My girlfriend, Celeste, says watching me paint makes her hot… at least, this particular series of portraits. Maxwell, my subject, has that effect on everyone, I think.
Celeste is a software engineer with our town’s largest employer. She is brilliant, attractive, and completely guileless. She introduces me as “my boyfriend, the artist.” Sometimes she actually forgets to add my name, which is Riley. It’s rather like being an exotic pet.
Her friends are all button-down computer people with respectable jobs in buildings downtown. Most of her friends actually have offices; they’ve moved up from cubicles. So has Celeste. She makes lots more money than I do, and that’s OK with me. I go to her company’s functions, smile, and drink snobby wines when I’d really rather have a beer. I wear nice clothes Celeste picks out for me — I don’t care about clothes. Her female coworkers often flirt with me, asking about artist’s muses and other such rubbish. They look at me and touch my hands (as if my hands are something other than a man’s hands, for goodness’ sake) and I try to be polite and charming. Most of the time I’m successful and Celeste goes down on me on the way home. She calls it giving me “highway.”
I rarely go to gallery openings or art community functions, either. I’d rather be at home painting or reading. My work is all through referrals and I’m happy to have it that way. I’m spoiled. I don’t love Celeste, and I don’t think she loves me… not really. I’m a bit of spice. Handsome, a good fuck (so she says) and I require nothing of her but my time to paint. When I’m in my studio, I won’t allow drop in visiting. When I’m working, I’m working. Our relationship — before Maxwell — was as good as most of the relationships I’d seen. I loved my work and Celeste afforded me the time, and resources, to do it.
My income-producing paintings are portraits. People love having their portraits done. It’s a natural thing to want to have yourself captured in your best light to pass on to future generations. That’s what many of my clients tell me, as if they are embarrassed to have their likeness committed to oil and canvas forever.
However, the portraits I do are not the usual kind; my clients don’t sit with their hands folded in their best church outfits. My clients are seeking a portrait they cannot find in the mirror. I paint fantasy portraits. I got the idea a long time ago, when I realized many of my female clients were after what they called “boudoir” portraits. In other words (and I don’t know why they don’t just say it, for Pete’s sake) they wanted nude, or almost nude, portraits. In addition, they wanted me to “embellish” or “help them out a bit.” They either wanted me to drop 20 pounds off their hips or erase lines around their mouths or otherwise do cosmetic surgery with my paintbrush. Well, I’m a better painter than that. In addition, I know what happens when you try to alter a person’s appearance… they don’t look like themselves and everyone’s unhappy. So I painted these women with generous hips and made their hips look luscious, not fat. I added roundness, soft and sensuous fabrics, smoky eyes, and pouting lips. They were Botticelli sexy and they loved it. Then a few wanted portraits of themselves with their lovers.
Men don’t want to be painted in the act. They want to see it, but they don’t want some guy watching — and me being a painter, well, I must be a fag or something, right? Anyway, I take photos of them from behind my bedroom screen as they’re working each other over. They don’t see me and I make no noise… it’s always a hassle, and they take a while to get going, but with soft lighting (which makes the shots less clear, but I’m a good anatomist), they get it on. I have authentic photos to work with, and the guy never sees me. The client gets the negatives with the portrait and everyone is happy. Especially when they get the portrait — which they can never hang in the living room.
My fantasy portraits have evolved from soft porn to true fantasy. Most of my clients now are people looking for a portrait of someone they can never actually be. I love this work, because it allows me so much artistic license.
The majority of them are predictable; the housewife who wants to be painted as Marie Antoinette or the computer geek who wants be painted as a Viking. That’s OK — I encourage my clients to think as far out of their day-to-day box as possible. My client list is building and so is my bank account. I had never been so productive, or as satisfied. Until Maxwell Wolfe.
Maxwell sat next to me at one of Celeste’s company dinners. He took my hand when Celeste introduced me and I felt a tremor, almost a physical shock, when he looked at me.
Eyes the color of gray slate, fringed in thick dark lashes, pierced me as he smiled and gripped my hand. His long hair curled over his starched white shirt and covered his ears, though I noticed the gleam of a golden hoop. He had a man’s hands. Hard, strong, not the soft hands of so many of Celeste’s co-workers. He was saying something and I had to lean forward to hear him over the music. It was formal dinner, but the CEO’s idea of “communicating” with his employees was to hire a local band for everything. A loud band.
“I’m sorry,” I said, “your name again?”
“Maxwell, Maxwell Wolfe.” he held my hand though he was no longer shaking it. I smiled and gently removed my hand from his. He could be a pirate in a tattered shirt, his long black hair curling and billowing around his head as a stormy sea crashed behind him, I thought; or a wolf in men’s clothing, prowling through a herd of unsuspecting women or men. He exuded a sexual aura like summer heat off tarmac.
“Celeste tells me you are a painter of portraits. Exotic portraits.”
“Yes.” I smiled, and he touched my shoulder, brushing off something, continuing to speak. This small, intimate act caused me to freeze, held in place by his voice, his eyes. I could hear him easily now, we were so close, and his voice had a deep, throaty timbre.
“I think I’d like something like an old time pirate. One of the real ones, you know, not Johnny Depp. Though he certainly projects an interesting character.” Maxwell smiled and looked away briefly. I stared, amazed that he’d said he wanted a pirate… oh, good grief, I thought, I bet he hears that shit from women all the time. He has that look; he really does have that wild pirate look.
“Could I call you next week?” he took my hand again and I looked involuntarily at Celeste, who was chatting away happily with another woman across the table. Men don’t touch each other. I’m heterosexual, and even though there are many gay men in my world, I’m not one of them… I wasn’t one of them. My life was about my work.
“Sure,” I replied and moved away, toward Celeste, “next week is good. You could stop by and look through my portfolio.”
Celeste turned and our conversation soon centered on Maxwell’s status as a client. He apparently had lots of money and his company had something to do with import/export. He traveled around the world. I nodded and couldn’t take my eyes off him. He held everyone in that hypnotic gaze. I saw Celeste smiling more brightly than usual, not even glancing at me as they spoke. It seemed that when Maxwell talked, no one else was in the room.
I waited for the phone to ring for two days. He called while I was painting — when I usually have the ringer turned off.
“I have some time this afternoon,” he began after he’d identified himself, “is that convenient for you?”
“Of course,” I said, and then mentally slapped myself. What the hell? I never made appointments that quickly, people got the impression you had nothing to do. And your price immediately went down.
“I know this is short notice, Riley, and I do appreciate it. I’m leaving the country in about two weeks and I’d love to see something before I leave.”
“I’ll see you shortly,” I answered, and hung up. He could sense what I was thinking, or feeling, or something, I thought. But then, that’s probably one reason he was a successful businessman. And he probably had more women than he could handle. What a juvenile I am! I’d never reacted this way to anyone, much less a client, and never a man. Pulling out my portfolio, I arranged the portraits so he could view them and told myself to simply handle whatever happened — the way I always did.
“I love this studio!” Maxwell cried when I opened the door. “You’re downtown in a wonderful old section with honest-to-God trees and shrubbery outside. Tell me you can open your windows, even up here on the twelfth floor?”
“Oh yes, it’s one reason I took this place. The building is old, but they’ve kept it in reasonable repair. The windows do open, and yes, I keep them open when I’m working. The moving air is necessary to keep me from passing out from fumes, you know, but I love the sounds of the city. And the occasional bird.”
We walked around my studio, which should have been a very large apartment but I’d had most of the non-supporting walls taken down. The windows were floor to ceiling. I had a small kitchen, a bedroom behind one of my painted screens, and the floor was hardwood throughout. The bathroom was the only room with an actual door. Inside the bathroom I had a claw footed tub and a separate shower. I loved my studio/apartment. It reflected everything I cared about, and I almost never left.
Maxwell sat on the sofa in the area near the kitchen I called my “living room.” I had my desk, phone, a sofa, two chairs, and a table I used for eating, paperwork, and portfolio viewing. Nearby, behind the screen, were my bed, another table, a lamp, a full-length mirror and a chair. Around the entire studio, I had portraits on easels and leaned against the wall. The canvases were various sizes, though most were life sized.
“These pictures of lovers — are they fantasies as well?” Maxwell asked, nodding toward the open portfolio.
“The canvases of lovers are often from life — sometimes only one partner is real, the other from my imagination, or the client’s.”
“Do you see me as a pirate? Or something else?” Maxwell stood and walked closer to me, his hand reaching toward me. I backed away and picked up the portfolio.
“If you don’t see anything here that you like, we can…” I started but he interrupted me, his eyes never leaving mine.
“Riley, calm down. You know we must explore who I am, who you are. We have two weeks. We can take our time.” He leaned closer and drew me to him. I don’t know how, but he held me completely helpless. His eyes burned into mine. Finally, he released my arm and began removing his shirt.
“What can you see now?” He finally stood naked, turning and walking toward my screened bedroom. “Come, Riley, take your photos. You must have something to work with. I want to see sketches of myself as a pirate. The gathering storm behind me… I can feel that storm gathering now, inside me, inside you. Your eyes are darker, your veins are throbbing. Fear? Excitement?”
He had begun removing my shirt, stroking my shoulders, my hair. The clothes seemed to drop away of their own accord. I stood, listening to his voice, feeling his hands on me, feeling blood course through my veins and heat rise on my skin. I wanted him to desire me.
He kissed me then, gently, then put his hands on my shoulders and kissed me with force, with passion.
We fell onto my bed, stroking, licking, skin against skin, mouth-to-mouth and chest-to-chest. He laid against me, our cocks hard against each other, a feeling I’d never experienced, and one that incensed me almost to climax right then. He was beautiful, passionate, and fiery.
“Suck me, Riley.” He pushed my head toward his hips and I moved down the bed and worked my mouth over his lean hips, and paused above his dick.
I’d never taken a man’s penis in my mouth. I’d painted plenty of them, been aroused while painting men and women in various degrees of sexual fever; I’d had some of my most exciting masturbation sessions while painting, but I’d never touched another man’s penis. Now, with Maxwell, I couldn’t wait to taste him.
As I swirled my tongue around the head, I felt him rise even more, grow even harder. I cupped his balls with one hand, kneading them with the force I knew I would want on my own. He groaned, his hands tangling in my hair. I sucked, licked his shaft up and down, and reached for my own cock with one hand. I was getting so aroused I was afraid I wouldn’t last long. He tugged me and groaned, “I’m coming, don’t stop! Don’t stop!”
I sucked harder, almost crushing his balls, which had drawn up against his dick. His cum shot against the back of my throat, hot and salty. I swallowed it down, still gripping my cock and trying to concentrate on sucking him dry. Gasping, he tugged me up and I kneeled with my rigid member against his mouth. He gathered me to him, taking my dick in his mouth and I almost shouted with pleasure. I rolled my hips involuntarily, my hands on his head. He suckled, his hands on my balls, a growl escaping his throat.
I managed to lie back on the bed without taking my dick out of his mouth, and he kneeled over me, working me into climax. I came with lightening speed and force. I cried out, tugging his hair and bucking my hips. He held my balls, sucked me hard and didn’t stop until I gasped, “Stop, enough,” and lay panting.
We didn’t talk for a while, and then Maxwell stroked my entire body, slowly, talking to me about being a sculpture of marble, of wood, and finally, pliable clay. He kissed me and licked me, stroked me and massaged me. We spent the afternoon that way and when he left, I had not one photograph. I had Maxwell in my head, in my thoughts, in my mind, in a way no one had been before.
I began painting that night. I didn’t dress for two days, painting and masturbating. I shot onto the canvas and simply mixed it into the paint. He was forming on the canvas, his eyes burning with cold intensity.
“Is there something for me to see?” he asked when he called three days later.
“Yes,” I answered simply, my cock beginning to harden.
Again, he came into my studio and we sucked each other dry in front of his portrait.
“I am leaving, and when I get back, we must begin another portrait, Riley.”
Celeste came to my studio right after Maxwell left. He had called her to tell her his schedule so she could prepare something for his trip, some kind of inventory software. She called and said Maxwell had given her permission to see the progress on his portrait. I was painting when she called, and I must have sounded surprised at her voice.
“I’m sorry; I thought you were expecting me. Maxwell said I could see the painting.”
“It’s alright, Celeste. You should come tonight. We’ll go out.” I smiled, thinking of her breasts, her soft throat. My cock stirred and I pressed my hands against my thighs.
A couple of hours later, she gasped when she saw the painting. “My God, Riley! It’s beautiful. He’s so…” she walked closer to the canvas and reached up, stopping just before she touched it.
“Virile?” I laughed, “Wild? Hot?”
“Yes, all of those, and so… intense. Like it’s not a painting, like he’s here.” She stopped, turning to look at me, then down at the bulge in my jeans, and smiled. Touching her breast with one hand, she lifted her skirt with the other. She wore no panties. My cock stirred again, and I pulled my sweatshirt over my head. Celeste stepped out of her skirt, kicking it toward me. I stepped toward the screen and she said softly, “No, here. On the floor.” She pulled her blouse over her head and her breasts bounced as she tossed her clothing toward me.
She ran her manicured hands over her toned body, her head beginning to fall back, her feet spread wide apart. Her hands moved restlessly over her breasts, flat stomach, and her hips. She held one breast and moved the other hand into the furry triangle between her legs. She bit her lip and sighed. “Riley, don’t just stand there with your hands on your cock. Come here.”
She dropped to her knees then, and I moved close to her, guiding my cock into her open mouth. Her lips closed over me, and my hips moved gently back and forth. She moaned as she sucked me, then when I was brick hard and trembling, she took my cock out of her mouth and lay back on the floor, the portrait directly above her.
I could see Maxwell as I shoved myself into her wet cleft. She moaned and began bucking, her ass slapping on the hardwood. I gently edged a nearby pillow under her and she smiled, and then drew me close enough to kiss. I suckled her breasts as she moved her hips against me; I drove myself into her, feeling the tight, wet walls stroking my dick.
We moved around on the floor, dragging the pillow until we were both able to see Maxwell. We didn’t talk about it, we just did it as we fucked.
We rolled and bucked and cried out in pleasure until we were both screaming in sweet agony. Maxwell looked on, and I could almost see his hands move over the growing swell in his pirate’s trousers.
I’ve been working on a series of portraits for Maxwell for almost six months now. There is the first of a pirate, then a wolf-like predator disguised in a man’s suit. The animal looks out from a crowd of people at a party. Another canvas shows a group scene with Maxwell fucking a man and a woman. I’m working on a fourth, but I haven’t gotten it exactly right yet.
Maxwell is standing behind a woman, who is stroking herself, seemingly oblivious to his presence. She should be titillating a man — the viewer — but I’m not sure it’s working. Maxwell is almost touching her hips with his hands, and you know he is hard against her back, but she is only aware of the viewer, or that’s the concept — Maxwell behind the scenes, amusing himself, looking on while others take their pleasure in front of him. Something about the woman suggests she may well know Maxwell is there, she may be enjoying the feel of his cock on her bare skin while she tantalizes the viewer. I’m not sure why this is giving me so much trouble.
I’ll let Celeste look when she gets here. She always fucks me while I’m working on these portraits. It has become the most exciting time of my life. These are the best paintings I’ve ever done.
Maxwell is due in tomorrow, and he’ll fuck me while we look at all of them, and I’ll get my idea for the next one. We may even call Celeste again.
