A Pack of Two 6 (Patreon)

Alcina wore a brocade robe, vintage, something out of the Forties. She looked that way too. Noirish, or maybe a little too glamorous for that. She wore that robe like a statue wore gold plating. Pale, almost white, with dark hair that clouded about her face in victory rolls. Very dark hair. If it weren’t for a few streaks of gray, Faith wouldn’t have believed that such pale skin could co-exist with hair a shade that seemed like it should only exist at midnight.

There was something elegant about her. No, everything elegant about her. The way she walked and the look she wore on her face and each little facet of how her body was formed, like some sculptor had put a masterful effort into it that could be seen even through the brocade robe giving her an unnecessary filigree of dignity. It was a testament to that face—God, that face—that Faith noticed it before her body.

Because she was built. Built like no one Faith had ever seen. Six foot eight, maybe, and not at all thin. Not exactly muscular either. Lush, like one of those Italian screen sirens made out of the richest cooking on Earth. Sophia Loren. Ornella Muti. Serena Grandi. Only more, overwhelmingly more. Because she was crowding seven feet with curves to match, obvious through her robe like they would be obvious through a radiation suit if she had that on. Like a walking waveform recording a symphony orchestra. Lovely, flowing melodies all the way down, all curving around the gravitational force of two crescendos.

She moved to the middle of the room, where she was surrounded by art students and their easels, and Faith didn’t think she’d ever heard of better feng shui than that woman being at the center of attention.

“Class,” the professor called, and not one person shifted their attention to him, “this is Alcina Dimitrescu, who will be graciously donating her time… and modesty… to our ongoing quest to better our artistic talents. I know it’s not often we get a celebrity among us, but let’s all remember we’re concerned with committing vision to immorality here. For now, Lady Dimitrescu is just a model like any other.”

“Yeah, I’m sure Lady Dimitrescu is,” Faith heard someone mutter.

She would’ve shot them a death glare if she could take her eyes off Alcina.

“Everyone have their supplies?” the professor continued. “Ready to translate how you see the world into paint and canvas? Alright then. Lady Dimitrescu, if you would—”

Alcina opened up the robe and it came off her bare body like it was understandably reluctant to let go of. Underneath, her milky white skin had highlights of gray, like there were silver inlays in her flawless figure. Her breasts, as enormous as they could be without venturing into absurdity—this was a woman who could never be absurd—hung heavy on her chest. Just enough to prove their realness, then fuck off, gravity. Her hips held up their end of her hourglass figure: thick and plump, and since Alcina was facing her, Faith could only imagine the broad, boulder-like glutes that swelled out from her comparatively slender waist. Then thighs so full, so gorgeous, that Faith immediately imagined Alcina in stockings. Garters holding them up. She was a woman born for a merry widow. Black panties. Dark hose. All the way down to black high heels. No, red.

Faith would’ve looked to see what kind of pumps Alcina had on—what could’ve possibly made that emphatic peal like linoleum had been designed to be playing by the instrument she had on her feet. But that was when she realized Alcina wasn’t just facing her. She was looking at her.

Oh Christ, I’m supposed to be sketching her and I’m acting like I just put a quarter into a peepshow. Shit, shit…

Forcing her hands to move, Faith picked up her brush and looked through her paints. Nothing struck her as the right shade she’d need to capture Alcina’s pearlescent luster, but she could approximate it a little. Maybe with a base of white—no, idiot, the paper was white… Her hair. She could paint Alcina’s hair, dark tresses spilling down her cheeks, just touching her shoulders, with a little something she’d figure out later to suggest Alcina’s coloring out of the white canvas.

First, a few traces of blue to sell the darkness. Faith daubed her brush in midnight blue paint and started on the underlayer, the brushstrokes she would surround with darkness to form Alcina’s gorgeous mane. Stop thinking of her as gorgeous. She is, but you don’t have to think about her that way…

Like there was any stopping. Especially now that she was naked.

With Faith’s first few brushstrokes, the rest of the class jolted into motion, and the room was filled with the sound of paint smearing on canvas. Faith looked up from her own efforts to see that Alcina was still trained on her. Oriented on her body like a hunting dog that’d found a downed quail. Alcina’s eyes gray like her hair, like her body where the light struck it right… between her legs, was her pubic thatch also…

Faith could hardly look with Alcina staring at her.

She’s not staring. It’s like when an actor gives a speech. They fixate on one point out in the crowd so that they don’t look at the camera. That’s what she’s doing. She’s posing, she’s picked a direction to stare in, and you just happen to be in the way.

Faith felt like leaning to the side and seeing if Alcina’s eyes followed her, but she squelched the urge.

Imagine if Alcina was looking at her.

Worse, imagine if she wasn’t, and Faith had to let go of the possibility that somehow she’d caught the attention of someone so… Rubenesque.

That’s what Faith would’ve called her if she weren’t so tall. Six foot nine and worth the climb.

Faith finished her painting. She started on a new one, trying to capture the sleek contour of Alcina’s eyebrow and how it was in symmetry with her Roman nose, perfectly setting off her eyes… Faith would have to draw those next… she needed to capture everything, everything… couldn’t let anything about this woman be lost to fading memory.

Thank fuck I didn't take pottery class. 

***

The patrolman’s cap overflowed with money. Foley had his hand on the pile to keep it all from spilling out and Faith could see how his fingers itched to take it all, shove it into his pockets and have money-money-money. Banning had taken down the bets in his cite book. He played with the pen in his hand, longing to do the math, divvy up his share of the loot.

“Alright, five minutes,” Foley said, turning his hand to look at his wristwatch without taking it off the filled cap. “He still in there stewing?”

“Yeah,” Faith answered. “Everyone got their bet in?”

Foley just nodded. Maybe feeling a bit bad now about emptying her wallet.

“You don’t have a lot of company,” Banning told her, his pen tap-tap-tapping against the side of his cite book.

“Good.” Faith straightened up, popped her neck, and went into the briefing room.

Wagner looked up as she approached him. Thoughts in his head dark enough to throw shadows over his eyes. She’d misjudged his face from a distance. His cheekbones were shallow cuts. His eyebrows, thick and black, were deep scars.

“Need a ride?” Faith asked him. “Because my last partner fucking bit someone, so if you can keep your teeth to yourself, feel free to come along.”

Wagner’s eyes lit up before he clamped down on his relief. She could see it in him: the muscles tensing along his jaws while he tried to suppress his glee and look pure poker-faced cop. Then he gave in and threw her a smile. Like a Golden Retriever letting his tongue hang out.

“I don’t know how to thank you.”

“No need. You already made me five thousand dollars.”