The Painter's Brush

THE PAINTER'S BRUSH

By Tommyhawk1@AOL.COM

WWW.TOMMYHAWKSFANTASYWORLD.COM

Previn Campbell opened the door of his studio when I knocked. I'd seen his arrogantly patrician face on the covers of magazines before, but they hadn't done him justice. He had always worn a heavy sweater or jacket in the pictures along with a carefully aloof expression, now he only wore a black t-shirt and blue jeans, both paint-splattered and a much more human expression. He had a nice face, very boy-next-doorish with his wheat-colored hair and blue-sky eyes and genial smile, and a really nice body, not a body builder's bulges, but with well-defined biceps and pecs and a neatly taut waist; a body so nice I wondered why he needed a model like me when he could just use a mirror. Not that the thought would keep me from taking his job.

"Yes?" He said to me.

"I'm Adrian McFarland, from the agency." I said. "You requested a model?"

His response was to look me up and down. "You didn't shave." he said accusingly.

"I did a full body shave." I protested. "Chest, back, arm, legs...everywhere." That was a job requirement, according to the agency, a full-body shave. And a willingness to work nude and with no allergic reactions to house paint. That last had me puzzled.

"But you left your hair on your head." he said. "That'll have to come off, but not right now. Tonight, you shave it all off. We'll just do tests today."

"Okay." I said. I wasn't very happy, this job was only a day or so and he wanted me to shave my head bald for him. I wasn't that sure I was coming back tomorrow, if that was what it took to earn a few lousy bucks. "But why shave my head, can't you just put a skin-cap on me or something?"

He shook his head. "Won't work at all."

I decided that, after all, he deserved to know I wouldn't shave my head. "Sir, I'm not going to shave my head. You'll have to draw me with a cap on or something."

Previn looked at me. "I'm not going to draw you." He said. "I'm going to paint you."

"Same thing." I pointed out.

"You don't understand." Previn pointed at the large square of canvas lying on the ground, not even stretched out on a frame, just held in place by some bricks at the corners. "I am going to put a layer of paint on your body, and you'll lie down on the canvas to transfer the paint onto the canvas. An arm, a leg, your face. It's what I need for my work."

"Oh." I said. "Well...let me think about it."

"I could put the paint onto your hair, but it wouldn't wash out very well." He said. "Better if you shave it all off."

"What's the work going to be?" I asked.

He looked at me so sharply, I thought he wasn't going to answer me. But he went on, "You know my oeuvre is in the abstract." he said.

"Irv-rih?" I asked, puzzled at the odd word.

"Oeuvre, my artistic expression, my style, my work." he defined, exasperated. "I create abstract works."

"Yeah, I knew that." I had wondered why Previn had needed a model, with the blobs of color he was famous for. All he did was....

"I suppose you think I just throw cups of paint at the canvas." he said scornfully.

"Well...." He was reading my mind!

He smiled genially, the temperamental artist no longer, just a regular fellow. "Sometimes I do, if it will give the effect I'm looking for. But the purpose of the abstract is to give the viewer a Rorshach test of his senses, force him to place his own understanding onto the art by denying him coherent images. This time, the art is to be of recognizable body parts. A hand, a leg, an arm, captured on the canvas in its position by the paint. And when the viewer assembles the pieces into a whole, he can see the position of the model, which is you. Most painters use brushes for all their work; I use whatever will work for me. For this series, you will be my paintbrush."

"Oh." I said, thinking about it. "That makes sense. So how will I pose?"

"For the first in the series, we will capture a simple and visceral image...the sensual. You will pose in the positions of a man making love." He smiled again. "And a man being made love to. The canvas will permit no other conclusion to be drawn. Once I have shocked the critics into accepting this, then I can attempt other, less explicit poses."

I thought about it. Looking at a handprint, the print of a back, a butt, a cock and balls, maybe...then I laughed when I thought about it. "Okay, I get it."

"Then you will shave your head for me?"

I laughed again. "Hell, yeah. I'll do it." My hair would grow back in a month or so, and short hair was in, anyway, it wouldn't hurt me. I could wear hairpieces if I had to, plenty of photographers stuck one on me anyway. You'd be surprised sometimes how little of that natural pose the model is holding is natural, everything from books to wads of paper to leftover soda-drink straws prop his clothing just so. A flash, and it's all taken out and moved and they shoot you again. You can feel like a piece of meat. So he was going to paint my body and then press me on the canvas like a rubberstamp! I'd had worse jobs.

"For now, let's see how well you do for the positions." Previn said.

"Okay." I said.

"You can take your clothes off and hang them over there." he gestured to a hatrack near one wall.

You don't get to be a model by being body conscious. I quickly stripped down and padded over stark naked to the large square canvas. It was some five feet on a side, and I regarded it. "You can't put much of a fuck scene on that." I said.

I'm not going to attempt a work today." he said. "The final piece will be twelve feet by twenty feet."

"Jee-zus!" I said. "My apartment isn't that big!" Well, not by much it wasn't.

"Today we will only see how well we can capture your body on the canvas." He bent over and dipped a regular house-type paintbrush into a bucket of blue paint. "First, let me paint the fronts of your legs."

It was the damnedest feeling; the paint was thick and cool and greasy-feeling. He put a thick layer of it all the way up and down my legs, from my groin to my feet, and even painted the tops of my toes. The soft brush had a sensual feel to it, my cock filled out from the sensations of my skin being brushed, covered. "Now." he said when he was done, "We must lower you onto the canvas."

I started to kneel and he said, "No, no, wait. We must put the paint on evenly."

How was I supposed to do that? I let him help me down, him supporting me like an old man, going down onto one knee carefully, then he guided my other leg around in a nearly-painful arc so that it was also kneeling, and then when I was like some monk at his prayers on both knees, he said, "Now I will lower your body face down onto the canvas. Concentrate on not moving your legs at all." Like a slab of meat I was laid down as he said, his arms supporting me until I was flat on my face.

"Now, we raise you up again the same way. Carefully." Previn said. He grasped me by my arms and hoisted me upright until I was kneeling again. "Now I will lift you the rest of the way up. Do not help me in any way. I will do the lifting." And he grabbed me around the ribs in a bearhug and he hauled me carefully upwards.

My still-fulsome cock slid in between his legs and when he stopped and shifted his grip and then his stance, his legs closed on it, clamp! "Oof!" I said, in lieu of screaming. He didn't react to it at all, just levered me backwards until he had me on my feet, by rolling them over on my big toes. The pain on my legs plastered against his jeans when he finished setting me on my feet.

"There that does it." He said and stepped away, looked down at the canvas.

So did I. Very little of the paint had been transferred from my lower legs, a bare line after a fairly good imprint of the tops of my feet (you could see the toes very well) up to my knees, which were egg-like blobs, and then the thicker line of my thighs.

"This is not good." he said to me, heedless of the heavy smear of paint on the front of his thighs. My cock had a smear of paint on it when he stepped away from me and it itched; I scratched my cock and he turned and saw me, but didn't say anything.

"Okay, now what?" I asked him.

"Hmph!" He said. "Let's lie you back down on the canvas. I'm going to roll you like a piece of dough, see what results I get." Artists move to their own beat of composition and creation; it makes them impervious to the drum-song of your heartbeat in your ears when the blood pounds through your veins, ready for the sexual fray.

He started towards me and I warned him, "Hey, watch out. Your pants are soaked with paint."

He looked down at it, and, as I had hoped, shrugged and unzipped them, kicking off his soft ship's shoes (no socks) and then shuffled his pants down. Now he wore only the black t-shirt and a pair of white boxers,, his legs slender curvaceous arcs of calves peppered with a dusting of pale hairs. "Lie down before the paint dries too much." he said.

I lay face down as he had said, and he began to roll me like he'd threatened, only he would roll just one leg back and forth, pressing it onto the canvas, then the other leg, rocking it firmly, while keeping the rest of me in place.

"Now raise up onto your knees. Keep your face down on the canvas." he said.

"I could use some help, if I'm not going to smudge the paint." I said, my voice somewhat muffled.

His hands grasped my hips and hauled upwards on me until I was kneeling again. Then he began to slap paint on me almost at random, different colors, outlining my bicep, a splotch on my shoulder.

"Hey, you're getting paint all over me." I protested.

"This is just a test work." He said to me.

"I'm still getting messy." I griped.

"Okay, onto the canvas." he said and he rolled me around on it like he'd said he would, like a rolling pin over bread dough, back and forth, letting me slip and smudge things.

"Raise up." he said at last and I got up onto my knees and he looked down at the work. "Hmmm..." He mused, peering at the mixture of colors on the canvas.

"What is it?" I asked, looking down like he was.

His response was to shove my face down onto the canvas, hard. One side of my face was hit with sticky purple paint, and then he moved me around to another part of the canvas still unmarred and he shoved my head down again, pressing it this time against the canvas.

"Mph! Hey!" I said.

"I'm looking at how your body touches the canvas while it's in a submissive sexual position." he said.

"Oh." I said. "Then you're in the wrong place."

"Eh?"

"If you're going to hold me down while you fuck me, you'd be behind me." I pointed out. "Unless you're holding me down for a buddy to use instead."

"Passion, not force, I wouldn't hold you down out of cruelty, but because I was making love to you." he said.

"So you get into position and so will I." I said. "You'll see what I mean."

Previn took the bait, he got on his knees behind me and put his hands on my legs and said, "Now what?"

"Now I go down like I'm loving it." I said, and I did. "See, I'm in this position. Yours was just cockeyed."

"Yes. Yes." Previn hunched his hips at me a few times and I gave a sensual groan and shifted. "Very good. Hold that position." he ordered and got up! I obeyed, and he came over with a thick charcoal pencil. "I'm going to mark where your body lies on the canvas. I'm marking you, not the canvas, so I can apply the paint. Try not to move."

I did as he said and then I got up and he slapped paint on me according to the marks, on my chest, on my arms, a fresh layer on my legs. "Now we get you back down. Carefully."

He moved me back into position and then knelt again and grabbed me more confidently this time, and began to fuck at me, slapping his boxered groin against my buttocks like he was really humping me. It rocked me back and forth and he said, "That ought to do it. Get up."

"It sure did." I panted and got up. He looked not at his blotches on the canvas, but at my body. I had a huge erection.

"Are we creating art, or are we fooling around?" he asked me.

"Feels like a little of both to me." I admitted, grinning apologetically.

He grinned back. "Let's put you on a face-to-face pose. Lie down on a clean section on your back." When I did, he stripped out of the T-shirt and boxers, revealing a golden-toned body kissed by lazy days in the sunlight, his body smooth and clean. Damn, he looked good, better than any artist ought to. My body was my stock in trade, and here he was looking better than me without half trying. It's not fair, damn it!

He was now as nude as I was, more nude for he didn't have paint covering large parts of his body, and Previn lay on top of me and said, "Lift those legs up and around me."

"I'll get paint on you." I pointed out.

"I'm used to that. Get in position like I was fucking you."

"Like this?" I asked and hoisted my legs up and around his waist. His body felt warm and firm, his golden skin enhanced by the primary-colored legs I had wrapped around him.

"That's right." Previn said. "Now I'll lay down and we'll mark how you're lying."

"Let me get you in the right place." I reached up and pulled his cock from his boxers and guided it to my anus. It was soft and I didn't do any more than hold it in place while I lifted my butt up a little higher. "There. This is how it'd be if you were fucking me."

He said. "Now hold still while I mark you again." He plied the pencil again, this time more awkwardly because he had to stay where he was. He also marked his own body.

When he got the paint brush, I expected him to cover himself as well as me, but he used it for a reference while he painted me. Then he stripped out of his remaining clothes, and lay down on the canvas himself. "Now lie down on me." he said.

"You got it, stud." I grinned and did as he said. His legs came up and wrapped around me and they were nice and warm.

"Mph!" I slid into position and my dong, still more than half hard from this jostling around, touched his little puckerhole. "There, now I'm ready to fuck you."

"Rock back and forth." He panted. "Get all parts of the paint firmly onto the canvas for me. Come on, do it for me." he said.

I rocked as he said, and his body rocked along with me. "That's good, feel it, be it." He urged me. "Be the man who's fucking my body, taking me for your own needs, using me, come on, give it to me!"

Damn, that did make me throw a hard one! "You shouldn't talk like that if I'm going to be your paintbrush." I gasped out. "I'm horny enough to shove it into you and I will if you don't stop talking like that."

Then I gasped, for his hand, covered with paint, snatched at my cock. He had a can of purple paint nearby, he must have dipped his hand into it without my seeing it. Now he had hold of my dong and was working that heavy, greasy, slimy paint onto my cock.

"You want to use paint for lubricant?" I said to him. "Guh!" It did feel nice.

"It latex house paint." he explained. "Washes off with soap and water. Perfectly safe for contact with human skin." He slapped the paint all around then he growled, "Come on, bastard, shove it into me, get that passion painted onto the canvas, all of it, we'll make this work the true article, come on....guh!" That's when I slid my dong into him.

"Yeah!" I heaved my breath into his face all screwed up with pain and pleasure. "Ugh!" I panted and humped at him some more. "Huh!" I was so fucking turned on, it was like I couldn't breathe! My cock was burning me, it was so hard. I had never been touched like this, moved like this. His paintbrush he had called me. He had touched my body in ways I'd never thought of before, the sensuous feel of the paint, the way it clung to my body, tightening even now (regular latex house paint dries pretty fast, no wonder he had told me to get my head shaved), moving like hands and fingers gripping my body, all over me, at once. I felt almost primal, like a primitive man covered in paints for some tribal ceremony, stripped of civilization, close to nature and ignorant of morals, where the only rule was to do what you felt like!

Previn's paint-coated hand clasped my shoulder in his pleasure, clutching me to him, and I groaned, overcome and at the crest of orgasm now, too quickly! God, I hadn't been this turned on since I was a teenager, like this was my first sexual experience, too much sensation, too much.

"Guh, gah, I'm going to come!" I groaned.

"Come on, give it to me, give it to me!" he gasped. "Uh, uh, huh, uh-uh-uhhh!"

He was coming! Me, too! "Uh, guh, guh, HUHHH!" I groaned and blasted my wad into him, while he held onto me, rolling me about the canvas, the two of us together, me squirting into him, he rolled over so I was on bottom and his legs were on either side of me, me holding him tight, tight, while I pumped heavy wads of jism into him.

Done, panting, sweating, feeling the paint now as a heavy sticky layer on me, my sweat was softening it and making it runny again, I looked up into Previn and.... "Hey, you didn't come!" I accused him. His face was too placid, too composed.

He grinned. "You're the paintbrush here. I'm just the artist trying to put your paint onto the canvas the way it ought to go."

"You faked me out!" I said. I couldn't believe it.

He laughed, not at all offended. "You were in a hurry out of the gate." he reminded me. "I need more time than that."

I felt a little ashamed of my anger at him. "I guess I was. All this was just turning me on so much. Now what?"

"Now we continue to paint." he said. "First, let's add some more paint to you." He slapped paint on me again, usually the same color in the same places, though he added some here and there, a line of red on my right side, for example.

"Now." He said, when he was done. "I'll just fetch a more conventional lubricant, and we'll resume where we left off." He padded to the bathroom which adjoined the studio and came back quickly with a small tube of lubricant.

"You keep Lube at your studio?" I asked him.

He smiled. "You think you're the first model I've had sex with?"

"I guess not." I agreed.

"The intimacy of model and artist frequently seeks physical expression." He might have been talking about the mating habits of the dove-tailed scissorbird,

"So now you're going to fuck me?" I said, understanding.

"Indubitably." he said as he squeezed the lube into his palm.

I considered it, considered him. A famous artist, one I'd be working with a while. My body being preserved on canvas for posterity and hung in museums. And his body, looking just as nice for being smeared with miscellaneous blobs of paint, as before. And I gave him my answer by rolling onto my back and raising my legs into the air, my hands pulling my buttocks apart. "Cool." I said.

He smiled down at me, still looking like a kid next door who was having fun instead of an artist in the throes of creation and he lay down next to me instead of climbing on. "I want to fuck you on your side." He said.

"Well...okay." I said. It was somewhat awkward, him lying next to me, I had to lift my leg high in the air to open my buttocks like that. He got his prong safely pressed against my asshole, then he lifted my leg up even higher and then that luscious prickhead slid into me, the glans' flared rim locking him into place inside of me.

"Uhh!" I said as I craned around to look at him.

"Just move as you want to." he assured me. "Anyway that feels natural to you."

As if moving while being fucked was something you stopped and thought about, but with that comment, I had to think about it. How was I going to lie here while he fucked me. While I was puzzling about this, he gave a hunch to his buttocks and his cock buckled and then plunged deeply into me.

I stayed as I was at first, while he bucked with his hips and sent that cock as a warm column of heat into me. It felt almost artificial in some way, like a dildo instead of a human dong, though I knew he was real enough, but I mean his cock seemed to hold totally still and rigid within me, hard and straight with no curve to it at all. It was like being fucked by a piston, his motions were so uniform and smooth.

That was what was wrong with it. "This needs more energy." I said to him and I lay down fully onto my side and I hunched backwards against him, matching his strokes, but not perfectly. That made his cock swing and crimp and miss strokes... "Now you feel more human." I said to him, probably to his mystification. "Come on, dude, fuck my butt, really fuck me hard, get it in me, stud, harder, harder, damn it!"

That got him turned on, he first tried to hold onto me better, then when he realized he couldn't with him being on his side, he grabbed tight and rolled me onto my face, his legs outside of mine on either side of my body, me totally flat, prostrate beneath him, and with his knees holding him in place, he began to fuck me hard, just like I'd asked him to.

I moaned and moved my arms around the canvas, feeling the paint smearing under me, feeling it sticking to my cheek, feeling the energy of Previn's body on top of mine, and he was good, really good. "Damn, but you're a good fuck." I informed him. "Come on, really pound my butt good, mash this paint all the way through this canvas, fuck your painting, Artist Man, fuck your painting by fucking me. Show this town what talent you've really got, man, harder, harder!

He surprised me by giving out a howl. I mean like a wolf yodeling at the moon! "Ow-ow-owowoowoooo!" he called out.

"Ah, yeah, yeah!" I urged him on. His cock was hard inside of me now, now it felt alive but it was hot, damned hot, harder as steel, it was ripping me up inside he was fucking me so hard, while he howled above me, "Owowoowoo!"

"Ow, ow, wow, yeah!" I called to him.

"Ow, uh, uh, ah, gah, gah, uh-uh-uh-huh-GHHHH!" His frenetic motions froze in mid-stride, he was one long arc of human body like a bow and his cock was the arrow sticking out about to be fired by the archer. His face grimaced, twitched, contorted in a wide display of clenched teeth.

And he let it fly. Suddenly my ass was boiling full of jism, Previn stock-still on top of me, and only when his climax was over, when he had pumped me full of his jizz, only then did he come out of the freeze, start to breathe, start to groan, and now he hunched me hard again, wringing out the last few droplets of ejaculation from his body, and he flopped now like a fish out of water, and then fell on me and like the fish, lay still except for breaths being taken hard and fast, his lungs pumping hard as they could. It was like he was about to die from that orgasm. I'd never seen one so intense, much less experienced one. I wondered what it was like, holding very still at climax like that, just feeling the ejaculation without doing anything to enhance or speed it along. Was it torture, not moving during climax, I knew it was when I was masturbating and had to stop my hand at the wrong instant for some reason, like it was slipping off and I had to grab hold again, then the climax was held in check, unable to continue. Maybe that's what he felt. I've tried a few times since then, I can't hold still when I come, I have to move around, my body is firmly in charge and it won't let me deprive it. Maybe that's the artist's sense of control; I don't know.

After quite a long time, he stirred and climbed up to look at me in the face, and I waited for some sweet nothings or thank you or whatever. But what he said was, "Let's get up and look at the painting."

Well! That's gratitude for you, I thought as I stood up. I glared at him, not really angry but annoyed/miffed, the way you are when someone doesn't appreciate how you just gave them a tremendous climax, and just breaks it off without even a good cuddle. But his face was oblivious to mine, he was appraising the work. I looked down at it.

The colors had been thoroughly mixed. There wasn't much to see to let you know that my body had pressed and smeared those colors around. Sweeps and lines and blobs. The colors, naturally, tended to be concentrated in different areas, but they were layered over each other, the paint having dried quickly once it was off my body. Then another swath of it went on from my body and it dried over that, and then a third...well, you get the idea.

I guess I don't get the abstract. To me it was a tangled up mess. I didn't say anything and looked at him. "How did we do?" I asked him.

His response was to grab me and hug me and laugh. His hands patted me on my back, and then he let me go.

"Does that mean it worked?" I asked him.

"You'll see at the showing." he assured me. "You're invited, naturally. Not what I intended to create, but this is a nice first work in the line."

He had his showing of the work some six weeks later, it and another dozen we'd done together. Some he'd had me hold still on and these you could see my body parts here and there. But the first one, Previn's first work, "Passions' Embrace" as he called it, was the star attraction.

Dressed in a tuxedo, I walked over to where two critics were analyzing it. "I think the broad, sweeping strokes across the canvas are what give the painting its intensity." a pudgy bald-headed man opined.

A thin, large-nosed lady rebutted, "No, no, it was his choice of colors. They are what bring out the passion." She looked at me, and with a sniff almost, said, "Don't you agree with me?"

"Me?" I said. "I think his talent in this work was the way he held and stroked his paintbrush." I peered into her face earnestly. "And I assure you, it's all in the technique."

THE END

Comments, complaints or suggestions?

E-mail me at Tommyhawk1@AOL.COM

WWW.TOMMYHAWKSFANTASYWORLD.COM