Fiction - X.13 - Denial

She arrives late. Again. A brusque apology mumbles from her lips, but I know it matters little.

Born from my resentment, a new scene forms in my head. I'm going to use the video camera, but today I will draw something new. A new medium, perhaps? Yes.

No painting today. We'll try something different

I order her to sit cross-legged on the bed, naked.

She glances slightly towards the video camera, but says nothing. Her body flushes slightly, but remains silent.

Excellent.

I sketch quietly for a moment, her body arousing me swiftly. My fingers are covered with charcoal as I inform her that I want her nipples to harden.

As she touches herself, my blood races. I am barely able to speak, quietly telling her to pull harder. She appears to be in some pain.

Good. That's what she gets for showing up late.

I finish the first pose, and compose myself. I will not let her get the best of me again. I know what I'm drawing, and I know what she thinks I'm drawing, but they are not necessarily the same thing. To her, this is art, and so it is to myself.

I have her switch positions: Lying down, knees bent and spread, while she plays with her lips. My hands begin drawing faster, as her fingers manipulate and tease her lower region. My fingers continue their work, but it soon becomes apparent that she is wet and in heat.

And so her heat turns me on, too. Damn her. I will deny these feelings, yes.

I finish the piece, and stand up abruptly. Immediately I feel my arousal between my legs. This is what she has done to me... to me?

She notices the bulge in my jeans, which combined with my frustration over my arousal, infuriates me quickly.

Let's see how far Camille is willing to go.

“This last pose may be difficult. If you don’t want to do it, I can get someone else.”

“I can do it.” She responds defiantly.

She moves to her hands and knees, chest pressed against the bed. Her ass sticks outwards, quite attractively. She looks uncomfortable, but it matters little to me.

But her sinful body beckons, and my own wishes cannot be denied; against my better judgement, subject and artist mix. I order her to spread her thighs.

I move closer, fingers sliding easily inside her. My eyes close, as body throbbing slightly. I catch myself panting quietly. Did she hear?

No.

My fingers mindlessly rub her wetness up towards her crack. Her body settles uncomfortably, beckoning almost. I swallow nervously. My near-insatiable need almost eclipses my work.

I must have more. For the art, of course. It's all about the art. But I must have more. Perhaps her fingers?

Yes. Her fingers.

I suck on one finger, tasting her. I inhale strongly, her essence an intoxicant to my already-racing libido. My head spins, reality smacking me in the face.

I have gone too far. And it is all her fault.

I place her finger against her tight hole. A punishment? At first, perhaps. But as I instruct her to push it in to the last knuckle, her body sucking her finger in, I hear her loud breathing betray her; Her body shakes slightly, as she continues her path of self-arousal.

I know what she wants. But she shall be denied.

I return to my work and draw. And draw and draw and draw and... Her body silently cries out to me, while mine own body throbs. In my mind, I see nothing but the art, and her heat. She squirms and twists, self-manipulations taking over. I stop drawing, panting quietly.

I can't... no more.

Damn her.

I stand up, holding my breath, reaching for a rag. I reach into my pants, nervous yet resigned

I have no other choice in the matter.

It takes bare minutes, my hand rigidly shaking forward-and-back. My heart races, pumping so loud I swear she must hear it; My body shakes, as my hips jerk quickly. A series of small breaths escapes my mouth, as I watch her hand attempt to hold still. She can neither see, nor hear me.

And yet, she is wanton.

For me.

It is that thought that sends me over the edge. My hips push outwards, knees weak, as I erupt silently. My jaw drops, eyes close, breath held in my throat. My head shoots back, neck almost cracking, while her thighs tremble mere feet from me.

I sit down slowly, body convulsing in waves. There was nothing I could do, I could not deny my need. Once again, she has disrupted the balance.

Steadying my voice, I inform her that we are done for the day. I walk into the next room, to make a cup of coffee.

Loud moans reach my ears, and do not go unnoticed. So, Camille has also breached the balance point between art and need, after being denied her release. I smile to myself, waiting for the coffee to finish.

Now she knows how it feels.

--The Bastard

--If you go read Rodin pt.3, you can see this story from Camille's point-of-view. Thanks to DTG for letting me play in her sandbox.