A short piece, 1300 words approx, f/m. Art and painting is the theme (which I seem to come back a lot I have to say…)
He made himself cry for her. Not sob, nor weep and wail, but cry, silently, with tears running down his face.
She took photographs while he did. She had him sit on a stool in front of the blue egg-shell wall in her kitchen, made him take his shirt off. First middle distance, so she could capture his chest, concaved a little as he hunched, his shoulders rolled forward as his hands were kept between his knees – she asked that he didn’t touch his face, rub his eyes (later he would tell her that was the hardest part of it, not to wipe himself to keep himself neat and tidy.) The kitchen was warm, so his nipples remained soft as rose buds under his chest hair.
Next she took the close ups. Leaning into him, making sure she caught the rivulets of the tears on his cheeks, his eyes like drowned forget-me-nots, the hint of red irritation at the corners. She couldn’t hold back a smile when she saw that some drops had gathered at his chin, snagged in his stubble, hanging there, glass fruit for the breaking. She zoomed in on those, her lens finding the roundness of the drops, the curve, the way it attached to his skin and facial hair and yet remained discrete from it too.
The last shot she took was full body, stool, wall, him in jeans and bare feet resting on the rung of the stool, and his face, gazing at her, perhaps a little resentful, his tears beginning to dry.
“Come back in two weeks if you want to see the painting,” she told him as he pulled his shirt on.
He nodded, not looking at her. “Yeah. I’ll see.”
He left the house without having tea as she offered.
She couldn’t tell if he was just tired, or trying to reassert himself, let her know he was in charge of what he did with himself and his time, that he allowed her certain liberties only with her art. Once that would have hurt her, the implication that she asked too much of him and was therefore a greedy, selfish girl.
Now… well. She knew he could have always said no.
For the two weeks, she went to the day job in a noisy office, and came back to the small studio next to the kitchen. Before she had dinner, she’d sit with her photographs printed out on a small easel next to her canvas, and paint. Some days slowly and with care, others she would leave the studio and realise she’d been in there endlessly. But each day, she went back. She’d said two weeks, so it would take her two weeks. No compromise on that.
It was a Saturday afternoon he came around. She’d finished it the night before, and hadn’t looked at it since, wanting to keep some space before she went back to it.
Seeing it with him, his first time, was like seeing it anew. As always she noticed its imperfections, but she was startled by her own bright colours, the details of his face and body. How the ache of his face both shrunk away from and filled the canvas, how his tears shimmered brighter than his real tears, sadness shown not to be mundane and pitiful, but the yearning tenderness that reminds you you’re alive.
All the while, he kept his arms crossed, a barrier between him and the painting. At last, he turned to her. “Do you get off on this?”
She heard the accusation, but chose to brush it off. She only cocked her head, and said, “Get off is such a dismissive turn of phrase.”
“That’s not an answer,” he said through clenched teeth.
She didn’t owe him one, so she asked, “Does it make you uncomfortable?”
He didn’t answer her immediately, but instead turned back to the painting. His hands slipped from under his elbows to hug his shoulders. He looked at the foot the easel. His face became tender, and he said in a whisper;
“You don’t need to see me cry to get to know me.”
She left her chair, almost fell upon him, held him side on. But her arms weren’t soft and caring, but firm, bracing him to her, and she said;
“No. To do that, I need to see you come.”
And she cupped his cock and balls with her hand, and discovered he was already hard.
He stilled. His breathing became haggard, and his throat rose and fell with a swallow. Her hand shot up around his back, grasping him, and she pulled him away from the painting, out of the studio, steering him by neck and shoulder. His chest was heaving, he walked as if drunk. She turned him, and pushed him back against the blue wall.
He grabbed her cheeks, pulled her in for kiss. His tongue was thick and filled her mouth as she tore open his jeans, yanked them down with his underwear, and hiked up her skirt. She pushed him back against the wall, shoved the gusset of her knickers to one side. With one leg up and braced on his thigh, she sunk on to him, enveloping his cock with a downward force that made him groan as each inch disappeared inside her.
They hung like that, connected, apart, her pressing him to the wall, him holding her to his body, eyes locking and neither breaking away. Neither moved. She felt his cock pulse inside her, and had to stop herself from quivering.
“Why did you want to see me cry?” He was trying to demand, to be angry again, but he couldn’t quite muster what was needed to convince her.
She brushed one hand down his face, and smiled. “Men’s tears are so rare they’re like sapphires and diamonds. Beautiful.” She held herself at the head of his cock, squeezed her cunt around him, and he shut his eyes and mewled. Then, as she sunk down, clenching all the way, and his low moan grew deeper and deeper, she said, “You become vulnerable, open, and art needs that. Always needs that.”
His hands braced her back, fingers hooking a little tighter than necessary. “Art needs sacrifices then?”
“Yes.” She bucked, and his thighs trembled under her. “And you don’t seem to be complaining about your ‘reward’ for your ‘sacrifice.’ ”
At that, he chuckled. “No, I suppose not.” His body relaxed, a willing defeat to her. All she had to do now was ride him until she could no longer.
She came first, locking around his cock and digging her nails into his shoulders to keep her upright. Her head flung back, and her eyes opened wide as if to expel all that power through them.
“Oh fuck…” he breathed, hands pressing to her arse, and his body began to tremble. She dropped her head back, still gasping, in time to hear him pant, “I’m going to… I’m going to… I’m going…”
She framed his face with her hands, forced his head against the wall, and watched as his mouth gaped, his eyes screw up, and his cries so strong reverberated through his whole, pulsing body. Never had she been so aware of the beating of a man’s cock inside her with each spurt of his cum.
When it was over, they kissed. Open mouthed, tongues more than lips, licking more than caressing, like they no longer needed the barrier of locked lips to protect themselves. When the kissing began to wane, she eased herself off his body, off his now softening cock, let her skirt drop, and said;
“This’ll be the next one. And I don’t need a camera to remember.”
And he sighed, eyes closing in gentle defeat.