Tall Patrice, arrives in a silken chemise,
>Hair swept back as a glistening dark fallen coutured bob,
>Lingering upwards held against the open door
>A single finger points to her chest…. a stare
>Asks a question without any words in mind
>Her leg extended in a purple heel ascending,
>A column of black lacetop hold ups unattached,
>To a pair of regal satin purple see through knickers,……
>And standing in front of a red leather bound captains’ chair,
>Facing an artists’ easle with brushes in hand and dressed
>Half naked but for blue calvins briefs, covered in
>swiped hand imprints of coloured oiled paint, is a tanned
>Man in rigid scultural pose cooled by an antique ceiling fan.
>His diverted eye runs the wall of oil paintings to a fixed point
>Where he has to turn his neck and brush aside his curly locks.
>Ruff shaven and with a charcoal pencil in his mouth,
>And adorned with a necklace of hard wood beads, he peers
>Across to a sight of a slender renaissance beauty….a living mural
>Fit for the centre piece of any Milan art gallery.
>Sultry is his expression, he offers Patrice a seat beside him,
>On a gold embossed, studio chaisse longue, taking her soft hand,
>Then touching her waist as she descends to partly fill the damasq,
>And as his patron she commands his face down to “her” pulling at his beads,
>Onto her moistened purple underwear flexing her purple heeled ankles.
>As she gently removes the charcoal pencil from his mouth, still agar,
>The artist simulates as if lovingly cocconing his brushes in his open lips
>To surround the sides of her visible pearl and feminine moist warmth..
>Just beneath..her scent filled naive purple covering…
>Holding her with delicateness and his with eyes piercing hers,
>Replicating and repeating beneath “it”, the motion of his flickering tongue reflex..
>Usually dedicated “to ponder” the final strokes of a near finished canvas………
> Get ready for the pash..ALOHA!.