When Inspiration Strikes

Underwhelming, thought David as he scrapped yet another canvas after wasting hours on the painting. There wasn't any point in pretending otherwise. He hadn't produced a single exhibitable piece in months. His oil paint landscapes and townscapes had been his passion for a decade and his full-time job for almost half of that, but he was starting to feel like whatever creative spark he'd once had was leaving him.

It's not like there was anything wrong with the painting he'd just given up on. It was fine. Probably could have been reprinted and hung in plenty of dentists' offices, he thought darkly. But it seemed empty to him. Lifeless. Lacking whatever indescribable quality separates art from kitsch.

Unfortunately, 'fine' doesn't pay the bills. David had been a bookkeeper before he quit to pursue painting, and he was starting to think he would soon be a bookkeeper again. It was only by chance that he'd managed to turn his art into a career; a friend of a friend owned a gallery and offered him a wall for show after another artist pulled out at the last minute. Whatever deity governed the universe, whether it be a god or the unknowing power of chance, had decided to smile on him that day.

A wealthy patron had stopped in, taken a liking to one of David's paintings of the sea near a small Mediterranean town, and offered to buy it on the spot. At the time, David had been glad to pay some bills and have some extra cash on hand. A few weeks later, he was being sought after in the New York art scene and showcasing works in multiple galleries. Apparently, that wealthy patron had connections.

Several months later, David was selling enough paintings to seriously consider quitting his job. So he did, taking a risk that up to that point had been unfathomable to the risk-averse twenty-five-year-old. And here he was, wondering if that had been the right call after all.

"What do I do now?" he wondered aloud in his small apartment.

***

A few nights later, David sat at the bar across the street from his apartment with Jess, a fellow artist and friend he met at a gallery showing a few years back. Jess was a sculptor who had been working professionally for the last decade at least, and David doubted she would have any good advice since her success had seemed to come naturally, so he didn't bother to tell her about his concerns. Instead, he listened to her talk about her latest works, slowly drinking his beer and trying to calm his worried mind.

"Alright, Davey, what's wrong with you tonight?" Jess finally asked. The thirty-something sculptor wouldn't have been out of place at a rock concert. She was dressed in mostly black, with fishnet tights under black denim shorts, and a beanie on her head despite the increasingly warm weather outside. Her black and purple hair framed her face. Her look did not say "classically trained sculptor who produces works reminiscent of the Renaissance artists," but David knew her to be extremely talented.

"Sorry," he replied, honestly meaning it. He should have been a better listener. "I'm a bit stressed. It feels like I lost it, whatever it is. I haven't been able to create anything meaningful for a while now."

"Ah, you're in a slump. This can't be your first time, though, right?" Jess asked, patting him on the shoulder.

"I mean, I've had days without inspiration before. Never months, though. It doesn't feel right," he said with a sigh. "I've been thinking about giving up, honestly."

"Don't be an idiot," Jess replied, rolling her eyes. She could always be counted on to be blunt, David thought.

"Have you ever had a slump this long?" he asked skeptically, one eyebrow raised. Jess rolled her eyes again.

"Of course, dummy," she replied. "It happens. What have you done to try to break out of it?" she asked curiously.

"Um, I mean, I paint?" David replied sheepishly. Jess just stared at him.

"You won't break out of a slump by brute force. You need to do something. Break your routine, search for inspiration, reset your brain," she insisted. "Last time I felt that way, I went to Europe. Traveled to art museums, visited landmarks, you know. Tried to find something that inspired me."

"And it worked?" David asked, perking up a bit.

"Not immediately," she responded. It took a few weeks, but looking at stuff the masters did eventually gave me that spark back, you know?"

"So, what, I should go to Europe?" he asked. Jess laughed.

"Maybe, but probably with some direction. What was your favorite painting that you've made?"

"I don't know. Maybe the one I sold that kicked off this whole career, the beach scene at the little Italian village?"

"Go. To. Italy. You. Dolt.," Jess said with a grin.

"You think so?" David asked.

"Yeah, I think so. Find inspiration again. Take your supplies with you in case something strikes while you're there, you have no idea how hard it was for me to find materials in a foreign country, once I felt like creating again," she said with a grin.

"Alright, I'll think about it," he replied.

"Don't think, do."

***

David slept through the flight, having taken a Xanax before boarding. He'd never really liked flying -- he wasn't terrified of it, he just didn't like being treated like cattle and then dealing with other passengers on top of that, so he figured he preferred to pass out and wake up wherever he was going. It was like teleportation, if teleportation caused you to wake up with a dry mouth and a mild headache.

The village he'd booked a room in was a few hours south of the nearest commercial airport, and he hired a car to make the trip since he wouldn't need a rental once he was there. As they drove, hills on the right and the sea to the left, David sat in thought.

He found himself wondering if he was being a fool. Maybe chasing after painting as a career was dumb, and flying halfway across the world to keep pursuing it was dumber still. His paints and supplies bounced around on the seat next to him in the new black artist's travel bag he'd bought from the overpriced art supply depot. Oh well, he thought. At least he'd get something of a vacation before being forced to go back to bookkeeping to pay the bills.

The car dropped him off, and he thanked the driver, who responded in Italian. David didn't speak Italian, making him wonder if this was even dumber of a decision than he'd previously thought. He hoped someone in this small fishing town spoke English, or maybe Spanish. For Spanish, all he had were vague memories from high school, and while he'd spent more time watching his young and attractive teacher, Ms. Lopez, than learning a new language, that was still better than Italian, of which he knew almost nothing. He was fairly certain that adding A's to the end of English words like Mario wouldn't cut it, and would probably get him asked to leave the country.

The clerk at the desk of the small inn, fortunately, spoke English, albeit with a heavy accent. She had greying brown hair and was a round woman, both in face and body, and seemed to be scowling at him when he walked up to the desk. Despite her intimidating appearance, she was friendly enough, and once he had handed over a credit card, she produced a key and guided him upstairs to the top of the three-story building. She opened one of the doors and showed him into the room, which David quickly confirmed was the one he had requested.

He'd chosen this one because it was a small studio with access to a private rooftop terrace overlooking the Ionian Sea. It had seemed like a good place to paint, with promised views of the small beach down below, the fishing harbor a hundred yards away, and the main thoroughfare, such as it was, of this small town on the other side of the building. David offered his thanks to the woman, who placed the key down on the small table next to the bed and then stepped back out of his room.

"What now?" he said aloud, to no one but himself. His stomach rumbled. "Food it is," he said, allowing himself a smirk, and taking the key, he left the room.

***

David found a café a few streets north of his accommodations. He sat at a table outside, protected from the evening sun by the shadows of the buildings across the street. As he ate his simple sandwich and drank the small carafe of coffee, possibly the best coffee he'd ever had, his eyes scanned the street. He was deep in thought, attempting to will his creative brain to find something worth painting, to make himself feel a spark of inspiration. He wasn't having much luck, but was briefly distracted by the arrival of a gorgeous woman.

The Italian beauty looked to be in her forties, ten years or more David's senior, but age had been kind to her thus far. He wouldn't have been surprised to find out she was an actress or a model or some other profession of the beautiful, privileged few. She certainly dressed like she was fairly well-to-do, in a pink form-fitting linen dress with a white hem, platform heeled sandals, and large, movie-star sunglasses. Her outfit was capped off by a wide-brimmed straw hat and an expensive-looking leather bag over her shoulder.

David watched her order something from the shopgirl. They spoke for a while, with some laughs thrown in -- she must have been either a friend or at least a regular at this café. He sipped his coffee, the last of the brew disappearing past his lips as he tried not to get noticed staring.

The woman was beautiful, with full lips and dark, wavy hair. He got a glimpse of her big, brown eyes when she took her sunglasses off during her conversation with the shop girl. David watched her pick up her coffee off the counter in a to-go cup, and head out onto the street past him, heading in the direction of his hotel. Her hips swayed invitingly as she walked in her heeled sandals, her womanly curves flaunted for any passersby lucky enough to be on the street as she passed.

As she disappeared around the bend, David blew out the breath he hadn't known he was holding and took a sip of his coffee, only to be reminded that he'd already finished it. He left a small tip on the table, knowing it wasn't expected but unable to completely bypass that American expectation, and walked back down the street in the same direction his momentary fixation had gone.

***

The next morning, David woke early and set up his easel with the pre-primed canvas board he'd prepared. He had brought an entire suitcase full of boards, which he was now thinking was probably overkill, but it would be better to have than to try to find more supplies in a foreign country, he reasoned with himself.

The sun was still below the horizon, only a faint glow over the ocean and the empty harbor indicating that sunrise was coming. David glanced out over the edge of his rooftop, trying to frame a painting in his mind, composing the angles and, as the sun finally peaked over the horizon, mixing paint colors to create a palette for the empty canvas in front of him. Once he was ready, both physically and mentally, he started to work, the salty air mixing with the scent of the coffee he had brewed.

By the time the sun was in the air and the first bathers had found their way onto the pebble-and-sand beach below, David had something of a piece in front of him. He examined his work critically. It was a good painting. Good enough to sell to tourists visiting this town as a souvenir. It was technically well put together, expertly composed, and might have looked good on a postcard advertising the merits of a visit to this small seaside town. Still, David wasn't pleased.

He didn't know what was missing. He couldn't articulate why he disliked it, or why that dislike was growing in his chest into something more resembling frustration and unbridled hate. He only knew that it wasn't good enough, and that he wasn't at his best, even here in a small town in Italy, where every view was a picturesque vista.

David was interrupted from his cycle of self-flagellating despair by the sound of a door closing nearby. He glanced across the alley between his building and the one next door, which was one story lower but had a rooftop terrace that faced his. He looked back at his painting, only to then do a cartoonish double-take. A woman had stepped onto the terrace. The woman from the café.

David looked away, pretending to be engrossed in his work. He thought she might have glanced in his direction as he surreptitiously stole glances in her direction, but he couldn't be certain. What he could be certain of was what she did next.

She'd stepped onto the balcony wearing a flowing white dress and the same hat and sunglasses from the prior evening. David watched as she set the hat down on a small table next to a comfortable-looking lounge chair. He glanced away, and when his eyes returned to her sooner than he would have liked in his quest to not be noticed, he saw her lifting her dress over her head, apparently planning on tanning her soft-looking skin. David gulped. She was naked.

He quickly turned away, hoping that she wouldn't glance in his direction and notice the red-faced painter hiding behind his easel. When he finally dared to peek again, she was reclining on her chair with a book, hat back on her head, and otherwise as naked as the day she was born.

Out of the corner of his eye, David appraised her. She was gorgeous, from head to toe. Her legs were softly muscled, with a small amount of appealing fat on her thighs and hips, as well as her lower abdomen. He couldn't see her backside, obviously, but based on the way her hips sat on the cushion of her chair and the way her dress had hugged them the prior evening, he found himself imagining it. Her breasts, full and heavy with light-brown colored nipples, sat on her chest, with just the perfect amount of sag for a woman of her age, at least in David's mind.

He was entranced, but still doing everything he could to not give away his vantage point; he had no idea if she knew or cared that he was there, but he knew she would care if he was staring lustily at her form. If not for the darker hair and the 1960s movie-star face, she could have been a modern version of Botticelli's Venus. David was suddenly and painfully aware of the swelling in his chinos and decided to retreat indoors before he got caught leering at his neighbor.

***

He ate dinner at the same café after a stroll through town, still looking for his spark. While he sat, more relaxed this time without the jet lag from the day before, the woman from the rooftop walked up. Today's look was no less attractive than yesterday's, although, in David's mind, a bit less so than the one she'd worn earlier in the day. She was wearing a loose red top that flowed around her curves and matching loose pants, the fabric almost thin enough to be sheer as it wrapped around her body. The hat, sunglasses, and purse remained unchanged.

Before David could look away, she smiled at him. Or he was pretty sure she had, but he blushed and glanced away as soon as that seemed like a possibility, so he couldn't be certain. It wasn't that he didn't know how to interact with beautiful women; just not so much the ones he'd sneakily viewed naked a few hours earlier.

As had happened the night before, she spoke with the shopgirl and then took her coffee away with her and headed back down the street.

***

The next day, to David's surprise, followed the same pattern as the day before. David painted the street below from an angle in the morning, once again producing a picture that was technically proficient but lacking any draw, before despairing again and resisting the urge to toss the canvas off the balcony. As he was going through his internal rollercoaster, he heard the door open across the alley once again.

The woman stepped out in the same dress as the day before. 'Why wash it when you barely wear it?' thought David, smirking in his own head. Much like the day before, she stripped it off and sat naked on her chair, lounging like Cleopatra herself as she read her novel in the warm air, kept from sweating too heavily by the breeze off the sea.

And once again, David found himself staring-but-not-staring at her forbidden beauty.

***

David ate his dinner at the same café once again. Yesterday, he'd told himself it was because it was easy -- he knew where it was, knew the food was serviceable and the coffee was excellent, and didn't want to go through the trouble of walking farther to find another place while being exhausted from the time change and waking up early to paint.

Today, however, he couldn't lie to himself. He wasn't even drinking the coffee; now that he was acclimating to the time difference, he switched to wine for dinner. The truth was he was hoping to see the woman again, and she did not disappoint. As he finished dinner, at roughly the same time as the two nights prior, she strode in for a coffee. This time she was wearing a pair of trendy jeans that cut off above the ankle and hugged her desirable hips, and a loose long-sleeve shirt, navy blue and made of fabric thin enough that he could see the swells of her nipples through the fabric. Her heeled sandals from the first evening completed the look. David tried not to stare.

When her nightly errand was completed and she had disappeared around the bend once again, David got up to follow, leaving a few Euro coins on the table near his empty wine glass. His curiosity got the better of him, though, and instead of leaving in her wake, he walked up to the counter where the shopgirl was wiping down some glasses.

"Hi," he said lamely. She was pretty in a quaint sort of way, and she glanced in his direction with a confused look.

"Hello, can I, ah, help you with something? Your sandwich was acceptable, no?" she responded in heavily accented English.

"It was, yes. I was just wondering about the woman who comes in here every night when I'm eating. Do you know her?" he asked. David realized he sounded like a creep and hoped the language barrier would cover some of that. He'd have to pick a new dinner spot for the rest of his trip, he thought shamefully.

"Signora Riva? Yes, she comes in every night. She owns this building. I am Antonia, by the way," she said, introducing herself. "I see you three nights, you are visiting?"

"I am, I'm a painter. She is your landlord?" he asked. Antonia smiled.

"Yes," she said, nodding, her accent, "she is, eh, landlord, to most of this paesello, em, town. She is a little, em, famosa, when she is younger, she is in catalogs. Her husband is wealthy, from here, his family, they own land everywhere around here. They marry when she is young, he get older and get sick and he die, and now she own everything," the shopgirl said with a smile. "She is very kind. Good owner," Antonia added.

"Thank you," David said. "I will see you again tomorrow," he replied with a smile, hoping he was still welcome. Antonia didn't seem bothered, but she did look amused.

"She is a little old for you, no?" she asked with a giggle as David stepped through the door. He grinned back, embarrassed, heat creeping up his cheeks, before he continued on his way.

***

The next morning, David set about painting the harbor. He woke early enough to see the boats preparing in the light of the street lamps on the docks, watching the fishermen load their boats and perform checks on the sails, rigging, and motors. He would have to paint this scene mostly without his subjects, as they would leave to begin their day's work in a few moments, so he focused on committing the details to memory. The cool summer morning was already warming as the sun crested the horizon, and David worked on the canvas in front of him. Soon, he'd have exhausted his potential subjects visible from his terrace and would have to leave for the day to find a subject elsewhere.

Right around the time of his pre-scheduled despair and frustration, David heard the door open and glanced over to see Signora Riva, as Antonia had called her, stepping out onto her terrace. Like the previous days, she slipped her dress off, her divine form on display for no one but the gods and David himself. He tried to glance away, but her beauty once again captivated him. Inspiration suddenly flooded his body in a way he hadn't felt for months. Moving quickly about, he set aside the morning's work and set another canvas board down on his easel, then quickly began mixing paints. Brushstrokes began to flow onto the canvas.

An hour or so later, just as Signora Riva stood to retreat from the midday sun, David finished his painting. He was sweating, both from the heat and the exertion of his near-constant movements. His eyes scanned his work, as critically as they usually did, and he breathed an excited sigh of relief. The feeling flooded through him, and he smiled, breathing heavily. Before him was a beautiful painting of a woman reclining nude on the terrace of a building, the sea off to the east, and the sun shining down on her.

David moved the easel inside, leaving the painting to dry, and dressed to go to the beach for the first time since he arrived.

***

After a long swim in the cool Mediterranean waters, David was feeling refreshed and reinvigorated for the first time in months. He strolled down the main street of the town with a new spring in his step, heading for Antonia's café for dinner.

As he finished his dinner, Signora Riva arrived, like clockwork. She wore a loose, flowing dress that cavorted around her legs mid-thigh, the green fabric shifting as she walked. Her sandals had been replaced by heeled shoes that matched her dress. The hat and sunglasses, like always, finished off the ensemble.

David sighed happily as he finished his wine, resting for what seemed like the first time in ages. A tension he hadn't even been aware of seemed to have left his body, and if not for the swim, he was certain he'd have been jittery with newfound energy. He did not expect what happened next, or he may have still been a little tense.

"Ciao," said a voice as he saw her bag land on the empty chair next to him. Her sunglasses were placed down on the table, and Signora Riva sat down opposite him, her voice and demeanor somehow both playful and commanding at the same time. "I am Emilia Riva. And you are the man who is asking about me, no?" she asked. Her English was quite good, although not without an accent. David looked over at Antonia through the open windows of the store, and she shrugged, offering a coy smile before turning back to her work.

"I suppose I am. David Logan," he said back, beyond nervous but trying to project confidence. It was a feeling he was more than used to, he realized, from talking to patrons about his works.

"And why are you asking about me, David?" she asked. The way she said his name, with all the vowels pronounced in their American fashion but with an exaggerated edge, like she was amused to be pronouncing them that way. David nearly quailed under her serious tone; only the infusion in her words of that small amount of amusement kept him together.

"Well, um, you're quite beautiful," David said. The way she looked at him made him think of his old teachers in high school; it was the type of look that said she already knew the answer to the question and was just testing to see if you would lie or come clean. He knew he hadn't had a choice.

"Oh? How flattering. You are such a young man, I should be honored, no?" she asked, the amusement creeping more openly into her voice. "I must ask, though, are you referring to when you have seen me here? Or on my balcony?" she asked coyly. David's face, normally quite pale, quickly took on the same reddish shade as the bricks on the road beneath them. "I see. How are you enjoying your stay here in Serafini di Mare?"

"Immensely, now. I'm a painter, I came here seeking inspiration," he said, truthfully, referring to the town. Emilia looked at him with a smile.

"And you have found it?" she asked, her normally hidden brown eyes piercing him.

"I have," he replied nervously, realizing he didn't want to have this conversation.

"Show me," she said. David began to nervously fret.

"My paintings are still drying, and they're in my room. I'm not certain that I'm allowed to have guests," he replied lamely.

"Per favore, Giulia will not mind," she replied, and stood. David assumed Giulia was the innkeeper he'd met the first day, who always seemed to be on duty. He stood, and Emilia took his hand, leading him down the street. Glancing back, he saw Antonia watching with raised eyebrows.

They walked together. Emilia seemed determined to make small talk and asked David about his work, while he tried to answer and also mentally scramble his way out of trouble. He'd left the painting he'd done earlier, the one of her, to dry on the table. I'm fucked, was all he could think when he tried to come up with an excuse.

They stepped into the small lobby of the building where he was staying. The woman at the desk looked up from the tabloid she was reading.

"Ciao, Giulia," said Emilia as they walked to the stairs. She actually said much more than that, but David couldn't understand it. Giulia waved her off with a "bah" sound and a laugh, so he assumed it was just friendly banter, although whether he was involved, he had no idea. Emilia led the way, and David tried desperately not to stare at her ample derriere as her skirt fluttered around it.

When they arrived on the landing, Emilia waited for David to open his door; she knew the building and floor, but David noted that she did not appear to know which door led to his room. With a tight feeling in his chest and his mind going a mile a minute, he turned the key in the handle and opened the door. Emilia followed closely as he stepped inside.

"This is nice," she said as she looked around the room. "Small, but nice, no?" She noticed the paintings from earlier laid out on the small kitchenette counter and moved towards them. David tried to work out whether he could hide the one he'd made of her while her back was to him. Before he could move for it, she was already turning around, seemingly unimpressed with his work. Then she noticed the one on the table and moved towards it.

David felt like the world was closing in on him. A rushing sound filled his ears. Great, he thought sarcastically. My inspiration returns and that lands me in an Italian prison for spying on a woman, he thought, unsure of the law and assuming he was screwed. He watched with trepidation as she arrived at his table and stared down at the painting beneath.

"You painted me," she said without emotion. Looking back on the last ten minutes of his life, it dawned on David that she must have suspected this earlier. Why else would she have cared to see his work?

"Um, I'm sorry. I didn't intend to. I meant to finish that one," he said, pointing at the one of the harbor, "but I couldn't resist."

"That makes sense, I do look sexy in the painting, no?" she said, a smile creeping across her lips. David was suddenly confused.

"You're not mad?" he asked, bemused.

"Mad? Wha- oh, angry. No, I am not angry," she replied.

"Uhh... why not?" he asked, realizing he sounded like an idiot. He was really hoping that the language barrier would help him out again.

"It has been a while since I have been... admired... like this. When I was younger, I modeled. Milan, Paris, London. That was many years ago, now I am forty and five, I have been retired for twenty years. My husband has been gone for five years. Nobody has looked at me the way you have looked at me from across the street in a long time," she said, a hint of sadness in her voice.

"No offense meant," replied David, "but I sincerely doubt that." Emilia smiled.

"Oh, you're a charmer now, yes?" she asked with a grin. "Fine. Nobody I wanted to admire me has. Plenty of old men who are looking for their third wife, maybe," she smirked.

"But I'm younger, so it's alright that I was watching you and painting you?" he asked skeptically.

"You are young and handsome and an artist, so in the words of you Americans, I am good with it, no?" she laughed. David grinned.

"I feel bad, still. Would you like to keep the painting?" he asked, sad to let go of it but confident his slump was ended.

"This is the one you were referring to when you said you found your inspiration, isn't it?" she asked, her eyes piercing, once again not leaving an opportunity to lie.

"It is," he replied. "How did you know?"

"The others, they lack life," she said simply. David's heart pounded.

"I'm glad someone else could see it," he said.

"Mm. Just as I was lacking life before I saw you staring at me across the rooftops," she said enigmatically. "What will you paint next?" she asked.

"I don't know. I thought maybe tomorrow I would go to the beach and paint the little fisherman's tavern at the end of the dock."

"No."

"No?"

"You will paint me," Emilia said simply, her accent unbelievably sexy in that moment.

"Where?"

"You will come over tomorrow, and I will pose for you," she explained. "I will see you in the morning," she added, and with a turn on her heel, she was gone, leaving the door to close behind her.

"What just happened?" asked David to his empty room.

***

The next morning, David slept in, not bothering to get set up before sunrise. When he woke, he gathered his things and left his building. Instead of going next door, however, he walked to Antonia's café.

"You are here earlier than normal," Antonia said as he walked in. "I thought you will be awake much longer, the way you leave here," she smirked, her broken English endearing.

"No, she just wanted to see my paintings," David replied with a shrug. "Now she wants me to paint a portrait of her today," he said, fudging the details on what his assumptions were for the day. He had rarely painted people, although that had been more due to his old interests than any skill issues. He certainly hadn't painted a nude form since using live models in a college course he took as an elective. "What does Emilia normally drink?"

"Signora Riva orders a cappuccino every morning and a caffe americano every evening."

"Two cappuccinos then, please," he said, and passed her his card. She rang him up, an amused look on her face, but said nothing more.

***

David knocked on her door, cappuccinos in hand and his supplies slung across his back in three separate bags: one for paints and brushes, one for the easel, and one for the canvas boards. A moment later, Emilia answered, gesturing for him to come in. David noticed she was dressed in a short, pale pink kimono-style robe. Either he was earlier than she expected, or his assumptions about what he'd be painting were correct.

Emilia's hair was wavy and full, and it cascaded over her shoulders. Her lips were plump and inviting, and her nose wrinkled cutely when her beautiful eyes saw the drinks in David's hands.

"Benvenuto," she said as he stepped inside. David noted that her home was the entire building -- two stories only, but with a footprint the same size as the inn next door. It was a large home for one. It was richly furnished, not garishly, but definitely well-appointed. David offered her the drink. She took it and sipped at it.

"Cappuccino, no? How did you know?" she asked curiously.

"Antonia told me what you order every morning," he replied.

"She will probably think I took you home last night," Emilia said with a smile.

"She did, but I told her otherwise," David said.

"Too bad, this town is small enough that everybody talks, no? I would not mind the old men in this town thinking I was sleeping with a young artist," she said with a mischievous smile. David laughed.

"I'm sorry I corrected her, then," David said with a nervous grin. "Where should I set up?"

"In here," she said. Her accent, combined with her beauty and the flimsy robe she wore, made his arousal a near certainty. Only his nerves had stopped him from straining against his tan chinos already. He followed her into the room she had strode into, which turned out to be her bedroom. Opposite her bed was a chaise lounge that she sat down on.

"I thought maybe here? You can tell me what to do if you want, though. You're the expert," she said. Maybe it was the accent, but I was certain her offer had been dripping with innuendo, even if her face remained innocent.

"That will work," David said, after a moment of planning the composition. Emilia smiled happily and watched him while he set out his tools. When he was prepared, she stood and began to undo her belt.

"I'm sorry, I doubt I am as attractive as the young women you usually paint," she said. She was unbelievably sexy, so that was nonsensical, David thought, but he also didn't usually paint people at all.

"That is ridiculous, you're gorgeous. However, I normally do landscapes and townscapes, I don't usually paint models," he replied.

"David, are you saying I am to be your first?" she asked coyly. David was a man, and a nervous one at that, but even he could tell she was flirting with him.

"I've got enough experience to be good at it," he replied with a wink, confidence beginning to fill him as he started mixing paints and got into his element. For the second time in months, he wasn't nervous about the quality of his work before he even started. Emilia let out a throaty laugh.

"Show me," she said teasingly, then lay herself down on the chaise, fully nude.

***

David worked quickly, and could tell early on that he had been right to be confident. The painting was shaping up to be one of his best works. Emilia looked so gorgeous, so confident, and so desirable, and he was transferring those impressions to the canvas with the skill he thought he had forgotten.

When he finished, he stood, despite the partial-but-persistent swelling in his pants. He beckoned to Emilia, who stood and walked naked over to him to see the picture. When her eyes fell on the canvas, she teared up a bit.

"Are you alright?" he asked, concerned.

"I can't believe how beautiful you have made me look," she replied.

"It's just you," he replied.

"I don't look like that," she said, her eyes tracing every curve of her body on the canvas.

"You do," he said simply. "I assume you'll want to frame this and keep it?" he said, resigned to the fact that he had created a work of art but would not get to keep it. Such was the life of a painter.

"No," she said.

"No?" he asked.

"No," she said. "I want the other one."

"Then why..." David started to ask.

"Why have you paint it? Because I wanted to keep the other one, but if I was the muse that inspired you, I did not want to take that from you. Now I will keep the other one, yes? I will get to remember how I inspired a man to paint even at my age, and you will take this one and hang it on your wall back in America, and when you see it, you will think of me," she replied in her sexy accent, her voice trembling slightly.

"You know I wouldn't forget you, even without it," he replied.

"Yes, I know. Especially because of what comes next," she said. David looked at her and saw her eyes aflame. She was no longer looking at the painting. She was eyeing him. Hungrily.

"What comes next?" he asked lamely, even though his body was already preparing itself for her.

"You have admired me and desired me and made me feel beautiful again. I think you want me, yes? I want you, too," she replied.

"I do," he replied simply.

"You are, what is the word? Overdressed," she quipped, her eyes exploring my body through my clothes.

"Take them off, then," David replied. He'd arrived on this trip nervous and depressed; thanks to her, he was feeling confident and happy again. Emilia smiled and stepped close to him. Her body, soft but not at all fat, was close enough to touch. As she unbuttoned his shirt and pulled it open to display his chest, David boldly reached between them and caressed her large breasts as they hung enticingly on her chest. Emilia met his eyes and smiled.

"Do you always sleep with older women?" she asked him.

"Never before. Only you," he replied honestly.

"I am flattered," she said. Her eyes looked up at him lustily before turning their attention to her hands as they worked to unclasp his belt. Once she had it apart, she opened his pants and slid them down far enough for his rapidly growing erection to spring free.

"Very nice," she said appreciatively as she gazed at his turgid member. "It has been a while; I hope it fits," she whispered coyly. Her accent seemed to be growing thicker the more aroused she became.

"Let me make sure it will," David said, sliding his pants off. He took her hand and guided her to lie back onto her bed. Locking eyes with her, he spread her soft thighs and looked at her slit. With her legs wide open, he saw the pink lips beckoning him closer from within her bronze skin. She was clean-shaven except for a small patch of pubic hair above her slit, something he'd known since the second day of his trip. She seemed to grow wetter as he admired her, her eyes hooded and watching him intently.

Finally, David moved down and slid his thick tongue through her folds. Emilia gasped and said something in Italian that may have been a curse; David didn't know, so he took it as encouragement. Diving in, he explored her lips with his own, his tongue probing deeply. Emilia made a sound halfway between a whimper and a purr, and David grinned as he began to eat her out in earnest.

Emilia had said it had been a while. David was inclined to believe the raven-haired Italian beauty, solely based on how quickly she was ratcheting up her need. He knew what he was doing, but he had never seen a woman reach full arousal as quickly as Emilia did just then. He backed off, giving her a moment to come down, then attacked her clit again, driving her back up to full. She groaned sexily as he worked her over.

His tongue encircled her pearl before whipping aggressively over it, refusing to let up and driving her even higher. His hands found her thighs and held them, his fingers digging into the soft, womanly flesh. His eyes watched as her breasts shook on her chest.

"Per favore," she gasped. David remembered from Spanish class that 'Por Favor' meant please. She was begging for her release, and he decided to give it to her. His assault picked up in intensity, and a moment later, Emilia was screaming her release to the heavens in a language he didn't understand.

When she came down, Emilia looked back at him, the lust in her eyes still unslaked. She slid off the bed, kneeling in front of him, and took half of his substantial erection into her mouth immediately. David felt his knees nearly buckle as she sucked insistently on him for a minute. Just as David was beginning to like the idea of unburdening himself into her warm mouth, she pulled away and stood before him.

"Do Americans always kiss that way first?" she asked with a twinkle in her eye.

"Only when we can't hold back," David replied, and pulled her close to kiss her. His cock pressed between their bodies, against the soft, barely there swell of her belly.

They made out passionately. Emilia's tongue danced with his own, and she moaned softly into his mouth as he pulled her body tightly against his. She kissed him until they couldn't breathe, and then she kissed him some more before they broke apart, gasping and smiling at one another. Emilia winked at him, and he watched as she turned and bent over the bed, offering herself to him from behind. She grinned over her shoulder as her hips swayed invitingly.

"I want to feel you take me," she said, her voice throaty and needy. David nodded and stepped into place. He slid the head of his cock up and down her slit, and she let out a soft moan each time he nudged her sweet little nub. When he couldn't take it any longer, he pressed the head against her entrance and slid it inside her sopping wet tunnel.

David began to move, feeling her internal muscles squeeze him deliciously as he backed out and then slid back in once more, little shocks of lightning shooting up and down his shaft. He reached down and grabbed her left hip with hand; his right followed after he gave her a playful slap on her soft, round ass. She turned and smiled back at him for a moment, then rested her face on the bed while he began to pump into her more forcefully.

"Harder. Fuck me, David," she demanded, pronouncing his name in the same way she always had, like it sounded funny to her Italian sensibilities. He obliged, pounding into her harder, feeling her body grip him and demand he take his pleasure from her.

"Ungh, Ungh" she grunted as he fucked her. David continued to admire her curves even as she took him deep. Her home was warm, and they both had a sheen of sweat forming. Her body shook gently as he took her. She didn't say anything else, but the sounds she was making told him he was doing exactly what she needed.

Without warning, she came a second time, her body bucking back against him. As soon as she was done, she jumped on the bed, leaving his cock bobbing almost painfully in the air, angry at being denied its release. Emilia lay down and spread her thighs open for him; David moved onto the bed and got in position before plunging back into her perfect body.

Despite the position change, David was still on the edge. He held on as long as he could, but it was becoming clearer to him that he couldn't last much longer. Emilia reached up to his neck, her fingers exploring the back of his scalp encouragingly as he took her.

"I'm going to cum," he grunted.

"On my belly," she directed him. David groaned and pulled out, grabbing his cock and pointing it toward her body. It only took him one stroke, and he erupted, his white-hot seed rocketing through his shaft and launching onto her body. The first rope hit the underside of her heaving breast, and the rest spilled on her belly, some of it pooling in her navel as David jerked the last dregs out onto her soft skin.

"Oh, David," she breathed, seemingly delighted. "That was amazing," she managed.

"It was," he replied. Emilia wiped herself off with the bedsheet.

"When must you return home?" she asked, reminding him that their romance was to be short-lived.

"I have three more days here," he replied with a hint of melancholy. He collapsed on the bed next to her.

"We do not have much time, then," she said, although rather than melancholy, her voice was tinged with excitement. David was confused until she elaborated a moment later. "You must stay here for the rest of your time in Italy. Check out of the hotel. I will let you paint during the day, and even give you something to paint sometimes," she said suggestively, "and then at night, you will be my plaything, and I will be yours," she added, before turning to kiss his neck.

"Are you certain?" he asked, although he was excited by the prospect of bedding a beautiful woman each night. Emilia climbed on top of him and kissed his chest.

"Of course. We can't have you leaving to go home without being properly inspired," she whispered as she began to slide down his body, kissing him as she went. When she arrived at his softening member, she took him back into her mouth. David lay back, feeling plenty inspired already.

***

A week later, David arrived at the bar for a drink. He hadn't stopped producing since he got home, and his wrist was getting tired -- he needed to take the night off. The bells above the front door jingled, and David looked up to see Jess walking toward his table.

"How was Italy? Did you find what you were looking for?" she asked curiously. David thought about his trip and about the painting that now hung in his bedroom.

"I did."