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Road Trip 4
🕑 Added 2020-12-11 08:17:54 +0000 UTCWhen my alarm rang, waking me up from a pleasant dream, I was covered with sweat. Anna’s naughty adventure had been enjoyable, but also it sent my imagination overdrive. With a sigh, I woke up, and pulled open the curtains that were responsible for separating my bed from the rest of the RV, only to realize I wasn’t the only person that was awakened by the alarm.
Anna lay silent, her eyes wide as she looked at my naked body, panic, and arousal mixed together. I kept my eyes half-closed as I stumbled to the bathroom, acting like I hadn’t noticed her gaze.
In the bathroom, I once again left the door cracked open, but this time, she stayed away, probably because afraid of the risks. Explaining her presence next to the bathroom door while I showered was even more difficult when she was faking sleep, after all.
When I finished my shower, she was facing the other way, so stiff that almost trembling. I let out a silent snort as I left the bathroom with a small towel around my waist, then quickly dressed. Since this time my curious pervert was too afraid to peek this time, I dressed quickly —which wasn’t surprising considering I just pulled a pair of shorts and slippers and nothing else apart from my boxers.
I picked my notebook, a charcoal pencil, and stepped outside.
Once outside, I took a deep breath enjoying the crisp morning air. It was a bit chilly in the morning, but that was what I needed to awake completely and focus on the task at hand rather than imagining ways to mess with my shy blonde visitor. This trip had a point, after all.
I walked deeper into the woods, enjoying the way the small rocks shifted under my feet, helping me to focus on the environment. Then, I took a seat on a conveniently-broken trunk of a cedar tree, turning my attention on the shifting shadows of the trees, trying to ignore the small voice in the back of my head that was telling that I was nothing more than a struggling wannabe, a voice that was suspiciously familiar to my father’s. After all, after growing up hearing nothing more than how I was a lost cause that wasn’t going to amount to anything.
A self-inflicted slap to my cheek later, I turned my attention to the slowly-emerging creatures in the morning, my charcoal pen dancing on the paper, catching sketch after sketch, haphazardly shadowed. I wanted to focus on the job, because the dawn was such a special moment, forcing me to work even as the shadows changed every minute, the lines getting stronger as the sun brightened.
It forced me to capture the details, not allowing my attention to waver. I felt the familiar sense of concentration filling my consciousness. At that moment, nothing mattered. My lack of a sustainable income, my broken relationship with my only living parent, my fears about not making it up as a painter, not even the sexy but clumsy nerdy almost-coed that was resting back in the RV. Nothing mattered other than the beautiful dance of the shadows and the textures under the beautiful music of the sunrise. My pencil danced on yet another paper as I ripped the previous one aggressively, throwing it on the rapidly growing pile of crumpled papers…
The minutes rolled into hours as the pile grew bigger and bigger, the heat slowly getting unbearable with the unceasing climb of the sun. When I stopped, my mouth was dry and my skin was covered with sweat. Still, I stopped not because of the exhaustion, but the sun was high enough that the shadows turned thick and stale, depriving me of that amazing evolution of the light.
A sigh escaped my mouth as I turned, only to come face to face with Anna, who was standing several feet away, semi-hidden behind a tree trunk, watching me. “G-good morning!” she stammered in shock, her voice unnecessarily loud.
Someone was feeling awkward after the last night’s adventure, I deduced with a smirk. “Good morning,” I answered as I bent down, gathering the pile of crumpled paper I created during my session, trying to ignore my thirst. “Did you sleep well?”
The suddenness of her blush surprised me, followed by a guilty shuffling of her feet. It was clear that she had never done something remotely close in the scale of naughtiness. Her guilt was almost a physical thing. I wished that I could ask her to maintain that pose and expression while I painted her. Pity that it was impossible, as if I asked that, it would have ruined the naturalness of the pose, which was the point in the first place.
It took almost a minute for her to suppress her panic, while I continued gathering the papers from the ground. “It was okay,” she replied after almost a minute of shuffling. She seemed to realize I had no comment about her naughtiness last night, naturally assuming that I had failed to notice the evidence she had left behind. “Do you need something?” she added.
“Well, I wouldn’t say no to a cold bottle of water,” I answered.
“On it,” she answered as she dashed back, using it as an excuse to calm herself. Meanwhile, I finished gathering the papers, and once again sat on the broken trunk, examining the results of my practice session. I grabbed my red pen and started taking notes and making corrections from the memory, just to make sure that I didn’t lose anything.
However, when I noticed Anna walking toward me hurriedly, my focus slipped a bit. How could it not, when her generous torso danced with her every step despite her strong bra and a loose t-shirt. Her sweatpants were even worse than her t-shirt, managing to hide her surprisingly tight ass completely.
No wonder she didn’t receive much attention from the boys.
“Here,” she said as she enthusiastically pushed the bottle toward me, giving me a smile.
“Thanks, sweetie,” I said, which made her avoid my gaze shyly in an instant. I looked at her, expecting her to leave, which was surprising when she stayed still. “Tell me,” I said with a soft, encouraging smile.
“Um…” she murmured, followed by a mumbled, speedy sentence. “Do you mind if I stay here while you’re working? It’s very interesting.”
“Sure,” I said immediately, gesturing her to sit on the trunk as well. She did so, but made sure to put quite a bit of distance between us. I stayed focused on my work, as well as separating the ones that seemed worthwhile to keep as a reference for future work.
For almost ten minutes, I worked in silence while she watched me, though I noticed her gaze lingering on my naked torso whenever she was sure I wouldn’t notice. Still, that didn’t mean that she was using my painting as an excuse, as I could see her examining my sketches with great intensity, only that my muscular, tanned torso provided too much distraction for little virgin eyes.
“You really like painting,” she finally stated.
“I do,” I answered, aware that asking that question was the limit of her courage. So, I continued. “I always liked working with paint, but even as a child, it was not just a game,” I told her. “There’s something special in capturing a moment with paint and brush, like a little butterfly encased in amber, fragile yet immortal.”
“It must be nice, feeling passionate toward something,” she wistfully said, like she wasn’t aware of the sincerity of her own words.
“I couldn’t complain,” I said, then curiously added. “Don’t you have a hobby, or a passion?”
“I like … reading,” she murmured, but from the way her voice trembled, she knew that it wasn’t an answer. Her awkwardness was almost physical.
“So is every college graduate trying to get their first job if their CV to be believed,” I said playfully, which managed to earn a small smile from her. “Don’t worry about it,” I continued. “Life is always evolving. You never know where you will find meaning,” I said. “You just need to try different things and see what you enjoy. This trip is an excellent start for it.”
“Still, it must be nice to create something,” she said.
“I wouldn’t spend the most productive years of my life trying to advance my craft if I didn’t believe it,” I answered, trying to think of a way to dispel the awkwardness. Anna was clearly feeling inferior and empty, which wasn’t something I was seeing for the first time. In college, I had seen a lot of overachieving students with good grades, which filled their free time with debate, chess, cello, and many other activities; not because they enjoyed it, but because it would increase their chances of admission. I always thought it to be a waste. “You just need to find yours.”
“Sometimes, I feel like I don’t have anything like that-” she tried to continue, only to yelp when I flicked a few drops of cold water to her face. “What was that!” she exclaimed in shock.
“I just wanted to disperse your pity-party,” I said. “I understand where you’re coming from, but lamenting your lost time wouldn’t help you. You just need to try until you find it.” Normally, that would have been the end of my motivational speech, but since she had been naughty enough to peek at me in the shower and molest while I was supposed to be sleeping, I decided to mess with her a bit. “We can start experimenting right now.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, what do you think of modeling for a charcoal drawing,” I said.
“Right now?”
“Yeah,” I answered with a shrug. “It’s not like we need to be somewhere.”
“I don’t know. I’m not exactly…” she said, lingering for a moment, no doubt about to say something about not being beautiful, but failed to utter them. Her confidence needed to work. “Isn’t modeling a bit … passive,” she said instead.
“Hey, don’t diss modeling. It's a job that’s unfairly underestimated.”
“Sorry,” she said immediately, avoiding my gaze, preparing to leave rather than facing my confrontation, however weak. She really needed some confidence in non-academic topics.
“Don’t worry, you’re beautiful enough,” I said without prompting.
“It’s not-” she said, only for her complaint to fade immediately against a raised eyebrow. “I’m not-” she tried to continue, but failed once more. “I’m not exactly popular,” she decided to say in the end, like that explained everything.
“And what does have to with it your beauty?”
“What?” she said, shocked by my question. “Isn’t it clear? Beautiful girls receive more attention.”
“Is there anything I can say that would convince you otherwise?” I asked with a soft smile.
“It didn’t work when my mother tried,” she answered, surprising cheeky considering her shyness, probably encouraged by my calm demeanor.
“Okay, then I want you to sit silently for half an hour, as still as possible. Can you do that for me?”
She nodded, confusion mixed with hesitancy. However, she lacked the confidence to reject a direct request. I had to actively suppress the dirty part of my brain in terms of the possibilities afforded by such obedience.
I intended to draw two portraits. For the first one, I barely spent ten minutes, focusing on to be as realistic as possible, though I added a few hard-to-notice details such as slouched posture, unfocused eyes, and thinned lips to make it even less appealing than her already unassuming daily demeanor. When I finished it, I put it on the top of the paper pile without allowing her to see it.
Then, I started on the second one. It was still her portrait, but this time, I gave her a makeover, the kind that could easily be applied by a dedicated hairdresser in a few hours. I still drew her hair in a ponytail, but it was smoother, more elegant. There was some makeup around her eyes, but more importantly, the shadow of a smile was reflected in them. Her lips, rather than pressed thin stressfully, was curled in a cute but seductive smile, their thickness enhanced by the imaginary application of dark lipstick.
My pencil danced over the paper with a mission to unearth her true potential with great success. The imaginary makeup helped, but the real benefit came from the change in her expression. The portrait reflected quiet yet playful confidence, the kind only a woman that was sure of her sexuality could reflect, underlining her beauty without extreme sexualization.
The same expression she wore while she played with my body while she was in the depths of her arousal, unaware that I was watching her.
The charcoal pencil slid across the whiteness of the paper, staining it with magical precision, unearthing the picture it contained. The haphazard streaks and twirls slowly turned into a profile of a young woman, sexy and confident.
Then, I noticed her expression of awe as she watched me work, and suddenly, I felt the grip of the muse. I lost control of my pencil, watching helplessly as it rebelled, adding line despite exhausting the promised half an hour.
The picture grew with the addition of her collarbones and shoulders, both currently hidden underneath her shirt. Luckily, those lines were still sharp in my memory after watching her naked naughtiness the last night, so I was able to stay true to reality as I let the portrait grow. At the bottom of the page, there was even a glimpse of her cleavage, but I resented the smallness of the paper. I wished that there was still space, so I could draw the rest of her beautiful body…
“Done,” I said, able to keep the small bitterness away from my tone. I had a month together. It shouldn’t be impossible to convince her to some risque modeling. I passed the first portrait to her, the plain one.
The moment her eyes met with the portrait, her awe and excitement was replaced with a bitter expression. “I see,” she murmured.
I flicked her nose. “Hey, don’t be like that before seeing the second one,” I said. “This is the bad one.”
“How much of a difference there is,” she said coldly.
“Why don’t you tell me,” I said even as I flipped my notebook, giving her a glimpse of the enhanced portrait.
“No!” she gasped, but this time, her tone was tinged with disbelief and shock. “That’s not me! You cheated.”
I smirked, not even bothering to reign in my smugness after creating a portrait I was proud of. “Really, then why don’t you put two of them side to side, and tell me where exactly I cheated, and changed something that’s not possible without a dedicated professional and a more confident expression.”
“The lips-” she started, but I cut in.
“Nope, just a touch of imaginary lipstick and a sexy smile,” I explained.
“Eyebrows-” she tried to continue, only for me to invalidate that in a second. The next five minutes passed with her giving several examples, and I carefully explaining that there was no difference anatomically between the two portraits, just a better attitude, and some subtle makeup tricks. Though, I was amused to note that she said nothing about the presence of her naked shoulders or the hint of cleavage despite her finger dragging over those parts gently several times.
“Impossible,” she murmured again, but this time, it was not a statement of angry disbelief, but one of awe and wonder, just like a forgotten stepchild that received the offer of transformation from her fairy godmother.
An interesting discussion awaited me…
