Power.

That's not the first word that came to mind when she began posing for me, but it's the prevailing word now.

"Beautiful" was too basic a word. "Venus" was over-used, and somehow still doesn't do my subject justice. "Captivating" feels more like what she does than what she is. I mean, she's all of those things, was even before she disrobed. And unlike so many art subjects in my opinion, she wears her birthday suit like it's the one tailor made for her. A body to match that cunning mind and almost hungry visage, and the guts to fearlessly use it.

I stood several feet away, brush in hand, blank canvas ready to be painted, staring. Other than a physician, I had the best excuse in the world to be staring at the naked goddess in front of me, and somewhere along the line, I knew I'd used up the time it'd usually take for me to get enough detail of her to get started. I swear I remember telling her I'd need a few minutes to get acclimated with her body for the painting, as respectfully and sincerely as possible. I tended to be that way since women trust me with something as precious as their bare self. She didn't mind in the slightest how long it'd seem to take. She never said anything; nothing her body couldn't already tell me.

Every last flawless inch of her skin told me her parents had to be at least supermodels themselves to birth this kind of perfection. The curve of her skin illustrated how often she worked out, just enough to be that femininely toned. Shiny hair almost reaching the small of her back partly explained a wild-and-free personality of sorts. How she ran her hand through it, strategically leaving one nipple barely visible to promote awe rather than flaunting disclosed she knew how to use her body. The specific poise it took to barely show that ghost of a smile behind her upper arm, lining up almost perfectly with it except for the crease turned up that expounded on so much of her. She was happy with the way things were going, and things would continue going her way.

I'm so used to painting still life that I forget the beauty of being it, or becoming it. Art isn't the only abstraction around me as the concept of time eludes me while it passes. Thoughts of anything other than her follow that trend. It's not that I would think of other things while I paint a live subject, but I found I could very easily, to the point of streamlining. But, I can't not think of her. The closest I get to escaping thoughts of her is realizing I can't not think of her. I know my normal self would think of how amazing this feeling is, and how I should have a clearer head to appreciate this.

The funny thing is, it is becoming clear. I feel the onset of blankness coming over me, as blank as the canvas I can't look toward because she's taking all my awareness. Thoughts of her are my streamline, somewhere deep in me. I didn't mean to end up this way, unable to move, speak, think, or look away. But feeling that power of hers, knowing that she wants this, knowing how it makes me feel, I'm not inclined to move. I'm the deer in the headlights; stumbling across something fascinating I don't fully understand, to stunned to move, and not wanting to spoil it. Staring at her body might as well have been the car coming down the road I idly stood on, journeying with my eyes up her body, closing in on her face like the car closed in on me. All I needed to feel good about this was her expression, and all I needed to justify what was happening to me was her eyes.

That lustrous brown, like her hair, came shined more in my eyes than just its gorgeous static color. A faded, whiter curve spun against the darker natural color into a shape I couldn't believe, yet wasn't really surprised by. Other than our rhythmic breathing patterns, it had to be the only thing moving between us. "How is she doing that" or "Were there always spirals in her eyes" and "Am I just noticing this about her" didn't seem as relevant as "So that's what's happening to me." Hypnotism. Beguiled and bewitched, under such a simply-induced yet powerful spell. For all the beauty she possessed, it all centered on those eyes, her intent, a symbolic explanation of what happened to me. I could see those eyes and pictures of the rest of her flashing through me. Just like a whirlpool, no matter what she showed me, I always sunk back down to what she wanted, what I increasingly wanted to give.

The last, most errant thought I could manage was seeing more symbolism. I wasn't the artist here; she was. I was the subject, always meant to be the subject by her designs. The blank paper was superfluous, but not entirely coincidental. With less effort than it took to brush a hand through her hair, she painted me. I couldn't see the changes, but I could feel myself becoming the changes somehow, erased, re-purposed, given new life through for her.

My only wish for it all, was to be whatever masterpiece she could make of me.