Deptford Dream
"Street artist Efua transforms Deptford walls with her murals. When gallery owner Marcus commissions her for a private piece, she decides the canvas isn't the only thing getting painted."
Efua's murals were legendary in South London—bright, bold, impossible to ignore. Just like her.
Marcus found her on a scaffolding in Deptford High Street, painting a phoenix that spanned three stories. Even from below, her curves were apparent—thick thighs in paint-splattered jeans, a body that moved like the art she created.
"I want to commission you," he called up. "For my gallery."
"Come back at sunset. We'll talk."
The sunset meeting happened in her studio—a converted warehouse full of half-finished canvases and the sharp smell of paint. Efua had changed into an oversized shirt that stopped mid-thigh, paint still in her locs.
"So what do you want?" she asked, mixing colors absently.
"Something personal. Something only you can make."
"Personal." Her eyes assessed him. "Personal requires knowing someone. Do I know you?"
"Not yet."
"Then how about we fix that first?"
She kissed him without warning, tasting like turpentine and red wine. Her hands left paint streaks on his shirt.
"I can't work with strangers," she said against his lips. "Need to know my subjects. Inside and out."
"This is your process?"
"This is how I find my muse."
She stripped off his shirt and studied him like a canvas, her paint-stained hands tracing his muscles.
"Good foundation. Let me see more."
She painted him as she took him—literally. Her brush moved over his skin while her body moved against him, creating art from their joining.
"Stay still," she commanded, straddling him. "You're my canvas now."
She rode him slowly, each movement deliberate, the brush leaving trails of color across his chest and arms. The sensation was overwhelming—the cold paint, her hot body, the impossibility of staying still.
"Efua—"
"Shh. Art takes time."
When she finally let him move, he flipped her onto a drop cloth, creating new patterns with their bodies. Paint mixed between them, colors smearing across her dark skin, across his, becoming something neither could have made alone.
"Yes! There! Right there!"
She came in a burst of color and sound, her body arching off the cloth, her voice echoing through the warehouse. He followed, and they collapsed into a masterpiece of their own making.
Later, covered in paint and satisfaction, they surveyed the drop cloth.
"This is actually beautiful," Marcus said.
"Art from passion. Always is." She took a photo of the cloth. "I'll turn this into your commission. Something truly personal."
"Made from us."
"From everything we are." She kissed him, leaving paint on his lips. "But I'll need more sessions. To get the colors right."
"How many sessions?"
"As many as it takes to make something perfect."
His Deptford dream was just beginning. And Marcus had found art in the most unexpected canvas—them.