Sasha Hartslief, Japanese Screen

I was a little unsure about portaling to a painting, but the light coming through the screen and the young woman sitting on the bench drew me in. I kept my distance at first. My skin felt different. Fuzzy. Like it was made of fibers of light. Warm, comforting light. That’s what I wanted to give the woman. Comfort. For it seemed to me she was sad. Maybe it was bad news about a child, a parent, a lover. But maybe she was just sad while waiting for her lover. Or a client. I didn’t dwell on it. Quietly I approached. I had a need to touch her. Her hair. Her shoulder. My hand reached out.

My fingertips touched her skin. I drew back. She didn’t react. I touched her again. I caressed her. Her shoulder, her back. Small circular strokes, sometimes using my fingernails, sometimes just the pads of my fingertips. I tried to make my caresses as soothing as possible, and after a time I found it was myself being soothed. She said something then. A quiet, calm voice, vaguely musical, like birdsong, soft peeps of sound, in a language I couldn’t understand, but I took her words to mean ‘that’s nice, don’t stop.’ I continued with the slow, circular strokes. She murmured, a purring sort of sound. I was making her feel good. I was making myself feel good. And then she turned, a slow, liquid turn, and she was facing me, and her eyes were kind, slightly sorrowful, and we looked at each other for a long moment, and then she bent forward and her lips covered my breast, my nipple, and she sucked so sweetly, drawing out my orgasm, as exquisite an orgasm as I’d ever had, and I dissolved into the warm yellow light.