Fellatio For Art

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I’m not sure why I was there, I never enjoyed the beach much, but yet again my family had dragged me out into the middle of nowhere. At least there were real houses here and not some sort of worn down shack. In fact, the place seemed not too different from most residential areas in suburban towns, though a bit higher class I suppose.

Those better off (and they’d have to be if they could afford to live on a waterfront area) certainly liked to show off. Most houses were shiner, cleaner than I’d tend to expect from a beach. But why was I here? My grandparents invited me out, thought I could use the fresh air I guess.

“You’re too thin and pale, Robert.”

I’m 20 years old and an art student. Of course I’m pale, of course I’m thin. When one is painting you don’t just stop in the middle to go and feed yourself, you paint until exhausted. Suffice to say, my body of work maybe substantial, but I’m 5’8″ and I only weigh 118lbs. My hair is long and brown, I dress in black, and I care more about my work than my health. Cleverly though, my grandmother somehow managed to “lose” all of my paints, pencils, paper, and other art supplies that had the letter “P” in them.

“I don’t understand it, they were in the car before we left. Oh dear… suppose I accidentally left them in the living room? Well it’s too late to go get them now. I suppose you’ll have to find other things to do.”

Right. They dragged me out here with the promise of beautiful landscapes, and peace and quiet. Then my supplies get left behind.

“I guess now all you’ll have to do is wander around, collecting inspiration for when you get back.”

About as subtle as a sledgehammer to the face. I’m sure they hope I’ll meet some nice girl out on the beach somewhere and focus more on humans. I don’t have much interest in a relationship right now, not a good place in my life.

The afternoon of the second day, they kick me out (albeit politely) and send me off to wander the beach. Forget that. I take a left at the end of the road. More houses, rather nice ones too. I walk in the space between a white house and a blue house and end up in someone’s backyard. The house in front of me is yellow, and there is a white backdoor in front of me. I can see no car in the driveway. What the hell, this beats ignoring the girls down at the beach. I reach for the door and test it, only to find it unlocked. “Of course it’s not locked”, I think to myself, “No ‘bad element’ should be around for miles.” Bah. It’s not like I’m gonna steal anything, just gonna take a look around. I walk inside; the door leads right into the kitchen. My heart is pounding a mile a minute. I walk through a door on the wall opposite me into a living room. A couch, a recliner, TV, coffee table, pretty usual. I notice there aren’t any photographs Onwin anywhere, but there is an art print or two here and there. All pointillist landscapes. The place is neat and tidy, kinda smallish, but certainly sized for one. “This is probably a condo or apartment”, I wonder to myself, “the building is much larger than this.”

The room has five doors, one to the kitchen, one is the front door, I assume that the one nearest the front door is a coat closet, so the remaining two must be a bedroom and a bathroom. I walk into the one on my left. It’s the bedroom. Very well made up, nice and neat like the rest of the house. There’s a bathroom, to the left, and interestingly, there is a walk-in wardrobe to my right. Especially odd since a dresser is directly next to the door on my left. I move over to the wardrobe and test the doors. Locked. Near by is a print of “Olympia” by Stephen Hale. I move into the bathroom. Clean, nothing interesting. I’m growing bored, the thrill of trespassing has worn off. I decide to check the other bathroom before I leave. Once I open the door I realize I’m mistaken. The amazing view is the first thing that hits me. The entire wall on the right side of the building, the wall opposite me, is made of glass; White curtains are bunched at the sides. Out side of the window the world seems to drop off altogether, to be replaced by nothing but clear blue water. “Maybe the ocean isn’t so terrible after all” I marvel to myself. Then I notice the smell, that wonderful smell of dreams. Acrylics, Oils, Watercolors. The person is a painter. There is an easel in front of me with a blank canvas on it; between it and the window is a wide closed wood box, with cloth draped over it. It’s a stage for a model. I wander around a bit and find brushes soaking, a stained pallet or two, lot’s of half empty tubes of paint, and this person’s work. All male models, all nude. His work is very Rococo, only more sensual, and very, very, arousing. My heart is slowly starting to beat faster again as I look at a new painting. Some of these seem to be darker as they go along. That man almost looks like he… A car door. Shit. I’m half way through the paintings, and I lean them back against the wall, my heart now doing double time. The front door opens. Double shit. I hear the owner moving about his living room. I imagine an over coat going into the coat closet, and then the person walking into the bedroom. Change their clothes. Footsteps approach the studio door. I panic. My hearts a full marching band. Can I go out the window? That’d be suicide. I freeze, and the door opens.

I’m confronted by a man in his early 40’s. He’s wearing dark slacks, and a paint stained long button up shirt with the sleeves rolled up. His hair is short, and graying. He’s a very clean looking man, almost seems Onwin giriş like he’s be conservative. He doesn’t seem shocked at all to see me.

“Hello.” He notices the slightly disheveled painting leaning against the wall. “See anything you like.”

“I didn’t steal anything, and I wasn’t planning to.”

“I’m sure, but that doesn’t answer the question.”

My heart feels like a humming bird on amphetamines. The words stick to my throat, not even vaguely making it out of my head. He looks down at my pants.

“I think perhaps you do like them. Come with me.”

He holds his hand out to mine and I take it. An electric current runs through me, and I start to feel warmer. My skin is very sensitive, more so to people since I rarely let them touch me. I wonder if he knew what this was doing to me? He leads me to the living room and sat down in the recliner. I stood in front of him and he dropped my hand. He regarded me for a bit.

“Why are you here?” He spoke in a soft and calm voice.

“I was bored, I was looking for something to do that I have never done before.” Stammering. My cheeks must be bright red.

“Why were you looking at my paintings?”

“I’m a painter myself. When I realized you were one too, I wanted to see what your work was like. I swear, I didn’t hurt an-“

“And what did you think of the style and subject matter?” He’s focused on where my legs meet.

“I thought they were…” I grope blindly for a word “…stimulating.”

“Interesting choice of words.” His gaze is unwavering, and I feel my blush reaching past my toes, rooting me like a plant in the ground. I couldn’t really leave even if I wanted to. “Have you ever been with another man before?” This question softer than any of the others.

“No, sir.”

“Would you try something else that you’d never done before then?” I nod. I can’t even form words. “On your knees then.” I’ve thought about this sort of thing before, but I never thought I’d be in a situation like this. I obey. His legs have been spread wide enough for me to kneel between them, but are still closed enough for me to feel them almost surrounding me. “Unzip my fly.” I unbutton his pants and slide the zipper down, listening to the sound of the teeth opening. “Take out my cock, and hold it in your hand.” My god it’s warm. A decent size, circumcised, and clean. I stroke it a little and his breathing changes a bit. A bead of precum starts to form at the top. Run my fingertip over it, and he shivers a bit. “Taste it.” I put my finger in my mouth. “Do you like it?” My god, yes! During some of my fantasies I’ve tasted my own so to enhance the experience, but it never prepared me for the salty/sweet taste of his. “Would you like to blow me?” To answer him I lick his cock head lightly and then look up at him innocently. “Then please, enjoy yourself.” I take him in my hand again, and apply my tongue to his testicles. Licking lightly up and down, while slowly pumping him with my right hand. My left is supporting me. I feel the wetness of another bead of precum smearing over his head. “Waste not, want not.” I think to myself, and reposition my self to be support on my knees and lower legs alone. I lick the top of his head clean. As I lick lightly around the base of the head, I start to gently caress his balls with my left hand, place my right hand under his shirt, and around his back so that I can have better purchase. I lower my lips to completely engulf the cock head and swirl my tongue a bit. I’m rewarded with more precum. I release him from my lips and start to lick gently down his shaft, and then very lightly back up. I swirl my tongue and move down to engulf him entirely. I choke before I can get it all in. He lifts my head back up, looks me in the eyes and gently says, “This is your first time, you need not even think about trying to deep throat me.” He caresses my cheek and I go back to between his pants. I slide my lips down, taking him to my current threshold (sadly only 3 inches). Back up, dragging my tongue the whole way. I reach behind him and now grab his back with both hands. Up and down, up and down, slowly. He places a hand on the back of my head, not to push or guide, but to gently caress and pet. I suddenly hear him gasp a bit and he says that he wants me to swallow it. Not yet dammit, I’m enjoying this! I slow my pace down, but it’s too late. He swells and fills my mouth. Oh well. I savor the semen, relishing the taste as I swallow. There’s quite a lot to savor. It’s much better tasting then the precum was, and thicker. It reminds me a lot of the filling in Cadbury Crème Eggs. I lay my head against his leg, watching as he deflates. He pulls up my head by the chin, I swallow the last up his cum, and he kisses me on the lips. “What’s your name?” He asks at last.

“My name is Robert.”

“Well Robert,” he says in that calm and gentle voice of his “I would like you to return here at 11 o’clock tonight, and at that time we shall alleviate your…” He looks at the very prominent bulge where my legs meet. “…boredom. You are not allowed to touch you penis between now and then except to pee and to wash yourself. You will take a shower within the hour before you leave.”

“Yes sir.” I walk to the back door, but pause at the threshold and ask back at him “What’s your name?”

“It’s Arthur. Run along home now before someone misses you, but remember your appointment. Mind the time.”

I contemplate what he might have in store for me upon my return. I’m so lost in my thoughts that I don’t notice my grandmother calling to me until already half up the stairs.

“Robert, you’re lucky to be just arriving. Dinner will be ready a few minutes.”

His taste is still in my mouth “No thanks grandma, I just ate.”

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