Page 46 of Painter's Obsession

I try to resist, clenching my fists until my nails dig into my palms, but it’s useless. My father’s words slam into me with each thrust of Ren’s fingers, like blows I can’t escape.“No son of mine will grow up to be a fag.” Smack. The belt connects with my ass, the sting searing my skin.“You’re a man. Not a bitch.”

But the pain from the erection straining against my stomach, the precum leaking from the tip, and the obscene, involuntary sounds he pulls from my lips tell a different story. I am his bitch.

“Oh, you like it?” he teases, his breath brushing against my ear as his teeth sink into my ass cheek. I shudder, his fingers stretching me wider, curling, probing. I don’t fight—not anymore. Despite the shame coursing through me like poison, my body responds. I am the puppet and he is the master.

His free hand curls beneath me, wrapping around my cock. His touch is firm but deliberate, avoiding the stitches. “One of my many lessons,” he says, his voice thick with mock tenderness, “was to learn to please her. To show her how much I loved her through my touch. Can you feel it?”

I moan as his hand moves along the stitches, the sting of the pain mixing with the unbearable heat. Every nerve in my body burns, my mind splintering under the weight of it all.

“Did he hit you because you’re gay?” he asks suddenly, his voice sharpening.

I tense, my body bucking reflexively. I try to lift my head, but he slams it back down onto the cold tile, the impact ringing in my ears. “Don’t fucking move.”

“So what?” I snarl through gritted teeth, spit flying from my lips. “You rape others because she did that to you?”

“Rape?” He pauses mid-motion, his fingers still inside me. For a moment, the room falls deathly silent except for the sound of my ragged breathing. “It’s not rape when you want it. When you need it.” His voice drops, soft and venomous. “But you’ll understand that very soon.”

With that, he pulls back slightly, his fingers leaving me, and I feel the loss like a reprieve I didn’t earn. One hand pins my head to the ground while the other guides his cock to my puckered hole. Warm saliva drips onto my entrance, sliding down in slow, humiliating rivulets.

The anticipation swirls inside me like a storm. I don’t fight. I don’t beg. I will not break—not the way he wants me to. If he thinks he can destroy me with his cock, he’s wrong. One way or another, I will end him. That’s my promise.

The pressure builds, his cock nudging my entrance before pushing inside without hesitation. The pain is sharp, a searing intrusion that steals my breath.

“You bleed so beautifully for me,” he whispers, his voice dripping with sadistic pleasure. His thrusts are harsh, punishing, each one sending fresh shocks of pain through me. His free hand wraps around my cock again, stroking in time with his movements.

I try to resist, clenching my jaw until it aches, but the warmth gathers in my core, coiling tighter and tighter. My body betrays me, and a moan slips from my lips before I can stop it.

Ren’s breath hitches, his movements growing erratic. “I’m going to breed you,” he growls, his voice shaking with barely restrained lust. “You don’t need to get pregnant or be a woman for me to fill you with my seed.”

The words send a wave of disgust crashing over me, but it’s too late. The pleasure overwhelms the pain, and I feel myself tipping over the edge.

Ren thrusts one final time, his cock jolting inside me as warmth spills deep within. I cry out, my own release spilling into his hand as my body convulses.

“So fucking beautiful,” he murmurs, lifting my head from the ground. My face burns as he forces me to look at my reflection in the tile. My tan cheeks are flushed, my eyes hooded with the aftershocks of pleasure, my lips parted like I’ve been begging for more.

“You’ve been lying to yourself all this time, Byron,” he says, smirking as he pumps one final time and pulls out. “You want this. You want me.”

He lets me fall to the cold tile, the sharp contrast biting into my skin. Cum slides from between my legs, sticky and hot, a grotesque reminder of what just happened. I curl into a fetal position, the shame weighing heavier than the bruises.

I watch as he grabs a white canvas and sits across from me, the pencil in his hand moving in steady strokes. “You’ll understand,” he says softly, not even looking up from his work. “By the time I’m done with you, you’ll understand everything.”

Chapter Twenty Eight

Ren

Once I finish the sketch of Byron lying curled in the fetal position, I shake the jar of grey brain matter. The sound is sickening, wet and muffled, and it stirs him in his sleep.

“Get away from her,” he mumbles, his voice slurred and broken. He tosses and turns like a dog, his muscles twitching beneath the glistening sweat that clings to his skin. I stop mid-motion, laying my head on my knee, watching him with fascination.What is this feeling? The ache in my chest, the flutter in my stomach?

From here, I can see he’s not doing well. His skin is pale and damp despite the cold, and the mess around him reeks of piss and blood. The small toilet on the wall remains untouched—he’s chosen to be an animal, to defile everything but that.

I put the jar down, my eyes trailing over the fast rise and fall of his chest. The snake tattoo coiling around his arms seems tomove with each breath, its head almost meeting itself where he lies.

Leaning my head against the wall, I think of earlier. The feel of his tight hole strangling my cock. So different from the others. This wasn’t just desire. It was something primal, visceral—demanding. Much like it was with her.

I smack my forehead, again and again, trying to drive her from my thoughts. Why can’t I erase her? Why, even in death, does she haunt me?

I close my eyes and picture the gore.

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