Quietly, thirteen year old Solange entered the house and slunk down the hall. The door closed behind her like a whisper in the night, and she sighed. Safe, in her room.
“Solange,” her father’s voice boomed up the stairs.
‘No,’ her mind shrieked, ‘not again.’
“Solange,” more insistently.
Opening her door, she answered, “Yes, Daddy.”
“Come to my studio. I’ve been sketching.”
Her head hung. ‘No, not another picture.’ She stumbled down the hall to her father’s studio. Once there, he pointed to an easel set up before his own.
Excitedly, he said, “I had this great vision. You, holding the brush, about to paint. Beautiful.”
“Like usual?” she asked looking at the blank easel which had been placed next to the old couch he sometimes used as a prop. She’d have to sit up on the top sideways to get at the easel.
“Yes, then drape the black shawl over your arms. Black, such an important color. Black and red – blood and death, and the innocent maiden. What a vision.” She grabbed the shawl and went behind the blind. Quickly, she doffed her clothes and wrapped the shawl around her shoulders. Long practice at posing had conditioned her to the rigors of not moving for long periods. Her mind would drift. That would be the awful part, thinking…
“Pick up the brush. No, the other hand. Yes, like that. Now, let the shawl drape down the arms, um, off the shoulder. Drop the one leg. Yes! Perfect.” He scrambled to get his brushes ready.
Solange settled in for the long process of sitting. She concentrated on remembering exactly where she was, the arms, the head tilted, the legs because she knew her father was capable of flying into a rage if she messed up the pose and the paintings always took weeks to finish.
‘Maybe this time it would be different,’ she sighed.
I saw the painting on the Internet and fell in love – with the painting and with the girl. A couple clicks and I was on the painter’s website. Amazing isn’t it? A European painter and I could use my VISA card to buy a painting and have it shipped from around the world. So I did.
When it arrived it was everything I had hoped. I took it into my den and set it up on a chair and just stared. Wow. She was beautiful. There was something about the painting, I couldn’t quite put my finger on. Like much art I had seen, the artist had created a little magic. The girl seemed to be calling to me.
I went over and ran my hand over the painting…
Solange felt it. ‘It’s happening,’ she thought. Then her room faded and she found herself looking at her painting, the one her Father had just sold and she knew.
The surface was smooth and warm, almost alive like her skin would be. From behind me I heard, “So, you bought the painting.”
I whirled around, shocked, and saw… and thought, ‘Okay, Mike, you have really gone crazy.’ What I saw was her. The same Auburn hair tied in a knot, the same black shawl over her shoulders, the same warm skin. She looked a hundred pounds soaking wet and just a bit above five feet tall. A typical teenage girl. Stupidly, I asked, “Who are you.”
“Solange,” she said calmly, pointing at the picture.
I whirled around expecting the picture to now have no one in it, but, she still sat there holding the brush, unmoved, unmoving.
I looked back and she was still there. ‘Yep, I’ve flipped.’ “I don’t understand.”
Smiling gently, she answered, “You don’t need to. I’m here to thank you for buying the painting.”
“Um, yes, well…” Just what was I supposed to say to a very naked teenage girl in my front room? Yes, what? The girl, or should I say vision, solved my problem.
Solange shrugged and the black cloth dropped behind her. She came to me sliding her hands up my chest. Looking up, she said in a low voice, “Can we use your bed?”
“Yes.” Shocked, I stood unmoving.
“Now,” she said with a smile.
That broke the trance. I took her hand and led her down the hall to my bedroom. I had a million questions flying through my mind but one command kept blocking me from asking. Don’t screw this up. Don’t ask! And I didn’t.
Solange led me to the bed and holding my hand pulled me with her onto the bed. She leaned in and her lips met mine; warm, soft, urgent, passionate. This wasn’t her first time at the rodeo.
I pressed into her lips and she slowly fell back onto the bed, her lips never leaving mine. I started to kiss down her cheek to her neck and she said, “Take off your clothes.” Ever the gentleman, I quickly threw off my shirt and Dockers. My flip flops had never made it to the bed.
Smiling, she spread her legs in the ancient invitation. I fell forward, my head between her thighs. A small thatch grew at the top of her slit but she was otherwise bare. She smelled sweet and fresh, as a young woman should. I tasted her. Oh, how wonderful.
I’ve read it is the pheromones but I couldn’t say. I just know once you have tasted such succulent flesh of a ripe young woman, you will forever be addicted. They say marijuana is a gateway drug. I laugh. Pussy! That is the gateway drug. Once tasted, what man can resist the temptation to try it again and again with as many women as he can?
My tongue lashed her and lapped up and down her labia, buried itself down into her depths, and circled then mashed her button. Her hips bounced around the bed, her body shuddering, her hands went round my head pulling me forward to rub hard against her.
My cock was as hard as iron and throbbing. I pulled back and came up over her. Her eyes opened and she said, “I’m a virgin,” which made no sense.
“Huh?” I asked wittily.
“I know, but I am every time,” she said.
With so much blood drained south I wasn’t ready for metaphysical discussions, nodded, then pressed my hips forward until the tip of my cock found her slit. I rubbed up and down, coating my cock and slipped down, deeper until it slipped into her. God, the entrance was small. I felt her pussy part as she yipped, then my cock surged forward.
Slowly, I started the up and down, waiting for her muscles to relax from this never before felt invasion. My cock started sliding easier and she nodded and I let my hips drop as I slithered deeply into her pussy.
Heaven. There is no other work but Heaven. If Heaven isn’t like this I don’t want to go. Her tight, warm, wet pussy pulsed around my cock. God, I could cum just lying there feeling her pulsate around my rod. But, I had a duty to give her as much pleasure as she was giving me, if that was even possible. I started fucking her. It had been a long time since I had fucked a girl as small as her, and I had been shorter then myself. She may have been a virgin, but she knew how to move and we melded together in the rhythm of love.
Soon we were both coated with a fine sheen, and I could look down and see the red rash spreading up her chest. I sped up and she went over, crying and gasping, moaning and her legs pounding against me. It drove me over the top and I felt from deep inside the spasms as my cum poured down my cock, splat after splat, filling her small pussy until it flowed out and down, and a few last blasts and we both fell to the bed, gasping for air.
After, we lay on the bed and slowly recovered our faculties. Again, the questions. But now, with blood draining back into the big head, now I could ask, at least some of them. “Solange, will I see you again?”
She smiled, “Only if you buy another painting.”
“How long…” I started to ask and she hopped up from the bed.
“I must go,” she answered as she scooted down the hall.
I followed, not wanting her to go. As I rounded the corner, I felt, rather than saw, her disappear. The shawl was gone. She was gone. The painting was still here, unchanged, but different. It was the same, but something of the mystery I had sensed was missing. I still loved the painting, in some ways, even more now that it is so personal. But that magnetic feeling of being drawn into the painting was gone. I sighed.
‘Not unless you buy another painting.’
I near killed myself reaching the computer, hit the icon for the painter’s website and quickly looked through the galleries of paintings. He had many. There was a common thread, something not quite natural perhaps. There were several paintings of Solange, but many had already been sold. What had she meant, she was a virgin every time? There was one left. She looked several years younger than in my painting. Too young?
I went back to the website and looked at all of his paintings. And I saw something, some bit of fascination with the occult, the extraordinary. Is it possible? Did he find some way, some magic that tied his paintings to his daughter and sent her out to the first owner? Was it a reward to the buyer, or an incentive to keep buying?
So, that’s the story of why I have thirteen paintings of the same girl in my house. He kept painting her as she grew up until at nineteen, she suddenly wasn’t in his paintings any longer. This last painting of her, I wish I had known it would be the last. So many unanswered questions. But I have my memories of Solange and the paintings to remind me. Love to Solange…
All models 18 years of age or older at the time of production. The original source of all images certified that the images were exempt and/or fully complied with US Code Title 18, Section 2257.
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