He smiled back at me, and I felt it in my stomach. “Great minds, Helen. This is great work.”
“Thank you, Mr Roberts.”
I breathed him in as he maintained the close proximity, soaking him through my skin, watching his eyes admire my work as I admired him.
One shrill little voice and the spell was broken. Mr Roberts! Mr Roberts!
He squeezed my shoulder as he left, a firm grip, encouraging, and my heart soared.
I held the feeling tight inside, twirling it around and channelling it through my fingers. My canvas took on a whole new stage of life, of beautiful real life, and I was there, in that terrifying scene, smelling the stinking sweat from the horse’s tense haunches, the smell of fear and dread and despair, but I wasn’t scared, I was burning with passion.
Year eights were replaced by a smaller group of more sedate year elevens, yet I barely even noticed, I was flying free, consumed by the desire of the muse.
The end of school bell sounded and I barely noticed that, either. Mr Roberts took to the sink, washing out neglected palettes and leaving them to drain on the side. I felt his gaze flicking over my canvas, and over me, too. I twisted my ankles around my stool legs, pulled my shoulders back as I watched him approach. He wiped his hands on a paper towel before casting it away.
“What a difference a few hours make,” he said. “Really, Helen, this has life.”
I loved his eyes, the genuine appreciation for the craft. He took a stool, pulled it between his legs and perched himself at my side.
“I think I’m just about… finished,” I said, applying the final highlight. I took a long breath, closed my eyes and held them closed as I prepared to inspect the final result with clear vision.
“Stay still,” he said, and his voice was low, so low. “You must appreciate this moment and assign it to memory. I want this in your commentary.”
I smiled. “Okay.”
“When you open your eyes I want you to feel everything about this piece. I want you to write it down, all of it, raw. This is a magical moment of creativity brought to fruition, Helen, you are an artist. I want to know how that feels, how you feel, I want to live it through your write up.”
I could hardly breathe.
And then the unthinkable happened. I heard the clank of my pencil cases as he swept them from my sketchbook, my stomach lurching in horror at the sound of familiar pages being thumbed. My eyes were already wide as he flipped through the contents, desperate in his search to find me a blank page.
My mouth was open, but no words came out, just a weird haunted shriek as my hands went for his, tearing him away from my most private fantasies. He was just a few flips away from the forbidden zone, just a breath away from my abject humiliation, and in shock he recoiled, and so did I. The sketchbook went tumbling between us, and time slowed to nothing as I watched it fall, its pages flapping like autumn leaves until it slammed to the floor.
On the wrong page.
Fate betrayed me.
A lifelike sketch of my own naked body burned my eyes. I was bound on my knees, staring up in reverence at the shaded man before me. My wrists were tied tight behind my back, my head tipped upwards and mouth wide to take what was coming.
The naked flesh of Mr Roberts was purely imagination running wild, but his face wasn’t. His face was perfectly clear and perfectly recognisable. His dark brows were deep in shadow, eyes burning as he guided his thick veined cock towards my waiting mouth. His lips were curved, smiling, his hand heavy on the back of my head, holding me tight.
Oh. My. God.
Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God.
I let out a pained yelp and scurried from my seat, but he was there before me, my sketch firmly in his grip as his eyes roved over my dirty secret.
I felt sick and the world lurched around me, my cheeks burning as I fought back the panic. I gathered up my materials in a flurry and threw them into my art case.
“Helen…” he began, but I couldn’t look at him. I couldn’t bear it.
“I’m sorry,” I whimpered. “I’m… I’m just… I’m so sorry. Oh God, I’m so sorry.”
“Helen,” he said again, and this time he reached out for me, his hand so hot on my wrist that I jolted away.
“Please, please may I have my sketchbook?” I didn’t sound like me. I sounded like a little mouse, a terrified little mouse.
He flipped it shut and handed it over without argument, and I dropped it into my case like a hot potato. Then I was up, on my feet and ready to go, clumsy feet tripping over each other in my haste to escape, but he called me again, and this time his voice was firmer.