Chapter 6 #2
“Ugly?” He chuckles, pulling my head up and diving in for a nip of my unprotected throat.
I try to wiggle away, or slither out of the rope, but it’s no use.
He’s strapped it tight. “Perfection is boring, but you... you are so beautifully imperfect. I’ve never seen anyone like you.
Your nose will look so interesting at varying angles, your freckles come in a whole palette of shades, and your hair.
.. it’s like a cascade of copper.” He bends down, picking up a little box, and when he pops it open I see it’s full of fine white dust.
I hope it’s not drugs, because the last thing my obsessive nature needs is an addiction. I’m still processing what he said as he takes some of the powder into his hands, then rubs it into the roots of my hair.
“We will wash and condition it later, but I don’t want to wait any longer.” He arranges my refreshed waves into strands, one carefully placed across my face. “There. Gorgeous. You will be my Saint Sebastian.”
No one’s ever called me gorgeous.
I chuckle nervously. “Maybe you should put the bolt back in my leg then. Just kidding!” I add quickly when he seems to ponder that.
“Maybe not today,” he says eventually, and when his hands pinch both my nipples I freeze in confusion. But then he’s twisting them, making me squirm as my eyes water.
How am I supposed to cope with this rollercoaster of emotions?
“There. You’re so damn hot when you cry... give me more. I want you to look how you did after I came in your mouth—spacing out despite the discomfort.”
I meet his eyes, and this time the tension between us is like an electric current I can’t turn off. As if the paint fumes in the room have become denser and got me high .
"I really excite you? I thought I just happened to be a convenient outlet…"
He slides to one knee and gives my cock a long lick that charges every nerve in my body.
But then he’s up, ready to taunt me again.
“Well, it is certainly very convenient that someone as fascinating as you decided to break into my home. I won’t waste such potential.
Now be a good boy for me and suffer . Remember, you’re a martyr now. ”
It’s very hard to ‘suffer’ when I want to smile. He even likes my dick? Him calling me a ‘good boy’ might have unlocked a new kink, because I’m getting hot and bothered again.
But I know how to suffer. I’ve done it half my life. So I drift off to the dark recesses of my mind as he gathers his materials, looking back at me again and again.
Once he sits down, I find my voice. “For the record, I think you’re hot too.” Fuck. My lack of experience really is showing.
Sevastyan smirks. “I know.”
I shut up, because this moment feels fragile, and when I see this gorgeous man set up a canvas on an easel, being his muse becomes all that matters.
He might get bored of my averageness by tomorrow, but for now, I am the center of his attention.
He’s so focused. So very in the moment despite his cock clearly showing interest in diving back between my lips, but I now see he is an artist at heart, and no temptation could possibly rip him away from the surge of inspiration.
He uses charcoal first, then grabs a large ceramic palette and proceeds to paint in wild, rapid strokes, eyes wandering from me to the canvas and back.
He comes over to twist my nipples again, to pinch my skin and squeeze my balls, but I don’t protest and let my tears flow for him, frozen in the abandon of beautiful suffering .
It becomes a meditative experience. Watching him watch me watching him.
Some of his hair is out of place, and he has a healthy flush I’ve never seen in his portraits.
He’s the Sevastyan I know in painful detail, while also being someone new altogether.
And I’m the only one who gets to discover that.
For the first time, I see his face express emotion.
He frowns, sticks his tongue out to his top lip, and sometimes his nostrils flare when he lets out a sigh of frustration with whatever isn’t going right on his canvas.
He’s actually human. Something you wouldn’t be able to tell from the soulless perfection of his self-portraits.
I’ve got no idea how much time has passed, since the sky is cloudy, and it’s not as if I know what time we had breakfast, but my body is feeling the strain.
I’ve been fighting any complaints for a while.
He’s so engulfed in his work I don’t want to ruin it for him.
I’ve been using my discomfort as expression fodder for my face, but eventually, I get a cramp in my leg so intense, I wiggle my foot with a whine.
“Fuck. Fuck. Cramp!”
He looks up, exasperated, but when I sob, shaking from the pain, he puts down his tools and hurries my way, on his knees before I can ask for real help.
“Shhh, it’s okay, I’m here, pet,” he whispers, resting my foot on his chest and kneading my calf.
There’s some strange magic in his touch, because soon enough, the shooting pain gives way to a pleasant warmth. “I’ve got you.”
I take deep breaths, watching him in amazement, heart beating too fast. I should be terrified of this man, not getting mushy. But when I meet his blue eyes, it’s as though I’m drowning, my real life drifting away in a blur until all that matters is the new one I have here, in this house, with him.
It’s insanity .
Sevastyan rubs his hand all the way up the back of my thigh. “Okay, let’s get you down. It’s not like I can finish anything today anyway. I’m barely getting accustomed to the shapes of you and your color palette.”
Am I really so touch-starved that I’m giddy when a man who hurt and abducted me pets me? Or is it because I feel like I know him thanks to the parasocial relationship I’ve had with Sevastyan for years?
Either way, my dick’s interested again. Not something I can hide.
“I’m sorry. I hope you got something good so far,” I mumble to distract him as he unbinds me.
With all the rope pooled on the floor, he slides one arm under my knees, the other behind my back and cradles me against his warm chest. Is it his heart that’s beating so fast and loud, or mine?
“See for yourself,” he tells me, carrying me all the way to the unfinished painting.
It’s different from the self-portraits I’ve seen.
Wilder, as if he were gorging himself on me with each stroke of the brush, almost as if the ghost of Egon Schiele stepped into Sevastyan and lent him some of that raw sexual energy.
Because there is so much desire in the unfinished picture, and now that I’m privy to the way he sees me, I understand why.
My long, thin body, which I find so awkward, is depicted as an amalgam of interesting edges and curves. As the figure slumps in the binds, crying with both pain and pleasure, it resembles the first letter of Sevastyan’s name, as if he can’t keep himself away even from this depiction of me.
And this is only his first attempt at portraying me. Just messy sketches with paint.
I glance to one of his smaller self-portraits nearby. The difference is so stark, yet the brushstrokes are definitely his. I’m privy to something new and different from the genius painter. Not even his agent has seen this.
And he looks at me expectantly. Sevastyan wants my opinion.
“I can see it. I’m not the pretty twink, or some powerful half-god, but I’m real, and very fuckable.” I can’t believe I’ve said that, but it’s true. “I like how pink you made my fingers. Like I’m excited head to toe.”
A deep sigh echoes in my ear, and all of a sudden I’m flat on the floor in front of the canvas, my calves resting on Sevastyan’s shoulders as he positions himself over me to—
My face flushes even more than before, eyes widening when I realize he’s staring between my legs and grabbing the linseed oil.
“Wait! I… no?” And I’m tearing up again. Which is bad, because he’s told me so many times now how much of a turn on that is. Fuck. For all I know he might proceed, because it’s not like I can stop him, but he just recoils, sitting back on his heels, and looks at me like a spooked deer.
“No?”