Chapter 1

On the beach, a woman skipped a shell into the ocean. She threw awkwardly, like a girl, with enough force that she lurched a step or two, before recovering her balance. Her bright pink bikini top shivered as her breasts bounced. She held a handful of shells and was talking to the ocean. I was intrigued and tried to imagine what her story was.

She wore a broad straw hat and a gauzy skirt around her hips. Dark sunglasses hid her eyes. She had a necklace that glinted in the bright sunlight from between her breasts, and a streak of sand on her elbow. Working up my nerve, I approached her.

"Hello," I began, pausing as I wrestled with what I wanted to say. "I saw you walking on the beach."

She studied me from behind her dark sunglasses, lips pressed tightly. "You're the artist?" she finally asked.

The word artist stopped me. "I'm not really an artist," I mumbled. "I just draw."

"I've seen what you do," she continued. "You're really good."

Now I was frozen. The feel of the label of artist was too heavy for me to carry. My stomach churned around the thought of what an artist should be.

"Do you think you could draw me?" She was looking down, speaking to the beach, expecting to be rejected.

"That was why I came down here." I said, speaking even as I wrestled with the thought that maybe I was an artist, of sorts. "You're so pretty that I was hoping you would pose for me." I pointed up the hill to my house.

Her head came up and she nodded. Her one hand stroked the sheer fabric of her white skirt, her other hand swept dark strands of hair back over the top of her ear. She nodded absently once, and then again. Dropping her handful of shells, she walked up the beach to my little house. I was following her, studying the way her hips swayed under her wrap. Studying the shifting of her pink briefs through the white gauze of her skirt, I admired the flashes of sunlight that showed at the top of her tan thighs.

"In here?" she asked, as she stepped through the sliding doors. I grabbed my pad and charcoals and followed her. Inside, she had taken off her glasses and was surveying the clutter of my living room. I mumbled apologies and quickly threw clothes into the closet, straightening up.

She scanned the walls, admiring sheets I had tacked to the wall. My house had become my gallery because I liked to put up pictures and criticize mistakes. Some scenes had been drawn repeatedly, showing different attempts to capture some feeling. Nudes clustered on one wall. She paused to study them. I felt my face grow warm.

She took off her hat. Her face was closed and she nibbled on her lip nervously. "Where should I stand?"

I was struggling to get my pad set up and nodded to where she was standing.

She worked at her ponytail, getting her hair free. She rolled the elastic band over her wrist and shook her hair down. She had a thin face, with high cheekbones and fair skin. Her hair was darker close to her head, flowing to lighter blond near the ends. She opened her skirt and bent to fold it carefully on the couch. The she skinned off her pink briefs and dropped them on top of her skirt. Turning her back to me, she reached behind her back and I watched her fingers catch at the string tie. Pulling on the knot, she untied it. She ducked her head and lifted the string halter over her head, dropping her bra to the pile of clothes on the couch. She turned and faced me, completely naked.

I stared at her. Where her briefs had covered her hips and the soft mound of her pussy, her skin was lighter, showing her tan in contrast. Light golden hair had been groomed to lead down to her pussy. Her breasts were highlighted where the cups of her top had protected them. Her pink nipples lay flat against the fullness of her boobs. Somehow that gesture of privacy had given her more allure than this open pose. She stood less naked now, facing me, than when she had turned to undress.

"What?" she asked plaintively and began to cover herself with her hands. One arm crossed her breasts to cup her left breast. One hand wrapped protectively over and under her pussy. Her face turned down, looking with shame at the floor.

I shook my head. "I'm studying you." I said. "I'm trying to see you."

She wore her guarded look, which was not what I wanted to draw. "I'm naked," she said, "You can see all of me."

I shook my head. "Your skin is only on the outside. I want to see ... you. Put your hand in the air, and cock your hip to the side," I said. She obediently took a dancer's pose, that was too posed, too fake.

"What should I do with my other arm?" she asked, releasing her breasts and letting her arm trail awkwardly down her torso. Her breasts, dropping a little, rebounded with an alluring jiggle.

I shook my head, searching for a stance that would show off her body. "Let it rest on your hip, make a fist."

She took the pose. I grabbed my pad, and sat at my kitchen table, tentatively gesturing with the charcoal, trying to find the first lines of her body.

She remained in this exaggerated stance while I struggled to capture it on paper. She was too fake, too defiantly in my face. When I returned to her extended arm, I realized that it had drooped. She was struggling to remain still. Irritated, I ripped off the sheet and crumpled it.

"Relax," I said. "This isn't working." She slumped, and shook her hand trying to work blood back into her fingers.

"I'm sorry, but that was hard.," she said., "My fingers were going to sleep."

I got up from the table and circled her, studying the curves of her body. She had lovely breasts, almost too full to stand out from her body, and yet firm enough to point her nipples directly away from her chest. Her stomach was nearly flat, swelling gently below her navel. It flowed into a swelling over her pubic bone. I was again drawn to the light gold hair that had been trimmed short and into a narrow strip, leading down to her dark cleft.

"Stand with your hands behind your back," I suggested. She did, and I felt we were almost right. "Elbows back," I said, and touched her elbow, guiding it back so that she opened her chest, pushing her breasts out proudly. Her skin was soft and warm over firmer muscles. I wanted to grab her breasts and rock my palm over them, bring her nipples to hard attention. She brought up her chin, coming to parade rest. She looked me in the eye, defying me to see anything but her boobs.

"No, look down... ," I said, "And cock one foot outward."

She tried the stance, not getting it right. I dropped to my knees, and took her foot in my hand, moving her stance more open. I could sense the warmth of her body near my face. I wanted to plunge into her pussy that was now hanging between her open thighs. Instead I rolled back to my feet. I studied her and then grabbed my pad. I began to sketch rapidly. When standing with my pad was too hard, I told her to take a break, and darted out to retrieve my easel. "Get a drink from the fridge," I threw over my shoulder. When I was set up again, she was sprawled on the couch, wine cooler in hand, thighs thrown open, the picture of ease.

"Don't move," I yelled, startling her. "This is it. This is you. Don't move!" I tore off the page with my initial sketch, letting it fall to the ground. Touching the charcoal to the page, I studied her for a long moment and then began to draw. I had to capture this moment. As the charcoal scraped paper, she murmured, "Do you mind if I talk?"

"No, go ahead," I said absentmindedly. "Just don't change position."

"I was supposed to come down here with Jim," she began, speaking through her stiff lips. "He called the day before we were supposed to leave. He said we needed some time apart. I had the tickets, reservations. They were non-refundable. And I had vacation scheduled. He left me hanging. This was supposed to be our vacation. I didn't know what to do. So I came down here by myself."

I struggled with the muscles of her inner thigh. She had one knee up, the other extended down the couch. I always struggled to capture the lines of a pussy. Seeing one subtly spread by her sprawled thighs tore me between lust and art.

"I don't know why he did it. Rachel, my girlfriend, said he had another woman. I lost sixteen pounds so I would look good in this suit! I went to aerobics for him! Anyway, I had to take the trip. Even if I was going by myself, I deserved it. He doesn't know what he's missing. I would have rocked his world. Instead, I'm collecting shells on the beach. I hope she's a fat cow."

I was carefully picking out the folds in the pile of clothing under her leg, bringing out the white cups of her bra as it dangled over the edge of my sofa.

I stepped back from the easel. I had captured much of her. A lot of shading was still needed, but I had caught the lines of her body, the swelling fullness of her breasts. I had conquered the intricate folds of her pussy, keeping it in proportion to the rest of her. Looking at her, and comparing her to the drawing, I was pleased.

"Do you want another drink?" I asked.

She nodded, and started to get up. "No, don't move. I'll get it." I popped the top of another wine cooler, and traded it for the empty in her hand.

She continued, "He's not a great looking guy, you know. He has funny ears that stick out a little and his face is too round for his eyes and mouth. But he was sweet. We'd go out on his boat, and he'd make all sorts of different drinks. We'd get drunk with his friends and spend the night rocking on the water.

"He hung out with other guys who owned boats. They had certain bars they all went to. Everybody was sleeping with someone else. Married guys would show up with girls and we knew they had left their wives at home."

I was shading. Mid-tones were done, the deeper tones set the mood of reflection. Highlights picked out her nose, her cheekbone, the top of one breast, and the cup of her bra.

"Are you done?" she asked, looking up. "Can I move?"

I nodded, continuing to look. I would touch charcoal to the page occasionally.

She came up on her toes, arching her back, throwing out her breasts to the world. She was studying me out of the corner of her eye even as she stretched. When she had finished, she looked at me, cocking one eyebrow. Challenging me because I was staring at her. I didn't look away.

"Can I see?" she asked. She came around to look at the paper. Her hand rested on my arm, her fingers warm.

"Is that me?" she asked, wonderingly. "You are an artist. A very good one."

"I'm not really an artist," I said. "I moved to Costa Rica after my partners forced me to accept a buyout of my Internet company. I used to be a cube dweller."

"But you made me look so..." she struggled to find the word.