Page 20 of Painter's Obsession: Volume II

“Hold our cocks, Byron.” I groan as I slowly stroke my own cock. “Make us come.” My voice comes out needy, too fucking desperate, and I fucking hate it. The moment the words leave my lips, I feel the weight of them, the weakness, the raw need slipping through the cracks of my control. The lack of control I’ve had in my life since he walked into it. Since he unsettled everything inside me. Since he made me want things I don’t understand.

Viciously, I grab his cock, yanking him forward, forcing him closer, and forcing his body to acknowledge what his mind won’t. They say you can’t teach an old dog new tricks, but I’ll prove this theory wrong. There is no choice. There is only surrender. Byron will learn that when I say jump, his only response will be how high.

I look up at Byron, the water cascading over us as I place our cocks in my hand while my other moves to his neck, forcing him to look into my eyes. Forcing him to face himself. Bringing him into the void, he won’tescape this moment... his truth or how I’m about to make him cum.

“Look at us, Byron.”

I dig my nails into his neck, forcing him to look at us as our cocks slide out of my hand in sync. The friction is slow, measured, and meant to break him in degrees, not all at once. Our skin rubs against each other, and I see the little movement in his brows, his own mask cracking slightly as his truth comes to light. A flicker. A moment of weakness. The exact thing I was waiting for. His cock slides into my hand as mine slides out. In and out. Slow and deliberate...

Dragging it out. Savoring it.

Making me desperate for more friction... harder... but I need this. I need to see how far I can push him before he collapses. We need this. After all, control is the goal here.

Forcing his neck up, I lock eyes with Byron as I continue my torturous pace. His struggle is beautiful, infuriating. His eyebrows knit together as he sucks in his lower lip, causing the scar on his top lip to protrude. That scar.A mark of past battles, but this is the one he’s losing. His body willingly moves into my hand, and the moment is too much... almost unbearable.

My body feels like it’s floating, drifting away from her presence... I can’t feel her right now. Not in this moment. She isn’t here.

All I see is the feral need in front of me as his cock thrusts into my waiting hand. A rhythm neither of us can stop anymore.

Moving my hand and body, I press our cocks together, side by side, skin on skin, heat against heat. The final step in making him see.

“Give in, Byron.”

My voice breaks from the need... a confession I didn’t mean to make.

“Fuck,” he breathes. “You.” His voice is rough, guttural resentment laced with surrender.

And just like that, we cum together as one.

The moment should be final, but it isn’t. I won’t let it be. Carefully, I take my hand away fromthe water so our essence doesn’t wash off. Proof. He needs to see it. Feel it. Understand it.

“Taste, Byron. Taste your truth...”

I smile as I wait for him to open his mouth, but he doesn’t, as expected. Stubborn, even now. Even when the truth is right there, clinging to his skin. With a smile, I rub it on his lips, tracing the scar over his Cupid’s bow. Dragging it across him, letting him wear it like a brand.

“How did you get that?”

“Fight,” he replies, his voice tense. But of course he did. Of course he fought. That’s what he does. That’s why he’s here.

“Come, let’s get the show going.” I say as I grab the soap and finish the job. Cleansing him. Resetting him. But we both know—he’s already ruined.

Chapter Eleven

Byron

After we showered, Ren of course left me naked, saying something about how creating in your most vulnerable state makes it more magical. Personal.

Truthfully, I don’t give a shit, but the words linger anyway, unwanted and intrusive, crawling into the back of my mind.

But if I want to survive long enough to put him down, then I needed to play his game. I needed to sink into the role so deeply that even I started to believe it. I needed him to believe the dream I was selling. That’s all it was. A dream. Not a confession. Not a truth. Just another lie I had to tell to survive. So why does it feel more real everytime I say it? All I’ve known is defiance, resilience—it’s like second skin to me, woven into my bones. There’s no bowing down. There’s only fight.

Standing in front of the window, I try to focus on the trees, on the way they dance in the wind twisting, bending, but never breaking. Focus on anything but the intrusive thoughts clawing their way in, anything but the memory of whatever happened in the shower. My father must be turning in his grave to know he was right all along. That thought alone makes my stomach twist, a sick satisfaction at knowing he’d choke on his own certainty.

I was sick. Not because I was gay.

It was because of him.

The man who ripped off the mask and forced me into the light.

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