The sculptor; part 2

The air seems so thin and my feet won't listen to my inner plea to walk away in total silence. But I cannot turn, or revert my eyes.

He is standing on his knees, supporting himself with one arm on the girder of the low ceiling while his other hand holds her hip. Sweat sparkles on his smooth chest, his full bush of armpit hair, wet, adorning the soft skin under his arm.  He leans his cheek against the muscled bicep, closing his eyes for a moment. His curved lips slightly apart, showing a hint of his teeth.

A broad yet delicate hand firmly grabs the creamy flesh of the girl, then sliding slowly to her mount - making her pant even more loudly.

I swallow and let go of my breath I appear to have been holding all the time. I make an involuntary soft gasping sound.

He looks up and I'm sure he must see me through the crack of the door, but he continues to screw himself into the beautiful girl.
Esther.
Suddenly I know her name. Esther.

With the one hand he was holding himself upright he now wipes away the wet wavy hair from his face.
Yes. He does see me.
Why can't I leave?
I press my forehead against the post of the door. Sweat on my upper lip. I taste it with my tongue.
He now grabs the girl's hips with both hands, his movements a faster tempo.

And as his eyes won't leave mine, his mouth begins to twist and with a thundering roar he seems to explode into her.

Finally my feet seem to obey, I turn and run away. Through the narrow corridor, down the stairs.
I imagine I hear his laughter following me.

I slam the door behind me.

And while I sink on my bed, clasping my teddy bear, I start to giggle hysterically.

"OMG, OMG!" I keep repeating.

The image of the sculptor, the beautiful wicked sculptor, and the perfect goddess doesn't leave my retina for a while. But slowly I become calmer, my breathing deeper.

I get up from the bed. Walk to my large table. Get a paper and some charcoal and I start drawing. Drawing what I just saw.

I am busy for hours. I put on some music. Roll a joint. Smoke a bit, while I look out of my window. See the people of this small town pass by, doing their groceries. Doing their business. And then I see Martin. He waves. Holds up a bottle of wine and a little bouquet of flowers. He turns into the small alley that leads to my house.
Minutes later he knocks on my door.

"Christ! What have you been doing!" Exclaims Martin while he scans the drawings I pinned on my wall.
"You have been so productive!"
"Yes, I made them today." I say bashfully.
"They are amazing. Crude but so full of passion. Who are these models?"
"Oh, just...hey, thanks for the flowers." I change subject.
"I also brought cake."

"That's great." I say. "I'll put on some water. Be back in a second."

I go to the shared kitchen to put a kettle on. I open the cupboard and get out some tea cups. But while I do so I curse under my breath, because obviously someone has been using them and put them back dirty.

A soft but deep voice from very close behind me makes me jump and almost drop the cups.

"Well - well, my feisty little vixen. So we are house mates."

When I turn I see the brooding sculptor. Adorned in only a bathing towel. Leaning against the counter, his eyes squinted under his furrowed brows and on his sculpted mouth a crooked faun-like smile. His long curls still wet from the shower and I can smell the faint scent of cedar and cloves on his lean all but naked body.

Suddenly I feel scared.