Читать книгу With My Body - Nikki Gemmell - Страница 45

Easy, pleasant and beautiful as it is to obey, development of character is not complete when the person is fitted only to obey

His studio is in a warehouse, a proper one, whose second floor is reached by a scuffed and clanking goods lift. You say nothing as you are lifted high, high, but you are breathing tremulous, fast, clutching the straps of your backpack. Not looking, biting your lip, scarcely believing you are doing this. Trying not to show him anything of the great churning within you. He is wearing jeans and t-shirt, he looks different, a student himself. He shares the space with three other people, it is a hot Friday afternoon, they are out.

He gives you some lemonade. Lemonade! You are not allowed it at home.

You sit at the table, he accidently brushes your leg as he sits, you pretend not to notice, breathe shallow. You look around. Tacked on the wall are various postcards from galleries, and photographs, black and white and colour. Your eye rests on a print of a painting, a woman naked, the artist looking straight up her legs.

The meticulous detail.

He catches you looking.

‘Courbet. The Origin of the World.’

A prickly silence. You don’t want to look away, in shock, don’t want to give him that; can feel a familiar tingling, in your belly, between your legs.

‘Incredibly bold for way back then.’ A pause. ‘And now.’

You nod. Blush. The good student, taking in your lesson.

He stands in front of you. The bulge between his legs has grown again, he is right in front of you.

‘Do you want to sit for me?’ he breathes.

You try to still your breath.

So, this is it. You close your eyes, nod, can’t speak. Finally you will learn how love happens, touching and cherishing and nourishing and wanting, you, just you; you will learn where love comes from, how it’s snared, yes, this is the beginning of everything.

You stand, your finger finds the back of the chair, you don’t know what to do next.

He strokes your cheek. It slips down. Over your neck, chest, breast. Something is taking you over, a vast yes. You are angling up your arms and awkwardly unzipping your school uniform, and now he is helping you, he is undressing you, leading you; reaching behind your back, as if this moment will disappear if he doesn’t hurry, stumbling with the clasp and finally slipping off your small, pale bra then kneeling and holding his face to your skin, your quivering skin and with a great sigh burying himself in you, breathing you in. And staying there, staying.

Then his fingers. Slowly, slowly, like a daddy longlegs. Working their way into your white cotton panties.

Spidering inside, to your core, your great warmth; slowly prising your legs apart. You watch him watching, his mouth parted, his breathing. You are intrigued – his face, that you can do this to another person.

Transform them.

The power in that, and you have never felt such power in your life as he undresses you until there is nothing left.

So wet you feel you could crumble with it, now, buckle with his touch. You clutch his hair. Your legs collapse under you. He catches you and lays you on a worn Persian rug on the floor. Stands over you, smiles, assesses. Whips off his t-shirt.

Picks up a paintbrush.