Page 54 of Dark Ink

Eithne wasted no time in rocking her hips back and forth atop me. Her movements were angry, jerky, echoing her frustrated grunts.

The back of my head knocked painfully against the canvas, against the concrete. I felt cold wet paint against my cheek. The wind didn’t seem so cold anymore, a heat was spreading through me, travelling out of me into the paint like flames licking at wild grasses.

I clutched at the canvas on either side of me, trying so hard to just let her take over completely. Paint went under my fingernails, traced the lines of my palms. But she felt too good, her wet slick heat too much like that first hit. I tore at the canvas before I grabbed for her, pulling her mouth to mine.

“Such a greedy slut.” I rolled her to her back, ignoring the paint streaking the canvas, coating our skin. Ignoring the rest of the cans that tipped over.

“Yes,” she breathed, her chest hitching at my words, as I pushed her knees up so I could fuck her deeper. Her hips bucked up to meet mine.

I groaned as I glanced down between us. “Look. Look at this greedy pussy taking me so fucking well.”

She looked down toward where my cock was disappearing into her and she let out a long moan. “No.”

“Yes. You love it, my dirty Raglan Road girl. Don’t ever deny it.”

“No, I—”

I cut her off with my hand across her mouth as I quickened my pace. “Shut up and take it.” I could feel her muscles squeezing me, telling me the truth even if she kept trying to deny it.

She loved being fucked hard and rough.

“Take it like the perfect little slut you are.”

Her eyes rolled into her head as the orgasm took over her, as her muscles milked my cock so tightly my own eyelids fluttered shut.

She screamed under my palm, screamed out to the wind, as her head thrashed from side to side, flicking paint across the canvas like a snow angel.

Her body sagged.

I pulled out as I fell over the edge, coming across her stomach and the canvas. Then I collapsed half on her, half on the canvas.

We rolled until we were on our side, her back tucked against my front. I let myself come back down to earth like this, let my heart steady against her spine. Only then did I realise she was tracing her fingers through my come on her, on the canvas, mixing my seed with the paint.

I brushed paint from her cheek, my breath stilling as it always did when she glanced back at me.

“Any ideas about how to dry this in fifteen minutes?”

Eithne

The canvas hung from two tacks pinned into the long strip of cork above the blackboard. No carefully measured frame. No perfectly guided in nails. No measuring or adjusting or fine tuning. Nothing was stretched, smoothed, trimmed, or bound. The edges were raw from the dull scissors, from tearing more than cutting. From hurried fingers in the cold.

I wasn’t even sure that all that paint was dry. There was certainly no way it hadn’t been smeared during the trip on the bus, the canvas rolled up beside me, fitted to the curve of my hip, the lingering warmth from Rian’s body most likely imagined. Any other artist with any other piece would declare it ruined. Wrecked. Its integrity destroyed. But not me.

I believed that this was the best art I’d ever produced, if that’s even what you could call it. Best art I’d ever created, perhaps. Best art I’d ever had a hand in, a bruised knee in, a curling toe, a trembling finger, a muffled scream in.

Amongst the erect easels and hardened canvas stiff with glue, amongst the daintily added signatures and finely printed placards, amongst the proper art and conventional standards, I stood proud with my tattered flag of surrender, messy from battle.

“Alright now…” Professor Sauer droned on as his finger ran down the class list. “Ms…Brady.”

Before that moment he had his face cast down. Presentation after presentation, he scrolled not so subtly through his phone. He would nod here and there, make a noncommittal “emm” from deep in his throat, and thank the student an awkward fifteen seconds or so after they had finished speaking. When he glanced up to find me, to skim across all the beautiful paintings all beautifully displayed, his chin jerked up. I watched as his eyebrows knitted together, a grin crawling across my lips. Professor Sauer adjusted himself in his desk, sank his chin into his palm, and nudged his round gold-rimmed glasses back up his nose.

“Yes,” he said, “alright, Ms Brady. Please tell us about what you’ve done.”

I couldn’t exactly do that now, could I? I hid a blush as the memory of my fisted hands crumpling sections of the canvas, as my knees made insistent marks on either side of the outline of Rian’s body. Perhaps I should have considered this on the bus ride over to campus instead of running over the moment of my climax again and again in my head: that intoxicating heat, that irresistible need, that sensation of being carried over the rushing edge of a waterfall, white noise in your ears, dazzling sparkles behind your eyelids, stomach clenched, heart in your throat.

I looked at the canvas hanging beside me with a growing sense of panic as the class joined Professor Sauer in leaning forward to see. I had the attention of the entire studio. And yet all I could think of was Rian’s cock inside of me, my hips rocking back against his groin, the taste of his throat against my mouth. That’s all I could see on my canvas, the outline of bodies and lust and swirls of cum drying in the paint.

“Um,” I said, clearing my throat, shifting from foot to foot, “with this piece I wanted to…I, um, I wanted to…”

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