Claire and the Clay Cuffs

“Time’s up, ladies and gentlemen. Pencils down.”

Claire sighed, finally relaxing out of the position she’d been in all class, drawing a pale blue soft robe around her as the art class around her began murmuring quietly. She looked away from the drawings they’d done of her; she’d learned to never look at work people modeled after her. It made her feel weird to see the way they had drawn her. Everyone had a different drawing style.

Goosebumps rose on her bare thighs and she rubbed her hands up her biceps. Why would they keep an art room so cold, when they know that there would be nude models?

“You can turn in your work at my desk,” the teacher was saying. Claire began gathering up her things, stepping behind the screen to pull her panties and dark blue corduroy pants up over her hips. The bell rang for the class to be dismissed and the students hurried out. It was a Friday, so she was sure they were all going home to get ready for whatever big party was happening on campus tonight. Claire rolled her eyes.

“You did a great job, today, Claire,” Ms. Vandermark said as she came out from behind the screen.

“Thanks, Mrs. Vandermark.” The teacher tsked softly.

“I’ve told you to call me Lily,” she said, pursing her lips. Claire couldn’t help the sheepish smile.

“Yes, Lily.”


“You want me to wait for you?” Claire saw her eyes darting to her desk, where a picture of her and her handsome husband sat.

“No, you go on home. I know you have plans tonight,” she teased. “I’ll lock everything up for you, okay?”

“Thanks, Claire. You’re a doll.” She ruffled Claire’s long coffee-colored hair and snatched up her bag, hurrying out the door.

Claire flattened her hair back down, scowling a bit but repressing a smile. She loved the art teacher here, more than she liked the ones in the other colleges around her area. That’s why she modeled for this class so frequently.

She packed up the paints used in earlier classes and brushed off the counter of eraser and pencil shavings. At one desk someone had left a leather glove. She picked it up, feeling the soft leather. She’d always had a bit of a weakness for leather, the smell, the feel, even the sound. She smiled, shaking her head, and placed it on the desk next to the students’ submissions.

Her eye was drawn to them and she picked up the portraits the students had done of her. Despite what she knew, she couldn’t help thumbing through them.

Few of them had any real talent; most of them just looked like copies of each other with no real unique style. They had just drawn her, what they saw, but didn’t think about what she really represented: a human being, a woman, a soul trapped in an outward appearance.

She paused at one in particular. Now this…this one had talent. She admired the line of her throat, head arched back, looking over one smooth shoulder. The tip of one perky breast could be seen along the curve of the arm. She saw how her stomach muscles bunched, the smooth rounded shape of her hip, her long legs trailing over the edge of the stool, toes hooked around the rungs.

More than that, she saw what she had seen lacking in the others: passion. Yes, she actually liked this drawing.

“That one’s mine, you know.”

Claire let out a startled gasp and turned to stare into deep amber-brown eyes. “Oh! I’m sorry, I didn’t mean…” It was one of the students and he was smiling at her in a most disconcerting way.

“It’s fine. It’s natural to want to look.” His gaze dropped slightly over her body and came to rest on the picture. “Do you like it?”

She cleared her throat. He was awfully close to her, close enough that she could feel the heat from his body. Part of her wanted to move away, but she was up against the desk already.

“Yes, I do, actually. I normally don’t like the students’ drawings of me but…I like this one.” She smiled weakly, brushing past him to her bag. She found, to her surprise, that her legs felt like jelly. “I’m sorry, I was just locking things up for Mrs. Vandermark. Did you need something from her?”

“No, I just forgot my glove.” He picked up the glove from Mrs. Vandermark’s desk, slapping it against his open palm. Claire’s stomach fluttered.

“Oh,” was all she said, beginning to pack up her things with shaky hands. She realized, dimly, that she’d never taken the robe off to change into her shirt.

“Claire, I was wondering,” he said, crossing to her. “Would you be interested in modeling for me?” Her blue eyes popped slightly in surprise but she kept her expression neutral.

“I’m usually here every Tuesday,” she began but he shook his head, smiling slightly.

“No, I mean just for me. For a personal painting I’d like to do.” Claire bit her lip, nervously, her hands reflexively grasping the strap of her bag.

“Well…I don’t know. What kind of painting?” she asked anxiously.

“It came to me in a dream,” he said wistfully. “An angel, chained to a wall by thick steel manacles, her wings bound by leather straps, unable to stretch out and reveal their true beauty.” His fingers reached out, playing with a lock of her hair. “Long dark hair tumbling down around her. Toes barely grazing the floor.” He smiled. “It would be a nude painting of course. Angels don’t wear clothes, you know.” She saw the teasing glint in his eyes and tried to smile.

“I’m not sure about this…being chained to a wall, naked, with a stranger?” said Claire, trying to put some humor into it. But she saw the glint in his eyes darken, turning them the color of rich real maple syrup, and her breath caught slightly.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t introduce myself, did I?” He held out his hand, the one clad in leather. “Marcius Loutain. Most people call me Marc.” Hesitantly, she took his hand.

“Claire Fairwood.” He smiled again, giving her hand a tight squeeze.

“And in response to your worries, the chains will be made out of soft clay. If you feel uncomfortable or scared, you can easily just pull your arms down and they’ll break right off. Please, Claire? You’re perfect for the painting.” He gave her his first full smile, blindingly-white teeth and all. It dazed her for a moment. He looks like a little boy who’s about to get what he wants, she thought. And he is.

“Alright. I’ll do it.”

“Great!” He slid his hand into his pocket and pulled out a business card, writing on the back of it. “Here’s my address and my phone number. Does tomorrow sound good? It shouldn’t take more than three days to do the painting. So I’ll just take up your Saturday, Sunday, and are you possibly free Monday?” he asked.

“Yes, I’m free. I don’t have any classes until Wednesday.” Marc handed her the card and leaned in close to her. Her breath caught again. Is he going to kiss me? she thought. His gloved hand caught under her chin and he tilted her head up to meet his gaze. He smirked slightly.

“Blue. She had blue eyes too. The angel.” He dropped his hand abruptly and walked to the door. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Claire.” His gaze dropped from her flushed face and he smirked again. “Oh. And you might want to get changed before you leave.” One more flash of his maple-y eyes and he was gone.

Claire glanced down to see her nipples standing straight, pressing against the soft cotton fabric of the robe. Her face flamed and she hurriedly changed into her bra and long-sleeved T-shirt. This is gonna be a long weekend, she thought.



Marcius was just setting up his easel when he heard the buzzer. He hurried over to the speaker. “Yes?”

“It’s me, Claire,” came the tinny voice. He smiled, pressing the button to speak. “Come on up.” He heard the beep of the gate opening, allowing her access to the apartment building. He laid out his brushes and paints and examined where he would be painting her until he heard the hesitant knock on the door.

He opened it to see a breathless-looking Claire. “Hi,” she breathed. Her nose and cheeks were red with cold and her hair tucked underneath a 1970s style winter hat.

“Hello. You look freezing, come on in.” He watched her look around his apartment, taking it all in. He had high ceilings, with stained glass skylights that his sister and he had painted. There were three great big windows, two of which were currently covered with thick maroon drapes, blocking out the view of the Manhattan snowfall. The floor was a mixture of mahogany hardwood and soft beige carpeting, and the walls painted a rich chestnut brown.

“Your apartment is beautiful,” she murmured. She felt his hands on her shoulders, removing her bottle-green peacoat. “Anyone could tell you’re an artist.”

“Thank you. And yes, I do have a knack for decorating, you could say.” He hung her coat and hat up on a row of hooks next to the door as she pulled her gloves off, placing them in her bag. She had dressed simply, but he couldn’t help looking at her. Soft worn dark jeans, the knees and hems faded and fraying slightly and a fuzzy dove grey off-the-shoulder sweater, the sleeves long and furling over her hands. “You look lovely.” She flushed slightly.

“Thank you. You do, too,” Claire replied awkwardly. His dark hair gleamed in the warm lighting, curling to the collar of his black T-shirt. His legs were clad in paint-splattered Levis and he was barefoot aside from black socks. For someone in painter’s clothes, he looked just as elegant as someone in a three-piece suit.

“I hope you don’t mind, I made a little dinner before we paint. I thought maybe you’d be a little more comfortable if we chatted a bit before getting down to it.” He placed his hand on the small of her back, guiding her into his dining room. Her mouth watered at the scent of food; she’d hardly eaten anything all day. She blushed as an embarrassingly loud rumbled echoed from her stomach. Marc raised his eyebrows.

“Sorry. I haven’t eaten all day,” she admitted sheepishly. He frowned mockingly, sitting her down in her chair.

“Eat,” he demanded and she felt warmth in her stomach at his command. What is that about? she wondered. She shook her head, clearing it as she began eating. It was one of her favorite meals, mashed potatoes, breaded cauliflower, and a thick juicy steak.

“I hope you like the meat, I wasn’t sure if you were a rare or medium rare kind of person. If it’s undercooked, I can cook it some more,” he said, slicing his steak.

“No, I like it rare,” she said, smiling. Claire was always the only person in her family who liked rare meat; it was always the rarest pork chops, the rarest steaks for her when she would eat with her family.

“Good, good.” They fell into silence that was somehow comfortable. She detected the faint sound of piano music from somewhere, probably one of the other apartments.

“So forgive me for asking,” she began hesitantly, “but how do you afford this apartment as a college student?” He took a drink from his wine glass, half-full with a sweet, berry wine.

“My parents are paying for my tuition, and my grandfather is paying for my apartment. I sell my paintings and do some various odd-jobs for my other finances, such as groceries and basic needs. I guess you could say I’m a bit of a spoiled rich kid,” he admitted softly, grinning.

“You don’t seem spoiled to me,” Claire responded. “You seem pretty down-to-earth if you ask me. Not snobby, like most rich people,” she said before she could stop herself. “I’m sorry,” she stammered. “My mouth gets away from me sometimes.”

“It’s quite alright.” They returned to their meals for a moment. “Oh, Claire, I’m sorry. I didn’t ask if you wanted anything to drink.”

“Oh, it’s alright. Um, I suppose I could have some wine.” He poured her a glass and she took a tentative sip. She wasn’t much of a wine drinker, but she was pleased to find that it wasn’t too bitter.

They chatted idly about each other over their dinner; she asked how he’d gotten into painting and he asked how she had gotten into modeling.

“When did you start nude modeling?” he asked.

“Well, I always felt sort of weird about it, so it did take me a while. I only started doing nude modeling about two years ago, but I’ve been doing modeling for paintings and such since I was sixteen.”

“Oh, that’s about the time that I got into painting.”

“Really?” she asked, surprised.

“I had the most amazing art teacher in high school. He really opened up my eyes to the world of art. Suddenly, I saw things in a completely different way. Colors, lines, the glimmer of a raindrop, the sheen of cars in the street, the roughness of sand. Everything was different, and strange, and I wanted to capture all of that.”

“Wow, you sound pretty passionate about it,” she murmured as he stood. He leaned over to grab her plate, his gaze meeting hers for a moment.

“Not as passionate as I am about other things.” They both paused as his eyes held hers, trapped like a pinned butterfly. She licked her lips nervously and saw his eyes darken.

“W…well…we’d better get to painting. Shouldn’t we?” she breathed nervously, pushing her chair back.