Art is a madness.
The physical, the mental, the spiritual, it conquers you, leaving you ravaged, and all you can do is stare into the abyss of its wake, sussing out where everything went wrong. Ground up. You have to build from the ground up.
Everything I reach out for makes me hate myself, because it's in my control. I can make you perfect, but I fail, countlessly, over and over, and I hate myself and I hit myself and just this one time, blossom, gorgeous butterfly, just soar to the Heavens in transcendent glory.
Just one more stroke is all it will take, my Love. Just one more, and you will see in the pool, your reflection, rapt, the flesh and carnal, utterly breathless and shimmering. Flawless. A work of art.
But not yet. Because I failed you. But I will make it right.
I have no choice but to make it right.
The air inside the studio tasted of lilac extract and vanilla, cut with a sense entitlement and faux enlightenment from the throngs of shuffling 'connoisseurs' who ooohed and awwed at the exhibit set in front of them. The Seven Deadly Sins, made manifest in the flesh. My life, my love, my symbol, my siren.
My art.
"She's absolutely exquisite. You can feel the hints of so many emotions from her expression. How delightfully divine!"
I listen to them, to their approach. There is a delicate balance you have to strike. She lays in total restrained comfort, the massage table kept simple, her legs in stirrups with thick padded straps at the ankle and above the knee and across her inner thigh, a band across her hips, and the requisite braces for her wrists. Naked. Helpless. Exposed.
“My name's Vivica, but you can call me Viv, if you want.” How she'd found my studio was a mystery, and it frightened me. Maybe I wasn;t as thorough as I needed to be. “I'm here...from the magazine? Remember?” Her hair was like fire, red shades filtering to orange and yellow tips, her eyes a stark emerald, a pinprick stud in her left nostril and a slight shiver in her shoulders. “I hope Richard didn't forget. I was sent over to do the piece on your live experimentals. I find them awfully...” she lingered, her bottom lip caught in her teeth as the most sudden of blushes rushed through her cheeks, “...fascinating.”
"Everything about her is so palable. Your best to date, Colton."
I smile, but not at their paid complements. The lips of her labia were silken pink, a heavenly perfection, firmly lacquered with her lust, impossibly glazed and pouting with an aching want I could hardly fathom. The chopsticks had been a gift, finely tempered wood, smooth to the touch, kanji engravings at their blackened hilts. She bled down their full length in rivulets, and I wondered how much I could make if I collected the cream and offered them a taste.
Cynthia was a debutante from someplace I'd long since forgotten. She was never going to work out. A few shots of brandy helped clear my head, and even though my heart was still in my stomach, knowing when to chalk effort to failure is the hardest part. There's a sliver inside all of us, this bit of perfection, and in my crudeness, I snuff it out. Sure, I've made show pieces out of worse, but my unveiling is far too soon and there is Vivica, watching, eyes hungry, her nipples stiff and jutting from her black tank top as she keeps crossing and uncrossing her legs, the pockets of her frayed denim shorts shuffling across her tanned thighs. She wants to see, wants to do, wants to know what it is like to paint with such a deft touch, and I grumble about the waste of it all. And then, she looked at me, and asked me what wasn't right, and her eagerness was infectious, and I watched as she ever so lightly traced the bronzer brush along the poor girl's inner thighs, giggling at the guttural quake that sounded through our high class guest. My. My high class guest.
"I heard he spent close to a year with her. Can you just imagine? I shudder to think..."
The chopsticks weren't just for show. Their ends had been tied off with silk ribbons, and the bind across her clit not only held it steady, but trapped and exposed the pearl of her bloom. That tiny little morsel. That sensitive little bulb. Watch her toes curl and her eyes roll back as I take this artist brush, fine tipped, so delicate and light, and swirl it across the very tip of it. Listen to those sounds, that scintillating hiss, as her chest rises up and her pierced nipples cry out to you.
She asks me about the others, those mistakes, like I keep dolled up docility around to taunt me with their imperfections. I tell it's not my place to unbury, so I leave it at that. Your wrists are deft as you glide your little brush in perfect harmony, that simple flick, and then, and then, and then, my head, and you're asking me if I want to find someone, if we can do it together, and how did you, why is your form is effortless? Why is it so casual? You don't even look and see! And then. And then.
I'll faintly drag here, fondle here. The brushes and the light feathers and there are so many sizes and shapes to choose from. And they will watch and oooh and awww, and some will find the thrill in this, and they will wish they were in her place.
I envy them, you said, and you asked me to make you my Mona Lisa. Why did you come here? Don't you know what that means? What you're giving up? And you smiled and said you'd followed me all across Europe and along the East Coast and there was always something missing. You. “Make me perfect,” you say, and I locked the door and walked on over and your wrists were sliding into the padded cuffs. “Make me matter.”
It starts with the canvas, doesn't it, Vivica? They're watching you, every bit of you, dancing for them, singing for them. They want you, to taste you, to feel you, but that's an impossibility. So ride that perfect ticklish crest. I know when to stop every time, like second nature. Give them the show they crave. You always seem to respond well to the bronzer brush. Dance for them, in perfect chastity, and let them enjoy the taste of what you never will again.
My altar of utter perfection.
The physical, the mental, the spiritual, it conquers you, leaving you ravaged, and all you can do is stare into the abyss of its wake, sussing out where everything went wrong. Ground up. You have to build from the ground up.
Everything I reach out for makes me hate myself, because it's in my control. I can make you perfect, but I fail, countlessly, over and over, and I hate myself and I hit myself and just this one time, blossom, gorgeous butterfly, just soar to the Heavens in transcendent glory.
Just one more stroke is all it will take, my Love. Just one more, and you will see in the pool, your reflection, rapt, the flesh and carnal, utterly breathless and shimmering. Flawless. A work of art.
But not yet. Because I failed you. But I will make it right.
I have no choice but to make it right.
***
The air inside the studio tasted of lilac extract and vanilla, cut with a sense entitlement and faux enlightenment from the throngs of shuffling 'connoisseurs' who ooohed and awwed at the exhibit set in front of them. The Seven Deadly Sins, made manifest in the flesh. My life, my love, my symbol, my siren.
My art.
"She's absolutely exquisite. You can feel the hints of so many emotions from her expression. How delightfully divine!"
I listen to them, to their approach. There is a delicate balance you have to strike. She lays in total restrained comfort, the massage table kept simple, her legs in stirrups with thick padded straps at the ankle and above the knee and across her inner thigh, a band across her hips, and the requisite braces for her wrists. Naked. Helpless. Exposed.
“My name's Vivica, but you can call me Viv, if you want.” How she'd found my studio was a mystery, and it frightened me. Maybe I wasn;t as thorough as I needed to be. “I'm here...from the magazine? Remember?” Her hair was like fire, red shades filtering to orange and yellow tips, her eyes a stark emerald, a pinprick stud in her left nostril and a slight shiver in her shoulders. “I hope Richard didn't forget. I was sent over to do the piece on your live experimentals. I find them awfully...” she lingered, her bottom lip caught in her teeth as the most sudden of blushes rushed through her cheeks, “...fascinating.”
"Everything about her is so palable. Your best to date, Colton."
I smile, but not at their paid complements. The lips of her labia were silken pink, a heavenly perfection, firmly lacquered with her lust, impossibly glazed and pouting with an aching want I could hardly fathom. The chopsticks had been a gift, finely tempered wood, smooth to the touch, kanji engravings at their blackened hilts. She bled down their full length in rivulets, and I wondered how much I could make if I collected the cream and offered them a taste.
Cynthia was a debutante from someplace I'd long since forgotten. She was never going to work out. A few shots of brandy helped clear my head, and even though my heart was still in my stomach, knowing when to chalk effort to failure is the hardest part. There's a sliver inside all of us, this bit of perfection, and in my crudeness, I snuff it out. Sure, I've made show pieces out of worse, but my unveiling is far too soon and there is Vivica, watching, eyes hungry, her nipples stiff and jutting from her black tank top as she keeps crossing and uncrossing her legs, the pockets of her frayed denim shorts shuffling across her tanned thighs. She wants to see, wants to do, wants to know what it is like to paint with such a deft touch, and I grumble about the waste of it all. And then, she looked at me, and asked me what wasn't right, and her eagerness was infectious, and I watched as she ever so lightly traced the bronzer brush along the poor girl's inner thighs, giggling at the guttural quake that sounded through our high class guest. My. My high class guest.
"I heard he spent close to a year with her. Can you just imagine? I shudder to think..."
The chopsticks weren't just for show. Their ends had been tied off with silk ribbons, and the bind across her clit not only held it steady, but trapped and exposed the pearl of her bloom. That tiny little morsel. That sensitive little bulb. Watch her toes curl and her eyes roll back as I take this artist brush, fine tipped, so delicate and light, and swirl it across the very tip of it. Listen to those sounds, that scintillating hiss, as her chest rises up and her pierced nipples cry out to you.
She asks me about the others, those mistakes, like I keep dolled up docility around to taunt me with their imperfections. I tell it's not my place to unbury, so I leave it at that. Your wrists are deft as you glide your little brush in perfect harmony, that simple flick, and then, and then, and then, my head, and you're asking me if I want to find someone, if we can do it together, and how did you, why is your form is effortless? Why is it so casual? You don't even look and see! And then. And then.
I'll faintly drag here, fondle here. The brushes and the light feathers and there are so many sizes and shapes to choose from. And they will watch and oooh and awww, and some will find the thrill in this, and they will wish they were in her place.
I envy them, you said, and you asked me to make you my Mona Lisa. Why did you come here? Don't you know what that means? What you're giving up? And you smiled and said you'd followed me all across Europe and along the East Coast and there was always something missing. You. “Make me perfect,” you say, and I locked the door and walked on over and your wrists were sliding into the padded cuffs. “Make me matter.”
It starts with the canvas, doesn't it, Vivica? They're watching you, every bit of you, dancing for them, singing for them. They want you, to taste you, to feel you, but that's an impossibility. So ride that perfect ticklish crest. I know when to stop every time, like second nature. Give them the show they crave. You always seem to respond well to the bronzer brush. Dance for them, in perfect chastity, and let them enjoy the taste of what you never will again.
My altar of utter perfection.
