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The Mission District is my home. San Francisco has been where my family has lived for generations. We were here long before the Anglos came to California. I live and work in my loft studio. It’s located just a few blocks form the Mission San Francisco de Asís, established in 1776. My work is my life. It’s also how I make a living. She came to me for a portrait. I did such work, but usually for Hispanic neighbors, or those who admired my ethnic paintings, both murals and more intimate works. These were intended to be hung in the home, by people who had the means to pay me and then brag that they had one of my pieces on their wall. I am Lorenzo, and I am an artist. She was Asian. One could see that, but one did not inquire into another’s ethnicity. It was not done, unless there was an intimacy, or friendship. This was San Francisco. All were welcome here and many Asians had made their homes here over the decades of our history. But she was lovely and sensual. That was absolutely clear to me. As an artist I could appreciate that. She introduced herself as Gwendolyn. That was all. I didn’t mind. I went by one name myself. Perhaps it was an affectation we both shared. Anyway, I knew who she was. Who didn’t know the Lady Gwen? Her brothel, in Chinatown, was visited by many gentlemen of means, from around the world, when they stayed in our friendly city. I had heard that some gentlewomen stopped there on occasion, also. “I’ve seen your work. I admire it. Most of your work seems to reflect your heritage. That’s understandable, I should think. But I do like your technique. Would you be good enough to create a portrait of me?” “Certainly. I’ll paint for almost anyone who can afford me. You’d make a fine model. We could begin in about a week. I’m busy at the moment. Is that good for you, Gwendolyn?” “Yes. Perfect. However, we must be clear about one thing. I’m not aware that you work with nudes. Would that be a problem? I need a portrait of me disrobed.” “I’ve done dozens of nudes. Most have gone to overseas markets. Some are in New York and Chicago. But they, admittedly, aren’t my usual style. Personal portraits are seldom nudes. However, look at those few over in the gaziantep escort corner. You may see how well I work from life, and with nudity.” She went over to the corner. I could see her smiling as she pulled back the coverings from several paintings. Presently, she returned to me, held out her hand, and we shook. We arranged our first sitting for the following Friday afternoon, when the light would be perfect. The next week she arrived promptly. I pointed her to the screen, behind which she could undress, to prepare for the sitting. She just walked over to the couch I had in a darkened corner, disrobed, and placed her belongings on a cushion. She turned around and walked proudly to the silk and foam covered platform upon which I wanted her to pose. She was tiny; only about five feet tall. And her breasts were round, like firm apples. She was clean shaven in the groin area, while the hair on her head was raven colored, straight, and bound up off of her shoulders. Such a pretty little thing. It was hard to believe she ran a brothel. And she was the major star at that place of business. Or so I had heard. I was a professional. However, it was clear to me that she was going to be a temptation. I could feel my prick beginning to swell. That would not do. I needed to keep a clear head. I had her get into the pose I wanted to try. It was necessary to guide her a little, with my hands, but she was a perfect sitter. Her flesh was soft and smooth, like satin, and so warm, almost hot. She glanced at my trousers, and smiled up at me. Then I stepped back and took a photo. I didn’t work directly from pictures, but I would use it as a reference when doing some touch up painting. She began to hum softly. It was a productive session. I was able to complete the preliminary drawing on my canvas. She was a perfect subject; never complaining, just posing still and lovely. When we had finished for the day I walked over to my sink to wash my hands. I heard her shifting on the platform. Glancing over I saw her sitting on the edge of it. “We’re through. You can get dressed now. I must say, this’ll be an easy creation. You’re just as you should be to get your portrait done from life.” She held her arms up, with her legs now spread apart. It was silly, but I felt compelled to approach her. Finally standing in front of her, she gently touched me. I grew longer, harder. Her touch was more forceful, gazing up into my eyes, smiling, rubbing my firmness. I believe I moaned. She undid the strings holding my linen pants up, and pulled them down, exposing my stiff member. Her little hands wrapped around me, stroking, and tickling my nuts. “This is alright, isn’t it, Lorenzo? I thought I would show you how pleased I am to be posing for you.” “Mother of god, yes it’s alright! No need to ask. My god, your hands, so tiny and so tight. Suck my cock, little whore!” And she did, following my bidding. Her tongue stretched out, licked off the pre-cum I was seeping, and then licked the length, from the hairy base up to the tip. Nipping it a little, then returning to running her tongue up and down, and then around my prick. My cock was wet, as her saliva dripped out of her mouth, and she began sucking the mushroom head. Now I needed to fuck her mouth. I twisted my fingers into her silken hair, and pulled her in to force my cock down her throat. She took it all. Of course she did, the perfect whore. I was fucking her mouth like a pussy, and she was taking it all. Jesus, she could suck cock. I was gentle, at first, but soon I needed to jam my prick roughly into her hot, drooling mouth, I started fucking it, as one of her hands was stroking her clit, faster and faster, while I fed her all of my cock. She slapped her slit and clit with her fingers, coming as I started jetting out my own spunk. “Suck it all down, Gwen, suck my cock, ah shit, come for me Lady.” She was eagerly swallowing all I squirted into her open mouth, as her fingers were fucking her own pussy, dripping onto my wood floor. Naughty, nasty, and adorable. I was more than pleased. I stroked my prick, feeding her the last of my come. She wiped her lips, licked her fingers, and smiled again. Her eyes were deep, and smoldering. She rose up, began dressing, and spoke to me, as I pulled my trousers back up. “Lorenzo, this should be interesting. Yes, I will enjoy these sessions. Will you make me beautiful and seductive?” “I can’t help but do that, Lady. I will paint you from life, and you will be lovely, and sensual.” “Thank you, kind sir. Until next time.” With that she glided out, her tiny body displaying a royal bearing. Our agreement was to meet at my loft every Friday afternoon. Thus began my affair with the Lady Gwen. I reached out to friends and was told more of her history. Apparently, she had been the youngest daughter in a wealthy family. She had attended Stanford University. However, in her last year she had been involved in a scandal. A close, male friend had died under suspicious circumstances. She had never been implicated in any way. But the rumors said that she had been abused by the young man. It was hard to discover what the truth of the stories were. It didn’t really matter. She had disappeared, leaving school and her family. After about a year she had emerged as the most sought after lady of the night in one of our local brothels. Within five years the madam of the establishment had left, Gwendolyn owned the house, and the ladies all worked for her. She still had select clients who paid well to remain in her favor. It was clear that I had been allowed to taste of a rare fruit, so to speak. Until she returned the next Friday I would often look at her photograph. Then visualize what I would achieve on the canvas. And I would masturbate, remembering her. Wondering what would happen the next time. “Hello, Lorenzo. Let’s get started, shall we? Let me just get ready.” She was there, and I was happy. She doffed her clothing, and got into her pose. I adjusted her a bit and then I began, touching up the drawing I had made last week, and then starting to put some colors onto the canvas, looking at her as she smiled with her secretive lips. The session went very quickly. As she had done the previous week she hummed an odd tune. I couldn’t place it. I placed the covering over the painting, and gestured to her to get dressed. I washed up. I wondered if she would allow me another opportunity to enjoy her treasures, or if it had been one time only. Looking at her, still lounging on the mattress, I could see she was in no hurry to put on her things. Starting to undo my linen trousers, I began strolling over to her.

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