The Painter

She hadn’t meant to turn him on. It just sort of…happened. Now that he was back at her doorstep, she could confess that this whole thing had been a mistake and that it would be better if he went back into city and stayed there.

Boom – two…three

Boom – two….three

Boom – two…three

Why did he halt between knocks on the door? This was the same peculiar sound that summoned her from the study a week ago. When she opened the door, a youngish man with a Cesar cut stood on her step looking at her expectedly. He wasn’t very tall. Without her heels they stood eye to eye. His hair was brushed until it formed little waves. He had a straight nose that curved sharply at the nostrils and a pleasant mouth.


“Madam…Miss…I’m Gyasi,” he stammered, unsure how to address her in a manner least likely to offend her. “You asked me to come from Tema. I’m the painter.”

Recognition flooded her eyes and she stepped aside to let him in.

“Yes, of course! Please come in.”

Gyasi scuttled past her, juggling his paint kit, easel and a 5 x 5 canvass. When he was in the foyer, he turned and gave her the same expectant look he’d given her at the door.

Maxine nodded in the direction of the study. “You can set up right there. I’ve cleared a space in the center of the room.”

In a series of a few mechanical steps, Gyasi’s easel was erected. He placed his tools on a makeshift workbench methodically. Maxine inspected his setup and grunted her approval. Then she peeled off her jeans and gentle lifted the grey cotton t-shirt she was wearing over her head. Her nipples grazed the fabric, forcing them to go erect.

Good. She wanted them to be prominent in the painting. She lifted her right breast to her lips and twirled her tongue around her areola until it stood on edge. Gyasi’s gasp broke her concentration.

“Madam – Will…will your husband mind me being here with you…like this, I mean?”

Aba. There was that question again. “Where is your husband?”

He had travelled. He was dead. He left me for another woman. What answer should Maxine give this new inquirer today? She didn’t feel like lying so she simply replied with a curt, “Don’t worry. We’ll be alone and won’t be disturbed.”

Gyasi smiled in relief.

That was why she had come to Kwahu after all, wasn’t it? Not to be disturbed. The Easter season was over and the mansions that dotted the mountainside were veritably vacant. Save the one house on the edge of the road where the old Haitian lived year round, there was no one on this side of town. Maxine had come here to escape the noise, pollution and nonsense of Accra. She needed to enjoy the pleasure of her own company for as long as possible – until the sixth day, when her solitude became so boring it nearly drove her to madness. Then she remembered she had seen Gyasi at an art show a year ago and how lifelike his artwork was. Artists were always looking for work. He would happily come up to Kwahu for a few days, as long as she took care of his accommodations and food. What did she care? She was rich; the kind of wealth the people in Ghana only speculated about, but not ever truly imagine. Other men had asked for more and given less than this young painter.

He was stammering.

“I thought we might talk about some poses before you disrobed, Miss…”

“It’s Maxine. Just Maxine.”

She placed one hand on her hip, planted her feet shoulder width apart and stroked the delicate skin above her navel with her fingertips. Maxine eyed Gyasi suspiciously. Why was he so nervous?

“It’s just that I’ve never painted anyone as beautiful as you before.”

She scoffed.

He winced, but was desperate to convince her he was not just feeding her a line. “I’m being honest, Maxine. You are beautiful.”

Sensing his sincerity, she lowered her guard and smiled. Here was someone who was not looking for anything in return for his compliment. Not a ‘thank you’, no exhibitions of false modesty. Maxine smiled and placed her bare buttocks on the floor, studying Gyasi from the short distance that existed between them.

“How old are you, Gyasi?”

“I’m 26.”

“I see. I’m 32. Do you have a girlfriend?”

Gyasi was caught off guard. “I’m sorry – what?”

“A girlfriend,” Maxine repeated. “Someone you’re involved with.”

“I date; but no. There’s no one I’m in a committed relationship right now.”

“Good. Then there’s no one who should have cause to be angry if you’d like to fuck me then, right?”

The sound of Gyasi’s ragged breathing cut through the air. Uncertain what to do next, he chose to do nothing at all – say nothing at all. Maxine demanded an answer.

“I want you to render a painting of me in my most euphoric state. Nothing centers me like sex, even if it’s bad sex. Although I suspect fucking is something you’re quite good at. So I’ll ask you again: If you’d like to fuck me, there are condoms in the top drawer of my study over there.”

Maxine tossed her head to the direction of the mahogany and copper desk in the corner. Gyasi lips finally found the strength they needed to form whispering words. He was almost apologetic.

“Madam – Maxine. I believe in sexual purity.”

“So do I,” she replied glibly.

The two studied each other for ages silently, their mutual desire brewing until it had reached the boiling point. Gyasi yanked open the desk drawer and scanned frantically for protection. Maxine’s stash included rubbers of all sizes and functions: XL (and small??), ribbed for her pleasure, thin and sturdy polyurethane. Gyasi grabbed a brand he recognized and carefully began to tear away the foil. Maxine’s hands slid around his waist before he could slip it on.

“Let me,” she whispered huskily in his ear.

The warmth of her breath and her voice forced Gyasi’s erection to throb rhythmically. A small bead of pre-cum pearled at the tip of his cock in anticipation. When the soft warmth of Maxine’s hand found the base of his penis and cupped his balls, Gyasi let out a soft groan. This was torture. He wanted to plow into her, to drive his way into the deepest parts of her, to thrust into her core…but he was rooted where he stood, under her spell and subject to her ministrations. Finally, she bent him at the waist and slipped the condom on him as she stood behind him, grinding the dewiness of her pussy into his now bare ass. When he was completely sheathed, he turned around and tried to claim Maxine’s mouth in a kiss.

The move earned him a slap.

“I said we’re fucking, not making love,” she scolded with a wicked grin.

The painter and his subject glared at each other before colliding into a heap of brown flesh and passion. It didn’t seem natural that he should fill her so effortlessly. Somehow, the younger man had gained control of her body and gliding in and out of her from above, in and out, in and out – swirling his tongue around her firm nipples, spreading her legs with the curve of his stout thighs, grunting unintelligibly so that he would not call her by name. The concentration on his face to commit to fucking her – not to make love to her – drove Maxine to the edge. She came quickly, trapping his penis in a pulsating eddy, bathing him from belly to balls in her euphoria. A few minutes later, he climaxed and reluctantly pulled out of her.

“Paint me now,” she whispered.

“Can I get a moment to recover?”

She shook her head and nodded towards his canvas. She had so many emotions. She wanted them captured.

“No. Paint me now…before this moment passes.”


To be continued….




8 comments On The Painter

  • Modern day Joseph (in Egypt) lol only he took the opportunity this time 🙂 .. Nice piece. I figure there would definetly be rounds after rounds haha

  • What a material of un-ambiguity and preserveness of precious
    experience about unpredicted feelings.

  • lucky guy, what a way to start a job (painting) she knows what she wants and went for it. but I think she should have seduced him.

  • This isn’t a Joseph story oooo. She gave him a choice. Lol! No one can cry attempted rape here.

  • is it a sin to enoye and like to read this?

  • The painters i see in Accra dont look or appear this fuckable…. Ah makes for good reading.

    Did she want to fuck all along or seeing him gave her the fuck idea?

  • Abena, you’ve killed me. LOL! I laughed out loud re: the painters in Accra.

    Not wall painters ooo. Artists! The ones with studio n tings. They sit in aircon at Goethe Institute and talk fake deep ish.

    I don’t think she wanted to fuck him all along. I think she wanted an excuse for some company and he just happened to be young and fuckable…which is a bonus, I guess.

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