Ben Esra telefonda seni bosaltmami ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32
His strokes were smooth and fluid, the colors, more vibrant than any he had ever seen. Amazed at the canvas before him, Terry could see life in his painting. There was no muse. He had no model. The woman on the work, though only pigments in oil brushed onto a framed canvas, seemed to stare into his soul. She seemed so real to him.Shaking his head from the mesmerizing image, he turned his attention to his palate, the pools of varying colors, so vibrant and alive, invited his brush to taste its fruits. The paints were acquired in New Orleans during a recent trip to celebrate Mardi Gras from a little shop in the Vieux Carre’. Vieux Carre’, for those who’ve never been to the Big Easy, is, “French Quarter,” in the Creole language. The little shop where he made the purchase was run by an elderly woman who was said to practice voodoo. Her shop was filled with a hodgepodge that varied from spices and witchcraft supplies, to books and craft materials. Powders, potions, and incenses lined the dusty shelves along her other wares.If she wasn’t a witch, she most certainly fit the profile with her wild eyes and tangled hair that used to be raven but was now streaked with as much grey. Bent and bony, she stood behind the counter to take your money, the old building, itself a reminder of bygone days of New Orleans legend. Terry thought back to the day he made the purchase. After spending nearly an hour in her shop, he finally approached her with his selection of paintbrushes and several canvases of assorted sizes. He remembered the way her eyes bore into his and the way she took his hand in both of hers. Her fingers, calloused and joints deformed by age and arthritis, clasped his palm and traced the lines in it. “I can see sadness,” she said in a gravelly whisper, “You’ve searched for love and found none.”“I’m a loner, ma’am,” Terry lied, his eyes nervously looking into hers, knowing she saw through him. “No,” she shook her head with a weak laugh, “Lonely Yes, but not a loner. You’re very particular for whom you are looking.”The lie rebuked, Terry resigned himself to her readings, her fingers continuing their journey through his palm. He watched with interest her trembling hand and felt her rough skin holding him. His eyes followed her when she reached for a jar on the counter, chanting something in the Creole language. After dipping her finger into the black liquid in the jar, she withdrew it and traced a line from the inside of his elbow to his wrist, her eyes flashing and her voice chanting away. “What is this?” He asked of the dark stain on his forearm.Finally releasing his hand, she explained that she had blessed him to find his heart’s desire. Adding up his purchase on a cash register that could not have been less than a century old, she went on, “You seek a woman, no?”“Everyone wants companionship,” Terry admitted.“Yes,” she nodded, bagging his purchase, “But you seek someone that does not exist. You seek perfection.”Terry thought back to the seks hikayeleri many women that he had dated in his fifty years. So many beautiful and exotic ladies from diverse races and countries, all beautiful in their own uniqueness. Having traveled the world, he had been with so many. But there was always an element in each of them that turned him away. Always something.“I speak the truth, do I not?” She smiled, breaking his thoughts. “How much do I owe?” Terry asked, annoyed at her accurate intrusion into his soul.“Wait,” she hushed him, disappearing through an opening behind the counter that was covered by a blanket rather than a door. He could hear her rustling through whatever was stored in the room then, finally, emerging with an old wooden milk crate. With some effort, she lifted it, depositing it on the counter. “You paint with oil, no?” She asked.“Yes,” he answered, peering into the crate. He could see at least twenty small jars of paints, none labeled for color, “But I have paints at home.”Placing his brown paper sack of supplies in the crate, she said, “These paints will bring you success in your efforts. Take them at no charge. Thirty-seven dollars for your purchase.”He handed her two twenty dollar bills, telling her to keep the change, “Thank you for the paints. Are you sure I can’t pay you for them?”Stuffing the two bills into the register, she said, offering her hand again, “Take them with my compliments. Accept your destiny with no reservations.” He took her hand again, unable to refuse. She held his with both of hers, again a low gravelly chant in her native language, her bony hands clamped tightly on his. Terry was open-minded except for black or white magic. Not something he believed in but he felt something. Adrenaline or nerves, he could attribute it to a number of things. Her eyes though, aged and experienced, were ocean blue and sharp. He couldn’t look away when she stared into his. That’s when he started to fear the reality of her spirit that pried into his. She was speaking to his soul with no words, asking him to free her. ‘Free you? From what?’ He asked, speaking no words.‘Free me,’ her eyes begged, ‘I will owe you my life.’Shaking himself back to the present, he found himself dabbing his brush into the pool of ocean blue on his palate. Looking back to his canvas, his focus was on the eyes of the maiden he created. All his skills learned over thirty-five years of painting were confounded. His hand was guided by some foreign force. Those eyes, still fresh in his memory, stared at him again from the canvas. The paint color, a perfect match to Mamma Rose’s eyes.Shaking his head, ‘How do I know your name?’ He asked the painting, again without speaking words. Her eyes, so deep and blue, were the final touch. The painting finished, he sat, mesmerized by the work of, he thought, his hand. Such beauty, “The Maiden,” he titled it. She seemed to call to him with her sex hikayeleri eyes. She was the embodiment of his idea of perfection. The woman he never found. The love that, for so long, evaded him. He sat for nearly two hours just hypnotized by those eyes. They spoke to him, repeating the message, ‘Free me.’ He couldn’t look away. The image became so real to him, so lifelike on the canvas that he could almost feel her heat. The old grandfather clock in the corner chimed midnight, breaking the spell that his beauty cast.Dropping his brush into the can of mineral spirits, he would clean it in the morning. Time for a shower. One last look at his maiden. Her long, wheat-colored hair tangled around one finger, and her full cherry lips smiled seductively as she sat on the sill of a closed window, the same window that stood open behind him in his studio. This was the culmination of his desire. Her body was lithe and limbs willowy and her skin was kissed by the warm summer sun. Would that he could find her in life. Dowsing the lamps, he walked to the bathroom just off the main bedroom of his home. The water, hot and relaxing, soothed his tired bones that ached from standing at his easel for the past three weeks since purchasing his supplies. Having spent over nine hours just today, his back was sore. Wrapped in a towel, Terry walked from his bath to his parlor for a bourbon before retiring.As usual, he felt satisfaction for completing a work, and this one was particularly satisfying. He sat in his Queen Anne chair, feet propped on an ottoman as he sipped the strong spirits. Not a big drinker, but he found that a little bourbon always helped the aches. His mind went back to the maiden again, her eyes so mesmerizing. Never had his skills been so keen and precise. It was as though the brush or the paint itself guided his hand. Terry put his whiskey glass on the table by his chair and walked naked to his bed, towel on his shoulder. Pausing at his studio for contemplation, he decided to name the painting, ‘Mistress Rose.” The same name he hung on the shop owner. It just seemed to fit her and now an even better fit for his beauty. Her smile seemed even brighter now than when he painted it. Suddenly very aware that he was naked, Terry covered himself with the towel and almost apologized to his beauty. Shaking the thought from his head with a snorting kind of laugh, he walked to his bedroom. And dropped his towel on a chair, “Fucking hell was that?” He grumbled to himself.Sleep found him quickly and dreams of youth and forgotten love filled that sleep, dreams of women from his past, so vivid and real. The regrets of not holding on to some and relief that some left quickly. Of them all, not one satisfied his requirements of perfection. None of them would compare to his Mistress Rose. The night was warm and humid so he slept atop the blankets that were moist from his perspiration. Being used to nights in southern Louisiana, Terry slept under a slow, wobbly ceiling fan, naked as usual, the big wood frame window of his upstairs bedroom stood open. A sudden, cool breeze stirred him from his dream-wracked sleep. Terry woke to see the filmy, pale blue slips gently waving from the heavy wrought iron curtain rod. After sitting up and rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he stood to close the window, noticing the purple twilight of dawn beginning to glow on the gulf horizon. A full, yellow moon hung low in the southwestern sky, accenting the loneliness of the early morning. He took several minutes to appreciate the natural beauty of a hand-painted sky. Pulling the thin curtains together, he turned to the bed and froze in his tracks. The figure of a young woman lying naked across his bed. Propped on one elbow, she faced him with an almost ghostly countenance, “Come to me, my love,” she beckoned, her left hand outstretched.“Rose?” He whispered in disbelief.“Come, my love,” she repeated, “I’m free now. Let me thank you.”Terry couldn’t move, his mind trying to make sense of the moment. ‘I’m dreaming,’ he thought, ‘I must be dreaming.”“You aren’t dreaming,” she whispered, “Come, let me thank you.”“Thank me?” Terry asked, shaking his head, still trying to make sense of her presence.“Come to me,” she repeated, still offering her hand.After a long moment to take in her beauty, her perfect body naked and exposed to his view, he took four slow steps to the bedside, his hand now in hers, she guided him to her side on the bed. Face to face, she smiled and caressed his cheek, sliding her tiny, soft hand from his temple to his chin.Rose smiled at the confusion in her hero’s eyes for just a moment before offering a kiss, her hand pulling his to the curve of her hip. When her soft lips touched him, Terry was taken completely. Sucking her tongue into his mouth, he savored her kiss, sliding his hand over her hip and cupping the supple cheek of her derrière. His erection grew quickly, pressed between their bellies. Breaking the kiss, Rose snuggled closer, kissing his shoulder and neck, her fingers exploring his body, finding his throbbing shaft nestled against her thigh. Terry did some exploration of his own, his palm sliding slowly over the soft curve of her ass. His heart beat wildly, almost audibly in his chest, belying his age and experience. He was as nervous as a teenage boy experiencing his very first time with a female. Rose let him take his time, knowing full well the spell cast on her hero. The magic of the paints had him in a daze of wonder. He had no idea what he was dealing with for Rose was nearly two hundred years old. Trapped as a girl of sixteen by the voodoo priest Bayou John after she threatened to reveal their affair, she lived in the body of Mamma Rose. John was her first and last lover so many years ago, depriving her of her beauty and youth when he cloaked her in the body of his aged mother, cursed to live in her until freed by the hand of a chosen hero. Terry was that chosen man. Chosen by fate and the place he lived. Unknown to him, his house was the childhood home of Momma Rose. Purchased from a real estate agent that thought that information was unnecessary to the new owner.
Ben Esra telefonda seni bosaltmami ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32