Chapter 10
Sevastyan
Everything about him is delicious.
The hue and texture of his flesh. The warmth of it. The little moans and grunts he’s making as I spread his cheeks again. I release the soft skin of his sac from my mouth and glide my tongue up his crack.
I’ve got him bent over the table on the balcony, since it’s an especially sunny day, and I love how the warm rays scent his skin. We’re high up on a cliff. Even on the odd chance of a boat passing by, no one would be able to see us anyway.
He’s insatiable. Pliant. And if I don’t get to fuck this tight, freckled ass soon, my balls might permanently change color.
It’s been two weeks, and while he might be my prisoner, I’ve been the perfect gentleman. I cook for him, I pamper him like he’s my pretty doll, and I’ve not pressured him for anal even though we both dance around the subject every day.
I’m a patient man. Once, I waited in a disused floor of a factory for a month to shoot my target.
But Victor is testing me .
I don’t know if it’s because I’ve been alone for four years, or if he’s just that unique, but I can’t get enough of him. It’s as though he’s awakened me from a long winter sleep, and all I want to do is paint him and fuck him.
When I see his leg twitching uncomfortably, I even regret that I shot him that first night, because he might have some permanent nerve damage.
“Fuck… fuck… yes…” Victor whines, arching his ass against my face, cheek flat to the table I bent him over.
He will be mine. He must be.
I groan at the earthiness of his flavor, and I give his ass a gentle slap before squeezing his neglected dick to milk it.
“Such a needy piggy,” I growl, then swirl my tongue around his hole before probing at it again and again.
He’s so close, and while we’ve already come early this morning, I’m insatiable for this.
We fuck like bunnies, and the only thing stopping us from going at it twenty-four/seven is our physical limits.
I’m obsessed with this pink pucker he won’t let me have.
Today, I suggested I’d like to rim him later, just to gauge his reaction, and while he got beautifully flustered, he didn’t say no.
Going by the extra time he spent in the shower, he might be ready for more as well.
He’s a fragile thing though, despite his inner conflict over being aroused by humiliation, so I’ll wait and see if he asks for it himself.
Victor arches his freckle-stained back, legs spread, forehead dragging over the table. “God… I am, I think I am…”
His cock is throbbing in my hand, thighs trembling right next to my face, and I can sense his heartbeat on my tongue.
I slicken him with more of my saliva and roll my tongue up his buttock as my index finger slowly probes at the opening, asking for entrance. “Is it time to get spit-roasted?”
He’s ready. I know he is. Victor wants me, he’s a bit shy and needs coaxing. Which is actually kind of a turn on, because I love pushing.
He makes a needy little moan, so I press my finger into his spit-dripping hole.
I can’t wait to stretch it open with my dick.
It’s barely in, not even up to the knuckle when Victor comes.
His tight hole grips my finger, making lust flood my whole body, and his cock throbs in my hand as it releases spunk in a generous helping.
I’ll enjoy licking it off my fingers soon.
I’m so tempted. And when his hole twitches rhythmically on the tip of my digit, I imagine myself mounting him now, with our cold lunch on the same table he’s bent over. But he’s just finished, and I won’t be fucking him unless he’s desperate for me.
I slap his buttock, then the other, and squeeze them both hard as I close my eyes, trying to push down my own need.
I want to save some spunk for later. After all, nothing fuels my art like desire.
“You made such a mess,” I rasp and pull him up by the hair. My slick hand hovers close to his lips, and he sticks out his tongue, panting, overwhelmed, and so very pliant. He really does want nothing more than to be a good boy.
I have a taste, but then slide my fingers into his needy mouth and let him clean my hand. It’s so hot when he looks at me with that dazed expression. I’m the center of his universe now.
Once I pull back my hand, he whispers an adorable ‘thank you’, as if it wasn’t my pleasure to eat his freckled ass while he moaned and whimpered for me.
“Well then...” I lick my lips when our gazes meet, and when the flush on his cheeks darkens further, I guide him straight into the comfortable wooden chair. “I think you should replenish.”
“Do you want me to…?” Victor glances down my body as he sits, but he’s learned by now that when I want something, I make it known.
I would, but there’s pleasure in longing, so I shake my head and pick up some cheese from the board between us. I sample the wine I poured for us earlier and smile at him, realizing that no afternoon before has felt quite like this.
I missed the company. Someone to talk art with. A beautiful body to touch. And, fuck, isn’t he even more beautiful with the warm glow shining down on us from above and bringing out coppery notes in his hair?
“I enjoy the wait. Now eat, we have lots of work ahead of us.”
He doesn’t need to be asked twice when I serve him delicious food.
For someone with a body as slender as his, he does have a voracious appetite.
Maybe I’m seeing him through a haze of infatuation, but his hair is more vibrant and shiny, his lips aren’t chapped and dry anymore, and while he’s beautifully pale, there’s a healthy glow to his skin now.
He doesn’t complain when I scrub him in the bath, or apply lotion all over his body.
I even got a special new set of shampoos and oils for his wavy hair.
It surprises me how much joy pampering him brings me, since apart from taking care of my mother, I’ve always been more focused on myself. Maybe it’s because he’s my muse, so the outcome of my efforts is still visible in my work?
“What will you work on later? More studies?” Victor watches me with such keen interest in his green eyes.
He has that freshly-fucked flush on his face.
With the sky such a deep blue today, his hair is an especially vibrant orange, and I wonder whether painting plein air wouldn’t be a good choice for today.
I take a sip of wine and stretch in my chair.
He twitches when I rest my heel on the edge of his seat, between his spread thighs, staking my claim on every bit of his personal space.
And, oh, he fucking loves it. He massages my feet every day, pampering and kissing them while I watch the news.
He lets me feed him and offers me fruit when I demand it from him.
I couldn’t have found such a perfect little freak on Craigslist.
But it’s in the studio that true magic happens, because when he stands in front of me, so beautiful in his nakedness, it’s as if a part of the sun has descended into my atelier, and I get free rein over how to mold its light.
“That beautiful royal blue robe you asked about yesterday? I want you to wear it.”
“I hope it doesn’t mean you’re getting bored with me naked?”
He’s joking, but there’s a needy undertone to the question, which I quite like.
He wants my approval. And I don’t skimp on the compliments when we’re not playing the dangerous game of tenderness and humiliation.
I’ve been with enough people to know the signs, and Victor is not a masochist by heart.
He doesn’t want pain nor condemnation, only a bit of discomfort and the sense that his lover is in some way superior.
Stronger. Brighter. Someone who could have anyone yet makes do with him.
And at the same time, his eyes glow like polished gems when I compliment him, so it’s likely he doesn’t know himself where his boundaries lie.
I have eyes, I’m more than aware that many people would consider Victor far from perfect, but all those little quirks of his are what draws me to him. He’s stunning because of his perceived imperfections, not despite them. He’s so alive it’s as if he awakens my drawings.
A computer can produce hundreds of images per minute but all of them will be smooth, well-proportioned, carefully curated to suit the broadest possible taste.
But perfection is just a facade, a shiny surface hiding an emptiness that sometimes leaves me on the edge of the abyss.
Victor is warm. Real. With an asymmetrical face and the softest, gentlest eyes.
“The robe will be just a frame for the real beauty in my next painting.”
“You just want me to hide my dick. You know you can paint it bigger if you want. I’m not gonna be offended,” he says, stuffing three pelmeni into his mouth at once.
There it is. The real insecurity. He pretends to be joking but won’t even look into my eyes. He’s sipping on his gazpacho when I stroke his inner thigh with the foot still resting between his legs.
“You really think that’s what I want?”
He stalls, and when his eyes meet mine, such a beautiful green in the afternoon sun, I put down my wine and speak. “My sexual awakening was while looking at ancient Greek statues. I like small dicks.”
Victor’s face is turning as red as the soup. “You do?”
I sigh and pull my leg away. For a moment, he freezes, as if waiting for me to strike, but I just grab his chair and drag it to my side of the table. I sit next to him, my arm sliding over his shoulders as I continue drinking.
“I thought you liked being smaller than your bully,” I tease.
“Oh God… I do.” He snorts and seems to relax a little. He even leans against me as we both face the endless ocean beyond the glass banisters of the balcony. I regret them on a practical level, since cleaning them is no joke, but I do have a little helper now .
I take another sip from my glass and grab his jaw. My sweet pet loosens up immediately, and when our lips meet, he grunts softly as the wine trickles into his mouth.