"Paint me," I said to my lover Giovanni. "Make my body your canvas."

We bought jars of body paint filled with universes of color: alizarin red, lemon yellow, aquamarine, emerald green, lavender, pearl white and licorice black.

We entered the inner sanctum of his studio, where not even his wife was allowed, but I was, perhaps because I was something forbidden, something that defied even Giovanni's rules. Through the skylight the spring sun seemed close, as if it wished to see what we were about to do.

As soon as the door was closed he turned to kiss me but I stepped away from him. "I want only your hands on me, smeared with paint."

I knew that he wanted to devour me; he is a man of large appetites: for food, for sex, for his work. It was this hunger that had first attracted me to him so many months ago, at an opening for his most recent show. I saw him take an appetizer from a tray and place it entire in his beard-framed mouth. Some sauce dribbled down the corner of his lips and his tongue darted out to catch it. He looked up and caught me staring, but I did not turn away, mesmerized by his bright hazel eyes.

Giovanni cleared some space on the studio's paint spattered floor and proceeded to unroll raw canvas across it. I unbuttoned my shirt and let it fall to the floor, then I stepped out of my shoes and socks and out of my jeans. Fully naked I stood with the sunlight shining down on me. He looked at me with familiar hunger in his eyes, and for a moment I wondered if he would ignore my command and crush me in his arms; but instead he took the jars of paint out of their bag and lined them beside the outer edge of the canvas.

I walked onto the canvas and lied on my back. Then I spread my arms out and closed my eyes, breathing in the smells of the studio: oil paint, turpentine, raw and painted canvas, the sun-warmed wooden floor. And I could smell him, too, the smell of paints and sweat that always clung to him. Suddenly I wanted to hold his corpulent body against me, but I couldn't. Not yet. I wanted only his hands on my body, to feel the sweet torture of his nearness but not to touch him myself.

"Paint me," I said, opening my eyes. I said it the same way I would have asked him to fuck me, and I was glad to see my words had that effect on him. His breath quickened, his long-lashed eyes brightened.

He stood above me, staring at me, running his fingers through his bushy sable brown curls. The first button of his short-sleeved, pale blue plaid shirt was undone, revealing a peek of almost black chest hair. He stood with legs spread wide apart in baggy dark blue jeans dotted and streaked with paint, and his worn, brown leather boots were also splashed with dried paint. I longed to get on my knees, unzip his fly and pull out his heavy cock. But not yet.

Giovanni knelt beside me and opened the paint jars. His eyes studied my body the way that he would a blank canvas, figuring out where to make his first mark.

As he watched me I gazed up around me at his paintings hanging on the walls, huge canvases filled with bright swirls, dribbles of paint soft as rain drops,
expanses of translucent colors layered with ribbons of coruscant textures. Sometimes you could see certain images: a rain-streaked window, cave formations, couples entwined in fantastic embraces.

Cold wetness touched my stomach and I shivered. He had finally dipped his fingers in a jar and was painting small circles across my skin. With one finger he dipped red paint into my navel. I sighed, and writhed like a cat at his touch. My cock was stiff, and it twitched in the air at Giovanni's every touch.

His fingers traveled from my stomach to my chest, kneading my nipples with rough, penetrating gestures. I cried out, fighting the urge I had to grab his head and force him down on me. He smiled, seeing desire written across my face, where the blood had rushed to prickle me. Giovanni painted lines on my forehead and cheeks with his thumb. Then he dipped his hands again into the jars.

This time, hovering over me, he dribbled paint from his raised hands, dotting my skin with tiny droplets of yellow and aquamarine. I closed my eyes, the sunlight making me see red behind my eyelids. I arched my back; the canvas beneath me was rough, the paint on my skin soft and slippery. I then felt his big hands run along both my legs, smearing color. He kneaded my feet, massaging paint deep into my flesh. I laughed; he knew that I was ticklish there.

"Turn around," he said, his voice husky with lust.

I obeyed him, leaning on my knees and elbows. He started with my back, spreading a thin layer of paint on it, so that the more he rubbed the drier it got. I felt him drop globs of paint on top of the dry surface, then his fingers lightly ran across my shoulder blades. With more paint he drummed his fingertips down my spine. With each touch my body thrilled with innumerable sensations.

As I felt his hands on me I knew that he was getting lost in the art of creation, my body not only a source of eroticism but a new surface for him to explore. This is what I had wanted, his two fiercest appetites working upon my flesh.

He began rubbing my ass, which I raised to let him get a good grip. I felt him blow cool air in the crack and my hole puckered. I knew that he was grinning. I was growing delirious with desire. I didn't know how much longer I could remain without him in my arms. I wanted him to fuck me right then, with my ass in the air like a beast, his hairy chest against my back, his hands on my nipples. And yet I held back, my lust increasing with the denial of need.

He knew I was shivering with want for him; I was sure that he could feel it, but he continued to paint me with increased urgency, only pausing to dip his hands with more paint.

Giovanni turned me around again, making me sit up. We stared at each other longingly. His tousled hair stood up like a mad scientist's.

His gaze dropped to my prick, the only part of me untouched by paint. His painted hand played with my balls, tugging lightly at them. Then, with his other hand, he traced lavender and aquamarine lines along my foreskin. He gripped the base, causing clear fluid to leak over the lines of paint. With light strokes, Giovanni began to jerk me off; with his other hand he grabbed the back of my head and pulled it back, baring my painted neck.

He put his mouth to my ear and whispered in his soft, husky voice: "How much can you stand? How much? Don't you know how bad I want to be inside you? I can't wait to push my dick up your ass and make you scream." He was torturing me, stroking me and talking dirty in my ear, his breath warm against my skin.

I could stand it no longer. I took his stroking hand and stopped him, then grabbed his head and brought his lips to mine. Our tongues touched briefly before he cruelly pulled away; my mouth smarted with the taste of him, cigarettes and mint.

Giovanni stood up and walked away to a corner of the studio; I had the urge to crawl after him and cling to his legs but before I could resolve to do so he returned with a condom and a bottle of lubricant; I almost whimpered with anticipation. I brought my head to his crotch and felt his hardness beneath the denim. I reached for the zipper but he dropped the bottle and the condom, took me by the shoulders and lifted me to my feet.

"Come here," he ordered, taking me by the hand and leading me to a full-length mirror on the other side of the big room. He stood me before it and I saw myself.

I was transformed. With lines, streaks and dribbles of paint I had been changed into someone new, someone that defied description. I was a savage smeared with war paint, a mythic creature who wore its creator's mark upon its flesh and stared back at itself with haunted, famished eyes.

"Fuck me," I murmured.

"What did you say?"

"Fuck me," I repeated, louder, my voice thick with wonder at what I had become in his hands.

He grabbed my arm and brought me back to the canvas; roughly he threw me back upon it. He took a rag off his work table and wiped his hands clean of paint. Then he stood before me and tore his shirt off, revealing to me the great expanse of densely-forested chest and belly. How my fingers longed to rake through that hair; how my face wished to press against that belly and breathe in his smell.

His hand reached for his fly and I heard the thrilling sound of his zipper being pulled down. Oh, but he teased me, only fondling himself without pulling it out. He wanted me to beg.

"Please," I said, crawling closer to him, "please, please."

After a few more moments, Giovanni pulled his cock out of his jeans. Without hesitation I enclosed it with my starving mouth.

He gasped, taking my head in both hands and pushing his cock further in, until I was gagging on it. I took it all the way, my nostrils tickled by his wiry pubic hair. He grew harder in my mouth, so firm and plump, slickened by my warm saliva. My hands reached for his chest and I played with his large brown nipples, almost hidden in the tangle of hair, making him groan.

I loved the feel of his cock fucking my mouth, filling me with its delicious taste. But I had to have him inside me. I could wait no longer.

So I lay on my back as he undid his jeans and let them fall to the ground in a heap around his ankles. He knelt before me, took the condom wrapper and removed its contents, deftly pulling the rubber onto his cock. He smeared his cock with the lubricant and then, spreading my legs, shoved two slick, thick fingers in my asshole. I cried out as he rubbed them in and out, making me ache for his hardness inside me.

"Fuck me," I cried, impatient. "Now."

When he finally touched my hole with his cock head I nearly screamed. My hole gobbled him up and took him in its tight grip. He groaned, caught his breath. I pulled him into my arms, smearing his chest with paint. I kissed him, and this time he let me feed on his mouth, letting my tongue roam inside.

He had been fucking me slowly, but suddenly he grabbed me by the waist, drew me closer to him and shoved himself hard into me, pumping me with a relentless beat. He was so far inside me that I saw shooting stars behind my closed eyelids; I knew that soon I'd be speaking in tongues, for there was no other language to express what he was doing to me.

Beads of sweat fell off his face onto my chest, melting into the paint. I stroked his bearded face, ran my fingers through his hair. His hazel eyes were ablaze, gleaming at me, roaming across the field of colors that was my body.

I wrapped my legs tighter around him. My hands stroked his back, finding the small patch of downy hair across his shoulder blades. Behind my closed eyes I saw us as if I were someone else gazing at us from the skylight. I imagined what my new body looked like, writhing beneath Giovanni's heavy body. The sight of my painted self had turned me on more than I had expected. I was a wild, wanton man, and now my new skin reflected this inner quality.

This thought sent me into renewed frenzy. I bit into Giovanni's shoulder, scratched at his back with my nails, raised my voice in incomprehensible cries, and he responded by fucking me harder, growling, his low-hanging balls slapping wetly against my ass.

With a shout he pulled out of me and stood up, taking off the condom and flinging it across the studio. His cum spurted all over me, the final layer of paint on his canvas. He came prodigiously; drops spattered my face and chest and stomach. Some drops landed on my cock and that was enough to send me over the edge; I took my cock in hand and stroked myself to a shattering orgasm, Giovanni's cum still raining over me.

A few moments later Giovanni lied next to me, his fingers smearing our mingled cum onto my skin. He looked at me as if I were someone he had never seen before.

"You're something else," he said.

Yes; I was his work of art. Now I hungered for him more than ever.

 

© 2004 Ian Rafael Titus - Contributor's Bio