Unrequited Ch. 09

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Ch 9 Cracking

I’m in the studio, when West arrives. He lets himself in and comes to find me. I hear his feet on the wooden floor and feel a twist of excitement as he draws near. Every day, this is my routine. Anguish and pain when he’s away and pure ecstasy when he’s back in my orbit.

“Hey, you.” He says, dropping his bag down in the doorway.

He enters the studio and looks around slowly. It’s a big, airy space. Truly, it’s a dream space for an artist to work in. One wall is lined with shelves which house my canvas, brushes, paint and other supplies. Another has a bank of floor to ceiling windows and the two other walls have rows and rows of paintings displayed on them. Some are complete and drying. Others are works in progress. A few are works that for some reason, I couldn’t bring myself to sell. There are a few of Sarah. She has such a great face. So expressive and yet, so very restrained. I love painting her. There’s one of Tyler, eyebrows raised, and his mouth pulled open in great surprise. There are a few sketches of members of my family and, Heart, hangs in the light near one of the windows. Despite receiving several offers over the years, I never could bring myself to sell it.

“Wow.” Says West, “It’s amazing to see so many of them together like this. It’s unreal. What a neat crowd.”

He walks around the room, studying my work. Ordinarily, I don’t encourage people to come into the studio. In fact, I hate it. It feels like a massive intrusion. This is my space. Just mine. I give it a second. Waiting to see how I feel, but to my surprise, I feel fine. I feel relaxed.

Do I like having him in here?

“Oh,” he says, “I see you kept this one.” He’s standing in front of Heart. He has a little grimace on his face.

“You don’t like that one?”

“Any idiot can see that it’s brilliant, but it makes me feel… I dunno. When I look at it, I don’t feel good. I feel empty inside.”

“Mmh.” I say noncommittally.

You should feel hollow when you see it, you dumbass. I was broken when I painted it, and you were the reason.

“You know what I’ve always wondered, Andy.” I look over at him. “I’ve always wondered why you’ve never painted a portrait of me.”

Over the years, I’ve drawn him and drawn him. I’ve painted him too. I’ve painted his face over and over, but how would he know that? I always paint over the paintings I do of him. If I didn’t, this room would look like it belongs to a crazed stalker. Seriously, it would be enough to give the Behavioural Analysis Unit more than a passing interest in me. It’s one of the reasons I never sold Heart. Under the oil, before I started painting, I drew a life-sized charcoal study of West. The irony is, that at that time in my life, it was the best portrait I’d ever done. Even now, I’m not entirely sure that I’ve ever captured anyone quite like the way I captured him. I think of how I felt, all those years ago, sobbing late at night in the art room, as I painted my own face over the outline of his.

“Every time you have an exhibition, a little part of me hopes that I’m going to walk into the gallery and see a painting of me. Maybe it’s silly, but it kind of hurts my feelings that you’ve never done one.”

I look at him in bewilderment. I’m not entirely sure what to say. How do I explain this?

“I guess, this must just be the one face you can’t paint.” He says with a big, goofy smile, pointing up at his beautiful face with both hands.

“I can paint that face.” I say, under my breath, “Believe me, I can paint that face.”

“Nah, you can’t. If you could, you would have by now.” He’s baiting me, and I know it, but still, I take the bait.

“I could paint that face with my eyes closed. It’s not even a challenge.”

“So, do it.” He says, walking over to me, wrapping his arms around me and kissing me sweetly. When he pulls away, he tugs my t-shirt and lifts it up over my head.

“What are you doing?”

“I thought you wanted a challenge.”

Ooh, I see.

Well, I do like a challenge. I always have.

He stands beside the easel, as I lay out a new, smaller canvas and start mixing paint. I glance up at him, taking the measure of him. He cocks his glorious head and smiles, walking over and moving behind me.

“I thought you said you knew my face. I thought you could paint it with your eyes closed. Hmmm? Let’s see if you really can paint it without looking at me.”

I sigh. This really, really is too easy. Honestly, I know his face so well, I could produce a startling likeness in less than twenty strokes of my brush. I get to work quickly, laying the paint on thickly and loosely. Quickly descending into the zone. Into the place where nothing exists except for my eyes and my hands, my canvas and every colour under the sun.

I love being in the zone. Usually, once I’m there, nothing distracts me. Sometimes, not even hunger or thirst. Sometimes, I stagger out of my studio, dehydrated and starving, realising that I haven’t eaten or drunk anything bedava bahis for hours and hours. That’s not the case today though. I haven’t been working for very long, when I feel myself rising out of my creative space. I feel like I’m being pulled. Lifted. Drawn out of sharp focus. Drawn out, by the man standing behind me. He runs his hands down my sides. His touch is light, but it still packs a punch. He leans down and kisses my neck.

I try to turn to kiss him. “Uh uh,” he says, “keep painting.”

He goes to work on my neck. Running his hands through my hair. Weaving his fingers, twisting them tightly. Making me arch back and expose my neck to him, sinking his mouth onto my skin. His lips and his tongue find my pulse, with the sole goal of making it race. They are highly successful. He kisses the spot just to the left of my jugular. The exact spot that makes me sigh. He runs his tongue along the lobe of my ear and breathes warm air onto the cool trail of his saliva. He seems to know that that’s the precise thing, required to make me shiver.

He was right about one thing. He has learnt my body. I’ll give him that. No doubt about it. No doubt at all. His hands seem to know their way around it, the same way I know his face.

He slides his flat palm down my belly. He does it slowly. Slowly. My abs are knotted and clenched by the time he gets to my waistband. He teases me gently. Tracing the place where my skin and denim meet.

I keep my eye on the canvas. The painting is taking shape quickly, but still, I have a feeling I should paint as fast as I can. I have a feeling it won’t be long before I lose any and all, artistic ability. He proves me right about that, when he reaches down suddenly, groping me. Grabbing my cock and my balls in one hand, rubbing them hard through the coarse fabric.

I must drift off a little, as I hear him saying, “Don’t stop painting, Painter Boy.”

He unbuttons my jeans and unzips them slowly. It certainly seems as though he’s hell bent on driving me crazy. He eases them down over my hips and my ass, pushing them down all the way to my knees. He doesn’t touch me for a while. He just leaves me standing there, paint brush in hand, with my jeans bunched up around my knees. Ass on display, for all my paintings to see. If you’ve never found yourself in this position, I can assure you, nothing will make you feel more compromised, in as little time.

His hands are back on me now. They’re on my ass cheeks. Stroking softly and then groping hard, spreading me open. I admit, I’m starting to feel very, very distracted. I try to keep painting, but when he licks his finger and runs it carefully across my hole, I lose my grip on my paint brush, dropping it onto the floor, sending a small splatter of paint across the floor. Joining the discordance of colour, that previous splatters have caused.

I pick up a palette knife and start using that quickly, before he can tell me to keep painting, but I can feel him smiling behind me. He doesn’t make a sound, but I know he’s smiling. I know his smile well. I use the knife in my hand to carve gentle smile lines into the figure I’m painting.

He wheels the stool in the corner over to me. I use it sometimes, when I get tired of standing. I try not to look back, but I can hear the wheels scraping over the floor. I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of seeing how much his every minute movement affects me.

“Sit.” He says.

As I do, he spreads my ass cheeks gently and kicks the stool in under me, a little too far, so that I’m sitting on it, but most of my ass is hanging off it. The most important part is definitely exposed. Spread. Unprotected and wide-open.

Oooff. To think, I thought my previous position was compromising.

“Don’t move.”

I paint as quickly as I can, as he leaves the room. He isn’t gone long, but when he gets back, he’s wearing a big smile and not a stitch of clothing. He has a bottle of lube in his hand.

“Any idea what I’ve got in store for you?” He murmurs into my neck, as he starts to slick me up.

“I, arghhhh…” I moan as he penetrates me with a finger.

I’m not sure what I was going to say anyway, so I’m not all that sorry that he’s cut me off. He takes his time, probing me slowly, as I desperately try to maintain the charade that I’m a person who’s painting. An artist, by trade. I’m slapping paint onto the canvas without any thought. No plan. No order. No preconceived notion where this particular portrait is headed. The palette knife cuts across the canvas, slicing through paint, out of control, as he surprises me by hitting my spot with astonishing accuracy and the perfect amount of pressure.

It’s fine. Fine. I can easily correct it. The mark that I’ve made is close to where his clavicle should be. I can easily fix it.

He chuckles softly behind me, kissing my shoulder softly as I start to writhe.

“What do you want, Andy?”

I look back, shooting him a look. Are you mad? Can’t you see what I want?

“If casino siteleri you tell me, I’ll give it to you. I swear I will.” His voice truly is something else. When he talks like this, it feels rough on my skin. Like sandpaper scraping my flesh.

“I want you.”

“I’m right here. You already have me. If you want something else, you’ll have to tell me.”

“I want your dick.”

“Hmm, but you already have that too. Look, it’s right here.” He says, rubbing it gently across my ass cheeks.

“I want it inside me.” I say quickly. My voice has started to sound a bit strange. Tinny and nasal.

“Oh.” he says, as if that’s brand-new information. His fingers are still in my ass, they’re spreading me. Making me long for him. I know what he wants. I know he likes it when people talk. I look back at him. I can’t resist the opportunity to push his buttons.

“I want you to fuck me, Dickhead.” I say, with what I hope is my most seductive smile.

He bursts out laughing. A big, beautiful, belly laugh. I laugh too, I can’t help it. We both find ridiculous things very funny.

“You want my dick head, huh?” He says, rubbing said dick head against my thigh. “Where do you want it?”

I feel a bit spoilt for choice. I already had it in my throat this morning, and my ass is aching for it. I turn back again. I see the second his eyes change. He’s not playing now.

“I want you inside me.” I say again. My voice sounds different now, too. I’m not playing either. “I want you in between my legs. In my ass. Deep inside me. I want you so deep I can’t feel anything else.”

He takes a jagged breath against my shoulder, pressing his body against me. I feel his nipples, hard as stone, rubbing against me.

“Because you asked nicely,” he says as he enters me, “I’ll give it to you.”

I feel my face redden, and the veins in my neck protrude with the effort required to accommodate him. His thrust is forceful and true. One single lunge and I have precisely what I wanted. I sit there, frozen. Rapt. The palette knife still in my hand. Moaning and arching. Tormented by the predicament I find myself in. Speared on his massive cock, but unable to move because of the limited motion the stool I’m sitting on allows.

“Keep painting.” He growls.

“Ahaaah.” I whimper, but I’m no wimp, so despite the odds stacked against me, I do. As I drag the knife across the canvas, it feels like I’m touching his skin. He drives himself in and out of me over and over. He moves slowly. Deeply. Despite the fact that it’s pure torture, I’ve never, ever enjoyed creating anything more.

At last, I can’t take it. I want more. I fling the knife down and leap up on unsteady legs. Unskewering myself in the process. Ripping my jeans off and kicking them away from me as if they are rancid.

I turn on my target. The look on his face tells me, he’s a worthy opponent. I don’t think about that for long, as I tackle him to the ground. We are a cacophony of arms and legs. Hands and feet. Mouths and meat. At last, I have him on his back and I sink myself down on his massive cock, roaring in pleasure as I impale myself. I’m wild. I’m outside myself again.

My desire to dominate him knows no bounds. I feel sure I’m going to lose my mind if I don’t top him soon, but that’s not what he wants and I don’t ever want to give him anything he doesn’t crave, so, I do the next best thing. I hold him down by the wrists, pressing them down at the side of his head and I ride him. I ride him with vigour and force that I’ve never experienced before. Truth be told, I’m not even sure I knew it was possible. Even though technically he’s topping me, there’s no doubt at all, I’m in charge now. My dick flaps wildly in front of me, alternating between slapping against my belly and then against his.

His eyes are wide. Not in shock, but in rapture. They track their way up my body. Winding. Feeling me the way that he would, if he still had use of his hands. He struggles a little.

“Let me touch you.” He pleads. “My God, let me touch you.”

He’s growing increasingly desperate. “Andy! Please! Let me touch you.”

“If you let me touch you,” he begs, “I’ll give you my load. I’ll shoot it inside you. I’ll shoot it so deep, you won’t be able to think of anything else.”

That gets my attention. That’s what I want. Right now, I can’t think of anything I’ve ever wanted more. I let go of his wrists and he grabs onto my dick. Rubbing me, jerking, stroking with both hands. Yelling and shaking and spasming violently, as he gives me just what I want.

I keep rocking my hips, as he recovers, moving slowly as he throbs hotly inside me. He looks up at me lazily, panting, as he caresses my dick. Though I can’t pinpoint the time or the day, at some point, West conquered my cock. He mastered it. He knows it. He knows what it likes. He knows every single thing about it and now, he looks me right in the eye, as he breaks me apart. I explode into his hands, loosing reason. I see every colour you bahis siteleri could ever imagine, as I blast all over him.

I collapse onto him, skin against skin. Sticky in my own spunk. We sigh and kiss for a while, but not for too long. I have my painting to get back to, after all. I clamour to my feet and get back to work. It isn’t long before he joins me, standing behind me, pressing his belly against me, coating my lower back with the result of our efforts.

I can’t help thinking, as I stand there with my back, belly and thighs, damp with our collective juices, that right now, I’m covered in enough seed to repopulate a small island, should such a thing ever be required.

At last, he moves to my side, to examine the painting.

“Damn, Andy. You are so talented.”

By some miracle, I’ve managed to capture West. It’s wild. The vivid colours running into each other. It shows none of the restraint or control that I’m known for. Still, it’s West. In the portrait, he’s looking up slightly. Green eyes glowing. Looking up through the dark forest of his black lashes. His eyes are smiling a little. The way he does seconds before he really cracks it. His lips have just started to curl. I turn my brush around, using the blunt wooden end to peel back the paint, to carve the final scarred detail onto his face. I always save it for last. His scar. It’s the thing I love most about his face. His perfect imperfection.

“Do you want to do some?” I ask, handing him a palette knife.

He looks pleased at the prospect. His eyes instantly smiling, even more than they are in the portrait. We still have background to paint.

“Here,” I say, “you just use the knife as if you’re frosting cake.”

“I don’t know how to frost cake.” He mumbles.

I take his hand in mine, enveloping his, and show him how to lift paint up and lay it on the canvas.

“There’s no wrong or right, just do what you think will look good. I’m going to wash the background out with linseed oil anyway.”

I can’t help smiling as I watch him. He looks so happy. I can see he’s trying his best. His tongue is sticking out slightly, at the corner of his mouth, the way he always does when he’s doing something that’s hard.

Sigh.

That’s the thing about West. He’s the best. He just is. It’s not just the fact that I love him, that’s always been my problem. It’s not even the fact that I lust after him like a man who is possessed. It’s the fact that above everything else, I like him. I like him more than anyone else.

“Sign it.” I say, when we’re done.

He picks up a brush and after a little deliberation, dips it into cadmium red. He takes his time. He does his best, but if he were to tell me that he hadn’t painted a stroke since elementary school, I would believe him.

Still, when we stand back and examine the fruits of our efforts, my favourite part of the whole painting are the large, childish red letters, crookedly spelling: WEST.

“Can I have it?” He asks.

“Nope.”

No way.

“Can I buy it? I’ll make you an offer you can’t refuse.” He teases.

“It’s not for sale.” Even though, I say it with a smile, I know instantly, that I’d rather give away every painting I’ve done in my life, than be parted with this one.

This one is mine. I think. Another day, I’ll do a painting for him. That one, the one I do for him, will be a portrait of me. I’ll do it in the same messy style, so that they go together. The way we are meant to be.

* * * * *

I’m in the studio, the next day, pretty engrossed in a painting. I haven’t been very prolific since things started happening with West, so it feels good to be back in the zone. I suspect our little diversion yesterday got my creative juices flowing again.

The shrill call of my phone jolts me out my creative bubble. I peer over and see that West’s on the line, so I put my brush down and answer. I still get a swift kick of nerves whenever he calls.

“Andy,” he says, “just a quick one. I, uh, I just wanted to let you know I’ll be late getting to your place tonight. I just got a message from Ash. She wants to meet up after work.”

My blood runs cold. Not just cold, my blood turns to ice in my veins. Rock solid ice.

“Oh,” I say, using every ounce of my strength to keep my voice neutral. “Cool.”

Cool? Fucking, cool? Am I insane? Do people even say, “Cool,” anymore?

I hear his PA say something in the background. “Got to go, okay. I’ll see you later.”

Wave after wave of panic hits me. It’s hot and it’s pure. If it wasn’t so desperately unpleasant, the force of the emotion would actually be quite impressive. I pace up and down the loft, frantically. When that does nothing to help, I take to my bed. Lying down on my back, my arms and legs spread out like a starfish. For some reason, that makes me feel even worse. I feel like I’m being crushed. Suffocated. Like I can’t breathe.

I call Sarah. I call her, even though I know there’s a good chance that she’s in the middle of a session with someone who is actually paying her to supervise to their little breakdown. Mercifully, she answers. She’s on her lunch break and is free for the next hour, so I hot-foot it over to her office. I get there with thirty minutes to spare, before her next appointment.

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