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Arrogant rich girl is taught her lesson by the new teacher.

I wasn't sure yet if I was finished with it. It was a portrait of a girl I'd known at school. She looked at it for a long while after accepting the mug from me, her eyes roving over the delicate lines of the neck, the slash of the lips, the pools of the eyes. I waited, endlessly patient as if paralyzed, as she considered the piece.

Then she looked up at me, and I turned back on like a wind-up doll, suddenly capable of movement and speech.

"Thank you," she said belatedly, gesturing to the wine. I nodded. "What's your name?" She asked.

"Olivia," I breathed out.

"Hello, Olivia," she said, and extended her free hand to clasp mine. "I'm Lucine."

Her hand was cool and dry against my warm, clammy palm. As soon as she touched me, I felt calm - and even more drawn to her. She looked at me, looking deep into me, and I remarked to myself on the colour of her eyes - I'd have to use yellows to render their honey-warmth, the pupils black pinpricks in a sea of sand, of ripe wheat. And for her lips, a cool red, a stroke of blue to mark her collarbone. And down further, the shadow of her breast -

"Olivia," Lucine said softly, and it didn't break my reverie so much as redirect it back to her mouth, from which she spoke. "Would you paint me?"

"Yes," I exhaled. I fell to my knees and cleared my half-finished canvas out of the way, its earlier allure forgotten completely in the wake of Lucine. I pulled in a new one, hand-stretched by me earlier in the week, and cleaned my brushes, while she disrobed behind me.

When I turned around, looking at her again, my mouth ran dry.

Apart from some classes in art school, I had never been a painter of nudes; I'd rarely even worked with a live model. And here was this woman, breathtaking and perfect, nearly carved out of marble, standing bare in my studio. Her skin was perfect, unmarked but for the crimson tips of her nipples and the shadow of hair on her mons pubis. Her breasts were full, the size of grapefruits - much larger than mine - sitting high on her chest over her ribs, her small waist, her delicately curving hips. And she'd kept her boots on; they rose to just above her ankles and closed with laces and straps, the heels high, with a platform under the ball of the foot.

When Lucine posed for me, she did so lewdly, revealing the pink folds of her sex between splayed legs. And I worked feverishly. I sketched her first with light strokes, and filled in colour in patches, blues, purples, reds, the gold of her eyes, her hair falling so alluringly over her porcelain shoulder.

It was almost dawn by the time I had most of her down on the canvas. The first few bird calls filtered through the open window, and it was as if someone had roused her from slumber. Lucine closed her thighs - I may have sighed when she did - and stood. I shook my head, suddenly aware of all the time that had passed, and looked up at her from where I crouched over my canvas on the floor.

"Olivia," she said, my name magical between her lips, "it's been absolutely wonderful, but I must go."

"No," I protested, but she was already dressing.

"I must," she said, but smiled at me. Already I missed her. Already I couldn't imagine how empty my apartment would feel without her. "But I will be back tomorrow night, if you'll have me?"

"Yes, please, I'd like that," I said in a rush. She extended her hands to grasp mine and pulled me up, and I was struck at how dark my fingers were, how paint-stained, against her perfectly smooth and light skin.

She leaned in then, and pressed her lips against mine. I fell into the kiss as into a fever, without control, and felt my body melt as her tongue touched mine, as her sharp teeth nipped at my lower lip. "Until then," she murmured into my mouth, and as she pulled away I closed my eyes to savour the feel of her mouth on mine.

When I opened my eyes, she was gone.

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