#Model of Artisans | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

hellinistical · 6 months ago

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in which you're the nude model for an art-collecting Sylus, who is curious about the artistic process, frustrated no one caputures how he sees you, fem.reader, mdni.

tw: pet names. masturbation. sylus watches. wc: 5.74k

A crystal chandelier hung from above, its intricate tiers casting soft, fractured glints over the room’s contents. The furniture was lavish yet somber, every piece carved from dark wood, polished to a gleam, and upholstered in deep hues of midnight blue and black. Ornate gold accents curled in ivy-like patterns along the edges of tables and chairs, catching the faint light.

In one corner, a large canvas rested on an easel, its stark white surface starkly contrasting the shadows around it. The strokes of a paintbrush whispered through the room like secrets being shared.

The artisan Sylus had hired was a picture of silent concentration, his movements precise yet fluid, as though the canvas itself whispered instructions only he could hear. His dark eyes flicked between you and the image taking shape before him, studying every curve, every shadow, with an intensity that made the air feel heavier. The soft strokes of his paintbrush filled the room, each sound deliberate, carrying a sense of reverence for the craft.

Sitting on the edge of a chaise draped in black velvet, the luxurious material soft against your bare skin. A sheet—thin, white, and nearly translucent under the moonlight—was your only covering, clinging to your form in a way that felt both tantalizing and vulnerable. The pose Sylus had requested was anything but modest, and though it made your cheeks flush faintly, the artist’s detached professionalism helped temper the awkwardness.

The moonlight streaming in through the towering windows kissed your skin, making it glow against the deep shadows of the room. Every subtle movement—your breathing, the occasional adjustment of the sheet, the shift of your gaze—seemed amplified in the stillness. The air itself felt charged, as if time held its breath for this moment to unfold.

Sylus reclined in a grand armchair near the far side of the room, his long legs crossed, his sharp features softened only by the faint smirk that played at his lips. A crystal wine glass dangled between his fingers, catching the light like a jewel, its contents dark and rich. His gaze was fixed on you—not with the detached curiosity of the artisan but with something more proprietary, more intrigued. His presence was magnetic, commanding without words, and his silence held the weight of unspoken thoughts.

"Your left arm, miss. Lift it a bit," the artist murmured, his voice low and even, breaking the almost sacred silence. His eyes flicked toward you briefly, assessing, before returning to the canvas with the same calm precision he had exhibited throughout the night.

The simple request made you shift slightly on the chaise, the sheet slipping just enough to expose more of your breast as you adjusted. The movement felt deliberate, every inch of skin bared under the artist’s scrutiny becoming part of his composition. The room seemed to hold its breath as you raised your arm, draping it over the back of the chaise as instructed.

Sylus turned his head toward you, his movements deliberate and unhurried, the sharp angles of his face softened by the faint smile that graced his lips. It was a smile that held both mischief and intrigue, a look that made it impossible to discern where admiration ended and amusement began. The light from the windows gleamed in his eyes, giving them an almost predatory glint.

"A striking composition," he murmured, his voice a rich, low timbre that resonated through the still air. It was a sound that could easily command attention, yet here it felt intimate, as though meant only for you. "Don’t you agree, kitten?"

The question hung in the air, weighted with layers of meaning. His gaze flickered, lingering on the line of your nearly bare breast where the sheet had slipped, the moonlight carving out every subtle curve, the peaks of your nipples. There was something disarming about the way he spoke, his tone both playful and serious, as though he were inviting you into some secret he had yet to share.

The artist didn’t pause in his work, though you caught the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth, betraying that even he wasn’t entirely immune to Sylus’s presence. His brush continued its soft strokes, the sound rhythmic and soothing, blending into the charged atmosphere.

You shifted slightly, the faint rustle of the sheet breaking the silence, and met Sylus’s gaze. There was a heat to his expression, tempered by a calculating coolness that left you uncertain of his true intentions. The tension between the three of you felt almost tangible now, the room alive with an energy that seemed to thrum beneath the surface.

"Perhaps," you replied softly, your voice steady despite the flutter in your chest. "Though I think the artist deserves the credit for that, not me."

Sylus’s smile deepened, his head tilting ever so slightly, as though your response amused him. "Oh, but the canvas is nothing without its muse," he said, lifting his glass in a quiet salute before taking a slow sip. "And you, my dear, are truly one worth painting."

It's quiet again, for just a moment.

Sylus clicked his tongue softly, a sound of contemplation rather than impatience, his gaze flicking back to the canvas. He swirled the wine in his glass absentmindedly, the deep red liquid catching the moonlight like liquid garnet. After a beat, his eyes shifted toward the artist, his expression one of casual command.

"The drape," he said, his voice a low purr that carried easily through the quiet room. He gestured faintly toward the sheet wrapped around you, his fingers barely moving as he spoke. "Perhaps you can take it down?"

The artist paused, his brush hovering above the canvas. His dark eyes darted toward Sylus, then to you, before returning to his work. "If the subject is comfortable," he said cautiously, his tone neutral but his gaze flickering with unspoken questions.

“All the way?” It came out with a foreign nervousness, but you got a nod. All the way.

So with a slow exhale, you nodded back, the movement subtle but enough to signal your consent. The artist, recognizing the shift, approached with a soft swish of his robes. His hands were gentle but deliberate as he reached for the drape, his fingers brushing across your skin as he slowly slid it off. The fabric unfurled, slipping away with a soft rustle, leaving you exposed to the cold touch of the night air and the more unrelenting gaze of Sylus.

There was a subtle shift in the room as the sheet was discarded, the air colder now as it kissed the bare skin of your shoulders, your breasts, your thighs. The artist returned to his easel, his brush resuming its careful strokes, capturing each detail of your form.

Sylus, however, didn’t immediately speak. His eyes, still fixed on you, glistened with something unspoken, something deeper than just admiration for the composition of the moment. He took another sip of wine, the glass held loosely in his hand, his lips curving into a small, satisfied smile.

It wasn’t the first time he had seen you naked—far from it. You had been the subject of the paintings he’d bought countless times before, the air between you thick with desires spoken and unspoken. Those moments had been different—more familiar, more intimate, without the looming weight of expectation. But this… this felt different.

The room, with its heavy shadows and cold moonlight, felt charged in a way it hadn’t before. Sylus’s gaze lingered longer, sharper, as if he were studying you, not just admiring the curve of your body, but absorbing something deeper—something that seemed to pull at the very core of you. The way he watched you now was colder, more assessing, yet still wrapped in that same underlying intrigue.

You could feel the shift in the air, feel the way his eyes didn’t just glance over your skin as before, but carved into it, tracing every inch with the intensity of someone who wasn’t simply enjoying the view—but claiming it, as if you were a work of art he had yet to fully possess. His smile, that quiet, satisfied curve of his lips, held a kind of knowing that unsettled you, despite the familiarity of it all.

There was an unsettling calmness to the way he drank from his glass, every movement deliberate, as though he knew exactly how long he could hold you in this moment, how long he could make you feel exposed, vulnerable, and still expect you to remain calm. There was no rush, no desire to touch you right away. His silence, his steady gaze, was more intimate in a way that made the air heavier, more suffocating.

bared before him, this felt different. This felt like you weren’t just a willing partner, but a subject—a canvas for his deeper curiosity, a part of his game, and you were unsure whether you were winning or losing.

Goosebumps rose on your skin, the sudden chill of the room making every inch of your exposed body feel more vulnerable, more aware. The warmth the drape had provided was gone, and the cool air kissed your skin, making your nipples harden in response. The sensation wasn’t lost on Sylus. You could feel his gaze moving over you, absorbing every detail, and something in the air thickened, carrying the weight of his unspoken thoughts.

He took a slow sip of his wine, his lips curling into a faint, almost predatory smile as he watched you react to the cold. Then, without breaking his gaze, he shifted his attention to the artist.

"I've changed my mind," Sylus said, his voice a smooth drawl, casual yet laced with a subtle command. "Start over."

The artist, still bent over his work, hesitated, his brush pausing mid-air. He glanced up, a brow lifting in silent query as he regarded Sylus. "But sir, we’ve already begun—"

Sylus didn’t even let him finish. "I’ll pay double—no, triple," he said, his voice low and insistent, the words dropping like heavy coins into the silence. "Just do it."

The artist’s hesitation melted away, the promise of such an offer too tempting to ignore. He glanced back at you, his expression unreadable, before setting down his brush. His movements were careful, deliberate, as he began to adjust the canvas slightly, giving you space to move.

You adjusted yourself carefully, the movement slow and deliberate as you turned to face Sylus, your body fully exposed to his gaze. There was a quiet tension in the room, and as you caught his eyes, you let him feast on the sight of you, the weight of his stare making every nerve in your body aware of the vulnerability in the moment.

A playful, teasing smile tugged at the corner of your lips, as you broke the heavy silence with your words. "You have a pose in mind?" you asked, the tone light and joking, an attempt to mask the deeper undercurrent of discomfort that flickered beneath your playful facade.

But Sylus’s smile didn’t falter. There was no humor in his eyes, only a quiet certainty. He leaned forward slightly, setting his wine glass down with an almost imperceptible clink, his gaze flickering over your form once more, taking in the details with the precision of someone who knew exactly what he wanted.

Sylus’s gaze flickered briefly to the artist, and then returned to you, his expression unreadable for a moment. When he spoke, his voice was smooth, calculated, as though he were savoring every word.

"Yes," he replied, the single word carrying an unspoken command. "I want her standing, one foot forward, a slight arch to her back. Her left hand should rest on her hip, just like that—" He gestured with a flick of his fingers, guiding you into the position, his eyes tracing the lines of your body. "And the right arm raised, but not too high. Let the hand hang loosely, fingers extended like you’re reaching for something, but not quite grasping it. Your head tilted just slightly, eyes meeting the artist’s—no, mine. I want the focus on you."

He paused for a moment, taking in the effect of his words, before his lips curled into a half-smile.

"And don’t move," he added, his voice commanding now, an undertone of dark satisfaction threading through his tone. "I want the tension in your body to be alive."

The artist’s brow furrowed briefly, but the offer of triple pay quickly silenced any objections. He nodded, refocusing on his canvas, preparing for the shift in the scene. Sylus remained seated, watching you with that same sharp, patient gaze, every inch of him fully aware of the game he was playing.

You felt the weight of the pose, the challenge of holding it just right, the pressure of both Sylus’s and the artist’s eyes on you.

***

It was some time before the artist finally set his brush down, the silence in the room thick with concentration. Finally, when the last stroke was added and the artist stepped back with a deep exhale, you were free to move. The tension in your body snapped as you lowered your arm, the muscles protesting the sudden shift. You stood, stretching, the relief palpable as you reached above your head, feeling the pull in your shoulders and spine.

Yet Sylus himself seemed completely at ease. As a matter of face, he seemed unfazed by the passage of time. He was calm, almost serene, his attention fixated on the painting leaning against the wall as it dried. His expression was one of quiet satisfaction, but there was something deeper in his eyes, a kind of quiet hunger that lingered as he took in the image before him.

There, captured in oils on stretched animal skin, was you—your body immortalized in vivid detail. Every curve, every line, every inch of your exposed form was perfectly rendered, the colors rich and deep, almost alive under the low light of the room. The moonlight slanted across the canvas, highlighting your body in a way that made the image seem as though it were still in motion, as if the moment Sylus had captured would never truly end.

Your body, perfectly nude, stared back at you from the canvas—more than just a reflection, more than just a piece of art. It was an interpretation of you, crafted by Sylus’s intent, the artist’s skill, and the silence of the room.

You could feel the weight of the gaze upon you—his eyes not just on the painting, but on you, seeing the connection between the two. The moment stretched on, thick with a kind of power. He didn’t speak immediately, but there was a slight, knowing smile tugging at his lips. His fingers toyed with the wine glass in his hand, almost absently.

"You look... perfect," he murmured, his voice still smooth, but with an edge of something darker, something more satisfied. "Captured perfectly. What do you think?"

His eyes flickered back to you, measuring your reaction as if he expected something more, something to acknowledge the work of art that now existed between the two of you.

You stood there, staring at the painting, but in truth, you didn’t know what to think. It felt surreal, this image of you—perfectly captured, immortalized in oils. The canvas seemed to breathe in the dim light, the shadows and highlights playing across it like a mirror of the tension that still lingered in the room. You could still feel Sylus’s eyes on you, but your mind couldn’t settle on any one thought about the painting itself.

Instead, you turned your gaze back to him, meeting his eyes with a question in your heart that had been swirling for some time now. "Why was this important to you?" you asked, curiosity lacing your voice, though there was an undercurrent of something more: a quiet need to understand what had driven him to orchestrate such a scene.

Sylus didn’t immediately respond, his fingers pausing on the glass of wine as he studied you, his gaze unwavering. For a long moment, it felt like the room itself held its breath. His lips curved into that familiar, enigmatic smile, but this time, there was a softness to it, a kind of distance that had always been absent before.

He glanced at the painting, then back at you, his eyes glinting with something unreadable. "Why?" he echoed, as if testing the question on his tongue. "Isn’t it obvious?"

You waited for him to elaborate, but instead, he took another sip of his wine, his eyes never leaving you. The silence between you stretched, thick with an unspoken weight, and you couldn’t help but feel that you weren’t just asking about the painting. You were asking about everything—the game he played, the tension that existed between the two of you, the fascination he seemed to hold.

Finally, he set his glass down, his voice lower, almost contemplative. "Because you’re more than just a person to me," he said, his gaze softening slightly, though there was still a sharp edge to it. "You’re a... presence. Something I want to understand, to capture, in every way." He took a slow step closer, his eyes lingering on you for a moment before he added, almost too casually, "And because one should preserve what they cherish, shouldn't they?"

Sylus’s voice, low and deliberate, seemed to echo around the room, weaving itself into the very fabric of the space.

You paused, the implications of his statement sinking in slowly. The way he looked at you—like something to be preserved, something he had every intention of holding onto—sent a shiver down your spine. It wasn’t the first time he’d made it clear he valued you, but this was different. There was a possessiveness in his tone, a quiet claim, one that made the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end.

"Preserve what you cherish," you repeated softly, the words tasting strange in your mouth. You couldn’t help but wonder what exactly he saw when he looked at you—what he truly valued, and if it was you, or the version of you he’d crafted in his mind, captured forever in oil and paint.

You met his gaze again, studying him, trying to discern if he meant the words as something more than just the artist’s admiration. There was a subtle shift in his posture as he watched you, something more predatory, more certain, as if he was waiting for a reaction, for you to acknowledge this deeper layer of his affection, his obsession.

The silence stretched between you, but it was charged, full of unspoken promises and unanswered questions. He hadn't said it outright, but you knew the implication, the undercurrent of possession that ran through his words. Sylus wasn't just capturing your form on canvas—he was capturing you, and perhaps, in a way, he always had been.

“Mr. Sylus?” “I don’t think cherish is the right word.”

Before you could fully process the weight of his words, Sylus was in front of you, closing the distance in two long strides. His movements were swift yet deliberate, as though he had been holding back until this very moment.

His hands came up to cup your face, warm and firm against your skin, tilting your head just so. And then his lips met yours—demanding, yet tender, with a fervor that left no room for doubt. The kiss wasn’t just a meeting of lips; it was an unspoken declaration, a culmination of everything unsaid between you.

The room seemed to shrink around you, the world outside fading into irrelevance as the cold air and ache in your body melted away under his touch. His thumbs brushed against your cheeks, a contrast to the intensity of the kiss, grounding you in a moment that felt both overwhelming and inevitable.

Sylus kissed you like he was sealing something—his claim, his admiration, his need—all of it poured into the way his lips moved against yours. And despite the whirlwind of emotions coursing through you, you found yourself unable to resist, your body responding instinctively to the fire he ignited within you.

When he finally pulled back, it was only slightly, his face still close enough that you could feel the warmth of his breath against your skin. His eyes, now softer but still burning with intensity, searched yours, as if daring you to question what had just transpired.

"Tell me," he murmured, his voice low and rough, "that you didn’t feel that, too."

"Mr. Sylus—" you began, your voice hesitant, unsure of where this sudden shift was leading.

"Just a moment," he interrupted, his tone calm but firm, cutting through the air like a blade.

He stepped back, his hands leaving your face, though the warmth of his touch lingered on your skin. His eyes moved over you, deliberate and unhurried, as if committing every detail of you to memory all over again. Then, just as quickly, his gaze flicked to the portrait leaning against the wall before returning to you.

"The bed," he said simply, his voice carrying the same commanding edge as before.

You blinked, caught off guard. "Pardon?"

"Get on the bed, please," he repeated, his tone soft but leaving no room for argument. There was no malice in his words, no urgency, only a quiet determination that made it clear he wasn’t asking out of whimsy.

The way he stood, the way he watched you, made your breath catch. You weren’t sure if it was the lingering tension from the kiss or the intensity of his gaze, but something about the moment made your heart race. He wasn’t just commanding your presence; he was asking for your trust, for your surrender to whatever vision he had in his mind.

And despite everything—your hesitation, the ache in your muscles, the chill in the air—you found yourself moving toward the bed, drawn by the magnetic pull of his words, of him.

"Have you any idea how many paintings I've collected at this point?" Sylus asked, his voice calm yet layered with something deeper, something sharper.

You opened your mouth to respond, but he didn’t give you the chance. As his hands moved to loosen his tie, slipping it free in one smooth motion, he answered his own question.

"Hundreds," he said, his tone carrying an almost casual air, though his gaze never left you. "Hundreds of models, hundreds of hours. Each one a study in beauty, in form, in fleeting perfection." He let the tie drop onto a nearby chair, his attention entirely on you now.

"But you," he continued, stepping closer, his voice softening in a way that made the words feel intimate, confessional. "I've had dozens made of you—every detail, every angle, every nuance of your being."

You felt your breath hitch as his words washed over you, the weight of them settling heavily in the pit of your stomach.

"And yet," he said, his lips curving into a faint, almost rueful smile, "no one has gotten it right."

The room seemed to close in as he spoke, the air charged with the tension of his admission. He reached out, his fingers brushing a strand of hair from your face, his touch light but electric.

"You’re simply perfect," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper now. "And I will not stop until it’s captured, until it’s immortalized exactly as it should be."

"And I would be a fool," Sylus continued, his voice low and deliberate, "to think that perhaps you do it on purpose, but no..."

His movements were slow, calculated, as he climbed onto the bed, his presence suddenly overwhelming. He loomed over you, his dark eyes searching yours before they dropped to your hand, which he took gently but firmly in his own.

Sylus turned your wrist over, inspecting the delicate lines and curves of your skin with the same intensity he had given the canvas earlier. His thumb brushed over the inside of your wrist, where your pulse beat steadily beneath the surface, and his lips quirked into a faint, knowing smile.

"They miss the finer details," he murmured, almost to himself. His eyes flicked up to meet yours, holding your gaze for a moment before he leaned down.

The warmth of his breath brushed against your skin as his lips ghosted over your wrist, a touch so light it sent shivers down your spine. The sensation was maddening, a deliberate tease that left you frozen in place, caught between anticipation and uncertainty.

"They capture the shape," he whispered, his lips hovering close, "but never the soul. Never this." His words were reverent, his tone almost worshipful, as though he were addressing something sacred.

"Never what?" The words escaped your lips, soft as a baby's breath, barely more than a whisper.

Sylus’s gaze flicked up to meet yours, dark and smoldering, as though your question had stirred something within him. For a moment, he didn’t answer, his thumb still idly tracing patterns along the inside of your wrist, his lips hovering so close to your skin that you could feel their warmth.

"Never you," he finally murmured, his voice low and velvety, thick with conviction. "They capture an imitation, a shadow, a shell of what you are. But the essence of you, the way your light bends in the darkness, the way your skin warms to my touch, the way your soul fills a room without saying a word..."

He paused, as if searching for words worthy of what he wanted to convey, his grip on your wrist tightening ever so slightly.

"They’ll never get that," he continued, his lips brushing against your skin as he spoke, sending a shiver racing through you.

"They try," he continues, his lips brushing faintly against your skin as he speaks, "to recreate you. To distill everything that you are into paint and canvas. But how can they? They don’t know the way your pulse quickens." His thumb presses lightly against your wrist, as if to prove his point.

"They don’t know the curve of your lips when you smile, the way your eyes light up when you're defiant, or the softness of your breath when you're still." His other hand comes up, brushing a strand of hair away from your face.

"They don’t know this," he repeats, his lips finally pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your wrist, as though sealing the moment in time.

"I adore you. I don't think you understand." Sylus's voice is low, the words slipping out with a quiet intensity that sends a shiver through your spine. His red eyes lock onto yours, unblinking, as if trying to pull something from within you—something deeper, something that perhaps even you haven’t fully realized yet.

There’s a sharpness to his gaze now, a hunger that flickers beneath the surface, but it's tempered with something else—something softer, almost tender, as though he’s offering you a truth he’s kept hidden for far too long.

His hand stays on your wrist, his touch gentle yet possessive, as if he’s anchoring you to the moment, to the declaration he’s just made.

"You don’t understand," he repeats, his voice laced with both frustration and affection. "You don’t see how you consume me."

He leans in closer, his lips brushing against your ear, his breath hot against your skin. "Every inch of you, every movement, every breath—it's all mine, in a way no one else could ever claim." His words are heady, thick with desire and something deeper—something that feels like it could swallow you whole.

His gaze flickers back to your face, his eyes drinking in every detail. "I adore you," he says again, this time with an almost reverent finality. "You are everything."

His hand moves slowly, almost tentatively, to your throat, wrapping around it lightly. The contact sends a shiver down your spine, a mix of tension and vulnerability that courses through you. For a moment, it feels almost like a threat—powerful, electrifying, and yet, strangely intimate.

The grip is not harsh, not suffocating, but it carries an undeniable presence—like a whisper of danger beneath the surface. And then, just as quickly, he lets it go, releasing the hold with a slow, deliberate motion.

Sylus's eyes search yours, as though he’s looking for something deeper, something that can explain the inexplicable pull between you. His gaze softens slightly, a subtle shift that hints at something beyond the intensity of the moment—perhaps a need to connect in a way that’s almost impossible to articulate.

"I can make you understand," he says, his voice tinged with a mix of challenge and vulnerability, "in ways you’ve never felt before."

"I just don’t understand how they never see this," Sylus murmurs, his lips grazing your wrist as he speaks, the soft touch sending a wave of heat through your body. His voice holds a mix of frustration and admiration, as if the rest of the world has missed something so painfully obvious to him.

The sensation of his lips against your skin lingers for a moment longer than it should, a whisper of warmth that contrasts sharply with the coldness of the room.

Then, slowly, almost reluctantly, he lets go of your arm, letting it fall gently to your thighs. The space between you feels heavier now, filled with the unspoken words hanging in the air, but his gaze never wavers, still locked onto you with an intensity that is both unsettling and magnetic.

You can feel the weight of his attention as he waits, as if he’s daring you to make the next move, to acknowledge the depth of what he’s said and what’s between you. His lips part slightly, as if he’s about to speak again, but for a moment, the silence stretches, thick and taut.

Your mouth goes dry at his confession, your heart pounding in your chest as the weight of his words settles in. Your face flushes, warmth creeping across your skin, and the tips of your fingers tingle with nervous energy. The air between you seems to thicken, charged with a silent tension as his words echo in your mind.

“Adore me, huh?” you ask, your voice slightly unsteady, but a trace of defiance running through it.

“Of course,” he replies, his tone firm yet tinged with something like amusement.

A daring idea blossoms in your mind, and without a second thought, you push yourself up, leaning back on your arms, feeling the strain of your muscles as you shift your position. You bring your foot to Sylus’s chin, gently but firmly tilting his head up, forcing him to meet your gaze.

"Why don’t you paint me then?" you challenge, your voice barely a whisper, but the words are thick with intent. "Paint me how you see me."

Your eyes lock onto his, daring him to follow through, to capture you in a way he’s never been able to before. The room seems to hold its breath, waiting for his next move, for the tension to either break or build to something more.

You hold his gaze, unwavering, knowing that this moment is different—there’s something in the air, in his expression, in the silence, that makes this more than just a game.

Sylus's gaze darkens as he locks eyes with you, his lips curling into a slow, wicked smile. The words that follow are laced with heat and something possessive, a raw honesty that sends a shiver down your spine.

“Show me how.”

Show him how?

He answers before you even thought to ask.

“Touch yourself,”

“Touch myself?” “Yes.”

He sits up, giving you the space to do so. You look at him, incredulous.

“Go on, sweetheart.”

You don’t know how, but you find yourself leaning back against the headboard of the bed.

Touch yourself.

Okay, yeah.

You could do that.

You open your legs, bringing a hand down to your cunt.

His eyes don’t leave your hand, not as you bring it up to your lips, sucking on them, and not as you bring your wet fingers back to your cunt, moving in slow circles.

The cold air was still cold, and you didn’t know where else to look. Not as you dipped your fingers between your lips, not as your head tilted back.

Your free hand went to your breast, rolling the nipple between your fingers. Your cheeks burned, knowing he wouldn’t look away. You close your legs around your wrist, but he clears his throat.

Open them back up.

So you do.

Your clit is sensitve as you play with it, soft breaths turning into quiet pants. Feeling yourself getting wetter, you added a third finger to the mix, beginning to pump them in and out.

This wouldn’t do. You wouldn't be able to get yourself off like this, with him watching.

So you shut your eyes, trying to pretend he wasn’t there. Pinching your clit, you sucked in a breath. Oh, fuck.

Sylus, however, wasn’t doing much better. His pants were tight, cock strained against his underwear. But he wouldn’t do anything. This was all for you.

“Sylus,” it comes out airy, and your fingers just arent enough, “Can’t you help me?” “Help you? Darling, you’re supposed to show me how to paint, not the other way around.”

Damn him.

“I can’t,” “You can. Get on with it.”

You curl your fingers, and oh, your eyes flutter. The hand that was on your tit goes to help the other, your cunt greedy for the attention as your hips start to buck. Pulling your hand out for a brienf moment, you wipe the wetness off on your thighs, feeling your clit throb as you slow the pace down once again.

Your stomach had butterflies. The fact that this man had wanted you in such a way…

It was nice to have a loyal patron.

His red eyes on you, that smooth voice always appreciative, and lord, those hands- that nose- that stupid smirk..

Your toes curl, and you say his name.

So close, so close, so close-

His hand is on your wrist, pulling it up, your high stolen.

“Marvelous.”

Eyes opening, you look at him, chest heaving.

“I, haa, I wasn’t done.” The corners of his lips turn upwards. He brings your fingers to his lips, tasting them. He hums in approval.

“I’ve seen enough. I’ve learned.”

Oh, damn him.