. It was a unique hairstyle, entirely in keeping with this remarkable person. Her hands were tucked in her back pockets and her chest was thrust forward, her small breasts prominent against her tight tee shirt. She clearly wasn't wearing a bra, and her nipples were etched in outline on the fabric. I couldn't take my eyes off them. They were beautifully shaped, tilted upwards, with the nipple high on the breast; very like my own, in fact, but smaller. Her back was arched, which meant her bum was thrust out as well, beautifully rounded in the close confines of her tight fitting trousers. She was an intensely sexual person: even when she wasn't trying to she exuded sex appeal, and as she stood, examining my picture, I was aware of a strong attraction to her.

"Have you ever posed for a painting?" she asked me, still staring at the Klimt.

"No, never. Have you?"

"Oh yeah, a few times. Gets pretty boring after a while. I don't like sitting still for too long."

Somehow, that didn't surprise me. Superfluously, I told her to make herself at home and went to the kitchen to cook supper. Cooking is one of my great joys, and I rather relished having to produce something for Fetishdoll. I had some fresh tagliatelle, so I checked the fridge for likely ingredients. I quickly rustled up a side salad of sliced peppers, olives and cucumber in olive oil and started on a ricotta and tomato sauce as I quickly cooked the pasta. I gently heated a few finely chopped spring onions and some crumbled ricotta for a couple of minutes, then added some diced tomato and a few sprigs of the basil I was growing in a pot in my window box, along with some salt and pepper. Ricotta actually isn't a cheese at all, but the whey left over in the cheese making process after the curds have been turned into cheese. It is beautifully crumbly, very fresh and delicate in flavour, and basil, a wonderfully warm herb, complements it perfectly. The sauce only needed a couple more minutes cooking time and I quickly tossed it with the pasta and heaped it into serving bowls to take through to the living room.

I always find there is something comfortingly homely about sitting on the floor scooping pasta from a bowl; it just doesn't seem an appropriate dish for eating at a table. Fetishdoll and I sat, leaning against the settee, with our bowls in our laps, sucking the long ribbons of pasta up into our mouths. Let's face it, there is no graceful way of eating tagliatelle, so it is best to dispense with social niceties from the start and accept that you will be spattered from head to foot with renegade droplets of sauce as the ribbons slither and slide from your fork. We chatted while we ate, ranging over a wide variety of topics but not, I noticed, anything about where she had been for the last month. This was a mysterious woman, to be sure.

She wolfed down her pasta and salad, which either meant she really liked it or hadn't eaten for a week. With Fetishdoll it was impossible to tell. I made a very quick pudding of chopped fruit, muesli and yoghurt and opened a bottle of wine, a deliciously crisp Chardonnay from South Africa, full of vanilla and melon flavours, with a long, mellow aftertaste.

We sat on the floor for some time, relaxing after our meal and chatting idly about this and that. As before, she was a very easy person to speak to, full of ideas and opinions, witty and intelligent, with a wickedly sharp turn of phrase. She was to my left, leaning against the settee with her right arm, glass perched precariously in her right hand and waving erratically to and fro as she gesticulated to make some point or other. I was very close to her, close enough to feel her breath, warm and moist, against my arm, and was mesmerised by her eyes: as she spoke I couldn't drag my gaze from them, watching them as they danced around the room excitedly. She was a woman full of life, and her eyes, lively and alert, seemed to be the fulcrum, the centre of her being.

"So you were going to show me some pictures," I said, remembering what she had said earlier.

"Oh yeah," she replied, diving for rucksack. She pulled out a slightly larger than A4 size portfolio and settled it on her knee as she sat back against the settee. She opened it up and began to show me her drawings. They were mostly done in pencil and coloured pencil, and of a very good standard. A lot of them were abstract designs, beautiful arabesques and patterns, fluid and tangible. There were also a number of fairies, dancing and flitting on the page, and a good few portraits of various women including, I noticed, a couple of self portraits. I was seriously impressed. I have a huge admiration for people who can draw, because it is something I have always wanted to do but can't. Fetishdoll clearly had considerable talent, and could handle abstract and representational work equally adeptly.

"They're wonderful," I said, as she thumbed through her collection. "You've got a gift."

"I'm glad you think so," Fetishdoll answered, "because I'm going to draw you now." With that, she leaned over to her rucksack again and pulled out an oblong tin box, which she opened to reveal a number of lead and coloured pencils. She delved into the rucksack again and pulled out a spiral bound drawing pad.

I looked at her blankly. Yet again, she had managed to completely wrongfoot me, suggesting something totally off the wall and unexpected. She pulled out a craft knife and started to sharpen a pencil in readiness. Looking up, she caught my uncertainty.

"So come on," she said, " you'll do it, won't you? It's easy. Bit boring, but easy."

I nodded, thinking why not. She was obviously a skilled artist, judging by the portfolio of drawings she had just shown me. I was interested to see how she would tackle me, how she perceived my appearance.

"Excellent," she replied, rubbing the edge of her newly sharpened pencil against a scrap of paper to ensure an even surface and looking at me intently. "Okay, take your clothes off then."

Not for the first with Fetishdoll, nor the last, I froze on the spot.

"What?" I asked incredulously. She had said nothing about a nude sitting. None of the pictures she had shown me had been nude, as I pointed out to her.

"Oh no," she replied, casually. "The nudes are in this folder." She reached into her rucksack again and pulled out another portfolio. Opening it, she revealed a number of nude studies, all female, all as beautifully drawn as before. Two in particular seemed to have been rendered with particular care. One was of a young woman with long dark hair cascading over her shoulders and flawless, porcelain skin. Her cheek was dimpled and her full lips were enticingly arched. She was strikingly beautiful, with gorgeous, full breasts. The other was also beautiful, in a more exotic way. She had full, dark red lips and lively, dancing eyes. Her hair was also long, falling in fetching arcs around her shoulders, and her body seemed to dance on the page. It was clear from these drawings that the people meant something to Fetishdoll. Despite my alarm at her suggestion, I was impressed by the qualtiy of her work.

"So?" She settled herself on the floor, pad on her knees and pencil poised ready to begin, looking at me expectantly. Half of me wanted to and half was too scared. "Oh come off it," she continued, "I'm not going to see anything I haven't seen before. You've got the same equipment as everyone else."

Almost without realising it, my hands raised to my blouse and began to unbutton it. I pulled it free from my skirt and peeled it off. Unzipping the skirt, I stood up and stepped out of it, revealing again my "grandmom's" panties. Blushing once more at the memory of earlier, when she saw the damp patch, I paused.

"That's lovely," she said, looking at me admiringly. It was just the encouragement I needed to continue, helping me overcome the lack of confidence I felt in this situation. I reached behind me and unhooked my bra, lifting it off and revealing my small breasts. My nipples were already hard and erect, pointing upwards in the general direction of the Klimt pictures. I resisted the urge to cover myself with my hands and arms and stood before her for a second. She looked at me inscrutably, then nodded. I slowly slipped my fingers beneath my panties and began to draw them down to my knees, where they slipped from me and fell to the floor, leaving me standing naked in front of her.

"Oh God, Harriet, that is just amazing," she said. At first she seemed more intent on looking at me than drawing me, and I began to feel self conscious. Finally, she gathered herself together and instructed me. "Sit on the settee, legs underneath you, resting against the arm of the settee with your right elbow, hand under your chin. Left hand draped along your leg."

She continued to direct me for a couple of minutes, ensuring I was posed exactly as she desired, and then she began to draw. I didn't find it at all boring, but oddly stimulating, in fact. The knowledge that someone was creating a work of art based on me was oddly compelling, and the fact that Fetishdoll was staring at me, with a combination, I hoped, of professional detachment and personal attraction was distinctly exciting. She scratched away at her page, brow creased again in that fetchingly intense manner, looking up at me every few seconds before returning to her work. She was very serious about it, concentrating furiously and saying nothing. The self consciousness I initially felt at being naked in front of this virtual stranger quickly dissipated, to be replaced by a distinct curiosity as to what the final result might be.

I've honestly no idea how long she took. Time seemed to stop, to enter a different realm. I found posing for Fetishdoll an exotic, erotic experience. All the time, I couldn't help but wonder if she was turned on by seeing me like this. Was she looking at my breast as an object to be drawn on a page or as a sexual emblem? When she drew my pubic hair did she have thoughts of caressing it, stroking it, investigating what lay within it? Did she view me as a model or as a conquest? Did she want me?

And did I want her? There was no doubt I felt a strong attraction to her. Was it a sexual attraction, or was it simply the force of her personality drawing me to her? Would I be happy simply to have her company or did I want something deeper, more intense? Frankly, I had no idea, and the longer I pondered it the less clear I became.

Her hand strokes, at first long, quick and vigorous, slowed as she worked on the detail. By the end, she would go some minutes without making any alterations, simply staring at the drawing and at me, before making some minor adjustment. Finally, she finished. She cast the pad aside, as though this time it was she who was embarrassed.

"Well?" I asked impatiently.

Without looking at me, she passed the pad over. I took it and with a deep breath looked at her drawing.

And I cried.

It was the most beautiful, delicate, wonderfully crafted thing I had ever seen. She had caught me to perfection: not only my physical appearance was represented on the page, but something of my whole being seemed to have been captured. There was a stillness and serenity about the picture which was heartbreaking, representing, it seemed to me, a repressed passion and secret desire. But whose? Her or mine?

I couldn't think of anything to say. I got up and sat beside her on the floor, pad still in my hand.

"Thank you, it's perfect," I said, finally. Our eyes met and fixed. Her mouth, sweet and red, was parted and inviting. I tilted my head slightly and pressed my lips to hers, gently, exploratively. I felt her lips accede to mine and her left arm drew around me, pulling me close to her. Our tongues met and I ascended to heaven.