She was dreaming of falcons hovering in the Middle Eastern skies, of golden sunrise and clear blue skies. The smell of kebabs and the savoury sweetness of dates. She woke up with a start, wishing that dreams would last forever. A small clap of thunder can be heard in the west and she stood abruptly, excited of the prospect of rain, the satin sheets sliding on her body, exposing her naked form. Without any rancour nor decency, she stood in the french windows, clasping the brocade curtains, her face a halo of happiness and expectation. Gray skies can be seen and she hurriedly unsnapped her luggage containing her camera and stood bare naked in the windows waiting for the moment, a drizzle perhaps?
While she stood serenely in the windows, she looked like Venus rising in the seas. She is of medium height, quiet petite if barefoot, her full breasts perfectly proportioned with her rounded body, almost Rubenesque and very voluptuous. Her legs are not long but quiet shapely, her calves, a painters' dream. Her thick luxurious hair cast a shadow in her round face, hiding her almond shape eyes and the dimples on both cheeks.
She is an artist of some sort, she takes photos for and of strangers, she paints at her leisure, some of her works are commissioned by several hotels in the city. Her luck change few months back when one of her works where exposed in an exhibit in one of the posh museums and word suddenly spread about this up and coming painter. However, her great love is the written word, she writes as if breathing depends on it, her love, passion, angst and all those rampaging emotions are only cast in blank spaces. She sends her articles to different editors and agents, their rejection of her words are cruel stabs to her soul, but she kept on sending them, the mere fact that they send her rejection slips are enough for her to know that it is being read and she is part of the literary world.
The soft drizzle came; its sound a lyrical sonata on the pavements and glass windows. She snapped several shots, capturing the images she wants, taking different angles of her subjects; an Indian man running for cover, an Arab man in his kandura hurrying to his car, a group of Indian women in colorful saris with gigantic umbrellas. The click of the camera was the only sound in the studio flat she is occupying, barely furnished as money is tight and the painting materials are expensive.
She never stopped taking her pictures until she felt cold, her nipples erect from the freezing weather. She carefully placed the camera in the dresser and as if noticing for the first time herself, naked as new born child, she felt a warm sensation just looking at her reflection in the mirror. She cupped her breasts, touching her already hard nipples, pinching it gently, the sensation running like wildfire to the spot between her legs. She let her hands gently touch her chest, down to her rib cage, to her navel and to the soft triangle, the jade doorway. She touched it gently, exposing the lovely lips to her view, the hood throbbing, inching to be touch, caressed.
Suddenly she stopped, feeling flushed and slightly guilty in a pleasurable way. With raw sensation she never felt before, she gently lift her camera and began snapping away, this time the attention is focused not to any strangers, but to herself, exposing her full glory through the lenses, never stopping until the muscles in her arms, legs and fingers grew numb from exhaustion.
Suddenly she stopped, feeling flushed and slightly guilty in a pleasurable way. With raw sensation she never felt before, she gently lift her camera and began snapping away, this time the attention is focused not to any strangers, but to herself, exposing her full glory through the lenses, never stopping until the muscles in her arms, legs and fingers grew numb from exhaustion.
