Looing for It

I stood there, in front of the still-wet painting. It gripped me, pulled me in, made me tingle, feel on edge. I wanted it; I wanted to be it. I wasn't it yet. The painting was of me, but it somehow was more alive, more aroused, nearer the pinnacle. I could see it everywhere, mostly in the eyes, I thought. They were so alive, so satisfied and . . . completed.

"It's . . . it's like something you've never done before, Klaus," I murmured.

"It's in the style of Seligman," he whispered in my ear. "Well, partially the style. I like to think I bring something new, important to it. My counter to Seligman. Do you like it?"

"Yes, yes . . . of course. It makes me . . . it makes me want to be that man."

"But you

are

that man, Petro, that

is

you. You are that for me."

Yes it was of me; I was the model. I had just lain there, naked, on the divan, for hours, swirled in folds of the scarlet silk. And yet it wasn't me. It was what I wanted to be, what I wanted to feel, at the height of ejaculation. It was a level I had not attained, although I had sought it for years. The ultimate ejaculation. "No, Klaus. I wish. But there's more, much more than me, in the painting. In the style of Seligman, you say? Who is this Seligman? Where can I find him?"

"You do not want to know, Petro. You think that I am peculiar . . . have special needs. No, do not bother to deny it. But Seligman, he is a man on the edge. I shudder to think of the tightrope he would make you walk."

Moeller was standing close behind me. He too was naked. We had worked for hours, and I could tell by the way he looked at me as he painted, that he would want me again—and in his way. He was enfolding me in his arms, a hand on my cock and one strumming a nipple with his thumb. And his cock was hard and rubbing against the small of my back. He had been hard for some time, as he was finishing the painting. Looking at me in that way. Wanting fucking me to be the high point of his creation, what he would remember when he looked at this masterpiece he had created. And not just any fucking. His way.

He deserved it. It required so little of me. The painting was a masterpiece. It was alive with lust and arousal.

"I love it, Klaus," I repeated. "It makes me feel so . . . so . . ."

I couldn't complete the thought, and Moeller's hand on my cock and thumb on my nipple felt all the answer that was required.

"Please . . . the divan," he uttered in a low, hoarse voice.

"Yes."

He handed me the lubed dildo as he stood between my thighs, my shoulder blades resting on the silk draperies on the divan. I took it and placed it in position as he raised one of my feet in his hands and brought it to his lips and kissed it and stroked it lightly with his fingers.

His eyes slitted as I slowly impaled myself on the dildo, methodically drawing it deep inside me. I kept my eyes on his, knowing that was important, showing him how arousing his lips on the arch of my foot was in consort with the slow inhaling of the dildo inside my ass canal. I made my eyes burn, imploring as his mouth enclosed over my toes, one by one, and he gave suck.

I arched my back and started to slowly move the dildo in and out, in and out, inside me, as he took up my other foot and made love to it.

I moaned for him, as I knew he would want me to and that would arouse him further. I extracted the dildo—slowly—and he moved closer into me, and I took his cock in both of my hands and drew him inside me, as he continued to suck my toes and run his tongue over my feet. He was making little mewing sounds that shortly melted into the sounds of his need. He fucked me faster, deeper, and he was biting my toes and feet, and I was crying out in both pain and passion.

And then it was over and he dropped my legs and collapsed on top of me. His eyes sought out mine, and although I saw pleasure there, I saw also in the reflection in his eyes that I had not attained it—the eyes he had painted for me were so much more satisfied, completed, than the ones he was staring into.

"In the style of Seligman?" I asked in a low voice when we were both able to speak.

"Forget Seligman," he whispered. "You do not want to pursue that."

"But the painting is so alive, so much what I want. So much more," I murmured.

"It is not because of Seligman," he whispered. "I think it is because of what I brought to Seligman's style?"

"I don't understand," I said.

"The eyes; it's in the eyes."

Later, standing in front of the painting, I paid particular attention to the eyes again. They were one of the best aspects of the painting. My initial impression did not change. The eyes were so alive, so deep in passion and lust—and fulfillment. Satisfied eyes. Fully taken and satisfied. The best part of it.

And I asked Moeller again, and he would not tell me. "You do not want to know," was his repeated answer.

"Where is this Seligman?" I asked again.

"You do not want to know," he repeated.

But I would not let him take me again—in the special way he liked—until he told me. And he wanted me so much, in that way, that he did tell me.

* * * *

Seligman's studio was high in the German alps, carved out of the ruins of a small castle keep—what had probably been a remote watch tower and fortification for a small sentry force in centuries past. When I asked in the hostel in the small village at the foot of the mountain, they refused to tell me how to get there.

But we weren't in the dark ages. Seligman had a cell phone, and I was able to contact him. And when I had established that I had modeled for Moeller and Viscuss and even Hollimain when he was still painting—before he was incarcerated for what had been declared as both blasphemous and pornographic—Seligman seemed all too pleased to give me directions to his isolated studio.

He seemed delighted to see me and was quite straightforward. He commanded me to strip and to turn my body this way and that way, which I did expertly, being experienced in modeling and knowing what artists of the male nude wanted.

Knowing also what many of the artists of the male nude wanted to do with their models, I was not surprised when he said, without a modicum of embarrassment or hesitation, "First we fuck, and then I paint. Always I fuck first. It informs my painting."

We did not do so immediately, though. Seligman wanted to charge his paints first, to set his easel and canvas and to set the divan just so. He too used a rich, scarlet silk, seemingly carelessly thrown on the divan, but set just so, nothing careless about it. I assumed this must be some of what Moeller had meant when he said that magnificent painting of his had been done in the style of Seligman.

The walls of the studio were lined with Seligman's work, so as he prepared his paints and set the divan as he wanted it, I drifted around the walls, viewing the paintings. I could see what Moeller meant. It wasn't just the arousing pose of the model, seemingly tousled carelessly in folds of the scarlet silk. It also was the strong brush strokes. The bold strokes that, when scrutinized closely, seemed to be haphazard, wild, almost uncontrolled, but that, as the viewer moved away, all came together. And it came together in tension and unease—a feeling of coldness that was all the more alluring because it contrasted so with the lush setting and vibrant colors, not to mention the sensuality of the model.

It was here that I felt the first chill, felt myself clutch and tighten. At first blush, I hadn't seen the difference, but Moeller was right. There was a difference. Whereas Moeller's study had been alive, arousing, had made me shudder with want, these did something else. I couldn't place it. I moved in closer to the one I was standing in front of again, looking closer into it.

The skin. A slight pallor perhaps, in contrast to Moeller's, where the skin seemed lustrous. Maybe in just this one, I thought. But when I moved down to the next painting, I saw the same thing.

And the eyes. Moeller had said something about the eyes. What was that? He had especially wanted me to scrutinize the eyes. I walked in closer and studied the eyes. Moeller had made the eyes reflect his own lust as he painted me—capturing what he wanted to do with me, what he did do with me. Using me to play his own personal fetish, gaining arousal and satisfaction, for him, that went much further than just fucking.

Seligman's eyes didn't reflect anything like this. In fact, they looked dead to me, as if the model was sleeping with his eyes open—that the model wasn't even here, that he was transported to another realm and had lost his connection to the sensuality of the setting.

All of which accentuated Moeller's talent—his triumph over Seligman. Maybe that's what he was trying to tell me. That I didn't need to search out Seligman. I already was in the presence of the master.

I turned and saw that Seligman was ready, and that he was watching me, his eyes active, alive, full of lust.

I suddenly was scared—without knowing why—and my legs were taking me, slowly, but intentionally toward my clothes, where I had neatly folded and placed them on a straight chair in the shadows. I had seen what Moeller was trying to tell me—or certainly thought I had.

Seligman intercepted me, though. He took my wrist in a firm grip, and I felt all of the power draining out of me. He was a strongly built man, with a grip of steel. But it was his bearing and the power of his eyes that held me. I whimpered under his grip, but I made no physical effort to resist him. The trembling that went through my body was contradictory. I was frightened, but I was also aroused—more aroused than I had been with Moeller. I was hyperventilating, but my body was telling me that something was happening, something I'd never experienced before, something I wanted to know about, to experience.

As we moved to the divan, Seligman was unbuttoning his smock with his other hand. He was naked underneath. Powerful, barrel-chested, heavily muscled, hairy. And in full, monstrous erection.

He gave me no time. He simply pushed me down on my back on the divan, a fist buried in my sternum, holding me on the divan both physically and by overpowering mental control. I was gasping for breath. His other hand was underneath one of my thighs, high up, spreading and lifting my leg with superhuman strength. The bulb of his cock at my hole. Not giving me time. Demanding entrance—and despite my cries and the reluctance of my opening, gaining entrance and relentlessly pushing me open and moving deep inside me.

I writhed under him, entwining myself in the scarlet silk, achieving, I suddenly realized, the effect of the silk draping in the paintings that lined the walls, the paintings screaming at me to escape. Too late.

His fist was no longer on my sternum. He had raised his hand to my face, the palm of his hand over my mouth, his thumb and a finger pinching my nose, blocking my air supply.

I was screaming on the inside, gurgling on the outside, my hips churning in response to his plowing cock, one of my fists clutching at the silk, the other wrapped around my own cock and pumping away. I couldn't breathe and specks were floating in my eyes, dimming out the piercing gaze in his own eyes, holding me in thrall underneath him as strongly as he was doing with the strength of his body. But still my body wanted this. My hand on my cock, working to bring my arousal to the heights, screamed that I wanted this.

He was fucking me like I'd never been fucked before, and my hand was working my cock—involuntarily—because at the same time that I was deeply frightened, sensing that I was fighting for my life, I wanted to explode, to ejaculate.

I was close, very close to coming. I wanted to come. I wanted to breathe, but I also wanted to come. This was so much more . . . so much beyond where I'd ever been before.

But then Seligman stopped. He held me tight, not letting me move a muscle, not moving himself, held me on the edge. And he released his stifling grip on my nose and mouth.

And I gasped for air. I couldn't move, but my lungs were burning and expanding and contracting in my chest cavity—fighting to take in as much oxygen as possible, to replace what they had been denied for so long, almost too long.

But that's not what I wanted to be moving. I wanted his cock to be moving inside me. He slapped my hand away from my own cock and gripped my wrist, holding me away from finishing myself.

"No, please," I was whimpering as I felt myself moving away from satisfaction, losing the roaring sensation of the approaching ejaculation. I didn't think I'd whispered that aloud, but he reacted as if he had heard me. "Please finish me."

He smiled a sneery smile. A "look who is in control" smile. And his eyes. They possessed me. Not unlike the look in Moeller's eyes when he took me. I realized this was a fetish with me—seeing that look in my lover's eyes. There was a wildness in Seligman's eyes, triggered, I now realize, by the fear in my eyes combined with need as he took my breath away while fucking me—and took me to the edge and back and then to the edge again. This is what he liked best, I realized. This look of terror edged with lust in his lover's eyes. This was his fetish. What completed him.

Or was that true? Thinking back on the difference between his paintings and those of Moeller—the treatment of the eyes—I began to think, with increasing trepidation, that maybe it wasn't the mixed look of fear and lust that completed Seligman, that was his fetish. Maybe it was the dull look in his lover's eyes when Seligman was done—when he had choked the life out of his lover. I moaned at the thought—at the danger of it. And, at the same time, my arousal went to new heights.

I murmured, "No, please," again as I felt his hand gripping my chin again, closing again over my nose and mouth. And as I fought for breath again, he recommenced the plowing of his cock. Working me, bringing me to the edge again. I was beginning to black out again. I was . . . right there . . . on the edge. Both edges. The edge of blacking out, the edge of exploding in the most complete ejaculation I'd ever experienced. Wanting breath, wanting the ejaculation. Want fighting want.

And then the release on my mouth and nose, the gasping for breath, the pounding headache. But at the same time, the denial of ejaculation. Holding me still, making me fall off the edge of satisfaction. The jeery smile, the possessing eyes.

The approaching hand; turning my head back and forth, trying to escape the hand, writhing in the silk, but no escape. The fingers pinching my nose, the hand covering my mouth, the cock resuming its deep, possessing thrusts.

The eyes. Oh God, the eyes. Moeller had said, "Look at the eyes." Lifeless.

At the very edge of breathlessness. Not one more second. The glorious release, my release in a cascade of cum up my belly, as I feel the pump of the spurting, the flow, deep inside me. Throbbing temples, spots before my eyes, roaring in my ears. Got to . . . get . . . a brea—

* * * *

I was swimming up from a great depth and slowly becoming aware that I could breathe again—that I was still lying on the divan, entwined in the scarlet silk, but that I was breathing normally. I shuddered and started to move.

"Hold still." It was a command, not a request. And I instantly obeyed. I had known the authority behind that control.

"Stay just as that, please." The voice came from the direction of the easel. I saw from my periphery vision that he was there, behind the easel, painting furiously. Still naked; still in full erection.

I shuddered again, which prompted, "So, you thought that was it, did you? I saw you scrutinizing the eyes in the paintings. You thought of death, did you not? I would have told you—I paint death. I create it, but I do not cause it. I would have told you, but it was better this way, no? More satisfying. Bigger coming. The full range—your fighting wants. It helps with coming. You came well. It takes you to the heights. And watching you—your struggling wants—that takes me to the heights too. I came well too. Very well indeed. My member, it wants it again, now. But it must wait. I am not finished painting."

I opened my mouth to speak.

"No, do not move, please. I'm not finished. Don't speak. When I finish, we do it again, no? You give good fuck. Yes, we do it again, I think."

I shuddered again—but at the same time a chill of arousal went through my body. The height and the depth. Starting anew. The ultimate death. Who said that? That ejaculation was the ultimate death? Some philosopher. Freud? Foucault?

"Yes, yes. I fuck you again, I think. And maybe this time I go all the way. Yes? No?" This was followed by a deep-throated laugh. "No, do not speak. I just toy with you . . . maybe." And then the laugh again.

And I shuddered again. Not only at the thought of him doing it again—and maybe not joking about not stopping. But also because I wanted it again.