Free Unmasked by Natasha Walker

on the corner furthest from Emma’s head, and lifted the sketchbook onto his knees. From the tray he selected a stub of charcoal and began to sketch.

ELEVEN
    ‘Marco?’ murmured Emma softly as she woke to find him sketching away in his book. He had come closer and was resting on the end of the chest nearest her.
    He leapt up, dropping the sketchbook onto the chest, and moved rapidly back beyond the easels.
    Emma noticed the commotion but hadn’t opened her eyes again. She had fallen into a deep sleep and now felt groggy. She was confused, the arm under her was numb. She couldn’t move it. Then she remembered what she had been doing before she fell asleep. Blood flushed her face. Shewas still exposed. The shame burnt but not as it should. It inflamed her. She knew what he had done to the other girls.
    ‘Were you sketching me?’ she mumbled, rolling her body and releasing her arm. The blood returned to it and caused it to ache.
    ‘No.’
    ‘You were sketching me, you liar,’ she said, her voice soft, gravelly and full of warmth.
    Marco was watching her from behind an easel. He had sketched five or six pages worth of charcoal drawings of her while she slept. By sketching her he had been forced to examine her closely. It had been silent, it had been close, and it had been unauthorised. He had had time to become familiar with her scent. He had sketched her neck, her ear, the wild dark hair, the flesh she had left exposed and the darker regions within. He could see what she had been doing. Touching herself. On his divan. A woman he didn’t know. She was bold, brazen. She was an incitement to rebellion.
    ‘I’ve seen your other sketches,’ said Emma. ‘The other girls. Lots of girls.’
    Marco went back to the low bench by the door and opened another of the cupboard doors. There were bottles of red wine stacked inside.

    ‘You fuck all the girls,’ continued Emma from the divan. The husky tone of her voice was sorely attractive to him.
    ‘No,’ he said.
    He lifted a bottle out. A barman’s friend hung on the door by a piece of string. He uncorked it deftly.
    ‘You fuck them all. And you will fuck me.’
    He walked back to the easel and looked down at her again, shaking.
    He took a swig of the wine. ‘No.’
    ‘Yes, you do. You fuck all the girls.’
    Slowly, ever so slowly, without having said a word, Emma began easing her jeans down even further. It was exquisitely audacious. She buried her face in the pillows and hoped he would act. Seconds were as hours. Her hands were trembling; in the silence she was losing her nerve.
    ‘Stop there!’ he shouted. ‘I draw.’
    She had only managed to ease her jeans down over her bottom. Her black briefs had rolled down too and now the elastic stretched across and pressed into her fleshy cheeks.
    Marco stepped forward and poured more wine into Emma’s glass then, after taking another quick swig, set the bottle down beside it. He picked uphis sketchbook and took a charcoal stub from the tray.
    Without warning he sat on the edge of the divan. Emma tensed. But then he hooked his fingers under her briefs and pulled them down an inch further. It took a second or two and he was done. Emma let out a breath when she felt him rise from the divan. He could have her, she’d made that clear. He chose not to. This was too much.
    She heard the charcoal scrape across the paper. She pushed her head into the pillows. He was looking at her, he was drawing her. What was he seeing? A subject or a woman? She was ready for him. She was his to have.
    Scrape, scrape.
    Emma began to masturbate again. She spread herself a little more. She wanted to be sure he could see.
    He stood behind her and the scraping stopped as he watched the tips of her fingers. He put the sketchbook down and Emma felt his hands on her left foot. He held her delicately and removed her striped socks. When he placed her feet down they were further apart than they had been. He knelt between them and placed his hands on