Diamonds in the Rough. Portia Da Costa
threw himself down on the grass, just a foot or two away from her, and attacked the laces of his boots.
Adela applied herself to her portfolio, but even with the green bounty of the natural world around her, and a freshly sharpened pencil, the blank page remained unsullied. She was trying not to look at Wilson, and failing abjectly.
He flung away his boots and socks, then stood again. Turning directly toward her, in a blatant challenge, he slowly and teasingly unbuttoned his trousers and let them drop. Then laughed when Adela looked away.
Wilson was wearing drawers, but they were summer-weight ones, reaching only to his knees. Adela didn’t get much chance to admire their style, though, because before she could protest, he was slipping them off, too. She turned resolutely away from him and studied a small white flower growing a few inches from where she was sitting, a bloom of delicate beauty and frailty.
“Not interested in human anatomy, then?”
The temptation to look at him had the force of the fast-flowing stream beside them, and all its inevitability. Her neck ached from the effort of not swiveling in his direction. “I’m very interested in anatomy, just not yours, Wilson. I’m fully conversant with the male form. I’ve studied many great works of art.”
His laugh rang out, lusty and free. It was a happy sound, but it made her clench her teeth. She was always a source of amusement to him, and yet she couldn’t stop seeking his company.
“Oh, Della, Della, Della... Don’t you know that all the classical artists tend to err on the side of underestimation in certain male characteristics?”
“Don’t be disgusting.”
She was fighting, fighting, fighting now. Resisting what in her heart she knew she’d really come here for.
Fiddlesticks!
Trying not to seem at all concerned, she slowly turned in Wilson’s direction. Only to find that he was already at the riverbank and wading in, his back to her.
Drat the man!
His shoulders, his back and his bottom were glorious, though. Before the latter disappeared beneath the water, she admired the firm, tight musculature of his buttocks and the way it moved, propelling him forward. The white flower was forgotten, and she began drawing as fast as she could, her pencil flying, inspired. It was always like this when she found a subject that really enchanted her. She could work quickly, almost at lightning speed, the result forming not only on the paper, but etched into her memory as if on a photographic plate, ready to be retrieved at any time, reworked and adapted.
This was her great gift, and she knew that even if she never saw her cousin’s magnificent arse ever again, she would still be able to draw it over and over, whenever she wanted to.
It took but a few moments to complete the study. Naked Wilson, his firm backside, his well-shaped torso, his dark hair, silky and tousled down the back of his neck. Smiling, she flipped over the page and drew another impression, this time changing the angle, making the view more a profile. But she didn’t attempt to portray his genitalia. Somehow it didn’t seem right, in case she shortchanged him.
“Why don’t you come on in, Della? The water’s deliciously refreshing. A swim will do you good.” He half turned, smiling at her over his bare shoulder. “Can you swim?”
“Indeed I can. I’ve bathed in the sea and I found it most invigorating. And even with the heavy drag of my bathing dress, I quickly took to the strokes.”
Wilson cocked his head to one side. He looked impressed. “Well, then, you’ll find it even easier and much more pleasant if you swim naked.”
“Wilson, you really do and say the most absurd things. I can’t possibly take my clothes off in front of you. It’s completely improper and I don’t know why you would even suggest it.”
Even as she spoke the words, she almost choked on her own hypocrisy. She’d come here to see, think and do improper things. That was her nature. She’d already left off half her underpinnings, knowing full well it was daring and scandalous and would give Mama an apoplectic fit if she ever found out.
“I don’t think you care about propriety, Della,” said Wilson, his voice low and challenging as he spun around in the flowing stream and approached the bank again.
I should turn. I should turn.
But Adela didn’t. She watched the point where Wilson’s body met the water, holding steady as his loins breached the surface and all was exposed to her.
She blinked. Well, it didn’t seem as if that would go under one of those tiny fig leaves that adorned most classical statuary. Certainly not. His male appendage was sturdy, and had a cheeky, rather insolent look about it. Even as she stared, it gave a twitch, and she could swear it got plumper and longer.
Wilson gave a low chuckle as he stepped onto the bank. “I’m sorry. I’ve disappointed you, haven’t I? You were expecting a weapon of massive proportions.” Adela’s heart nearly stopped when he reached down and casually fondled himself...something that seemed to make his flesh expand even before her eyes. “But in my defense, the water is quite cold, and that always has the effect of making the male member shrink in order to protect itself.”
“It, um, looks perfectly adequate to me.” Her pencil settled on the paper, and almost of its own accord began sketching in the missing manly parts of her second drawing, before swiftly moving on to another depiction, this time of Wilson’s penis in magnificent isolation.
“Shall I pose for you?”
Adela’s heart thudded hard. Yes, indeed, she did want him to pose for her, but there were other things she wanted, too. Things that obsessed her more than ever now. Not only did she want to draw, she wanted to touch, to caress and to explore. She wanted to feel the reality of a man’s body, rather than just look at it and sketch it from a safe distance.
But if she told Wilson that, there would be no turning back. He was a man, and they were wont to make a yard of liberties out of an inch of compliance, because they couldn’t help themselves. Adela wasn’t sure if she wanted more than a foot.
And talking of inches, wasn’t he was bigger down there than before?
“Yes...please. Perhaps you could lie down over there?” She pointed to a patch of flattish turf a safe distance away. It was shaded by branches that dipped low, toward the river, and the play of light and shadow would afford an interesting texture.
That’s it. Concentrate on the technicalities. See him purely as a pleasing natural structure to be recorded.
Wilson shrugged and padded to the area she’d indicated. With a grace that nearly made her sigh aloud, he sank down and struck a pose, much like a modern Apollo taking his ease. Closing his eyes, he stretched back his arms, causing a stark tension in the muscles of his chest and abdomen. With one leg straight and one lifted, bent at the knee, he seemed to offer his manhood to her, its prominence magnified.
It’s just a pleasing natural structure.
Adela’s pencil raced again. She might never get another opportunity to draw a naked man from life. Even if she were lucky enough to find a husband soon, the gentleman in question might not want to lie around in the altogether to indulge her artistic whims.
Sketching almost without thinking, Adela frowned. No beaux were as yet on the horizon, and even if one hove into view, she wasn’t sure she wanted one who hadn’t got time to pose. From what she’d seen of her early marrying friends, marriage wasn’t the entirely desirable state that women were led to believe it was. Adela wasn’t at all excited by the idea of homemaking and entertaining and “supporting” her husband in all things. Or producing infant after infant. One or two would be a joy, and she was certainly very interested in the begetting side of the process, but her instincts were not at all maternal. Most people’s children were rather tiresome.
As all this was passing through part of her mind, another segment was recording and reproducing Wilson’s physique. And