What Happens In The Artist's Loft

You know that feeling when you’re so intoxicated by someone, your stomach flips just thinking about them—like you’re on a small roller coaster, and the drop goes all the way down to your pussy? When you want someone so badly that all they must do is flit casually across the landscape of your brain until you’re crossing your legs in public, throbbing and pulsing with animal desire and the inherent frustration that they have the utmost power over you, over your entire body.

That’s how I feel, still, two days after we met.


Our city holds an annual event where artists and the people who obsess over them can interact together in the same spaces, out in the wild. I consider myself to be more of an art observer than an avid appreciator, but really it comes down to a matter of money. We’re humans; we all love art. Most of us just can’t afford it.

The streets are lined with trendy people mulling about. Everyone looks slightly dirty, but since it’s intentional, it’s kind of hot. I pass a man with thick, curly brown hair down to his shoulders and get a whiff of his pungent, second-day-without-a-shower musk. I picture sucking on his lower lip, then his cock, our filthy bodies pressed together, and licking the subsequent sweat off his back. I get goosebumps and don’t quite understand why. I’m a very clean girl.

Me and my friend Suze stop at several stands lining the street: a small collection of sculptures shaped like rockets, caricatures of old rock stars. Nothing stands out to us.

“The good shit’s not out here.” Suze and I turn, taken off guard, to face the woman next to us in the stand. She has thick, spiky dark hair, and looks like the kind of girl your mom did not want you to have for a sleepover, which is exactly why you did.

“No?” I ask, adjusting my red sundress.

The woman nods her head up toward the industrial, brick lofts that line the street above us. “If you want to see real art, you go up there. Today’s the only day of the year some of the artists open up their studios to the public. And believe me,” she looks directly at me, “You want to see what they have to offer.”

The woman’s name is Dalia, which she tells us is Arabic for grape vine. In my mind I bite into a vibrant purple grape and feel slightly hungry, though for what I’m not quite sure.

Dalia knows her way around the streets and helps us snake our way through the crowd. She leads us to a particularly grand loft that’s covered in vines winding their way over the old brick. “This is my very good friend’s loft,” she said. “You’ll like him. Everyone does.” I don’t know why she keeps looking at me.

Pushing the heavy door to the studio, my heart drums faster in my chest. I’m about to enter a stranger’s apartment, wasn’t I always told not to do this?

The ceilings are high, really high, and beautifully ornate. A small group of people, maybe twelve, walk around the room, and the fervent buzz of their discussion of the art on the walls creates a different kind of energy than outside. I feel alive.

Dalia points to a man whose back is towards us. He’s wearing a soft white t-shirt, holding a glass of red wine, and I’m struck instantly with how risky that is. The man turns, and I realize this man and I have entirely different definitions of risk. I do a quick body scan assessment, my laser eyes focusing briefly on the tiger tattoo on his lower bicep, the messy fuck-it brown hair, the full lips that are impossible to not want kissing down your stomach, the kind you want teasing your clit.

Dalia grins. “This is Aro. Aro, this is Suze and—”

“Rae.” I stick my hand out. “I’m Rae.”

Aro smiles, a slow, maple syrup kind of grin. I’m struck instantly with the thought of us, lying naked on the hardwood floor, me stroking the hairs on his chest as we gaze up at that gorgeous ceiling, marveling that the most mundane things are what truly hold the beauty.

He grabs my hand. “Pleased to meet you, Rae.”

We chat a bit about art, about university, about whether Bloody Marys or mimosas are the more quintessential brunch drink, and I realize quickly that Dalia and Suze are nowhere to be found. “I should go back and find my friend,” I start to protest.

“But you didn’t even get to see my best stuff.” He grabs my hand, and I hope he can’t feel my pulse going crazy. He leads me outside the studio to the room next door, and at this point, I’m following him wherever he wants to take me.

What’s inside the room is astounding. The room is lined floor to ceiling with prints of what appears to be body parts, pressed artfully against canvas in a variety of colors and different types of paints.

I feel him come up behind me, his full lips breathing hot on the back of my neck. “If we fuck, and you please me, you receive a piece of art of your choosing.”

I start to say something, I’m still not sure what, but he stops me. “Don’t say anything. If you want to fuck, and it’s me you want to fuck you, then start taking off your clothes. Otherwise, you can walk out that door.”

Still feeling his lips on my back, I bend down and slip off my shoes. Next, I slip off each small strap of my dress and shimmy it down until my breasts are fully exposed. He grabs my arms and whips me around to face him, his lips suddenly on mine, tongue deep in my mouth, rolling over and over my own tongue until I can feel that same sensation of wetness working its way down between my legs.

He scoops me up and lays me down on the wood floor. Pressing my arms back above my head with one hand, he puts his mouth over my breast and swirls my nipple with his tongue, taking his free hand and moving it over my second nipple as well. I’m completely at his mercy, and God am I fucking loving it.

Aro suddenly removes himself from my breasts and pulls the bottom of my sundress so that it covers my face. He lifts my head and tucks it underneath so I can’t see a thing. He moves his mouth down my stomach, trailing his tongue over the goosebumps that instantly crop up. I see nothing, which heightens the sensation that much more. He’s completely owning my body, and there’s nothing I can do about it.

His tongue meets my clit and I let out a guttural moan and don’t care if anyone can hear me. Building the pressure, he swirls his tongue over and over my clit until I feel my own juices drip down my pussy. He licks those up, eager, and moves his tongue back to my clit, this time slipping in two fingers. He strokes the ridge of my G-spot, my pleasure center, at the same tempo and pressure with which his tongue circles my clit. I feel myself start the climb of a orgasm, and start to quake. Instinctively, he knows I’m about to cum, and he pulls back, removing my dress from me entirely. I know he wants to feel me on his cock.

He unzips his pants, and his cock springs free, no underwear holding him back. He wants my cum, and he presses the tip of his dick against my sopping wet pussy, sliding in slowly and pushing all my walls out and back in to grab onto him. He thrusts in and out slowly, delving deeper and deeper into me until I can’t even remember where he starts and I end. Two hours ago, I didn’t know this man, and now he’s giving me the pleasure of my life.

I let that thought consume me for a second, until he flips us over suddenly and presses me down against him while he lays on his back. I straddle him, his cock never having left my pussy, and rock against him, grinding my clit against his hard stomach until I start to feel myself build. I tighten, naturally, and he lets out a long, slow moan. He can feel me building.

He pulls my body down against his so we are flat against one another, slick flesh on flesh, and the thought of him completely owning me pushes me over the edge. I pour my cum onto him as he greets me with his own.


Two days later, I sit on the bus, cross-legged, amazed at the power of a thought to bring my body back to that same state of intense arousal. When I get home, I go straight to my room. Above my bed rests art, of a beautiful body dipped in ink and pressed across three canvases. I’ve been wondering: Is it one body, or is it two? I’ll never know.