Page 77 of Painter's Obsession

I am a creator. A sculptor of flesh and mind.

And Byron is my canvas.

I wipe my hands on my thighs, streaking my skin with blood, and turn to face him fully. His eyes lock onto me, wide and wary. He looks at me as if I’m a monster.Good.

“Let me show you what it’s like to live in my world, Byron,” I say, my voice low, almost reverent. “Let me give you the void.”

I drop the carving knife, the clang of steel against the floor reverberates through the room. Slowly, I close the distance between us, the chain attached to his collar rattling with every step.

He pulls back slightly, the resistance in the chain tightening as I tug. “Stop it,” he growls, his voice trembling with anger—or is it fear?

“Stop resisting,” I reply, kneeling before him.

I dip my hand into the blood pooling at my feet. It’s warm, sticky, alive. Slowly, I trail my crimson-streaked fingers up his strong, hairy legs, smearing the blood as I go. His muscles twitch under my touch, tension radiating through him.

His breathing quickens.

“Do you feel it yet?” I murmur, my voice soft, intimate. “The pull of the void? It’s not so bad, once you let it in.”

He flinches as my hand slides higher, curling around his cock. His body betrays him—his length hardens under my touch, stiff and hot against my bloodied palm.

His jaw tightens, his teeth grinding together. “You’re insane,” he spits, his voice cracking.

I smile. “Maybe. But insanity is freedom, Byron. It’s the truth stripped bare. It’s what you’ve been running from your entire life.”

A bead of precum gathers at the tip of his cock, glistening like a tear. I lean in, my tongue darting out to collect it. The taste is sharp, briny, electric. He jerks back instinctively, but my free hand locks him in place, gripping the chain around his neck and pulling him closer.

“Stop fighting,” I whisper, my breath warm against his skin. “You belong here. With me.”

His eyes burn into mine, wide and full of disbelief, but he doesn’t resist as my tongue swirls around the head of his cock. The tension in his body falters, the smallest hint of surrender rippling through him.

My hand moves to his backside, spreading his cheeks apart as I press a blood-slicked finger against his tight entrance. He groans, low and guttural, the sound cutting through the suffocating air of the studio.

The room reeks of blood and sweat, the metallic tang clinging to my skin. Shadows cast by the dim light dance on the walls, distorted and alive, like they’re watching us.

His hand tangles in my hair, gripping hard as he forces himself deeper into my mouth. His cock fills me completely, stretching my throat, choking me. Tears prick my eyes, spilling over as I gag, but I don’t stop.

I can’t.

My cheeks hollow, and I let instinct take over, sucking him deeper. The obscene wet sounds of his thrusts mingle with his groans, and I revel in the control I have over him.

Do you feel it now? The void, the truth, the inevitability of me?

We connect as one, my fingers sliding inside him, stretching him, eliciting a soft moan from his lips. His body trembles under my touch, caught between resistance and surrender, as I curl my fingers upward, pressing toward his stomach. I massage the area deliberately, slow and methodical, feeling the way his body tightens around me. His fucking G-spot.

“Holy—“ he groans, his hips jerking forward instinctively, chasing the overwhelming pleasure.

I don’t stop. I press harder, curling my fingers deeper, sliding in another, stretching him further. His breath catches, a broken sound slipping from his lips, and then it happens.

“Shit,” he gasps, his cock twitching violently against my cheek as he spills into me. His essence floods my mouth, hot and sticky, the taste raw and electric.

I drink him in, swallowing greedily, savoring his helplessness. Looking up at him, I hold his gaze, my tongue flicking out to catch the last traces of him on my lips. His eyes, wide and glassy, reflect the battle within him—shame, desire, and something darker.

Standing from my spot, I let the silence settle around us, heavy and suffocating. His chest heaves with shallow breaths, his body still trembling as he fights to regain control. I turn away, moving silently toward the counter, my steps deliberate and unhurried.

At the base of the counter, I press my hand to the hidden compartment. The soft metallic click echoes in the stillness as the gun slides free into my palm. Its cold weight feels grounding, a promise of what’s to come.

I don’t speak—I don’t need to. Something unspoken lingers in the air, thick and oppressive.

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