The Painted Muse

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Tamara McLanahan with Mark A Morris.

July 29 at 12:54pm

The Painted Muse

She lay there in the dappled sunlight grove, arms over her head, elbows bent gracefully, her fingers locked together. Still and watchful on the blanket, a moss green which almost matched the shade of grass. The better, he'd said, to seem as if she lay directly on the turf itself. A nymph or fairy just come to sun herself in the lazy heat of the day, descended from her tree abode, down to this magical glen for only a short while.

Her body was to be his canvas, a pure, living breathing expanse to paint his desire upon. He'd fanned her red hair about her, a siren who beckoned him with slumberous eyes of green, but still observant as he moved about her. One leg bent slightly as she relaxed upon the cover, a bemused curve on her lips, as she waited to be painted upon, to become his next objet d' art.

The air was redolent with jasmine and roses, for this glen was filled with flowers in every hue. Birdsong was a further enchantment to this afternoon's work. Blue birds, sparrows, even a cardinal were perched nearby, as if to watch over the progress of this pursuit. He'd not be at all surprised if other woodland creatures came out to watch him lay his brushes upon her skin, as he fancifully wondered if perhaps she was indeed part woodland sylph. She'd certainly captured him from the moment he'd cast eyes upon her.

He stood over her, his gaze drinking in her creamy breasts as they rose and fell with each breath. Her stomach moving with each intake of air, each exhalation. His fingers itched to be started, to lay color upon color on her, to watch as those shades moved with her breathing. He may have been the artist, but this bewitching creature was surely his muse. Never had he felt so inspired, or so consumed by passion.

-Tamara McLanahan