OFM Lust: Like Paint Spilled Onto Canvas

I was backstage after my performance as Puck in A Midsummer Night’s Dream when I met Leon. I was exhausted, riding the wave of a successful show—my stage makeup smeared and my wavy, red hair disheveled when Leon approached me behind the curtain. I didn’t notice him at first, not until he introduced himself with a flirtatious smile and confident handshake. 

“You brought life to Puck in a way I’ve never seen before,” he said, his smoky, quartz eyes boring deep into mine as though he were sending me an unspoken message. “I wanted to meet the man who inspired me to like Shakespeare again. My name is Leon.”

“Matthew,” I said, slowly taking his hand. I was distracted when he introduced himself, but the touch of his hand grounded me instantly in his presence.

“My work is on exhibit this month at the gallery next door,” he said. “I came here tonight in search of a new model. And if I might be so bold, it seems I’ve found him.”

Leon stood a couple inches shorter than my six- foot frame, with an indistinct figure, but his face was strikingly handsome—a strong jaw, shadowed with dark, well-manicured stubble; his lips full and sensuous. It took me a minute to register what he was insinuating.

“You want to paint me?” I asked, blushing at the suggestion.

He nodded, his eyes penetrating mine.

I’d never modeled, and though I felt a bit disarmed by his direct gaze, I had the impression that I’d be a fool to turn him down.

That was last week. Today, on this drizzly, spring afternoon, I’m undressed and posed in a reclining position on Leon’s crushed-velvet, chaise lounge for my second sitting in his cozy, brick-walled studio. Leon is a man of class, his studio tastefully decorated with antique furniture and stacks of books, topped with volumes of Anaïs Nin’s diaries. An interesting man, I think.

I’m used to being the center of attention, but never for an audience of one. I feel far more exposed with only a single set of eyes on me. On stage, I’m in my element—self-assured—but in this private room I am shy, submissive.

I lie with my head against my hand, a satiny fabric draped across my otherwise naked body. I have a history of trusting people too easily, and though at first I worried I’d made a mistake by coming here, Leon has given no red flags. He’s been direct from the start—blunt, even—and though he carries an air of cockiness, there’s an underlying subtlety to him that intrigues me. 

He sits a few yards away from me at his easel, looking at me so intensely passionate, it’s as though I’m looking at the sun. Ripples of warmth bloom to the surface of my skin, and my body unfolds like a moss rose at dawn. I feel open and new beneath his studious gaze. His professionalism arouses me in a way I didn’t know possible. There’s no artifice in this man. It’s clear that he is moved by the sight of me, but his gaze is more admiring than ravenous, as though he is memorizing every curve, every angle of my slender, well-toned physique.

I watch him watching me as he paints, feeling warmer by the minute.

Leon lowers his hand. “Are you feeling alright?” he asks. “You look flushed. I’ll turn down the heat.”

“No need,” I say. “The temperature is perfect.” 

He raises an eyebrow and gives me a smirk. 

I can feel myself getting hard beneath the fabric, which contours the length of my erection. If Leon notices, he acts like he doesn’t. I can’t tell if he’s merely being professional, or if he knows exactly what he’s doing. I sense that I’m only seeing the surface of how this gifted artist is capable of bringing my form to life. I wonder how many strokes he’s attributed to me in the short time since we first met, and if he’s ever taken care of himself in the bathroom during the times he steps away.

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The way Leon looks at me makes me see myself with fresh eyes. I’ve worked hard to keep my body fit and healthy, but I’ve never felt comfortable looking too close in the mirror. I have no tolerance for blemishes or scars, but Leon seems to focus on the imperfections as though they’re my most attractive features.

He pauses his work to light a joint, and when I ask for a hit, he denies me. “No,” he says. “But you can earn one by doing as I say until our session is through.” 

I smile. I like the way he’s playing with me. I look down at myself and see that the fabric has slipped to the side, revealing the tip of my now-pulsing cock. I look up to see if Leon has noticed, and this time, there’s no denying it. He’s biting his lip, his smoky eyes fixated at my waist.

His hand slides down to adjust his own, swelling erection. 

I give him a coy look and tug on the fabric so that it falls to the floor, exposing all of me.

I expect him to join me but instead, he blinks and says, as though in a trance, “Don’t move. Stay just like that. I’ve found you.” He picks up his brush and returns to work.

Something about this phrase—I’ve found you—and the earnestness with which he says it, arouses me even more and leaves me aching with need to be touched. 

I ask Leon how much longer I must stay like this.

He says nothing, stroking his paintbrush deftly across the canvas—the gentle scraping sounds giving me tingles along my spine.

He makes me pose for another agonizing 30 minutes, teasing me by clutching the front of his clothed shaft as he paints, commanding me not to move.

“Can I see it?” I beg. “To make things even?” It’s clear that what he’s concealing is larger than average, and it’s driving me wild. He looks at me and says nothing. “Please,” I moan. I’m on the verge of bursting—something I’ve never achieved before without some level of physical contact.

“True relief can’t be known without a bit of torture,” he says cryptically. “But I can see that you’re more than ready.” He walks over to me, paintbrush in hand, and kneels down before me. Without speaking, he gently traces the brush along my thighs, my navel, chest, and throat, until all of me is streaked with a thin layer of flesh-colored paint that dries into a crust on my skin. I feel more alive than I ever have on stage. As his paintbrush glides up the inside of my right thigh, I explode with ecstatic release, convulsing helplessly with the aftershocks of the deepest, most intense orgasm I have ever had. As I recover, Leon takes out his impressive cock and brings himself to climax, ejaculating onto the floor like paint spilled onto canvas. I sigh into the chaise lounge, glowing and spent, and grateful to my theater for residing next to a gallery.