As a painter, like most other creative people, I will occasionally fall into periods where I feel in an artistic rut. Call it the visual equivalent to writer's block, they are times where I can't see the pictures in my head, and I can't fill up the canvas before me. Those times are depressing, and when they strike, I spend hours upon hours walking the streets late at night. I examine myself and my art: am I a failure? Have I lost my muse? Where is my masterpiece, my creative vision? Other times, I will go down to a park downtown and sit on a bench there for hours, staring at the people. I love to watch how they interact with one another. The young couple, deeply in love or infatuation. They'll gaze into each other's eyes out of pure joy. The couple having problems, how their difficulties can be seen in their physical discomfort with one another. The young children playing in the fountain: how alive they are. Connecting with all that raw emotion wafting thought the park air generally revitalizes me and allows me to confront the intimidation of the empty canvas. I was in one of these creative miasmas when I met Ginger. I was sitting on a park bench, sketchbook in hand, staring at the people. I was lost in my own desolation and in the movements of an older couple out taking a Sunday stroll. I was so caught up that I didn't notice Ginger until she sat down beside me. She introduced herself. She couldn't have been more than twenty-two. She was small, around five foot two, with hair closely-cropped to her skull. It was bright red. I stared at her face: delicate lines, a thin, narrow-lipped mouth and perky slightly upturned nose. Blue eyes. Eyebrow ring. Nose ring. More rings than I could count in her ears. Tattoos snaked out from under her white t-shirt. "You're an artist, right?" she asked. I said yes, and we talked about drawing and painting. I was captivated by her youth and her energy. She said that she'd love to see some of my work, so we went back to my studio. I showed her canvas after canvas. Cubist still-life. Impressionist portrait. She seemed to be really impressed with my paintings. "Can I model for you?" she asked. Maybe that's what I needed to break out of my slump, I thought to myself. Some way to catch her �lan, her vim with my paint. If I could just capture only a tiny bit, then I knew I'd be able to face the canvas with assurance. I agreed and began to get my paints out. Blues, greens, shades of color blended together on my palette. I turned to face her and was surprised to find that she had taken off all her clothes. I shouldn't have been taken aback, but I wasn't expecting it. She smiled, asking if I thought she looked better that way. I stared: her breasts were small, resting high on her chest with no sign of sag. The nipples were small and dark, each pierced with a small silver ring. Her stomach was flat, sloping gently down to the crease between her legs. Her hair down there was trimmed close to the skin. The glint of metal shone between her legs. More piercings. And the tattoos: they covered her body gracefully. Bluebirds above her breasts. A butterfly on her stomach, just above that patch of flash that makes her a woman. I stared at Ginger, in sheer delight. Her smile was beautiful. She had me entranced, and I couldn't help myself. I stood up from the easel, palette in hand. Only a few steps and I stood in front of her, looking down at her naked body. I reached down, running my fingers into the cold wetness of the paint. Blue, with lines of green. Then I touched her cheek, running my paint-laden fingers along her jawbone. She closed her eyes and sighed. "That's it," she said. "Paint me." I took more paint into my hand, oranges and reds. I grabbed her breasts, covering them with the paint, rolling the nipples in bursts of color. Then more paint. Red along the side of her torso. Greens between her legs. Then we kissed and it was electric. She was my muse, my goddess of art. Our hands were all over each other, touching, feeling, smearing the paint in our lust. I coated the paint on her breasts, covering her hard nipples and breasts and slowly made my way down her stomach and thighs. I dabbed a different color all over her cunt. The different shades mixed and swirled all over her body. She was my canvas, my palette and my brush, all mixed into one. Taking her hand, I led her across the studio. There, against the wall, I had a large canvas. It was empty, devoid of life or art. But I knew what to do, I felt the call inside of me. Grabbing the wood of the frame, I pulled the large white sheet of fabric from the wall and carried it to the bedroom. I placed it on top of the bed, it just barely fit over the sides. Then I took Ginger and climbed on top of the canvas. She lay on her back, her legs spread, bursts of color all over her flesh. And when she moved against the canvas below her, the paints smeared, blended and ran. I started kissing her legs, slowly moving upwards to the folds between her legs. She reached down with both hands, grasping my hair and pulling me insistently towards her pussy. It was pure ecstasy, as pure as I have ever known. I finally reached her sex. She let go of my head and reached down between her legs. Spreading her lips, she offered her clitoris to my tongue. I lightly touched it with my tongue and an earthquake rocked her body. She shivered and moaned and asked for more. And when I took it entirely in my mouth, her body shook in orgasm. I licked at the opening between her legs and she came again, moaning as her climax rippled through her body. The rings and bar that pierced her pussy I used as toys, using them each, one at a time, to press against her hard little clitoris. She rocked her hips against me, grinding the top of her opening against the cold metal and my warm tongue. Another climax, and the flung her arms out against the canvas. When she moved them, there was paint remaining on the white fabric. I followed a line of cobalt blue with my mouth, up from her pussy and toward her breasts. The blue faded into a hunter green and then became bright orange as I reached her breasts. Her nipples were hard, and I tugged lightly with my mouth on the rings that pierced them. She was writing, smearing paint everywhere below her. Then I was up beside her, my clothes long gone. I mounted her, sliding my cock in as deeply as I could. She sighed as I reached the bottom, filling her completely. I reached down to support myself, to hold myself above her as I started thrusting in and out of her wet hole. And then I was pounding, in and out. I lived in the sweet friction that existed in the flesh where we joined. I closed my eyes and could only see colors, glorious reds and blues. Ginger pushed against my side and we rolled over onto my back. Pulling her knees up against the sides of my torso, she straddled my waist, supporting herself by with her hands against my chest. I was awash in the colors that she was smearing everywhere. She raised her pussy slowly off of my cock, then plunged back down quick and hard. I moaned as her warmth engulfed my hard cock. Then again: slowly up and quickly down. I reached around her arms to grab the sides of her breasts. Holding them in the my fingers, I used my thumbs to reach and massage her nipples and nipple rings. She started bouncing more rapidly on top of me, and I raised my hips to meet her each time as she descended on my shaft. Our tempo increased, and Ginger raised her hands to play with her own breasts. She tugged on the two rings that ran through her nipples, pulling them away from her body. I put my hands on her hips, raising and lowering her down upon my cock. I knew I was about to come, but I wanted more. I needed more color on the canvas. We weren't done. I pulled Ginger off of me. She got down on her stomach, splaying out her arms and legs. I positioned myself behind her, guiding my penis into her pussy. Ginger crossed her arms in front of her head as I started pounding into her from behind. The bed shook underneath my strong insistent thrusts. I rammed again and again into her before, not able to take any more, I came forcefully, soaking her insides. We stopped to catch our breath. Ginger sat up, and I watched my cum flow from her pussy all over the color-stained canvas. Finally we both got up and went to the shower to clean off. Later, after Ginger left, I studied the painting we'd made.