Page 6 of Painter's Obsession: Volume II

My hand moves to his cheek, smearing the small bit of drool that’s there across his lips before slipping the base of my thumb into his mouth. His tongue twitches at the intrusion–a small, involuntary reaction. My cock twitches in my pants. Fuck, he is magnificent. If only he could see himself through my eyes, see how perfectly imperfect he is.

I don’t understand emotions, and if I’m quite frank, I don’t really care to.. But art... beauty... pain... fracture. Those I understood, and Byron was all of it wrapped in a six-foot package.

Now you would think, if I didn’t care for him, why do all this? Why go through the trouble? The answer is simple—I wanted to. Could I have picked someone else and carved them up, forgetting about my Thorn and his Rose? I suppose, but where is the fun in that? Where is the art? Where is the dedication?

I promised he would be my greatest masterpiece, even if I have to give up everything for it. Nothing like a little sacrifice to create something out of this world. To bring forward his full potential… all the broken pieces, letting them fall, exposing him.

From my crouched position, I grab his limp arm, throwing it around my shoulder as I drag him out slightly, then stand, pulling him up with me. His body is warm, his skin damp from his sweat against mine. The fucker is like dead weight… so fucking heavy, muscles slack, breath uneven. But art demands sacrifice, and I would be lying if I said I wasn’t eager to show him what he created—to show him what I’ve become because of him.

His actions forced me to make improvements, to perfect my craft, to take it further. I guess in a way, we helped each other. He shattered me first, so it’s only fair I return the favor. Once I get him fully out of the SUV, his body sways against mine, head lolling forward, I use my foot to kick the door closed and drag him toward his new place.

But first, I need to make him obedient, teach him what it means to be mine.

And I have a special place for bad boys who don’t listen.

I didn’t buy this place for its remote location, but more so for the secret residing beneath it—an underground bunker the previous owner had installed. A secret that not even Kevin knows exists; a place untouched by the world, waiting to swallow my Thorn whole. But like I’ve said before, nothing I do is without reason.

Dragging my Thorn to his new home, I stop when I make it to the dead tree that sits right in front of the entrance. The bark is rough, splintering under my touch as I steady myself. Using my foot, I kick the leaves around, brushing them out of place until I see it—the thick, coiled rope buried beneath.

I’m not careful as I drop him on the ground, I need my hands free to pull open the entrance. His body crumples like a puppet whose had its strings cut. Byron lands with a softthud. The sound is music to my ears causing a slow smile to stretch across my face. I hope it hurts.

I want it to hurt.

All of it.

I want it all to hurt so bad that he has no other option but to turn to the dark, to understand that he was never meant to live in the light. Because the truth hurts when the light shines on it. Grabbing the rope, I pull open the entrance, grunting with effort. The fall from here won’t kill him, but it will teach him. This part won’t be pleasant—at least not for him. Hopefullythe thin mattress catches his fall. Or maybe i’ll miss just for the fuck of it, I haven’t decided yet.

Moving toward Byron, I grab his ankle, dragging his body closer before rolling him into the bunker. The moment his weight shifts, he tumbles down, hitting the mattress before his shoulder slams against the ground. A dull thud echoes up the hollow space.

That’s gonna leave a bruise.

I follow behind, savoring each step as I descend the stairs. The air is stale, thick with the damp scent of mildew and decay. Everything waits for him.

A bucket for his waste.

Another with a little water.

Food… Well, that depends on how well he listens. This isn’t a hotel, after all.

This is his hell.

My personal masterpiece. He took away my passion… my art. And now, he will help me find my inspiration again. But right now, I have more pressing matters. My cock throbs, aching, demanding release. How many nights did I dream of this moment? How many nights did I touch myself with Byron’s name falling from my lips, his face burned into my mind as I came?

Byron has become a need. An addiction.

And like a true addict, I need my fix.

Removing the button of my shirt, I watch the slow rise of his chest, the steady rhythm making my own breath hitch in anticipation. I take my time removing my clothes, savoring the moment, letting the cool air kiss my bare skin as I bask in the power I hold over him. Savoring my victory even though it is small in comparison to everything that I have planned. Once I’m fully naked, I move towards his sleeping form. Watching the slow rising on his chest, the moon illuminates his golden skin. His body seems relaxed but I see the muscles twitching slightly as if sensing what’s to come while his brows knit together, and his lips purse together, scrunching the scar above his lip.

My hands hastily work to rip open his white tee and then remove his pants, his scent hitting me full force–musky and intoxicating. His scar is jagged and thick around the tip of his cock. My finger traces my markcausing his dick to jolt in my hand but I pull away. I don’t need his cock to be hard for what I’m about to do. It’s not about that. This is about me taking what I need.

I spread his legs apart, drinking in the sight of him–his vulnerability, his absolute helplessness. When I spot the silver metal glinting under the moonlight. My finger curls around it, tugging it gently. Ahh… he even left in the piercing I gave him, a warm feeling spread through me as I tug on the hoop harder this time. My erection throbs, spitting on my hand and moving towards his puckered hole, watching the way his muscles twitch involuntarily, his body responding to my touch even in sleep. Massaging my spit into it before my fingers play with it, causes a small sigh to escape his lips–a small sound so fragile, so unknowing. Even sleeping, my Thorn reacts so beautifully.

With my free hand, I stroke my needy cock, the heat pooling low, my breath uneven as my fingers tighten around my length. Gripping my thick shaft, I move up and down in slow movements, matching theprecise rhythm of my fingers working Byron’s ass. Using the bead of precum gathering on the head of my now pierced cock, I run it up and down his asshole before I begin to push in. Slowly. Torturously.

Once the head pushes in, I hiss as my body tenses, feeling the way he clenches down around me even in unconsciousness. “So, fucking tight,” I lift his thick, muscular thighs up because I want to see it. I need to see it. I need to see how my cock disappears inside him, the way his body unwillingly takes me in. I need to see it painted red with his blood.

Slowly, I move, pistoning my hips forward while watching his face. His brows smooth momentarily, his lips parting before his body instinctively tenses, reacting to the intrusion. Even in his state, his cock hardens as I continue to rock my hips, each thrust picking up intensity. His body tightens, the resistance adding to the high, to the heat coiling low in my stomach. My hand releases his leg and focuses on his cock. His thick, heavy length twitching in my grip, warmth spreading through my palm. My delicate hand grips his thick shaft,my thumb tracing the scar left from me as I slowly move up and down.

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