0 comments/ 34424 views/ 2 favorites For The Love Of Art By: Starlight My name is Jenny Blithe. At the time of writing I am in my mid fifties. I have been married once, to Tom, who died in a skiing accident about five years after we got married. I have had two lovers since then, but neither of them worked out, the first turning out to be a lout, and the second a foul-mouthed pig. After that I gave up and contented myself with a dildo. My main activity in life is my painting and craftwork, which is carried out in the "Workshop", which is a large room attached to the back of the house. I have a number of outlets for my work that bring in enough money for me to live on in reasonable comfort. I was about thirty-four when Madge and Ben moved in next door with their two-year-old child, Alan. I got to know Madge fairly quickly through chatting over the back fence, then joining her occasionally for morning coffee. Along with her, I also got to know Alan a rather sweet child, who tended to sit staring at me rather intently when I visited. One day, when Alan was about three, he found his way to my workshop, and finding the door partially open he came in. I was working on a painting at the time and didn't hear him arrive, so it was only when I turned away from the painting I saw him. It gave me quite a jolt. He was staring again, but this time dividing his interest between the painting and me. Not sure how to proceed I asked him, "Do you like the painting?" He nodded and said nothing. Being concerned about how Madge might be worried, I called over the back fence. She came running and I told her that I had Alan with me. "Thank God," she said, "I just turned my back for a minute and he was gone. I've been hunting everywhere for him." Alan was duly restored to his mother, but from then on he became a regular visitor to my workshop. He was fascinated by the great variety of materials, machinery and equipment I had, and I had to keep a sharp eye on him around the bandsaw and wood lathe. He was, however, mostly content to watch me at my work, and most especially when I was painting. Somehow, his presence managed to assuage the loneliness I sometimes felt. He gradually became more talkative, and when he was about four years old, he paid me what I suppose he thought to be the supreme compliment. "I love you Auntie Jenny, you're nearly as pretty as my mummy." Realising that the compliment of a child is the sincerest you can get, I thanked him for his unsolicited tribute, smiled, and decided to reciprocate. "I love you too, and I think you a very nice boy." The truth was, I had got to love Alan. Perhaps I saw him as the child that I had never had with my beloved Tom. Whatever the case, I looked forward increasingly to his visits. Alan went to kindergarten and soon after he began, he turned up carrying a roll of butcher's paper. "I paint pictures too. I gave one to mummy but I did this for you." He offered me the paper that had washed across in wild abandon a water paint picture of what Alan said was a dog. I kissed his cheek, thanked him, and pinned it on the wall. It hangs there faded to this day. The first gift of love from a child. When Alan went to primary school his paintings arrived in my workshop with increasing frequency, until one day he announced that he had to do a painting to take to school the next day, and could he come and do it with me? I agreed and found an old easel to use. To have a "real thing" to do his painting on was a great thrill for him, so I stood him on a wooden box and let him get on with it. From then on he always did his painting with me, often asking me, "How do you do this." One day, when Alan was eight and on vacation from school, I had forgotten this, and was working with a large mirror on a nude self-portrait. Surveying myself, I saw a figure, five feet seven tall, long blonde hair, dark brown eyes, longish nose, and wide mouth with rounded chin and a rather swanlike neck. My breasts (38C), had been Tom's most delicious delight, and from being embarrassed by their size in my teenage years, he taught me to love and enjoy them. Waist a little on the plump side, pubic hair a nice little triangle which barely hides my vagina. I believe my vaginal opening is a little more forward than most women's are, and Tom got further delight from this because he could get that extra inch into me. And finally, legs long and strong and they had frequently wrapped around Tom's buttocks to drag him deeper into me. As I contemplated myself in the mirror, and tried to paint what I saw, the door opened and Alan came in. He gave me the briefest of glances then focused his attention on the painting. "That's a rude painting, " he announced. I had grabbed a smock to cover myself with, and rather flustered I tried to deliver a lecture on the beauty of the human body with, I fear, no great success. Alan said no more on the matter at the time, and showed me a little carving he was doing at school, but the next day he entered with a further pronouncement on the nude. "My mum says that if you are doing the painting it can't be rude." I expressed my gratitude for this confidence in my virtue, and no more was said. Or at least, nothing further was said about it until long afterwards. The years passed and Alan went on to high school. Here he continued to develop his skill and interest in painting and the arts in general. He spent a great deal of time painting in my workshop and in addition, did most of his other homework there. I sometimes wondered what his parents thought, but they said nothing, and since they now had two more children, I suppose they were not too unhappy to have Alan working next door. As Alan reached his latter-teen years, he developed into a very well built and good-looking young man. I began to paint portraits of him. They were not posed portraits, but done from sketches I made while he worked. Eventually, however, when he was 18 I made a bold decision. I wanted to paint him nude. Before asking him, I spoke to his mother. Madge shrugged her shoulders. We were both aware that Alan had been sexually active with girls from the high school for some time. "He's of an age to decide for himself now," said Madge, "and I think there have been quite a few females that have seen him naked, so ask him." I asked and got an affirmative answer. The first time I posed him naked I was almost overwhelmed by what I saw. I knew him to be a fine looking young man, but when unclothed, he was in truth, beautiful. His muscle development was a painter's dream, but I confess to you, I was most taken by his genital maturation. He was like a young stallion. "No wonder he has no problem in getting the girls," I thought, and I could not help wondering what he was like when he had an erection. "He'd be a delight in any woman's bed." Between doing his own work, Alan posed for me many times over the next few weeks. I tried to discipline myself not to be constantly drawn to his manhood, but I admit that I often found myself getting wet between the legs, and had to constantly tell myself that I was an old woman, and he a young man, barely out of boyhood. The painting finished, it went on display at a gallery that took my work. It was sold to a sixty-year-old widow for an enormous sum. I am not a painter of the first rank, but am merely what people call "competent," but this work was something that had gone beyond anything I had ever painted before. Towards the end of his last year at high school, Alan told me he was preparing his portfolio as part of his entry into high school. "Your turn," he said. I was mystified. "What do you mean, 'my turn'?" I asked. "Your turn to pose naked for me," he answered. "I want a nude for my portfolio." "Nonsense," I replied. "Why ever would you want a nude picture of an old woman like me? You want a young woman." "No I don't," he laughed. "Remember all those years ago when I walked in and caught you naked?" I recalled the incident with a blush. "Well, I haven't seen anything since that I'd rather paint," he said. "But I'm much older now," I protested. "Things change, you know." I had in mind not only how I might have changed, but how he had definitely changed. "I don't care," he retorted. "I posed for you, so now it's your turn to do the same for me." The argument raged for a while, but it ended in my agreeing to sit for him. We began the next day. I was stretched out on a chaise lounge, one leg drawn up, arms up with my hands behind my head. In this position, I was giving him a good view of my vagina, and a fine uplift to my breasts. His nudity had aroused me, but like all women, it could be hidden. His arousal could not be so easily concealed. Almost from the start of the first sitting, I could see his impressive erection pushing out the painter's smock he was wearing. This sight of his hunger for me had its effect on me. My nipples stiffened and my vagina began to lubricate. He began working, but I could see that concentration was lacking. The sexual desire we were both experiencing was almost a tangible force extending between us. Telling myself I was just an old woman and he a virile youth made no difference. Alan came across as if to adjust my pose, he leaned over me and pressed his lips to mine. I made no effort or pretence at resisting, but responded to him. Moving away from the kiss he whispered, "I want you Jenny, I've wanted you for years." I stood and undid the buttons of his smock that fell open to reveal his nakedness beneath. His lovely young penis sprang out and I took it in my hand and said, "You shall have me, my love." He stood behind me and cupped my breasts, stroking from the base to end up gently squeezing my firm nipples. My mind began to whirl. I shook all over. "My God," I thought, "I'm so worked up, he's making me come just by touching my breasts." Never had this happened to me before. My legs began to shake until they could barely support me. Alan held me, still caressing my breasts, and kissing the nape of my neck. My orgasm approached and I began to cry out, "Oh darling, my love…ah…no…no…oh my God yes…" The climactic storm swept over me as I screamed and screamed, and then it was over and I collapsed completely in Alan's arms. He lifted me up and lay me on the chaise lounge. He sat on the edge of the chaise lounge, waiting for my recovery. He had just done something spectacular for me, but I had seemingly done nothing for him. I could see his massive erection throbbing in time with his heart beat, so as I gradually revived from my towering climax, I took his organ in my hand and leaning over, inserted it into my mouth. He groaned and began to tremble, calling out my name: "Jenny, oh Jenny…" I felt his orgasm coming as he put his hands behind my head and pulled himself deeper into my mouth. Suddenly he was howling as he spurted into me and I was fighting to swallow his sweet young seed. As he pumped more and more sperm into my mouth I could no longer swallow quickly enough, his ejection was so immense. It ran out of my mouth onto the seat and floor. He finished and it was his turn to collapse. He slipped to the floor and I joined him, kissing him so he could taste his own discharge. When I felt him beginning to recover I moved over him and put my vagina to his mouth. He knew what to do, and was quickly forcing his tongue into my entrance. From there he moved to my clitoris, and he soon had me in a mad fever of exultation again, first screaming for mercy, then begging him not to stop. When it was over, I lay on the floor beside him. I had never known such completion, such euphoric fulfillment, before. Every fibre of my being seemed to quiver with triumph. When I had recovered sufficiently, I rose to my feet and said, "Let's go to bed, darling." I led him to my bedroom and the big double bed. So far he had not penetrated me, and I was determined he should. I felt for his penis, and finding it slack I began to caress it. It rose to its mighty extent and I sat across him. Inserting him into me, he began again to cry out my name. Jenny, oh Jenny, I love you…I've always loved you…I want you for ever." He was slow this time to ejaculate and I enjoyed him to the full. When he did climax, I chimed in with him, adding my cries to his, and ending up sobbing with rapture. That night we did not return to the workshop, but on the following nights we did manage to get some of the work done, a little at a time, that is, between love making. Perhaps you would like a happy conclusion to my story. I can give you neither a happy nor an unhappy ending. For the past three years, Alan and I have been lovers. The huge age gap means we cannot be anything else to each other, and I cannot give him children. I would dearly love to be pregnant to him but it is no longer possible. I know that our relationship in this form must almost certainly come to an end. When and how I do not know, but in the meantime I'll enjoy him to the fullest possible extent, and shall make sure he enjoys me. For the Love of Art This is purely dream based. Had it this morning. Potentially a five-part story revolving around a possible sociopath art instructor with a niche for dark arts and an African American student of his whose world slowly opens to his dark one. Mild degradation, non-consent, but eh, ehhhh, he has blue eyes and black hair; he can do whatever he wants. ----------------------------------------------- Ever have a feeling something life changing was about to happen, but you know it's inexorable, an inevitable fate despite your premonition? That's how I felt in Mr. Ryne's class. Everyday. Except my feeling was always a bad one. I can admit, most of it was in my head, me pointing out monsters where none existed. And then there were the instances the monsters were very real, and one of them, frequent. But today was different. I watched Mr. Ryne prowl around the class art stand in that uncanny way of his, as though he was listening and monitoring at the same time. Observing. Preying. Again, all in my head. It had to be. None of the other students were as rigid on their wooden stools in front of their canvases as I was. I was certain none of them turned their gorgeous art teacher into a sinister abstraction, as I did. But when you've sat in room 116 for sixty plus days, drawing the male out into a special kind of horror, you start to see things my way. For instance, that round art table with the white concept foam of different shapes and fruits and items all clustered together, it had black dahlias imprinted against the mahogany wood—or maybe it was black hollyhock. Either way, they were a dark flower with a million lines and designs etched and painted into the wooden table, and whenever Mr. Ryne would stalk in a circle, going on about Discobolus and the epiphany Myron was enraptured by, he would always turn at an angle that would cause his raven curls to dip low over cyan blue eyes. He would proceed to ask the class a question, but did anyone see the glance he would slide me in between him asking and the question mark at the end? The look that made me sick. I wasn't crazy. It wasn't just your average meandering glance. He would look at me—and it wouldn't be but a moment, mind you!—and everything about the happy, reliable, trusting, artistic, eccentric art teacher of Cambridge University would vanish. His lips would thin, his eyes hardening, and recently, I've seen his fingers twitch when he gave me the look that wrote up the apostle of evil. As though he itched to touch me. Grab me. Strangle me. But like I said, today was different. Today was the last day I would endure my immense fear of the man. The last day of the semester. "I know my eager ducklings are hungry for their percentage grades and the sweet taste of Christmas with their families," he said in a joking, light tone. The kind that made the students laugh and feel at ease, especially since he always did refer to his students as his "ducklings", instead of prodigy or children as other art instructors were prone. He held out a stack of loosely contained papers, looking at each of them with this smile of white teeth and three-day shadow beard. "I've high hopes for you all. Kylie, your surrealism portfolio has caught the eye of many at the European Art Exhibition. A sure sign you followed my advice and added your own idiosyncratic touch." The pride in his voice made the short haired girl perk up, a flustered, wobbly smile smattered across her face as he set her semester's grade sketch facedown on her canvas bracket. He did this to all of them as he set their paper down in front of them, and they were all fattened on his sweet nothings each time they turned the paper over and took a look at their grades. Then he got to me. He stood at the side of my easel, his tall form shadowing out the left side of the room. And it was but a quick moment, two seconds of him flicking the paper then easing it into the easel's bracket cracks. But in this quick moment, his cyan eyes peered down through the inks of dark locks, meeting mine with a glacial hatred, or it was warning, or maybe it was even the root of all evil. All in your head, Grace. Regardless, my stomach turned, and I stuffed my hands between my legs when I realized they were shaking. All in your head. "Is something the matter, Miss Larson?" His voice was deep, a depth found only in dismal cultures. I quickly shook my head, not liking how his voice entered more than my ears. It seeped into my bones, wrapping around my awareness of him. His scent, I wished it was acrid, but it was actually a mix between past delights and something cool, something as strong as a night's allure and minty things. When he stepped away, I realized I hadn't been breathing, so the breath rushed out of me for so long, I almost exhausted myself, head leaning to rest on my blank canvas. None of this mattered. Him. Me. The horror I had painted in my mind. Though this was a two semester class, I had dropped from taking the second course with Mr. Ryne, instead transferring the partial credits toward Mr. Frank's 402 art class. Mr. Frank was an old, funny man who taught with age and rote gestures. A man who didn't wear masks and make my skin crawl. Or your body feel strange. I balled my hands into fists at this, then yanked up the paper of my final grades. I didn't need anything fancy. A solid 70% would get me the B+ I needed, and that B+ would get me the 3.5 GPA requirement for Nova Scotia's graduate program. I flipped the paper over with a silent prayer. Instead of a final grade, written in that hard, too-straight penmanship were the words: 'Stay after class.' The sickness returned. When I looked up, blue eyes stared back. He was regarding me with the edges of his mouth turned down. His fingers jerked. I checked the paper again, as though the words might rearrange themselves into a percentage grade. But they didn't. They glared. They wiped their teary eyes, knowing I would have to stand before the monster and discuss who knew what. That in itself sucked. It was no news flash that I had intense anxiety. Couple that with my poor sense of resolve, and you could easily make me into a distraught damsel, lost with the world. That was what it was like now. Distraught. Utter malaise roiling at the core of my stomach, reminding me of the breakfast I had skipped for this exact reason. This room. Classroom 116. This instructor, Mr. Ryne. He would probably tell me I failed so horribly, he needed a true explanation for how an African American woman could have actually been accepted at his university, and pass not two but three of the prerequisite art courses and make it to the final one, his. He was probably wondering right this second, what kind of art could I produce aside from ghetto graffiti or negligent scraps of what everyone had been telling me was art only because I surpassed your average stick figure. What could I know about contours and the difference between shading and shadowing? I mean, I did look pathetic and like I would be the type to draw up a soul sister with thick black corns and say it was my soul I was expressing. Never mind the fact that my hair conformed to light, soft curls to my shoulder and my skin resembled honey before it did caramel. No, when you were the only student of darker pigmentation, you were just black. And that could be why he singled me out to hate me. Because it couldn't actually be my art. My artwork was subpar at least. Why wasn't I reassured then? You can't get into Nova Scotia without this credit. You need this man's recommendation letter. I guess I could pull from my older art classes for a letter of recommendation, but I wanted to pretty my application up with the prestigious Dimitri Ryne, the flamboyant young artist who wowed every judge at the La Plue de L'Art competition six years in a row, until he backed out and allowed others a chance, in turn, studying for a degree so he might have ''ducklings'' to follow in his footprints. But I hadn't known the male was so . . . odd then. In the photos, he had always spoken with an open body, a smile that I'd bet my money is what wooed the judges more than the art itself. Because it was so white and the hair was so dark and the eyes were these unique blue that pierced anything they landed on. "No, it's an honor to be in your class, sir," I whispered, practicing my line, my excuse, writing up my plea before the court started. It's an honor, and please give me a C. It was minutes later when the class was released. Though they were released early, daylight savings had the sun retiring just as early. Because this was the last class period, 3:50-5:45, the clock read 5:25, and everyone—no matter how much they enjoyed talking after class about nothing with the teacher—was eager to leave, start their winter break, go have social lives. Meanwhile, I packed slowly, heart in my throat, stomach clenching angrily, as if it were upset with me that it didn't have anything to vomit up. I sneaked a peek up through curls I really should have tied back, catching the last student to mill out. Mr. Ryne was nodding and giving a light chuckle at whatever commentary had been stated, then patted Jordan on the back. Once the student was out, he closed the door and flipped off the lights, stroking his eyes warily. I don't know why, but the sudden change from bright room to creepily bronze, vaguely sun-touched room, sent my mind racing, my heart pounding. Dark things happened in dark places. All in your head, Grace. I stuffed the last of my paint brushes in the second fold of my holed and torn backpack before slinging it over one shoulder and walking slowly toward the desk Mr. Ryne was sitting at. Then I noticed the phone in his hand, and already, it was to his lips. How rude was that! I was careful not to scowl as I stared at him. His perfect lips, faint tints of pink and purple, surrounding by the shadow of a beard. He had one ear pierced with a red jewel of some sorts. I couldn't tell if it was real or fake, but the way it caught the sunlight and refracted with a similar coruscation as the jewels of his eyes told me they didn't get any purer than that. He was a tall man, lean and fit. Black jeans topped with a silk white long sleeve shirt fell in grace atop the sinew of his muscles. The sleeves were pushed up above the elbows, showing the tone of his forearms. In his chair, he swiveled, eyes crinkling though whatever had been said on the phone hadn't been funny enough to make him laugh. "Thanks, Nathan." Pause. "Mm, no. I might be here a couple hours or so longer—alright, I will be here a couple hours after, if you want me to tack my words to the wall and etch it in stone. It really depends." He looked up at me when he said the last part, traces of humor swept clean from his eyes. "Tell Donnie not to wait up then." Whatever was said in turn drew a low chuckle from him. I shifted my weight onto the other foot. You'd think I'd have lit one of his paintings on fire. His lips thinned, jawline flexing as the anger brought his teeth together. "I have to go. I'll call you around eight." When he put the phone down—too softly—I stared, grabbing at the sleeve of my large button up shirt. He didn't say anything. I continued to stare, though in my head I paved my escape route to the bathroom, where the air wouldn't be as tight, the toilet readily accessible. The art building was a big building, and I knew where every bathroom existed, knew the nooks and crannies of nearly all their stall locks. Still no words. I swallowed and glanced down at my paper from the flagrant gaze. "You wanted to see me?" "Miss Larson," he said smoothly, no anger present. "Have I kept you waiting too long?" I shook my head. "Not how it would seem. Your feet, their words did not relay the same thing your lips are." What was he getting at? The shifting I did with my feet? "It's just that you were on the phone . . ." "And?" And? "And I just think its somewhat disrespectful. It didn't sound urgent enough to keep someone you requested waiting." Not that I had anything better to do. No boyfriend to go home to, friends to hang out with. College may be the place of socialization and making extraordinary long-term friends, but somehow I had none—well, not counting Becky, an accounting student who I'm pretty sure used me to paint herself in a better light. I did have a fat guinea pig that sometimes let me hold it. Man, I was pathetic. "Respect?" Mr. Ryne asked incredulously, rising to his feet. I couldn't take back the words I had said, and the ball game always change when people come to their full height before you. My 5 foot measly-two didn't work in my favor either. "Everyday you enter my classroom dressed like some degenerate from the streets." These were the only clothes I'd brought from America with me. All extra funds after tuition went towards class material and food. Did he want me to dress like those cliche art hippies with the beanie and scarf, camisole dangling around me? I balled my hands and stared at the place he once was. He rounded the corners of his desk, holding a familiar green binder in his hand. "Your attention is faulty, you're always lethargic. I ask the class the most elementary of questions and you are the only one who fails to know the answer. Apathetic. You spread your apathy within these walls of my classroom and believe you warrant respect? You present finals like this?" He thrust the binder at me and I grabbed hold just before it hit me in the stomach, taking a step back. Bathroom, first left, five feet, a right, last stall. Decrepit lock. Hands shaking again, I looked down at the binder. Clean title tag, printed across: End of Semester Portfolio- Concept Sketches. Dark green borders. Light. Though I didn't look up, I knew he now stood in front of his desk, too close to me, his heat spoiling the clarity of my escape route. He didn't know this was a nightmare class for me, when it was supposed to be my favorite like every other student. He didn't know it was him that stole the answers from my stalled tongue and kept me counting sheep into the thousands at night. I needed medicine, that was it. I needed medicine, but my insurance was still in America and I'd yet to be doctored into the Canadian system. "You must be mistaken. Mr. Ryne, it is an honor to be in your—" "Open the binder, Miss Larson." I did, and when he said nothing, I flipped from the title page to the first piece of art. A sketched pear, its shadows captured perfectly, the gradient easy and forgiving, no erase marks, perfect arches with the B12 led. I flipped to the next one. An apple, same as before, perfect. Without fault. I looked up at the douchewad. Honestly, his perfect face made me want to hurl the binder at him and not ask for an explanation for my lack of grade. "What do you see, Miss Larson?" Beautiful features turned into warm honey, sunlight turning fantastic edges of a stubbled face into a bronze and golden dream. Lips made to trace the planes of bellies, brush the knolls of breasts, suckle buds until— I blinked rapidly. "W-what?" Oh God, what the hell was wrong with me? I was staring at his lips, and that fear that had been in my stomach all hour, something else pushed up against it, a hunger that I no longer knew what for. Something had changed in his gaze, a feverish eclipse taking the gold from his features and revealing an animal reined and caged. "What do you see, Miss Larson," he whispered. I looked back at the portfolio, the thing he had been indicating all along. "An-an apple? An apple." He nodded, that ravenous hunger fading from his eyes and making it possible for me to semi-breathe again. "Yes. An apple. Tell me why I shouldn't mark you with a 50%." I felt my face convey the horror. "What? It's conceptual sketches. I-I did the lines perfectly. The shading. The shadows. The vantage points. I-I don't understand. Why would I get a 50%? You said we could choose the art style of our portfolio. You said . . ." I stopped talking before spittle flew from my mouth and I regressed into a sputtering bull. "No, Miss Larson, it is perfect. But that was not the assignment I instructed. I specifically ordered my students to come to me with any art style of their choosing, to portray the lessons taught over the last few weeks and wow me with their creativity." He plucked the portfolio from my hands. "Does this look at all creative to you?" After a moment of collecting myself, I drew my eyes back to the apple. "No . .?" "Yes or a solid no? Because right now, it sounds to me like you really don't know the difference between creativity and imitation art. This," He motioned all around the edges of the apple. "This is not art. This is considered plagiarizing in this course. This has been done a million times before, and by extension, it falls short of my clear instructions." He dropped the portfolio on his desk. There was genuine anger in his eyes, fury even, as though I had failed him on a very personal level. I had stayed up for hours drawing and redrawing those damn fruit. At one point, I even had to come up with the lines myself since the display room had been closed to students after 7.pm. That had taken me just as long as the other students, who I guess were just fantastic baby Picassos. I clutched my sleeve tighter, understanding what he was saying but not. My five fingers had made those curved lines, those straight lines, all in between those lines. He let out a frustrated sigh, closing the binder and dropping it back onto his desk. "So, do you want to fail my class?" At this, I looked up at him. "A 50% shouldn't fail me. At most it should leave me with a 73%." He was just being a douchewad, that's it. Any other student, he would have waved a hand at, found a strong point in their art and bumped the fifty to seventy percent. So why did he have it out for me? I hardly said anything to him to make him hold such an intense and very apparent abhorrence. "No, it shouldn't fail you—but I will." "You can't do that!" "Do you want to test this? Final grades for this class aren't entered into the system until the 21st, and it's only the 9th." I opened my mouth, but words failed me. If I failed this class, I would be forced to retake it again next semester. He was the only one who taught Universal Arts 401. "Speak up," he demanded. "Do you or do you not want to test this?" "I just don't understand, is all." "I only know so many ways to spell out a lack of creativity—or is it effort, Miss Larson? Have you devalued my lessons and taken the slackers road? Don't look at the floor, look at me when I speak." Holy shit, my eyes were beginning to burn when I managed to lift them, but there was no way I would cry over a stupid man and his stupid perception of what was acceptable art forms. I sucked in a breath and found it rugged, jumpy, like any moment I would burst into a crying fit before the man. Not trusting my voice, I shook my head. "And do you want to fail this class?" Another shake of negation. He searched my eyes for a second, the disgust still present in his. "Then go stand at the demonstration easel. Leave your bag at your chair." He turned toward his desk the same time I turned to go to the the place he directed me. With his back to my actions, I wiped my eyes quickly, taking in a silent sniffle and a little paste to the cracks in my composure. Was he going to make me prove I could do my own concept sketches? I knew how to make concept sketches, but I found you couldn't go wrong when you didn't stray from what was taught. Apparently I was wrong. For the Love of Art The back of the classroom was as cluttered as it was messy. Books of every age lay dying on the shelves of sticking out paintings and papers and laminated color palettes. The floor was mostly pulled up tiles with bashed pieces of it missing, as though a wrecking ball had been taken to it. A metal counter stretched in front of the bookcase for room's sake, more supine books, a dusty lava lamp, coloring pencils at random, used to an inch, paint brushes hardened with paint and abandon. Other such nonsense like half sketched portraits of people hung off the corner, pencil boxes hanging open, and the rest of the space? I had to push aside heavy boxes just to stand in front of the naked easel. I sneezed at the metallic scent of diluted and undiluted paint, looking behind me to grab a chair at the same time Mr. Ryne arrived. He had a large 27 x 34" sketchpad held between his fingers, a black, fattened bag of what I remember him to keep his utensils in and in his other hand he held four cartridges of charcoal of different textures and graphite powder. I watched him set it up in silence, still very much able to feel his disdain seeping from his pores. For some reason, I was upset that he was upset with me. As if I wanted his approbation more than I wanted a chance to redeem my grade. Which was silly. What I wanted was this stern male put out of my life as fast as I could manage. Whatever it was he requested I make for him, I would. He set the paintbrush bag on the back, then the sketchpad, but when he moved to flip open to a clean page, the bag tilted and I watched him simply watch it fall. I crouched to get it the exact moment he did, pausing him in his pursuit. It wasn't until I rose, my hair brushing his forearm and sending a cold, unsettled shiver along my skin, that he recoiled away from the contact as though I were poisonous. I mean, he pulled away so fast I startled—nothing new—and looked at him to see if I had shocked him or something. His hands twitched, his posture looming once again. "Sorry," was the only thing I knew how to say as I set the bag back where it belonged. "Don't be," he said and I was more blown away by how gentle his voice had become, how he was regarding me with that same animalistic hunger. His eyes spoke volumes, really, and again I had the sense he wanted to grab me and band his arm around my throat as he emptied the last of his hatred into my receding life form. I worried the ends of my shirt, looking to the cartridges he had set up on a stool. "What would you like me to do, sir?" In my peripheral, I saw the jerking motion of his hand then heard a long sigh exit. Maybe I just evoked the crankiness in this man. Maybe he needed an outlet of all that hatred because his life was shitty at home. Typically where it started. The screeching of a chair sounded next. Mr. Ryne sat at one of the chairs used to stand on and reach the top bookshelf more than sit. He twined his hands behind his head and looked up at me, legs spreading in that way men liked to do, hair slipping into his eyes, lips a hard gash. Waiting. I stared. He stared. When seconds of silence passed, I caught myself before I shifted the full weight of myself onto the other foot. Then, "Do you want me to redo—" "Don't talk, Miss Larson." I at least had the sense to chide my shameful alacrity in obeying him. My mouth stopped moving, more out of acknowledgment that he could be legitimately crazy. And it was the last day of classes, the sun left the room splashed in the darkest shade of brown left. If this man wanted to kill me, he could so easily and I had no doubts he possessed the wits to get away with it. If he really hated you, he wouldn't be giving you a chance to make up the grade. That was rational thinking. Made a lot of sense. Why else would he treat me like this, though? Like you said, everything starts at home. Maybe his home life is shit. "What was the first assignment of my class?" Was that permission to speak? I glanced down at the floor, fumbling through my brain for that exact assignment. When I found it, I looked back to him. "You asked us to make anything using any medium we wanted. Just bring you art and life, you said. And we had to attach an essay describing the art." "And what did you bring me?" I set my lips, remembering every bit of detail I poured into the drawing. A masked man with vines and thorns coiled around his face, looping into the mask and consuming his features to the point the agony could only be seen in the watering of his black and white eyes. I had been light with my medium, which had been charcoal, darkening only the eyes and the sections of the vines, the rims of the mask, adding potency where it was due. What was he getting at, though? "I brought you a charcoal dusting of a man." He nodded. "Yes. That you did." He sat forward now, elbows to his thighs, fingers still clasped. He pointed one at the sketchpad. "Bring me art and creativity." Slowly I looked back at the sketchpad. So he had malcontent because I had chosen concept sketches instead of freestyle? He was upset with me because I didn't set my heart on a project like that? He was basically condemning me for not giving him what he wanted?! I frowned but still rummaged around in his bag for the largest paint duster. Once the ovate, fat tool was between my fingers, I ran my pinky along the print in the wood, not looking to discern just what it said. I took a deep breath, exhaled. Okay. Art. Bring him art. But his eyes were on me, watching my every stroke before I even began. When I tried to focus on the content of what I would begin, the presence of him pressed at my focus, that animalistic hunger reminding me of what I had seen at his desk. I felt my breaths shallow. Art. Art. Bring him art. "Roll them up." Huh? I looked at him, then followed the direction of his gaze. My sleeves, my fingers were curled hazardously around the seams, nails digging into my palm through the fabric. I always did this. It was the reason I wore the ridiculously large shirts. Comfort and sleeves my fingers could confide in. But still, "They're not in the way." "Not physically. Mentally. You're feeding your energy and creativity into the nervous reflex. Roll. Them. Up." His sleeves were rolled up to the elbows. Did he have the same "reflex"? I did as he said and rolled them to my elbows, the chills spiking at my skin instantly, shaking up my concentration so easily. Still, I returned to the sketchpad when he inclined his head toward it when satisfied. I had plenty of things on my mind, plenty that could be deemed art and more. Dabbing the brush in the open can of graphite powder, I made my first gradient stroke along the right upper side of the canvas. Mr. Ryne rose from his chair and was beside me after I finished the stroke. I stepped back and watched as he peeled up the thin layer of paper and ripped it from the rest, wadded it up and pointed at the new empty canvas. "Bring me art and creativity." He tossed the crinkly ball to the floor and sat back down, watching. I stared blankly for a few seconds, unsure what to make of it. Then I remembered the third week, the lesson we did on lighting and illusions. I dabbed the brush in the graphite, then applied it to the empty canvas— The sound of tearing paper cut my focus. My heart lurched as Mr. Ryne broke this layer into a ball and made it join the other. "Bring me art and creativity." "I . . . I don't know what you want—" "Art. And creativity." I stared at the not-really-white canvas. I dabbed. I started at the left side this time. Riiiiip. I dabbed, started at the center. Rip. I dabbed, used charcoal instead. Rip. Rip, rip, rip. What was I doing wrong?! My hands shook, the paintbrush and its black hairs flurrying in my vision. The floor beneath me tilted and I tasted the bitter tinge of failure on my tongue. Salty almost. "Something the matter, Miss Larson?" I shook my head, but could only say in an uneven tone, "I don't know what you want . . ." He sighed again, bringing his chin to his knuckles as he stared at the paper. "I want you to stop being so simple. Especially when you have the capacity for more. I don't like when my students who are clearly capable of more, settle for less just to pass my class. It pisses me off, and no one likes me when I'm pissed off, so why don't you stop dicking around and make me something that isn't as flat as the paper you mark on." Was that it? Was that why he singled me out for the disdain? He believed I was capable of more? Why did hope rise in my throat instead of bile? His eyes weren't gentle in any manner, his muscles were still taut. He shook his head, the disgust back. "Your problem, Miss Larson, is that you're like that lava lamp there." He gestured at the blue and teal old lamp. There was the dark blue substance settled at the top, the teal globs floating around the bottom. Globs made him think of me? "See that dark Prussian blue? That is your brain. The teal, it is your feelings, your creativity. You're only using your brain, trying your damnedest to reach through all of your thoughts and snag at some creativity. Shake up the lamp. Turn the lamp on. Use your feelings to paint your image. Draw from the room around you." My feelings? This dingy room? I glanced around, looking at the half done art pieces, the completed art, the shadows cast by the sun, the man watching my every move, and it was impossible to draw anything. To feel anything but nervous and slightly afraid. "There's nothing to draw from," I whispered. His brows dipped, anger flashing in his eyes. "Nothing to draw from? You are not that dense. This is not the woman who brought me a man in pain and described it as the oppression of life forms of which only he can see. No. This is not the female I recall. So if you want that damn grade," He stood and slapped his hand on the sketchpad, almost knocking over the easel. "Fucking find that woman." Each of his words were a knife pressing into my skin, causing all the creativity to bleed out and all over the floor uselessly. I couldn't direct it to my hand, not when my head was staticy now, going numb with the sense that maybe it was a one-time thing and all of my creativity had died at the start of the semester. Still, I dabbed the brush futily in the graphite, and before it even touched the sketchpad, the page was torn away. His face was flushed red, gnarled, cords of his neck coming into view. He snatched the paintbrush from my hand and cracked it on his knee. "Is this class a joke to you?" I quickly shook my head. The grade wasn't even worth this shit anymore. The man was crazy and I didn't do crazy. "Speak the fuck up, Grace." The use of my first name had me stunted, stutters tripping over my tongue. "N-no-no. No, sir. I-I don't. It's an honor—" "So what is it then? Impaired? Are you too stupid to give me what I'm asking?" My sleeves were gone, and my eyes were stinging. I shook my head, unable to speak. "You want to go learn under that old twat Mr. Frank?" I was frozen, registering his words, but unable to form real thoughts or responses. He knew I had transferred from his complete course. He knew. He knew this. And all I could do was stare up at him, cement in my stomach, skin tingling with a fight-or-flight sense, but failure repeating at the forefront of it all. Why did I even come here? What made me think I could study beneath the gods and walk away unscathed? "You want to leave? You can walk out that door right now and forget hopes of passing this class, because I don't have time to hold your hand and teach a dormant mind." "No, no . . . please, Mr. Ryne. I want to be here. I do." What was I saying?! Why wasn't I running for my bag and the door and calling up Ma and telling her I would be on the first flight home? He grabbed my upper arms and forced me to face me toward the easel. "Then bring me art." When he sat back down, some of the tension loosened from my spine, as though that position moved me from striking range. I stood there for what seemed like hours, staring at the canvas with white stereo static fuzzing in my head. My peripheral had begun to change colors, the fear and sadness gone from my throat. It was when I began to sway that Mr. Ryne's asked quietly, "Do you need some help?" I dug my nails in my palms, nodded. "What makes you feel?" he asked. I didn't look over at him, afraid it would only renew my fear and humiliation. His question barely penetrated the fog of my mind, only enough to make me turn my head slightly upward, to pretend I was mulling over his question when really it helped keep the emotions down. "No answer?" I shook my head. "Okay." The sound of him shifting was a soft rustle. "I'll say something and I want you to tell me the exact feelings to come through you. Not impression, feeling. Do you understand?" I nodded, so, so numb at this point. "You're beautiful," he said gently, in a way that stroked away the static in my head and made my breath catch. What? I wasn't ready. I was still high from his anger and my own reaction. Beautiful? Was this part of the experiment or did he actually think this of me? I wasn't ugly, no. Maybe after I finished dressing in the long t-shirts and careless sweats, but to hear this statement on his lips, my stomach tightened and against my better judgement, all of his assholery was forgiven as my chest went buoyant, flustered. Beautiful . . . He carried on in that same low, mesmerizing voice that suggested forbidden things. "You . . . you are art. You have a face I can be taken by instantly. Soft, enticing curls. Delicate brown eyes, a svelte, slender body that pleads for me." He came to his feet. "To throw you against the wall and fuck you until your lungs give." My gaze snapped to his at this, legs clamping together as I felt the unreal tingles run straight to my clit, my walls clenching around his words, my breaths quivering to the rhythm of him. I was suddenly hyper aware of the silk panties against the shaved flesh of my lips, as though he was was making the skin down there irate and needy by the words he spoke. Was he being serious? My chest felt hollow, awkward even. My mind was running around like crazy, unsure how to handle the foreign notion of being pressed against the wall and fucked until my lungs had no screams left to give. "How does it make you feel, Miss Larson?" he asked, and I felt he knew then, in that mocking voice, I felt he knew. He was the monster in my head. He was the shark in my waters and he had to be toying with me. How does it make you feel, Grace? It's okay, you can tell me. I'm your therapist. "I- well, is it true?" I managed. "Irrelevant. Answer the question. What do you feel when I tell you I want to take you against the wall, slide myself inside of you and just. Go. Wild." In this clutter? I looked down, pretending I didn't feel my pussy convulse, tighten at his words. Pretend I didn't imagine his leering frame behind me, pounding again and again, his thighs smacking against mine. And why don't we toss dirty talk in there while we're at it. Him pounding into me and telling me how much of a worthless slut I was, how I would never amount to my aspirations. That last bit soured the arousal, making me look back toward the canvas. "I honestly don't know. The entire scenario is inappropriate. I just—" And then he was behind me, his lips vaguely whispering past the curls at my nape, that faint smell of mint and nostalgia cool on his breath. He placed his hands on my hips and spoke low at my ear, derisive. "You what?" My body jerked at the startling heat of him. The intimacy. For so long I had thought myself shielded by the common constitution. My body had been a temple monsters and men knew not to step foot near. The quickly rising panic in my stomach told me otherwise, saying the monster at my back was not one to adhere to demarcation. "I-I just want to get into-" "Nova Scotia?" he finished. His voice imitated the low quiver I had heard in my own, though he made the school sound like filth. Or maybe it was his thoughts toward me. "Mr. Ryne . . . please. This grade means-" "Everything?" A mirthless chuckle fell dead on my ears and I struggled to swallow the lump forming in my throat. He traded a hand on my hip for one on my shoulder, gripping with a measured strength. As though he were telling me how I was the twig and he was the beast who could easily snap me. Then he pressed into me, the rough material of his jeans unable to mask the one protruding element probing just above my ass. Seeing the size differential, the hand remaining on my hip directed my them in an upward arch, probing the erection against my backside. I was breathing, but suddenly, when he rose my hips too high, pushed me onto my toes and had the iron rod pressed raw against the back of my pussy, I tripped forward, weight falling into the hand at my shoulder, air wheezed then trapped in my lungs. "How does it make you feel, Miss Larson." Aroused! God, so fucking desperate. But at the same time, the saner part of me told me to get out while I could, not to submit to the monster from my own thoughts. He released his hold on me, the wrought muscles of his chest hot at my back, the palpable throttle of his heartbeat making mine go crazy. "Roll against me." "What?" "Your hips, roll them against me." Was I afraid or was I angry? Sad or concerned? All four. "I think I should go home," I whispered, easier to mask the tears and arousal that way. Both hands were back to caging me. Before I could stop it, before I could cry out in protest, one of the hands were beneath my shirt, bra shoved aside, calloused fingers biting into the flesh of one my nipples with mercy set aside. The pain flared instantly, an intensity so absurd to my flesh I was beyond screaming, instead, a whimper fell past my trembling lips, my hands gone to claw at his. He grabbed them both with his free one, jamming them against my stomach and pinching harder. My toes curled, breath hissed passed my teeth and all at once, tears filled my eyes as I stared at the blank canvas. Static returned. No escape route. Nothing. "Roll," he whispered vehemently. I did, hesitantly at first, but when he rolled and applied his nails to the clamped hold of my nipple, I got the point, moving my hips against his erection with tender, patterned motions. I did this again and again, around and around, until I could hear his breathing gone ragged, his chest rising and following like hot steel against my shoulder blades. I think he whispered, "Jesus Christ" between one of the pants, his fingers releasing my nipple to cup and squeeze my breast as he held me against him almost lovingly. And this made the pain of my chest subside, my walls clenching once again for him. I rolled my hips higher, curious for him to press against my opening one more time. When it did, I could swear his cock was longer, less yielding. Not expecting this, I'd rolled with too much force, flinching when it stabbed with the resistance of true iron. "Tell me what you feel," he said into my ear, strained. I stopped to think about what he had said. "Don't stop. Keep going and tell me everything." It took a moment for me to continue, but the closing of his hand around my breast had me continuing in no time. What did I feel as I rolled against this man? This artistic, lunatic man who made me feel lesser than dirt then call me beautiful. "Angry," I whispered. "Try again," he said, voice guttural and not the smooth, collective octave I remembered. "Feelings inject colors into your words, more images into the mind. Try again, Miss Larson." For the Love of Art The way he spoke my name may have been more consuming than the cock my backside was stroking. But his words did hit a point, the static clearing. I closed my eyes and hesitantly lay my head back to sink into the feeling of him. It was too good. How could I hate something so warm, so strong—the man, I was beginning to see, could crush me with no problem. Fling me. Hurt me in ways unimaginable. And yet, his body was heated, enveloping what chills I had felt earlier and making me feel like, if the world came down, he could laugh and pick it back up. "I feel . . . safe. I feel like I have power and the color is black and red." I switched the direction of my rotations, catching him off guard to the point his hips bucked involuntarily, a grunt following. Definitely have power. "Black and red tendrils of energy that mars the canvas of my mind. I feel like I have power, but it's red power and red is a seductive color. Black is an evil color. Red can taunt black but black . . ." I opened my eyes, lifting my head to look at the gray-white canvas. Suddenly it was dusted black all over, suffocated red tones peering through the punctured holes the color allowed, the life it allowed through. "But black what?" he asked, and I was vaguely aware his voice had gone back to neutral, his hands stilled. "Black suppurates. Infects the blood and . . ." He stepped away from me. "And what?" Was that a smile in his voice? I looked behind me. Not a smile, but the hatred was gone, replaced with a curiosity for my next words. I looked back at the canvas, understanding why all of the papers lay wadded at the floor. There had been something lacking, something he wanted me to bring to the table myself. Pull me from my simple shadow. "And you never gave me enough colors." He was smiling this time when I looked back at him, but it was something dark, like I had passed his test and was just appointed his next victim. "I would like to teach you this winter break." Teach me? Because I guess he hadn't been doing that for the past weeks? "The school will be closed." "Then come to my home." My lips parted. His home? Where the safety of school grounds and witnesses of my whereabouts were no more? Willingly walking into the den of a man who told me he wanted to fuck me against the wall? A man who left my nipples sore, yet somehow made me feel proud that I had told him something as stupid as how I felt? "I . . . need to think about it." He notched his head up, then, to my surprise, said, "You've a violent, beautiful mind, Miss Larson. I would like to train it. Body, mind and creativity, that is. Holy trinity. If you decide, e-mail me." He started collecting the items brought to the back, clearly dismissing me. But not before, "Oh, and an eight percent is all I can warrant you." That was it. It was over that soon. I fixated my clothing, but didn't stare at him any longer than I needed to. If anything, I needed to go home and reflect over what the hell just happened between me and a man I was still convinced was a monster, in a special sort of way. I was still convinced there was something beneath his surface, something that my mind screamed for me to run from-not toward. My body said differently. To be continued . . .