Ryan Part One Revision of Student Painter
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The Painter free porn video
I remember so well that late Autumn, in the heart of Italy, with the musicsurrounding us like blown leaves. The air was cool and sweet. The calamattaolives were ripe and rich and the sweet tastes of gelato pure upon the tongue.All these memories still come to my mind's eye as if it were yesterday.
I remember sitting on the plaza, a breeze circlinground us endlessly as we drank the steaming espressos outside the small café.The looming landscape of Rome silhouetted behind her head was a regal sight,bringing to mind all the wonderful treasures of the Mediterranean. I lookedback at my Painter. Perhaps I too had become as wealthy as the emperors ofold, at least when I considered the wonderful talent and beauty of the womansitting across from me.
The rich coffee delighted our pallets and she spoke of her latest painting,finished, and on display in the Il Fiore Rosso Gallery,deep in the center of the city. I had seen it, in an unfinished state manytimes. This is perhaps shocking to other Painters who never allow another soulto view their work before it is done. But I am her muse, her inspiration, herHunter. I fuel her talent, for it is dark and mysterious. I believe, in myheart, that it is the eyes. The eyes in her paintings, so unusual, so deep.I have only seen that ability before in the art of Rembrandt, whose skill stillimpresses me. The skill to so capture the soul of a person in the eyes.
I sat back and sighed. The critics so enjoy analyzing her art, critiquingit, molesting it, destroying it's purpose. The opposing dramas of light anddark, of anger, and pain, and love. I remember the nudes so finely drawn, withsuch haunted looks in their eyes. Who would ever guess that each sketch, eachpainting, each portrait was a fantastic transformation of the what the eyehad seen and places on paper and canvas.
Perhaps you can tell that I am deeply in love with my Painter, my amore ,my amoratta . But it is her need, her desire, to seethat look on another's face, the look of pleasure, of pain, of love, and ofhate, that first drove me to her side. It has haunted me since the inception,and even today I wonder if I shall ever enjoy the chance of bringing that samedesperate and haunted look to her own porcelain face.
That Autumn day I had to admit to myself that her latest painting was amasterpiece. Despite what some critics had said of her work. A phenomenal portraitof a young girl, eyes closed in pain, yet with an illumination on her faceof utter ecstasy. Sitting at the café I brought it to mind's eye, asshe excitedly told me of Jeanette Pierre La Sons' critique for the ArtInternationale .
I listened to her, yet I remembered back to the night when I brought Annetteto her studio through the pouring rain. The girl's hair had been ragged, soakedwith dirt and drizzle, and her makeup had run streaks down her cheeks. I hadwondered whether the sweet water of the sky, or the salty river of tears hadflowed down the sides of her face.
My Painter's eyes had widened as I brought the bedraggled girl in, leapingup from her sketchbook and taking the girl in hand. As they disappeared upthe stairs I found my way to the bar, to pour myself a glass of Merlot. Timeseemed to melt and I watched the water pour down the windows, dancing withthe rain.
It was not long before they came down the stairs and I congratulated myselfas I saw the undisguised beauty of the girl. She was eighteen, fresh and beautiful.She would make a stunning model for my Painter. They stepped down the staircasechatting and giggling, arm in arm, and I felt a wave of warmth and pleasureflow through the studio.
Cleaned and fed, Annette's eyes ranged over the studio, drinking in thestacked canvases, the easels draped with cloth, and the mounds of pillows inone corner, draped over and around a crimson hued French settee. I followedher gaze as she saw a small copy of " Dying Gaul " byEpigonos, the " Exposure of Luxury " by Bronzino, andcountless other small works of art that served as foundations of muse for myPainter.
Sexuality is so different for men, compared to women, and it always amazesme that those divergences can mesh and combine in such explosive and powerfulways to create a beautiful and living thing. Annette drank in the soft lighting,the mellow sounds of the rain, and the bright coloring of my Painter's studio.I saw her face flush and her breath quicken and I knew I had chosen well.
My Painter took her by the hand and led her through the private collectionon an impromptu tour, explaining each piece and its creator's desires. It endedin front of one painting, mounted upon the back wall in a place of honor, litwith small spot lights. Annette's mouth opened as she drank it in, her eyesmoving over the oil and canvas like a starved soul presented with a banquet.
"What is it?" she asked softly.
I suppressed a chuckle, not wanting to break the spell my Painter was brushing.
"That one is entitled Pandora's Punishment ." My Paintertold the girl.
She stared up at the astounding painting. Its dark billowing clouds edgedthe frame and in the center, the brilliantly lit image of the mythical Pandora.Her lithe body glowed in the light, bound by the silver glint of chains. Hertormentor, with muscles rippling, swung the whip against her bared breasts,already tinged crimson. A golden box lay empty at her delicate feet.
But it was the face that one was drawn too; the look upon the tortured woman'sface as she bore the punishment for unleashing the evils upon the world. Hereyes half closed, her mouth drawn and tight, and yet there was the look ofsensuality, of pleasure, drawn into it. In the depths of one's mind you askedyour self if the punishment she was enduring was truly punishment.
Annette stood enraptured by the painting, her rose colored mouth open asshe drank in the meaning of the painting. Her eyes widened as she realizedthat Pandora was experiencing one of the released evils, and finding it desirable.The girl turned toward my Painter.
"Yes. I painted it." she said. "It took a very long time. And I think ithas been one of my best works." My Painter glanced at me. "The model for thatpainting was brought to me by my hunter."
Annette's eyes narrowed frightened. "Your hunter?" she asked timidly.
My Painter laughed. "Oh not like that, little one. He finds my models forme. And he creates that perfect expression on their porcelain faces, that Iplace into my painting." My Painter smiled at the girl.
"This is my latest canvass." My Painter said, stepping to the side and showingAnnette the unfinished painting. Annette turned and looked at the easel, seeingthe dark rich reds of fabrics and the dark architecture of cathedral stone,the small illumination of candles and the wispy grey of incense.
And in the center lay the girl across the steps of the dais, before thealtar. The daemons danced round her, one holding a brilliant red candle lacedwith gold. His face was dark and evil, and the candle tipped above the girl'snaked bosom. Blood red claws encircled her ankles and wrists, holding her stillin her agony as the fiery paraffin poured from the candle down upon her breast.
Annette's eyes widened as she looked at the painting. But then a look ofconfusion, of bewilderment effused her face and she stared at the unfinishedoval of the girl's face.
My Painter saw it before Annette asked, smiling in her bemusement. "Yes.I know. It's not finished yet. I have completed most of it, but there stillis the girl's face. I just need the perfect model to paint from."
Annette accepted this with what appeared to be complete understanding, andyet I wondered if she truly knew what was happening.
"How do you find a model?" Annette asked softly, still marveling at thedelicious erotica of the painting before her.
My Painter sighed deeply and walked out toward the settee. "It's very difficult,Annette. I have to find just the right person." She sat down upon the satin. "Irequire a certain light and look, one that I can't hire. You see, I have tofind someone who is willing to let the look I need cross her face."
Annette's mouth opened with realization. "The look…" she said softly.
My Painter turned and smiled. "The look. Yes. You understand, don't you." Sheturned and looked at me. "And that is why I love my Hunter so much. He findsmodels for me. Bellas who are willing to experience somethingof what my painting is about. To cross that threshold where pleasure and painand longing and desire cross and become something great."
Annette shook her head. "But how?"
My Painter smiled. "Hunter takes them there of course, while I paint. Itis romantic, exquisite, and erotic. It is my muse."
I watched as her magic worked upon the young woman before us. I saw as Annette'smind flashed through the images on the painting, seeing it in a new light asshe imagined herself the young woman suffering at the hands of the devils.I could sense her arousal, her depth of feeling and desire. I knew I had chosenwell.
"C-c-can I be your model?" Annette asked in a halting voice.
My Painter stepped back and looked at her. "Annette? Are you quite sure?I mean, you are beautiful of course, and would be perfect, but do you understandwhat I am asking you to endure with my Hunter?"
She looked at me seriously and the back at my Painter. She nodded.
My Painter smiled sweetly. "Very well then. Come. We'll talk and prepareyou.
The two women left the studio through a side door to a small dressing room.I finished my drink, preparing myself for the obligation ahead of me. Perhapsyou think me a lecher, or abominable, taking this young girl in such a way.But understand, it is not this girl, or any of the others that quicken my blood,or arouse my desires. They are beautiful yes, but they are not my Painter.It is she I wish with all my heart to hold, to touch, bringing to her facethat same look she has captured again and again with tempera on canvass.
They emerged and Annette was dressed in a silk dressing gown. Her shapelylegs and delicate naked feet moved fluidly across the floor and I watched withadmiration. They reached the settee and my Painter lightly pushed Annette downupon the French sofa. Annette glanced at me, across the room, and I could seethe pulse in her throat quicken.
My Painter's deft fingers untied the knot holding the gown closed and Iwatched as the silk parted, baring the resplendent of the human body. My eyestraced the soft curves of Annette's breast, her soft abdomen, the dark triangleof hair at the cleft of her legs. Her nipples were delicate and small, tinyspecks of heart color amid a sea of marble.
" Moi Cherie , you are beautiful." I said softly.
Annette rewarded me with a nervous smile. My Painter bent down and kissedher upon the cheek. Annette lifted her hands and allowed my Painter to wrapthe dark strands of silk around each wrist. Each hand was bound and then theywere brought together, as if praying, before being linked as one. My Painterstood and pulled Annette's hand up over her head, tying the loose strands tothe back of the settee.
As a man, it is always hard to deal with and control the physical reactionsof desire. Before me was a beautiful woman, bound and open and willing formy touch and my taste. But my heart could never be given, and so I knew thatthis was for Annette's pleasure, and for my Painter's muse.
My Painter had taken the black strands and looped them around each leg atthe knee, spreading Annette's legs and bringing them off the settee. The dexterousfingers of my Painter had bound the girl tightly spread open and ready formy touch.
Annette's face held the nervous tension of fear and longing and I realizedshe expected me to love her, to take her body and to use it. I sighed and steppedto the settee as my Painter removed herself and moved to her paints.
I sat on the end of settee and watched her tighten, her breath held deep. "Annette,child." I said. "I'm not going to take my pleasure with you. That is not mypurpose. I dislike the most intimate sharings between two people, unless theyare given in love. My entire purpose is to bring a level of pleasure you havenever dreamed of to your senses, and then allow that pleasure to cross allboundaries. I must bring you to a level where pain and pleasure have no meaning.Where desire and demand are but whispers in the gale of an incoming storm.That is my purpose."
Annette seemed to understand and I watched her relax. I reached down behindthe settee and removed the small glass bottle that I kept there. I poured asmall amount of the oil into my hand and carefully spilled it across her bosomand stomach, down through her spread sex. More oil I dribbled along her leg,until it began to seep down the sides of her body.
It seemed like a spark of electricity when I touched her. She jumped inshock as she felt my hands touch the smooth beauty of her belly. I carefullyrubbed in the oil, feeling it warm to my touch and motion. I watched as Annettepurred with pleasure and I moved my hands down her legs and up her thighs incircling movements. I brought my hands back up the sides of her body, caressingher hips and then arms and shoulders. Finally I moved my hands up the slopesof her breasts, cupping each delicate mound in my oiled palms. I lifted myfingers, circling my hands as each nipple was delicately rubbed by soft palms.
Annette gasped and I saw the lips of her sex ripen and the scent of herdesire touched my senses. My left hand left her breast and traveled downward,through the glistening strands of her triangle, and then downward into thecleft of her sex. As my finger slipped easily over the tip of her clitorisshe pulled on her bonds, her throat allowing the soft mewing sounds of desireand pleasure to croon forward.
I slipped a finger into her body, feeling the soft wet warmth surround itlike nothing else. It is the ultimate pleasure a man can have, experiencedwith a willingness and openness unlike any other.
I began to caress her deeply, stroking the insides of her body. My fingersdanced along the walls of her well and my other hand caressed her arms, herbosom, her belly. Slowly I felt the heat well up deep with in her. I felt hersex struggle with need and her body began to strain against the bindings. Isaw her eyes bore deep into mine as I brought her past the point where therelevance of who I was no longer held meaning. Need became a factor more intenseand inescapable than any other.
I glanced up and saw that my Painter was ready. Her paints were mixed andshe stood near us, watching Annette intensely. I caught the slight sent ofa match lighting and then the warm cinnamon of the candle. My hand sought thespecial point within a woman that brings her to the edge and I found it withAnnette. I touched her, causing her to arch her back upwards against her bonds.Her eyes closed with intense feeling and I let my other hand take hold of thecandle.
It was nothing to bring her to the shattering edges of orgasm. It was almostinescapable. Her body rocked with tension as the pleasure rose and rose. Itwas then that I raised the candle above her body, my hand still buried in thewarm cleft of her sex. I watched as the liquid heat fell from my hand, by myhand, splashing across the oil glistening marble of her breasts.
Annette cried out as the heat seared her, but my movements inside her causedthe sensations from the heat to combine with the pleasure and I watched asshe moved to that place where pain and pleasure combine and become the same.My Painter had moved to her easel and was painting with a fury, letting thestrokes of the brush create what the eye saw.
I continued to pour as Annette writhed and twisted under the straps. Andthen it happened. That one magical moment and I saw my Painter stop to stare.The flooding moment came and the look of agony and pleasure crossed the boundgirl's face together as one. My Painter gasped in amazement and furiously placedwhat she had seen upon the canvass. I allowed only one more, firey drop tofall, before placing the candle upon the floor.
Her body was spattered with the droplets of wax, striking a contrast somuch like the painting's demon red claws that I paused momentarily. I keptmy rhythm between her legs and began to slowly let her down. Finally as sherelaxed into the exhaustion of sex, I pulled myself free of her and kissedher ever so gently upon the cheek.
I remember standing up and looking across the girl at my Painter.
"Did you get it?" I asked her.
Her eyes sparkled. "I got it."
I walked around the settee and looked at the painting. Dark and foreboding,yet at the girl's upturned face, bright light illuminated a face that understoodthat dark and light was the same thing. Two sides of the same coin. I saw theface of Annette, in agony.
And in ecstasy.
Sitting at the wire mesh table, watching my Painter, I am bound by love.My memories of that night long ago are no less vivid for my reliving them.Annette had been released, fed, housed, cleaned, and paid for her modeling.And I had gone on lusting in my heart and soul for my true love, my Painter.
And I wonder, will I ever be allowed to bring my Painter to that point wereAnnette and countless others have gone? Will I ever be allowed to satisfy notonly her needs, but my own? And who will paint us?
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- 21.09.2022
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