The Artist's Studio Ch. 02

She wanted me to look away and then look back, lose my focus over her shoulder and then lock my glance to her glistening crack, that bright crimson slash spreading and opening, so that she could ripen and bulge and split her sex with lust and a fingered fuck, deep into her opening cunt.

My drawing must have anticipated a lush wetness, for when I looked away for over a minute (and God knows how I did that, because I just wanted to penetrate her with my stare), when I looked back her fingers had made their way inside her slit, two bent finger tips gone inside her, the other two fingers displaying open her thick, brightly coloured lips.

There was a bright highlight shining on a glistening wetness, glittering in the angled light. Her spread sex was openly lit by a slanting beam of the sun shining into the room, and my looking away and looking back was taking the rhythm of a deepening fuck now, for I wanted to see her build up to a peak and and ecstasy and an orgasmic splendour. How crude and vibrant would such a picture be, and here it was, before me.

Fuck, I was hard now, but my gaze was torn between looking away so that her finger could twitch and her clit pulse, and her nipple throb. But then I wanted to stare and stop, to look at every inch of her changed position, the different weight in her tight, small breasts with long full nipples, to see her slightly open mouth and her teeth just showing, and a fervid stare in her dark eyes. I could stop her pleasure building and watch it all over her body, and then look away as she pleasured herself some more.

I was Tantalus, but it wasn't a boulder rolling. No, it was the agony of wanting to see her fingers move and her breasts heave, but every time I looked she was stilled. Ah fuck, I had to torture myself and torture her, so that she could bring herself to her painted peak, her drawn fucking wetness, so that I could see it. Damn, we were in lust driven, urging torment, and ah, we both knew it.

Every time that I looked to her face now, her eyes were beseeching me to look away, so that she could finish herself. But every time I stared upon her and her heightening pleasure, her eyes and begging cunt commanded me: look. Her eyes drilled into me with both conflicting desires.

Look away, that I might come. Look at me, as I come. Don't look. Look. Fuck. Don't. Fuck. Don't look. Look now. Ah God, don't see me, I want to... Watch me. Don't. Stop watching me, I'm so close. I can see that. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Look, look, look. Look away, look away, look away. Come now while I look. Come now while I close my eyes. Ah fuck me, just stare. God no, look away, I'm so close, ah fuck. Loooookkkk. Don't. Stop. Looking. Now. I'm. Looking. Ah fuck, I'll close my eyes, just come, you magnificent slut, just come. Slick your magnificent, crimson slit with your deep fingers, I'll not look, just come.

And when I looked once more, her throat was arched and her eyes were wide and her fingers were deep, and I stared at that rich, bright crimson wet centre of her, and she was spread and open and taken with her own fingers. Ah fuck, I looked, I stared, I could not look away. She was open and fucked and finished, and I stared long and hard at her lush wetness. Oh yes, how I gazed, how I stared. And how she came, in that lush, coloured, graphic spread legged sprawl, her sex an open wetness, glistening, ah goodness, how she came.

The motes of dusted sunlight danced in the room and then there was a silence, broken only by a soft scrape of sound that was the light falling onto the paper, a delicate softness and a stillness. For she was just a painting, and an impossibility in front of me.

I opened my eyes and the painting was back on the easel, the red slash of colour livid in her spread groin. I got up and looked closely, and there was a slick shining highlight on the curved line of colour that was the inner lip of her sex, in a brightened flare of light. I had not drawn that, but it was there from the last half an hour, the shine of her coming.

I looked to the portrait of her face, and there was the slight curve of a new smile on her lips, and a different shine to her dark, dark eyes. My portrait had changed from being of a wanton threat of a hungry woman, spreading her legs wide and demanding attention. It now showed the image of a fingered woman, self fucked and self satisfied, needing no man, but content to sprawl and display herself to that man. My drawing was no longer mine alone, I had conjured up a vision of her. But I never knew who this woman was.

--ooo OOO ooo --

Later, some days later, I decided I needed to draw hands, to practice drawing more complex parts of the body. The easiest thing to do, the quickest model to find, was my own hand. So one bright night, pale blue light streaming from a full moon through a high window, I looked to my hand and started to draw. I sketched a number of different views of my left hand, turning it one way and another in the soft shadows of the moonlight. Then I wanted to show my hand holding something, and again I thought, the easiest thing to hold is me.

The idea turned me on, to observe myself closely, to really see what was in front of me. I would see myself with new eyes, and discover new detail. Narcissus, you have a challenger. The night was warm, the moon was bright. Why not?

So I peeled off my clothes, and arranged a mirror so that I stood before myself, my pencil in one hand and my hardening prick in the other, my fingers spread more than I would usually hold myself. This was, after all, a study of my hand, not my cock. And of course, because the mirror was a reflection, the left hand holding my swelling cock, that became my right hand. So the vision twisted about in front of me, but was still me. I would study myself, but at the same time, feel myself. My senses tangled.

I thought I should watch myself grow from soft to hard, to see if I could catch the key changes. I let go of my cock and walked around the house naked for five minutes until my cock returned to its soft hanging state, gentle against my thigh, my balls loose and hanging. Flaccid, my cock hangs maybe four, five inches down, depending on the temperature.

Tonight it was a pleasing thickness, just over an inch diameter, tapering to a hooded point, my foreskin fully over the head. When it's soft a thick vein runs along the front of the flesh, curving off to the side as it reaches the foreskin. My balls never hang really loose, they never have, but when there is no arousal the left testes hangs lower and slightly behind the other. As a consequence, my cock hangs just left of centre.

I draw myself in my flaccid state, closely observing the way the folds of skin are creased, my balls rippled and ridged. As I draw, the testicles rise and roll on themselves. I cannot feel this movement, and it is a visual sensation only. It's a completely independent movement, I cannot make it happen nor stop it happening. It is my flesh adjusting itself to the temperature of the surrounding air and the freedom to fall, I suppose.

So there on my page is my first drawing, just of my cock. I have been concentrating on the act of looking, and I am an impartial observer of myself, and my cock does not react.

But now I begin to think of myself, and tense up the muscles in my groin. I now want to feel myself thicken and grow, and match the sensation to the visual look of it. As my awareness of my looked at self intensifies, so does my cock thicken and lengthen, and now it hangs, not yet hard, but no longer soft and fluid.

The head of my prick slowly emerges from the shelter of its foreskin, and the shaft thickens and fills behind it. My balls rise and tighten in their hanging sacs and I begin to feel heating and shifting sensations in my prick.

My cock is about six inches long now, straight and thickening and beginning to harden, but still hanging.

I draw myself once again, closely observing the curve of my prick head and the size of the slitted opening, and the colour is deepening and reddening. A second image is captured on my page, right next to the first, and I can study the changes between them, and my cock hangs thick against my thigh. My balls are filling, and they too are shifting in their colour. Purples and browns define their tones, and the brown-black of my curled hair.

I consider how I can draw my fully erect prick, for it will stand vertical against my belly and no longer hang, and the size and length will be defined in different ways. Fully hard and stiff, the tip of my cock just touches the bottom edge of my navel, so that scallop of hollowed, swirled flesh becomes a part of the third portrait of myself.

My cock is fully hard now, the head thick and full and the softer skin stretched down the shaft. A tracery of smaller veins spreads away from the central vein, and there is a clear junction of two veins joining on the top side of the shaft. On the bottom side of the shaft there is a leaf shaped shadow of darker skin, a birth mark blaze that is a family trait in the men of my blood line. A darker flesh on the shaft of my core, brown like a fading bruise, but it is not a bruise. It is a curious thing, and is darkening as I grow older.

I have drawn a fully filled prick now, eight hard inches, and also drawn the artifice of my hand with spread fingers holding the shaft, so I have a portrait of my prick and a study of my hand, but the drawing of the next stage is beyond me, for it will all be movement, both of my hand and my stroked shaft and my spilling seed.

I cannot draw this movement which is steadier and faster now, stroking the long shaft and then pausing to stretch and tug on my rising, tightening balls. The pencil has been dropped, and I no longer pretend this is art or practice or a study.

No, quite simply, this is now about me and sensation and I no longer care about what my cock looks like, I am more interested in what it feels like. My curled hand feels a heat and a shaft, and the movement of my thumb tip is slow over the head of my cock, rich and red and swelling, the slit at the end beginning to open and redden. I drag my balls away from my body to slow the quickening, but I can feel the rising from deep within me.

My cock thickens and, impossibly, seems to lengthen, an imperceptible amount - it is as if the length of my shaft is straining and stretching out for something. At that point the moon light flickers from behind a passing cloud, and a bright moon beam illuminates my straining prick, and another beam flares on the drawing of my cock and hand on the easel. Is there a tiny stretch in the drawn cock on the page as the real cock reaches towards it?

A movement flashes through my imagination, just as the deeper surge of my spine starts the first pulsating burst of come up from my swollen balls, spurting up the length of my shaft, spilling on the floor in front of me. I come, copiously, spilt seed a white mess on the floor, my fingers swirling one last time over the wetness at the end of my prick, and I taste myself as I always do.

In real life my cock softens and falls between my legs, but on my page, my drawn cock remains proud and erect, tight and hard, my drawn hand gripping it. And the angle of the drawing has changed from the way I drew myself. The hand in the drawing is now holding the rigid cock, no longer hard up against my drawn gut, but outwards more, as if an offering. My hand is presenting the cock, the bulbous head swollen and rounded, succulent like a plum, the slit glistening wet with pre-come.

Below the shaft my balls are drawn, but they are heavier and hang lower than mine in life. This drawn cock is offered up, and there is a bigger weight of seed hanging in those sacs. There is a hard magnificence here.

But my ejaculation has made me drowsy and it's getting late. I stretch myself out on the couch and cover myself with a soft rug, warming my body. The moon drops and the night is still.

I feel a gentle stroke of fingers on my cheek and through my hair, rousing me from sleep. The fingers, and they are curiously familiar, gently caress over my cheek, down along my jaw line and stroke down my throat to the top of my chest. Whoever it is, and I have no sense of anybody in the room, pulls the top of the rug away from my body and pulls it down to my hips, exposing my torso.

The hand returns to my face and tilts it forward. Fingers and then a thumb caress my lips and press into my mouth, a delicate press and probe, slow. I suck on the fingers, and am rewarded by a little push, a tiny fuck into my mouth. There is just the one hand caressing me, and my own hand rises to my chest and plays upon my nipple. I twist and pull on the nub, and it tightens to a tight peak, erectile tissue hard. I do the same on my other tit, and a hot link threads to the base of my swelling cock, and throbs there.

Now I scent a familiar waft on the air, a muskiness that is my own prick, but I am curious, closed eyes but curious, for the scent is strong and near. Then I feel a gentle soft touch on my cheek, slowly brushing my skin. I open my eyes, and before me is a softened cock, just as I had drawn it, grazing my cheek. A hand, and good God the hand is familiar but the angles are all wrong, I have never seen my hand from this angle before except in a mirror, my hand is offering the softened cock to my lips.

I want this cock, more fiercely right now than I have ever wanted a woman's slick wet lips, I want this cock to fill and swell in my mouth. I am hungry for it, and open my mouth and take in the soft offering. I savour the sweet taste of the thickening head, and roll my tongue about it.

Impossibly, I feel a tongue and suck on my own prick and I thicken and harden beneath the rug. There is a rough sensation on my sensitive cock head as my shaft rises against the cloth, but beneath that rubbed sensation there is also a hotter, wetter feel, that of a swirling tongue.

In my mouth the cock head is growing and a heat filling and lengthening, and I am twisted between senses. I can feel my cock being sucked and nipped down the shaft, and my tongue and teeth are busy and biting on the growing thickness in my mouth. I'm sucking and being sucked at the same time, exquisite sensation along my hard prick and my teeth nipping at the head and shaft.

I realise that this erecting prick will transition through three states, for I know that this is the drawing of me done in the moonlight come real in the room. I also know that I came in the room after completing the third stage of the drawing, and hope and wonder if this swollen cock on my tongue and sucked in my cheeks will spurt and fill my throat. But I could not draw that spasm because of the movement, so I do not know what might happen here.

But these are the first two thickened but still hanging stages of this filling cock, and now I am eager to take the testes sacs into my mouth, to fill my opened wide mouth one by one, sucking long eggs between my heated, spit slicked tongue and lips. I can hear my own wet sucking, and my groin is wet and hair tangled, and I suckle on my own sweet sacs, pulling them away from the base of the cock that is starting to rise to its full height and hardness and thickness. I have to change the angle of my throat to take this rod deeper, and bring my hands to pull and twist and tangle on those heavy balls as the long shaft goes deep.

Aggg gg, I pull back on the shaft before I gag, but now there is a hand behind my head holding me from pulling back too much, and the fully risen cock is held deep in my throat. But it is too thick and I can no longer easily suck, and I want to nip the sensitive flesh on the head of me, so I force my head back. I can now slide a long spit wet tongue along the shaft and nip the tight skin around my head.

And I like this more, for the head of my prick is bulbous and pumped in my groin, and the taste is salty and wet drenched in my mouth, and I slow and slow and slow, taking long swirling sucks and feeling those heavy balls and squeezing and pulling them in my hand. My other fingers are twisting and flicking the hard tits on my chest and ah fuck, it is all sucked and thick sensation. But I slow and slow and slow. I don't want to hasten my coming. I want it to be slow, and a waiting thing. I want to suck and fuck myself for a long time.

I have drawn a thickened vision of me and taken it to my mouth and sucked hard and sweet and a rising starts in the base of my spine and I feel a fullness swelling in the devoured prick. But there is another wetness place that this shaft can go, and I slick and wet the fingers that held the back of my head and offered up this delectable hardness to my lips. I have fucked gently into my mouth, but now I want to be fucked harder, before this night is done.

I throw the rug away from body and rise to my four limbs like an animal. My ass rears high and my thighs spread and a coolness swings across my heaving balls, and a coolness tingles on the high bud of my anus, twitching. I lower my shoulders, my head resting on my arms, my face sideways to a cushion on the couch. I want to be fucked now.

I have only drawn one hand around my hard erect long prick, so there is only hand to pull a cheek wide from my hot asshole, and only four fingers and a thumb to cup my heavy balls hanging down, and only one long forefinger to push into my clenching ass.

I'm too dry, and need moisture and wetness all around my hole and in me. I scrabble on the floor with my own hands, and find a tube of paint dropped there. I undo the lid and do an exploratory squeeze, and it is a gouache or something, quite soft and fluid. It will do. I pass it back to the hand parting my cheeks and, fuck, that's cold. But the moist paint is ideal as a lubricant, and my ass is filled and probed by deep fingers, and I am wet and leaking stickiness.

Because the drawing of my prick is an ethereal thing with no body behind it, I find that I cannot push back against it as I might a real cock, for as I push it moves away with the tightness of my opening. I've never taken the weight of a man in my ass, only fingers and toys and a strapped woman, so I can only imagine real heat and weight on me and into me; my own body a futile resistance. But fuck, being Narcissus now is a frustration, for I can feel the heat of the big prick behind me but it's not in me, and I can't force myself back on to it.

Ah God, the frustration. I am Tantalus once more. Fuck, no. But then I find that if I rhythmically squeeze and contract the muscles of my ass, that I can loosen and relax my rim; and with the slow pressure of the swelling cock behind me, it slowly pushes in and I can push back on to it and slowly my asshole opens out and opens around it, and inch by slow hot inch my drawn prick eases into my tight channel.

It's a tantalising and tormenting slow thing, and slowly oh so slowly, the longest tease and fill. But then there is a point where this hot ridged prick has eased its way some two or three inches into my body, that the resistance of the rings of muscle give way, and the depths of my ass shaft want to open up and suck the long prick shaft in, and it's easier now. The wet sliding cream of the paint heats into my flesh and is smoother and more fluid, and with a final lubricated thrust, my ass high and urging backwards, the long shaft finishes its push, and oh my sweet fuck, my ass is filled.

I push and rock backwards slowly, my tunnel exquisitely filled and stretched, and can feel the heavy weight of those hanging balls press against my own, and the tangled touch and press of the four eggs together, fuck, my groin is all sensation. The wetness of the paint leaks from my cock filled ass hole and smears around my balls, and it is like a dripping cunt of flesh between my legs.