My lover is the kind of artist Van Gogh must have been, not cool and smart like Warhol. Nope. Frankie is violently artistic. Addicted.
He was in a slump when he moved in. Depressed, but I kind of dug it I’d come home and he’d be on the beanbag, smoking bongs, watching TV, and we’d order a pizza. Like real life- you come home and your man’s there. When he paints he’s gone- crawling over those crazy big canvases that cost more than rent.
I have this little house in the college part of town. My roommate Ed has one bedroom and Frankie paints in mine. We sleep out here on the couch and Eddie doesn’t bitch, so I guess it’s OK. When he’s painting Frankie hardly comes out. I watch him sometimes. I think he looks like a beetle. He won’t wear his glasses, so he kneels on the canvas with his nose two inches above it and I don’t know how many different brushes in his hand. He pushes a little plate of paint along the floor with the back of his wrist and works on one section at a time. Real detailed, real tiny and up close. He comes out for coffee and to pee and that’s about it. Sometimes he fucks me on his way back from the john. He doesn’t eat, and if he sleeps I guess he just lays his body on that damn canvas and does it there.
Today I come home and he’s in there, door shut. I take off my uniform and go shower the food smell off me, and I stand by his door. He’s kneeling in the corner away from me, his face sideways looking at what he’s just done. Really looking hard at this little piece of a painting he’ll never show to anyone. He says it’d feel like whoring his work out to put it on a wall for just anyone with eyes to stare at. I walk in. I know not to talk to him.
The part of the canvas by the door is still blank. He’ll do it next. I’m real quiet. I put the towel down away from the canvas and I make sure I’m dry. I kneel like he does on the canvas, then I turn over and stretch out on the untouched part. He hasn’t heard or seen me. I’m real still. I hear him moving over towards my part of the floor but I keep my eyes closed. I’m scared. He might get mad, might tell me to fuck off- he’s working. I open one eye just a little. He’s looking at me. Really looking at me, like I’m something he can’t quite figure out. I’m so still I can feel his eyes moving over me and I realize I’m liking it. It’s like my skin can feel his eyes on me, like his looking is touching me. His eyes are sucking on my body, moving slow but hungry over my face, my arms, my belly. He looks- looks like he looks at his work- hot and fierce.
He kneels over my left foot, his lips so close I can feel his breath on my arch and he touches the tip of the brush to the space between my littlest toe and the one next to it and I bite my lip to keep from making a sound. He drags the brush slowly down my instep to my heel and it’s so slow, so slow but so certain and firm that it doesn’t tickle at all, but runs all the way up my leg like something hot straight to my pussy and hums there. He’s painting something tiny on the sole of my foot, something with little biting strokes that move the hum in my pussy up a notch. I can feel the paint moving up over my arch. He’s painting my anklebone with a brush that looks like a fan, using it slow and steady and starting to bring it up my leg. I move the leg he’s not painting a little so he has space to crawl between.
He paints the top of my left thigh for a long time, his concentration never leaving my leg. The humming in my pussy sinks deep into my belly, low and hot. I’m starting to drift, feeling high, dreaming something strange about each of the tiny hairs on my thigh when I feel him touch my face. He’s moved around my side now, and he’s turned my face away. That I can’t see him anymore scares me. He’s painting along my jaw, the brush light and teasing, moving down my throat. My belly tightens as he leans in close, his mouth right at my neck. I can feel him breathing. I want him to kiss me, to bring his lips to my throat, to run his tongue down where the paintbrush tickles, to sink his teeth into me. I’m starting to feel not real, and I want the hardness of his teeth, a kiss that bruises my neck, but he’s painting, and I don’t interrupt.
He’s moving lower now, dragging the paints across my chest and down onto my tits. I feel my nipples scrunch up as the paint comes closer to them. The brush he’s using is so soft and he strokes it so gently down the center of my chest, under my right breast and spirals it up to the nipple. God, when he tips the nipple I almost make noise. He’s very still. I can’t quiet my breathing. He does it again, slowly, my nipple is so hard, and he takes his time, slowly painting the entire thing. The very slowness of him makes me crazy. He’s totally absorbed in painting me. I can feel the paint drying on my skin, tightening and pulling a little. The heat in my pussy is getting too fierce. I can’t move, can’t press against his thigh between my legs. He shifts to paint the other breast and I can feel his pants just brushing against my pussy lips. I’m soaking wet and I’d give everything I own to have him move that knee two inches closer.
He moves to the other tit, and I’m about to go out of my skull. I’ve given up trying not to roll my hips, but I’m still trying not to make any noise. He’s kneeling over me and I’d grind my pussy against his leg if I could. I roll my head over to the other side. I can see him bent over my left breast. The heat in my pussy is driving my hips in these wild circles and my tits feel like they’re going to explode. He strokes my nipple with the brush, slowly, so gently around the base in a fat stripe. He gets a new brush and paints wavy lines from the stripe to just where the skin starts to go pink. Oh god, I wish he’d grab it in his hand and suck it, wish he’d bite into my breast, suck hard on the nipple and fuck me quick. All around my breast he paints these crazy lines always stopping just before the nipple and I’m lifting my hips clear off the canvas now. A moan comes out of me and he stops for just a heartbeat.
It’s hell. I want him to stop and I want him to keep touching me. I’m trying so hard to be still. He starts again, lowering his head over my left nipple. I can’t help but shiver- waiting for the next touch, but he doesn’t touch me. My tits feel huge; my right nipple aches under the paint, and my left feels completely exposed without it. My hips are moving out of control and I’m inches from coming right here on the fucking thousand dollar canvas and damn it all, he’s stopped. I’m thinking that if he’s gone to pee or get a different brush and I can get one finger on my clit, I’ll come in about one second flat. I open my eyes just a little to see if he’s gone, but he isn’t. He’s looking at me. Moved back a little, eyes tracing the paint, up my leg, down my throat, around and across my tits, and it’s like his eyes call to the paint. I can feel every stroke his brushes have made glowing under his stare. I’m being touched in every one of those places all at the same time. It’s so intense, every nerve beneath his paint, every stroke in his eyes, and I know I can’t stop it. I’m going to cum and I can’t stop him looking at me, can’t stop him painting me, seeing me now panting, my hips thrusting, coming, helpless, disembodied, fucked by his eyes and art.
I almost scream when I feel the brush touch me again. He’s been studying me all the time and doesn’t even wait for my breathing to steady down once he’s decided where to paint next. It’s my wrist. He’s turned my hand up and his nose is inches from skin. He’s painting rapt and calm like I haven’t just cum screaming under him. He’s using something that looks like a cooking tool now, almost slapping my wrist and up my arm. I wonder if he’s angry, the way it stings when he does that, but I don’t think so. I don’t guess he thinks about how different paint applications feel.
He slaps the mean little metal thing all the way up my arm, down my side, and across my waist like a tiny sharp belt. He loads up with paint again and reverses the pattern, across my belly, up my side and down my arm. The bite of the metal feels first cool and then hot on my skin, but it feels sharp and real too, different from the hazy, dreaminess of the soft brushes, and it wakes my skin up. And it turns me on again too. Not that I’d ever really come down, but different now. One more time the little biting slaps start up my arm and they’re really starting to burn. He finishes the line across my belly and I’m starting to go a little crazy real quiet in my head. If he starts another line back across, I’m going to have to tell him to stop and God I don’t know what will happen then. I open my eyes again a slit to peek, but he’s put it down and picked up a brush. He stands up, staring down at me. His eyes aren’t moving across me now; they’re boring right into my pussy.
He looks huge, standing over me like this, one foot on either side of my hips. I try to quiet my breathing, but the way he’s staring at me is so intense and my skin still burns where he slapped the paint on, and my tits still tingle with the it drying on me. I open my legs a little. God, if only he’d unzip his pants and lay down on top of me, grind into me.
Instead he pushes at the inside of my right thigh with his boot to make me open my legs more. I do, but he keeps pushing till my legs feel impossible wide apart. He kneels down then and starts to paint. He’s making something in a triangle with its base across the top of my pussy hair and the point right under my belly button and he’s working real intent and close. His Adam’s apple is so close to it that I can feel the heat of him on my clit. I can feel his breath in my hair, and I swear I’m starting to hallucinate. I’m seeing all kinds of colors and shapes in my mind. I can feel each stroke of paint in my pussy, on my tits, across my lips. I can taste it. He’s painting slow and even, the steadiness of it driving me on, his even breath against my mound, the pulse in his neck almost touching my clit. My belly is so tight under his brush. My eyes are shut so tight that I swear I can see what he’s painting on me, and not just what he’s painting, but what he’s seeing as he paints. I’m seeing all the colors that there are, feeling all the brushes and strokes and slaps. I’m going wild. My hips are pulling off the floor, trying desperately to reach something to press against, my breathing is ragged . My nipples are like diamonds hard and brilliant. My hips lift impossibly high and God, my pussy makes contact with his throat, presses against him. There’s nothing that could keep the orgasm from taking me now. I feel his pulse pounding against my starving pussy, bumping strong against my clit, and I become color. I am the paint he uses. I am what he paints and what he paints on. I am art- everything he sees and makes. He drops his head and covers my pussy with his mouth, kissing, sucking, drinking me. The orgasm explodes in me and he sucks it. Wild and lost and smashed against it, I am his art. He whispers, voice raw, “I love you”, but he isn’t talking to me.