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We closed the drapes, and I lay naked on the couch, one hand on my stomach, the other behind my neck. My breasts spread across my chest, pointing in different directions, and my hair tickled the sides of my waists in the flutter of the fan. She drew me that way, her eyes squinting a little, her lips pursed. She sketched with thick charcoal on expensive drawing paper, capturing the lines of my face and body in shades of black, white and gray. I nearly fell asleep during, lulled by the peace of it, and she drew me in a state of utter relaxation. I will not say that the actual experience of being drawn was erotic, but it was meditative and soothing. It focused my thoughts.

It was later, after she had taken the portrait outside to spray it with clear fixative that I noticed. She had drawn me exactly as I had posed for her, with one difference. In the picture, my hand was still on my belly, but my index finger was extended and gently touching my clitoris. The sight of it sent a shock through my entire system, and I almost felt the cool pad of my index finger touching the warmth of my vulva. It was a nearly tangible feeling. The artist smiled mischievously and laid the portrait out to dry on my back porch before she took off for a coffee date.

The picture fixated my thoughts for the rest of the day. I was terrified that someone, a neighbor, or a passing bicyclist was going to see it, recognize me, and let their eyes slip down to where my paper finger stroked my paper clitoris in perpetuity. It was a slow arousal, an ...

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