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EROTICA | ART | SCULPTOR | NUDITY | INTIMATE POSING | MARRIED | FORBIDDEN | PRIVATE SESSION

Posing Nude for the Sculptor’s Intense Private Session — 4

His eyes studied every curve of my bare body while his hands worked the clay, making me feel truly seen for the first time in years.

PART 3

When was the last time someone looked at you the way you’re looking at this sculpture?

The question undid her.

Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes, ridiculous, senseless tears that she blinked furiously away.

I don't know, I don't think anyone ever has.

"Then they were fools."

Henrik's hand moved.

It was not far, it was only a few inches.

But those few inches got his pinky finger in her hands.

Smooth and cool and slick, clay was smeared between them, and she thought she felt it.

“In my country,” he went on, his voice dropping, “there's a tradition: A sculptor works from a model, not a photograph, not a sketch, but a living, breathing model.

The sculptor studies the body of the model—all the curves, all the shadows, all the secrets—and then the sculptor tries to capture the body in clay.”

His pinky ran down her hand.

It's an intimate process, some would say the most intimate process two people can share, more intimate than sex, even, because sex is about the body, this is about seeing the body.

Truly seeing the body and being seen.

Claire couldn't breathe.

"Would you like that, Claire?

To be seen?"

She should say no.

She ought to back off.

She should keep in mind that she was a forty-two-year-old divorced woman from Brentwood, who wore cashmere turtlenecks and knew which fork to use at a state dinner.

She should keep in mind that this was her first time, her first day, her first try at whatever this was supposed to be.

But the clay was cool in her fingers, and Henrik's eyes were dark, and in the back of her mind, a voice that she had long ignored was yelling yes yes yes.

"Yes," she said.

Henrik smiled for the first time—a slow smile, a wolf's smile, a smile that made her knees forget how to lock.

He moved away from the clay block and pointed to a platform in the middle of the room, a low dais covered with white cloth.

"Take off your clothes."

Claire's heart pounded in her rib cage.

"All of them?"

"Every stitch."

It was warm, heated by the kiln in the corner, but her skin broke out in goosebumps anyway.

She walked up to the dais on legs that were not her own.

She put her hands to the hem of her turtleneck.

"Slowly," Henrik said.

He had transferred to another block of clay, another new one, and was already at work with his wet hands.

His gaze was on her.

"There's no rush."

She put the turtleneck on her head.

The air caressed her bare shoulders, her tummy, the lace of her bra.

She folded it carefully, automatically, a lifetime of respecting clothes, and placed it on the chair by the window.

"Good," Henrik said.

"Now the jeans."

She unbuttoned them.

Unzipped them.

Bowed her over her hips, thighs, calves.

Stepped out of them.

She was in an ivory lace underwear that matched her bra, which she bought at a boutique on Madison Avenue where the saleswomen served you champagne as you shopped.

It was a personal act of defiance that she had purchased months ago for herself.

Marcus had never seen such a thing before.

It had never been seen before.

Henrik was looking at it now.

The rest, he said, "the rest.

She trembled as she unhooked her bra and reached behind her.

The straps were pulled down her shoulders.

She let it go.

Henrik didn't move.

Still wet with clay, his hands hovered above his block, but without touching it.

His eyes skimmed over her body, her breasts, her waist, the soft curve of her belly she had worked so hard to get rid of in years.

Every glance was like a finger on her skin, she felt it.

"Now the last piece."

She put her thumbs in the crotch of her underwear and pulled them down.

The air brushed her all over.

She was all naked, all naked, in a room with windows and light and a man she'd just met forty-five minutes ago.

Henrik's clay-darkened hand moved to the block.

He started to mold it, his gaze fixed on her body.

He said to lie down on the platform.

On your side facing me.

She did.

The material was smooth and soft to her skin, almost velvety.

She sat on her side, arm under her head, the other arm hanging along her hip.

It was as if it was a pose from a classical painting.

It was as if they were giving in.

“Your boobs,” said Henrik.

Now he was working the clay, his actions were more vigorous, more concentrated than ever before.

"They're beautiful.

Do you know that?"

No one had ever told her that.

Not like this.

Not with that tone.

His hands were making a gesture of the curves, the weight of them.

A sculptor could study them for years and never get them right, I could study them for years.

Claire's nipples became hard in the fresh air.

She knew them, knew how vulnerable they were, knew how much her eyes were drawn to them, to Henrik's eyes.

He said, "You're cold.

No, the word came out breathier than she intended.

"I'm not cold."

There was a knowing look on his face, the wolf smile at the corners of his mouth.

"No," he agreed.

"I don't suppose you are."

He worked in silence for a while, his hands moving ceaselessly over the clay.

Claire was lying on the platform and being studied.

It was terrifying.

It was exhilarating.

It was the most alive she had felt in years, every cell in her body alive and attuned to his gaze, to the sound of his breathing, to the slick rhythm of his hands on the material.

Henrik asked, "Tell me about your marriage.

She was taken aback by the question.

I don't, what do you want to know?

What did he see when he looked at you?

She swallowed.

"A wife.

A hostess.

A companion at social events

PART 5

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