The sculptor, part 6

I'm in my room, staring out of the window, feeling restless. I juggle an eraser from hand to hand.

Since that kiss, a few days ago, I cannot stop thinking about the sculptor.

I'm still more surprised about that kiss even happening, just like that, then the fact that he stopped - just like that - ruffled my hair and left the atelier.

With force I throw the eraser in the direction of my working table. It bounces from the wall against a jar with pencils to the ground.

I get up. Walk to the mirror, stare at my face, and ruffle my hair - like he did, grin, put on some lip-gloss, push up my push up and leave my room.

This evening I will be introduced by my teacher to his other pupils, in a pub near the academy. A couple of days ago he had invited me to this group during Life-drawing-class.

When I enter the pub the professor is already there, sitting at a big table surrounded by a bunch of people. Some of them I've seen at the academy. All of them in 3th or 4th year.

Joshua, the professor, introduces me to the rest, making me blush when he calls me a high potential.

The older students look at me curiously, but soon - after a beer or two - the ice is broken when they realize I'm not a cocky little bitch, but just as eager to find myself in the world of artistic personal development as they are. Just a bit greener.

"Ah, finally, Eddie is here to." the professor cries out. "He is always late it seems."

"Is he in this group too?" I whisper to the girl sitting next to me. She is one of the painters. Two red braids, a scarf and a blue overall and tattoos make her look like a pinup from the 50s. Not as voluptuous though. But she is very nice.
"Yes." she whispers back. "Eddie is one of Joshua's most favourite protégées."

Eddie comes in with his arm wrapped around the waist of the haughty looking brunette. His girlfriend, according to my friend Sas. Well, she sure looks like she is. Like an ape with two dicks; proud. I don't blame her. I would be proud. He looks amazing in his white tee, old torn pants and brown cord jacket. His golden hair, like a curtain over his broad shoulders and a wolf like leer round his beautiful mouth.

The king and the queen.

They stop to say hello to friends standing at the bar. Among them two other 4th year sculptors and the blond drama goddess I saw him fuck so....uhm...full of passion.

The two girls air kiss, not to mess up their hair and make up. When they do so I see the blond girl give Eddie a look. Longing. Hungry. And he gives her a wink.

And right after the wink he turns his head towards our table, looking straight at me. His face seems to open up when a wide smile appears.
Shyly I smile back, combing my hair nervously behind my ear.
The blond girl follows his gaze and her eyes narrow.

"Ed, come here and tell us about the installation you are making." Joshua calls out.

Eddie gives the brunette a little slap on her butt and walks to our table, leaving her with the other group. The blond girl immediately starts whispering in the ear of the brunette. Looking in my direction.

His slow pace is like that of a mountain lion, his eyes curiously scanning my face.

Joshua offers Eddie a chair. Next to him...and me.

When Eddie sits he turns to Joshua, greets him and the rest and then turns back to me.

"And who have we here?" He bares his teeth at me in an impossible grin.

I grin back, with arched brows.

"This, dear Ed, is a new talent I want you to polish, guide and protect. I challenge you to be her mentor."

After the first shock of what Joshua had said I tried to listen to all the interesting discussions about projects, but I couldn't concentrate anymore. I felt nauseous so I excused myself.
My mentor?

When I get back from the toilet everybody is still engaged in passionate conversation.

"I'm sorry." I say to Joshua. "Thanks for everything. But I really have to go now."

"It was a pleasure. Hope you'll join us the next time."

Eddie gets up. "Are you all right? "

"Yes. I just want to go. Thanks."

"Let me take you home. You look pale." He says.

Some catcalls and jeers are heard when we leave the pub. The girlfriend looks astounded, even after Eddie’s short explanation and a peck on the cheek.

"Did you walk here?" Eddie asks.

When I just nod, he touches my shoulder and look deep into my eyes. Then he takes his bike and commands me to hop on.

He doesn't say much and the cool air is refreshing. Makes the nausea go away. I inhale deeply, including a whiff of his bodily scent. Wood and salt.

We ride over an unevenly paved street. I hold on to him.

Silence.

Carefully I slide up my hands so my fingertips softly feel the smooth warmth of his naked skin just above the edge of his pants. I know this is awkward, but I hope he thinks it is accidental.

Abruptly he grabs one of my hands and moves it to the front of his body. Placing it under his shirt, right where his goody trail begins.

I start to stroke him there. The short little hairs on the veined silken surface, the strong muscles, shaping him. My touch makes him sigh softly.

“.... don’t stop...this feels so good..."

Suddenly he makes a sharp turn to the right. I yelp.

He cycles into a small alley and comes to a full stop. Jumps off and slams one arm around me, to catch me from falling and to draw me in - tight.

Eddie pulls me close and puts his other hand up to my breasts in their push up bra, caressing them. His teeth softly graze my neck, he breathes in my ear.

"Take it off, please."

"What?" I squeak.

But he already freed my breasts, taking them in his calloused hands, while moving up behind me and rubbing his hips against me. His warm mouth nips my jawline.

My heart hammers in my chest and an overwhelming pulse yanks from my nipples to my underbelly. It feels as if all my weight and being is centered between my legs.

He moves his hand slowly over my belly to the rim of my trousers, opening them and glides his fingers into my panties.... touching me. Making me moan.

When he clasps my arm, leading my hand to his crotch he whispers in my hair.

"Do you feel that...take it out."

I cannot see his face but feel his smiling mouth, his beautiful teeth and velvet tongue when he ads.

"It's for you."

And in my hands, his glorious shaft  - warm, pulsing and hard.

I drop to my knees to embrace his manhood when he withholds me, saying:

"Don't give yourself so easily."

He lifts my chin, makes me look up.

"Safe yourself, Hálwen."

I jump up. Furious.

"Who the fuck do you think you are, you asshole!"

"Come, let me take you home."

"You fucking tease!"

He laughs, fumbles at his pants and gets his bike.

"Come on, my child, let's get you home."

Reluctantly I climb at the back of his bike. Punching him on the back of his jacket. Muttering.
Making him laugh even harder.

When we are home I walk straight to my room. Open my door.

He is standing behind me.

An inscrutable expression on his face.

Then he leans forward, gives me a soft kiss on my lips and turns.

I hear him walk the stairs after I slammed the door closed. Hear him walk through the corridor and get into his room. I hear him fall on his bed. Then music. Loud.

The sculptor; part 5

"If I had known you always made this effort to clean the shower...in this...luring...way...I would have appreciated it more...."

He says, standing with his arms crossed and an obvious bulge in his pants. A crooked smile on his beautiful face.

Startled I try to hide behind the shower curtain, which at that moment decides not to glide over the rail but cling to my body instead. Making my embarrassment even bigger.

"How long have you been standing here?" I exclaim.

"Long enough." Raising one brow suggestively and then looks down.

I shriek. "Eeeew! Go away."

"Why?"

"So I can wash myself."

"Go ahead. It's ok. In fact....I want to take a shower too." And he starts to open his pants. Slowly walking in my direction.

"Fuck off!" I cry and throw my wet bathing sponge at him.

Laughing he tries to catch the thing, but it hits him right on the chest. Soaking his tee.

He clasps it in his hand, brings it up and wrings the rest of the water over his face, his mouth open to catch the drops. Fascinated I watch the water drip in his neck.
Then he shaking his hair. With his other finger he makes a warning gesture.

"Next time." He says, and with the stealth of a panther he leaves the bathing room.
I lean against the cold tiles. Panting suddenly, my hands pressing my burning cheeks.

It's half past eleven. I just drank coffee with my friends Sas and Martin in the canteen of the academy and am on my way to give a presentation to one of my professors about a project of mine.

I'm nervous.

I walk through the hall to the marble stairs that lead to the workshops for Spatial Design. Halfway on one of the broad steps sits the sculptor. He is all crumbled up and focused on drawing in a notebook.

My heart skips a beat.

He looks so unearthly beautiful. With his mouth half open, unknowingly stroking his lips with the tip of his tongue. His hair tucked away in a backward cap, but a strand escaped and is partly hanging over his eyes. His perfect limbs cloaked are in torn shorts over grandpa long johns, his broad shoulders in a clean but wrinkled t-shirt.

"Hey." I say and stop to see what he is doing.

He doesn't respond. Keeps on drawing.

I continue my climb. But after three or more steps I turn to look over my shoulder.

He looks up at me.

Smiles.

The presentation goes horrible. The professor was real offensive and he hated my project. He said this wasn't high school and I couldn't get away with a lame, childish concept like this. Back to the drawing room - and read! Give it some depth, some substance, was his advice. No silly schoolgirls frills.

When he left I couldn't help myself. I cried. I couldn't understand how he could be so cruel. I had really worked hard on this project.
I sit with my head in my arms, sniffing, when I feel a warm hand in my neck - stroking me.

"He's an asshole. Always has been. Don't let him upset you. He just hates pretty girls."

As I lift my head I look into the eyes of the sculptor. The deepest blue. Inches from my face.

"He was so mean." I sniffle.

"Aww, poor puppy." He says and leans in to softly take my bottom lip between his teeth. Tenderly tugging.

I think I'm drowning in his eyes, because I feel so breathless. My heart is bounding so hard.

And when I feel his tongue stroking my captured lip I can do nothing else than let out a soft moan and kiss him.
I suck at his upper lip and when his mouth covers mine I feel a current running through my body. His warm tongue twirling around mine makes me long for more.
With a shaking hand I carefully explore his shoulder, the muscles under his skin.

He grabs a handful of my hair, cupping the back of my head and with his other hand caressing my cheek.

And then, suddenly, the kiss is over. He pulls back.
A rueful grin on his face.

"Not here." He says. "Not now."

The sculptor; part 4

It's Thursday. And today we will be sketching nude models. I hope it is that older really chubby woman. She is beautiful and interesting to draw. Her veins are very visible. She knows exactly how to pose, every 5 minutes a different one. I used acrylic the last time, with a lot of water. Vivid colours.

But when I enter the classroom I see one of the drama goddesses, the brunette, waiting in her bathrobe.
She is very beautiful, but for an artist rather dull. Too perfect. And the poses she strikes are sexy, possibly, but do not hold any challenge for me.

Today we will only do two or three poses. More time.

She is lying on a sofa, with a cloth party draped over her legs.
Her pubic hair is shaved into a landing strip. I find no inspiration in that. She is just too plastic.

Her hair shines and she wears it in a loose bun to show her cream coloured swan's neck.
She has cold blue eyes with Betty Davis eyeliner. A hard mouth. Dissatisfied.

I think of the sculptor who lives upstairs from me. I wonder if she knows he fucks other girls.
I'm staring at her a while. Pondering.
I decide to work with black ink. Make the sketch with crude sharp lines. I make several sketches on one paper. I frame some of them into boxes, like a cartoon.  The pen I use sometimes gets stuck in the paper, causing aggressive splatters. Then I smear black crayon on my fingers and fill in the round parts.
Sharp lines and soft fingers strokes.
The teacher walks by.
"Interesting what you are doing. Very graphical and on the other hand tender."
He continues to praise my work. Tells the class how you should always try to add some more effort to your work, in order to excel. He makes me blush. It feels uncomfortable though.
The girl looks into my direction.

Inquisitive and haughtily.

"Hálwen," the teacher says for every one to hear," I have a little group of students who sometimes meet to discuss art and drink a bit. Just for fun and to extend a chosen path. I would like to invite you. A sculptor, two painters, an illustrator and a graphic designer are in this group. You would be an excellent complement to the group considering what you have shown so far."

A sculptor, he said. I have the dreaded feeling it is my upstairs neighbour.

I stutter. "I would love to come."

The model squints her eyes.
She gets her bathrobe and goes to the dressing room. Leaving a trail of dust behind her, coming from the cloth she pulls with her in a dramatic gesture. Like a prima donna.

End of class, but I feel there is something wrong also.

In the evening I'm making macaroni. With tomatoes and cheese. Simple.
Adrian walks into the kitchen. I hadn't seen him in a while. He lives upstairs and is a lot older than me, than any of the students that live here. I'm not even sure if he is a student.

But he's nice.

"Hey pixie girl, my favourite neighbour, what are you chopping?"
"Onions." I sniff, teary eyed.

He walks to the stove and lifts up the lid of the pan.
"So much macaroni! Are you cooking for all of us?"

I laugh.
"I don't even know how many people live in our house. But I'd love to share some of it with you."

I hesitate.
"Adrian?"

"Hmm?" He sniffs the tomato sauce I'm cooking.

"Who lives in that room above mine? I thought it was empty, but I think I heard someone there recently."

"You mean the sculptor?"
"I guess."
"He comes and goes. Lives at his girlfriends house most of the time. And Eddie is in a band and he's almost never at home. He was abroad some weeks ago.  Touring. But I guess he's back now, since you've heard him. I'm not sure."

"Eddie?"

"Yep. That's his name. Ed. Extraordinary fellow."

I eat my macaroni in front of the TV.  After I cleaned up I go to bed. I know, it's still early, but I'm tired.
The light from the street shines into my room. Making shadows. The drawings I made of the sculptor and the goddess are still on my wall.
Martin recognized the sculptor.

I told him what I had seen. He said he was jealous. He thinks he fell in love.
I giggle and turn around.

I must have been for an hour or so when a noise in the hallway disturbs me from a vivid dream.

A bang against my door makes me sit upright in bed. I hear soft whispers. Again a sound as if someone is pushing against my door. I hear moaning!

Then soft laughter. A low voice.
A man and a woman.
Is it the sculptor? Eddie?
I think they are making out, by the sound of it.

I couch discretely.

A giggle and a shushing sound.

The door across my room is being opened. The toilet. I hear someone peeing. Flushing. They could have at least closed the door, I think annoyed.
And then silence.

The following day I wake up all grumpy and irritated. I've been hearing music all night long and also lot of squeaking, thumping and other annoying sounds coming from above me.

I get my toiletries and towel and walk on flip flops to the bathroom.
When are they going to repair that lock, I think feeling annoyed, trying to put the hook in such a way that at least it is clear the bathroom is occupied.

I undress and hang my tee and boxer on the chair and as always I start my cleaning ritual. Using the shower head and a brush to remove the hairs and grime, performing acrobatic stances, careful not to touch anything that is still dirty.

I'm done so I reach to close the curtain when I see someone standing in the room, arms crossed and with a grin on his face.

Eddie.

"Please continue, my sedulous little water nymph." He says with amusement in his voice.

The sculptor; part 3

I feel cornered somehow. Not really by him. He just leans against the counter, almost casually despite his lack of clothing. But by myself. I long to touch his smooth hairless chest. Feel the warm with my fingers. Explore the dark trail leading towards....stop it!
You'll make a fool of yourself!

"Hi," I say. And offer him my hand. "I'm Hálwen."

He keeps staring in my eyes. Ignores my hand.

"Hálwen." He seems to taste my name. "What an odd name."

He looks at me pensive, stroking his stomach with his hand. Drawing attention to the tight muscles under his tan skin.

I feel my cheeks burn.

Then shrug my shoulders and return to the teacups, rinse them under the tap.
He doesn't speak for a while. But I still feel his eyes on me. Same as yesterday, I keep feeling his physical presence and his acknowledgement of mine. I know he follows my every move, making them awkward and rigid.

I freeze when I suddenly feel a warm hand on my shoulder; moving to my neck, thumb in the nape, touching my slightly sweaty hair - softly caressing the skin.

I'm not sure if I want to shake him off or start purring.

"Why so tense, beautiful child."

I rest my hands on the counter, breathe in with a shudder.

"I'm not a child."

I turn and look up in his eyes. Amazing eyes. Incredible colour. Huge irises. Dilated pupils like bottomless wells, eyes surrounded by thick brown lashes.

He scans my face, lowers those eyes. A sensation like he is touching my breasts.

"I know." He says enigmatic, gazes back to my eyes, to my mouth, my ears. It feels as if he caresses my face.

I lift my hand, willing to touch the soul patch under his full under lip, when Martin walks into the kitchen.

"Well helloooo." He says.

"Martin." Relieved and disappointed I turn to my friend. "Almost ready."

I smile.
Look back at the rogue sculptor who takes a step back and turns to Martin.

"Well, well." He says with one brow lifted. "She has a male visitor."

Martin laughs nervously.

Sticks out his hand in an awkward way and says; "Hi, I'm Martin, a friend of Hálwen. You're a flatmate? Obviously, duhhh, draped in only a towel."

"Flatmate?" The half naked sculptor says with a bored look on his handsome face.

He then sighs and walks out of the kitchen, one look over his shoulders - from my feet to my chest.

"See you around, flatmate..."

And he's gone.
Leaving me flushed, and Martin still standing with his untouched outstretched hand.

He whispers. "What a gorgeous guy! Was I interrupting something? You never told me..."
"Shut up." I continue making the tea, inwardly shaking.