A river of viscous red waterfalls to an ocean of blue, green, red, and white with specks of yellow and fiery orange making themselves known. As the river runs out the red mixes into the ocean of colors with long tendrils that seemed to be reaching out into a void, this being where the colors met and lost their definition. That was the annoying thing about acrylic pours like this Nicholas thought to himself as he set the bottle of red paint back down. If you used too much then you got this brown mess that looked like the inside of a septic tank.
But it was fun to squeeze the bottle. To feel the way the plastic sides buckled inwards towards the middle. The liquid coming out in great squirts of excitement, as he often found that he pressed too hard on his first squeeze. This resulted in a lot of wasted paint, and often another septicial nightmare but he couldn’t help himself.
To prevent the red paint from entirely dripping off the side, for he had the painting angled so that the colors would look like they were being pulled off the bottom right corner of the canvas, he carefully picked it up and removed the blocks of wood he had it positioned on. He made sure the desk was clear so he could set the painting back down level, being careful not to angle the canvas too steeply while he adjusted everything.
Now the red was no longer being pulled in any particular direction and so it would sit where it was and expand a little. Sort of bulk up. There were still a few places where the paint had gathered together and raised up into little ridges that shone with wetness in the light from above. Nicholas reached a hand forward, pulled it back, and then slowly extended it forward again, this time careful to reach only one finger out to gently make contact with the paint – red with a hint of green – before bringing it back to stare at, raise, and slowly, but quickly, lick.
“Daddy, I’m ready for bed now.”
Nicholas was as careful as a startled man could be. He jumped, his intimate moment dissipating into a flurry of motion, but instead of going forward, away from the noise, he was wise enough, careful enough, to avoid collapsing on his newest creation. Instead he shot backwards into his unused easel, the one with the broken leg so it had to rest at an angle against the wall. He went down onto his ass, the easel falling backwards to smack him in the shoulder.
“Daddy!”
Suzie, his seven year old hurricane, dashed from where she was standing by the now open door to the studio to help Nicholas up by bravely being too late to actually help do anything about the situation she caused since Nicholas was on his feet immediately, his face red.
“Suzie! What did I tell you about knocking when Daddy’s in here?”
“I’m sorry, Daddy, but I’m ready for bed now.”
“So you said,” he grabbed his watch off the table while half hugging his daughter to prevent her from getting into something else she could destroy. “Honey, you’ve still got thirty minutes before bedtime.”
“I know,” she could move like a cat when she wanted and it only took her a moment to slip out of his grasp, “but I’m ready to sleep now.”
“Alright, but Daddy still has a few things to do in here before he’s done for the night. Why don’t you go lay down and if you’re not asleep before Daddy’s done then he’ll come in and read to you.”
He could see by the look in her eyes that she wanted to argue with him but she knew that he would not budge on this even if she threw a fit. Instead of replying she puffed out her cheeks and stormed out of the studio. She slammed the door as she left and the easel that he had just set down fell over and knocked one of his earlier paintings off the walls.
goddamn cunt cant wait a fucking second if it killed her cant enter a room without breaking something like some goddamn mythic creature or some kind of goddamned indian curse i love you but you drive me up the goddamn wall i swear to christ think her mother could have had the decency to keep her to her fucking self
Nicholas took a deep breath and picked up the painting – red, black, yellow, flecks of green and spirals of orange like a candy he remembered as a kid – and placed it back on the wall where it belonged. It was one of many, as the walls of the studio were entirely covered in paintings of various sizes fit together so that the wall itself could only be seen through needle-sized cracks.
He started over towards the desk and his newest painting, stopped, went over to the door and locked it, then the table. The red had expanded like he expected. In doing so, however, it had pushed the blue in an unexpected way and he found himself enraptured by the way the color now seemed to curl back upon itself. He traced the contours with the faintest tip of a fingernail and he shivered, a deep and reinvigorating shiver that started in the base of his neck and traveled down his back and into his loins.
His cock stiffened, begged for him to press his finger harder, deeper, into the paint, to feel it squish and reshape around his digit, a faint warmness to it that he didn’t understand, nor question, but craved in the darkest parts of himself. He wanted it to expand, to open up, to envelope him and invite him inside so that he could follow those shifting colors into the realm of the sexually and spiritually divine in which he was free, free from his mortal vessel, free from his shackles of flesh, family, work, taxes, responsibility…
But no.
He was just a man, a man masturbating fiercely with one hand while his other shook, inches away from the painting, still not touching, the chemicals in his brain and his cock screaming at him to do so and finally he did but still his body was begging for more and he knew that the couldn’t have what he needed without pain, knew because of all the years he’d lived with his sickness and because of Suzie’s mother, and so he did what he knew he must and he bit into his wrist, his teeth no longer struggling to get through the flesh like they had in the past, now his will was too great and the action too practiced, so that the red paint inside of him could spill and he watched it pool on the ground, the white entering now and expanding outwards in a circular manner, both of the great energetic paints of life splashing up against his knees like the waves of the ocean against the rocks of the shore.
Without moving he collapsed. Collapsed inward in that way every man does after he has reached climax. He absentmindedly ran a finger through his newest painting, the one he would have to clean up later. He took great joy in the taste of his bottom lip between his teeth. More than once his vision went white as his eyes rolled into the back of his skull as another of those head to groin shivers shot through him, first as one giant quake and then a series of aftershocks that made his anus clench and his teeth rattle.
He stood with great difficulty and was careful to only hold his arm above open floor, not letting even a singular drop of blood sully the sanctity of his holy shrine to the colors that controlled him, controlled them all. He had bandages stored in the studio, as well as some whiskey that was alternatively for drinking and disinfecting. It was for both at the moment. There was no sink but he had stolen a mop bucket from his old job. He watched as the whiskey and blood mixed together but he found the bottom of the bucket was too dark to truly appreciate what they had to say.
His work had just bought another one anyway.
He wrapped the bandages tightly around his wrist and looked around for tape. He didn’t find any, but he did find a stapler. He considered it but he didn’t know what the chance of infection would be. Nicholas brushed his teeth at least three times a day, and they would only connect with the wound for the brief moment in which they caused it. A staple in his wrist? How long would that be there? What kind of sicknesses does that cause? Are the staples at the hospital the same as those from the office supply store? No, too many risks. He would have to just tie off the bandages to the best of his ability. He hated doing it this way because it was always too constricting and he found that the blood would crust and stain his skin for three or four days after he took the bandage off. But that was cosmetic, that was different.
Bandage finished, it was time to do what he did every night his daughter was over. Read her a story, drink some more whiskey, think about what he’d create next. Same as always.
He took another swig before he put the bottle away, he didn’t drink dollar store swill when he left the studio. Nor did he tend to come back into the studio more than once a night. Though it got harder to leave each night. He rooted around in one of the many piles of junk hidden under the table until he found some paper towels he could use to start cleaning up his mess.
Biting his arm and orgasming. When he was younger, he once accidentally put himself in the hospital because of it. But he’d gotten better at it. He’d done his research on the anatomy of the wrist and mapped his out once a year to ensure he never hit anything that would do any real lasting damage. Cosmetics was one thing, crippling himself or killing himself was another. He wasn’t necessarily proud of his need for such violence to reach an orgasm, but he’d learned to live with it in a way that he wasn’t ashamed of. It was his secret and he wanted to keep it that way.
With lovers, his sexuality was more outwardly violent. Choking, slapping, hitting. He was incredibly rough. But he was also a consensual lover. Unfortunately, there were incredibly few who could live up to what he wanted and the few partners that had tried had all failed. He didn’t fault them for it, he understood it.
Floor clean, he tossed the soiled paper towels into a black garbage bag by the door and reached for the light switch.
It wasn’t his actions in the room that bothered him. It was the room itself. There was something there, something that he couldn’t quite put his finger on – but we want your finger – and he could feel it push at his mind at times, push at his body even and it scared him how pleasurable it was, how it spoke to him in ways that no lover ever had, how it knew him like no lover ever would.
The light switch was between his fingers. He had forgotten to wash his hands off with whiskey again after cleaning and now his personal red was dripping from his fingers across the light switch and downwards towards the painting there and he had to rush to get it only he couldn’t look away from the painting and the green was so luscious and young but old at the same time and his tongue was out pressing against the paint, the drop of blood running down from the top of the painting to meet his kiss and mingle with his spit, the colors of the painting stained a little from the trail but the painting having been done for weeks or months already kept its contents in place.
His eyes inches from the painting, he felt himself gripped. Tendrils of green and red seeming to reach out across the gap of air and touch his eyes, rolling backwards over his irises, deeper and deeper into him until he was gone and only the colors remained.
now me
no me
me
me
me
me
me
me
me
me
The room was alive with voices and he felt each of them, could feel what color they were more than see them, couldn’t see because the light the paintings were emitting, red, blue, yellow, orange, green, purple, black, white, scarlet, turquoise, teal, and he in the middle embracing them all, his body convulsing as orgasm after orgasm rippled through him without him needing to do anything to himself, his only purpose now was to give to them and he ran to each and every painting and felt them with his greedy fingers, he pushed and prodded into yellow and blue cunts and gripped and pulled orange and teal polymer cocks and oh how they thrust and shook in his grasp and as they came they told him what to do and he listened because he never knew anything as right as this moment so he ran to the table and grabbed the bottles of paint and broke off the covers and started tossing them around as he spun in circles splashing the red until it was empty then taking blue and yellow together and depleting them and moving on to orange and gold and each color was let free to join in the orgy with its brothers and sisters and he remembered his oil paints that he hadn’t used in years and dug them out from under the table and started tossing them about the room and at some point his clothing had come off and he rolled in the colors and become one with all of them
and he unlocked the door and swung it wide and ran into his daughter’s room, the walls covered in posters of the lastest teen idols and she screamed as he painted her door and her walls, her floors, her posters and her bed and then screamed more as he painted her face and grabbed her by the shoulders and pulled up, holding tight so even her feline agility couldn’t help her, come see the god me with me hunny, down the hall as she screamed he yanked at her hair when she wouldn’t come, you’ll understand hunny when you see the god with me, and he pulled her into the room as she cried, I don’t understand daddy what is happening daddy it hurts daddy I want mommy daddy, and he pushed her face into the painting on the desk, the one that was still fresh enough that the paint would squish and reshape around her face, so she could feel the faint warmness of it and she would understand the darkest parts of herself just like him.
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