The 8th Sin
I just finished my studies in Fine Arts. I don't really want to work right away, I want to have a little fun for a few months, painting, sculpting, creating, going out with friends... But my father has decided otherwise. Living at his house means I have to abide by his rules.
He spoke to a friend of his who owns an Art gallery in town, who agreed to take me on trial for two months.
When I arrive at the Gallery, no one is here. The glass doors are closed. I wait for a few minutes and walk around to see if there is a door in the back. I notice a dark blue sedan in the parking lot. There is indeed a door, I knock.
After a little while the door swings open and my father's friend appears.
— Marion, I’m so sorry, he says. I didn’t notice the time. Come in!
I did not remember him by his name but I now recognize his face. He has been to our house before. He looks a little nervous, trying to get me in fast, rushing things. I can tell he usually works alone and is just doing my dad a favour.
We pass through a corridor full of bubble wrapped paintings and crates filled with polystyrene chips.
— Do you want some coffee? he says.
— Yes, sure.
He invites me to sit down, once in the kitchen. There is a very small table, two chairs, a counter with a sink, a microwave and a coffee machine.
He grabs an upturned mug from the drying rack next to the sink.
— Sugar? Milk?
— Both please. Thank you.
He does this all very quickly as if he was more nervous than me and somehow it calms me down. He hands me the coffee and sits down across from me. The way he dresses reminds me of my contemporary art teacher a little bit. He uses some touches of colour men of his age wouldn't dare wearing. My parents were young when they had me, so he must not be that old, but in his forties nonetheless.
— I remember you, I say. You came to visit before. I must have been in high school at the time.
— Yes, I spent a lot more time with your father a few years ago.
He looks at me like he’s just discovering my face, perhaps trying to remember the young girl I was.
— So, I say. What are we doing today?
— I received a collection from a young Bulgarian artist, Dragomir Stoyanov. Magnificent paintings, full of small details, a very tasteful dark palette.
— What's his series called?
— The 8 Deadly Sins
— Eight? What’s the 8th?
— Well, it'll be interesting if you tell me what you think. We'll hang them up today and we’ll see if you can guess.
A few minutes later, we’re on the floor, unpacking the paintings with utmost care.
— Oh, but these are not the original seven sins! I say.
— No, these are more modern sins.
I unwrap "hatred", "opulence", "injustice", "jealousy", and he "frenzy", "impatience", "hypocrisy" and a mirror.
— I know! I say.
— The eight one is so obvious! The mirror! It's narcissism.
He looks at me mischievously. By the look on his face, I know that’s not it. Too simple? Rookie's mistake?
The gallery is a square space with a wall that divides the rooms in two. I help him attach the 8th sin – the mirror – on one side of the dividing wall. He gives the stepladder to setup the hooks on one side of the room while he takes care of the opposite side.
Every now and then I glance in his direction from the top of the stepladder. He presses his index finger against his lips as he pulls back to check if the painting is askew. I find the sound of his shoes coming and going on the floor quite soothing.
— Do you ever put music on when you work? I ask.
He looks up at me from the end of the room.
— One hand on the ladder, please!
He looks scared. I hold on.
— You can play some music if you want, there’s a little speaker you can plug into your phone over there.
I get off the stepladder and his eyes follow me until I disappear into the kitchen where I left my bag. Did he just look at me a certain way? Although he is almost twice my age, he is still a man, with desires, fantasies, and I’m not a little girl anymore. I find the speaker and plug it into my phone. Given the studious atmosphere, I decided to put on a LoFi playlist.
I come back into the room and he approaches as I put the phone on one of the pedestals.
— Not bad, he says enjoying the music. I like it.
I look up at him.
— That's what I used to listen to when studying. It helps me focus.
He looks at me kindly but there is a little bit more in his eyes, as if he was trying to keep his distances. So, as if to give him permission to relax in my presence, I put my hand on his arm.
— Come on, I say, these paintings aren’t gonna hang on their own!
We have to be so careful and we change our minds so many times about their best placement that we spend the entire day in that room. Two pots of coffee and a sandwich later, night has fallen. I help him print the last labels to add next to each artwork.
I cut out the last piece of paper, sitting next to him.
— You do an admirable job, he says. I am very pleased.
I carefully pass the paper through the sheets of plexiglass.
— I appreciate the care with which you do things.
His feedback feels the soul of the student I still am inside. I’ve always loved making my teachers happy. No idea why.
— Come on, he says while putting his arm behind my back, let's put ourselves in the shoes of the visitors, let's take a walk!
We start from the entrance door and stand in front of the first artwork for a moment, checking for any lighting issue, the placement of the labels, any typos… and truly admiring the work for the first time.
— See how quickly he painted this line? he says. So clever! Even in the brushstroke you can feel the frenzy.
I nod and watch him out of the corner of my eye. I don't know if it's because it's dark, if I'm just starting to get used to his presence, or his way of being captivated by the Art, but my heart is racing. He reminds me more and more of the teacher with whom there had been some flirtation.
He invites me to move on to the second painting, once again running his hand behind my back.
He does this for each of them, and each time that slight pressure against my spine gives me more delicious shivers that I begin to crave for. I always have had red patches on my neck and on my cheeks when I'm nervous, and I feel that particular heat right now on my skin. I hide my neck as best I can and avoid turning to him as much as possible. Even with the dim light, he could notice it.
We finally come to the mirror, next to which there is no label, as per the Artist demand.
— So? he says. Do you still think it's narcissism?
I watch his reflection tell me that, then I look at mine. He clearly can't miss my condition now, and it makes me blush even more if that’s even possible.
He comes stand behind me and looks at us in the mirror.
To feel him so close, watching me, is as intimidating as it is turning me on. He leans into my ear.
— Hum... If it's not narcissism then...
I can't think. His breath in my neck disturbs me too much. I can sense now in his tiny movements that he's excited, and seeing him like that in the mirror affects me. I never did anything with my teacher, but he was the source of many fantasies. I've always been drawn to older men who teach me things, who know what they want. And it turns out my new boss won’t be an exception. Seeing him in this state, in the reflection, undressing me with his eyes, creates a desire so strong that I grab his hand and place it in front of my neck, a few inches away, as if I wanted him to cover my redness from his sight.
He remains silent, looking at our image. He doesn't dare touch me. He lowers his hand, hovering over my breast. I read the envy in his eyes, in mine too. The fact that he doesn't touch me makes my body even more alert. Now, I see myself unbuttoning my blouse, a button, one by one, until I take it off completely. He remains silent but his breathing speaks for him. In my bra, in front of him, he could see how fast my heart is beating. He leans into my neck and breath in my skin.
His gaze returns to the mirror and I lower my straps, one by one, and pull my bra down to reveal my breasts. He runs both hands in front of me, barely touching my pointed nipples.
I look at him in the reflection and push his hands against me. He takes a deep breath. I am in a trance. Feeling his skin against mine, in such an intimate place...
He removes his hands quickly.
— I'm sorry, he says. I don't know what’s gotten into me.
I'm not moving. Neither is he behind my back. He looks at my breasts in the reflection. In silence, I undo the zipper of my pants, and I let them slide down my legs. He closes his mouth, which opened in surprise.
I run a slow hand under my pink lace, looking him straight in the eye. This image pleases me. It is innocent but kinky. I see myself doing all this and my pleasure goes up. I'm turning this man on, this man who tries to hold back, who tries to do the right thing. I want him to lose his mind.
I run a finger through my slit, imagining his hand instead of mine. He's dazed. He exhales behind my back, so close to ignore his fine principles...
My hand bustles under the lace and a moan escape my lips.
— Mr. Edevane... I say in a whisper.
— You beautiful creature, what do you want from me?
He looks so lost, so deliciously lost. I take his hand and plunge it under mine. He sighs behind my back.
To feel this respectable man's fingers quickly making their way through my skin drives me crazy. He loses his face in my neck.
I run my hand behind my back and find his hard cock in his pants. I stroke it through the fabric as he ventures to penetrate me with a finger.
— Hm… Mr Edevane… I want more…
— Anything you want. Anything at all. Tell me.
I lower his zipper.
— Are you sure? He says.
I answer with a nod. He then takes his cock out of his pants and presses his erection against my butt. I pass my hand over it, stroking it.
— My god, he says. What are we doing?
The reflection in the mirror electrifies me. Seeing him completely lost turns me on so much.
I lower my underwear, stand on tiptoe and point his cock against my vagina.
— You temptress..., he murmurs.
He pushes inside me all the way up. We see in the mirror how this simple movement affected our faces. And he starts thrusting into me like crazy, not taking his eyes off mine for a second, gripping my breasts. He moans his pleasure in my ear. He puts his hand back in my laces and begins rubbing his fingers quickly against my clit.
— Marion, Marion, Marion…, he repeats. Come for me.
He didn't have to ask, I feel my muscles contracting around him, a loud moan bursts out of my mouth. He continues to stir inside me, as I exhaust my pleasure on his cock and on his hand. He feels and sees my pleasure distorting my face.
— Damn... You look so hot when you come!
And suddenly, as my spasms start to slow down and a feeling of calmness washes over me, his mouth opens wide.
He punctuates each of his releases with a half-thought, completely mechanical “fuck!”. And seeing him like that drives me crazy. I rub myself against him, forcing him to finish it all in my body. He gives me a last thrust, squeezing both my breasts in his palms and biting my neck passionately.
We look at our reflection, breathless. We see each other without seeing each other. I feel him pull out slowly. His pleasure drips down my thighs.
I turn to him, pulling my underwear and my pants up, my breasts still showing.
— I… I don't know what to say, he says, trying his best to look into my eyes.
— Don’t worry. I won't say a word.
He turns me around to face the mirror again.
— This piece, he says, the artist called it "Shamelessness". Maybe knowing that encouraged me a little bit... I was out of line. I won't do it again, I promise.
— Don't promise things I don't want you to promise. Let's do it again, in the name of Art.
© Tous droits réservés - Charlie M.P. - 14/11/2021
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I'm going to translate the short stories I post on this site, little by little, since some of you would like to read them in English.