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 . . .