An Artistic Dilemma

Jake Monroe opened the door to the three bedroom rambler in a very good mood. The painting he had been working on was finally finished and just in time for his wife's upcoming birthday. He felt like celebrating for it had taken him over three months of continuous effort to get it perfect. After all, he had thought to himself, it was for Mary and nothing was too good for his wife. The scene selection had been the easier part merely requiring he flesh out his oldest sketchbooks and then filling in minor details.

The hard part had been tying them all together in a way that wasn't obvious, tacky, or gauche. The actual painting had been straight forward but time consuming. The completed work sat on a viewing easel in the small warehouse he had converted into a studio and he eagerly looked forward to Marys' reaction when she saw it.

His steps light, his mind free of the painting process, a carefree feeling in his soul, all of this made today a good day he thought as he walked into the living room. The house was very quiet and he wondered where Mary was. Her car was in the driveway so he knew she was here and she normally had the radio on whenever she was home. Thinking she might be napping he walked to the master bedroom. Empty.

He checked the room they had made into a combination office/library and it too was vacant as was the guest bedroom. Well, he thought, she must be outback on the porch. He walked through the living room and approached the back sliding glass door. It was open and his hand was reaching for the screen when he saw something that burned itself into his brain like a branding iron marking a cow.

Mary, his wife of 6 years, was lying on a lounger with her face turned towards the door. On top of her was a rather portly man, in his mid-fifties, fucking her like a dog. Jake knew the look on her face, the intent one that signified she was approaching a climax, and was able to hear the mans' words clearly.

"Oh, yeah, bitch. I can feel you Cumming again. Fuck you're such a hot and nasty slut." He began driving into her harder and faster. "Have you ever cum three times with that husband of yours, whore?' he panted. He continued stroking in and out of her. Her legs were wrapped around his waist and her hands gripped his ribs, her whole body shaking, as the man brutally fucked her. The man grimaced and loudly said "I hope you get your third cum, slut, cause I Cumming..." he panted and thrust into Mary, burying himself balls deep, "...right...the...fuck..." and he threw his head back, and bellowed"...NOW." He held that position as Jake watched, noticing that Mary had relaxed having achieved her orgasm, and sheer shock held him motionless. Mary opened her eyes and Jake watched as they widened in shock as she saw him.

"Now, whore, as a reward for my fucking you so well you're going to suck my cock clean of all our juices, aren't you, bitch?" He looked down at her and yelled "AREN'T YOU?" Noticing Marys' gaze he looked towards the screen door and his eyes opened wide for a moment. Then, when Jake made no move, he gave a twisted grin and said "So, it's limp dick himself. Hey boy you getting off on watching a real man fuck your wife? I want to thank you for neglecting her, boy, 'cause she's the hottest and nastiest slut I've ever fucked."

A blazing anger swept over Jake and it was as if he was a stranger in his own body. He turned to re-trace his steps to the master bedroom. He heard raucous laughter from the man as he walked away then his voice saying "I told you to suck my cock clean slut!" followed by the sound of flesh striking flesh. "That faggot husband of yours isn't going do shit, bitch, in fact you ought to drop him and move in with a man who knows how to fuck. Now suck me, you stupid cunt, or I'll give you a spanking you won't soon forget."

Jake walked into the master bedroom, reached under the mattress near the headboard, pulled out the .38 caliber revolver Mary had insisted they buy for home defense, opened the cylinder to check it was loaded and, upon closing it cocked the hammer. Holding it at his side he walked back to the patio door and slid the screen open. The older man was in front of Mary, who sat on the lounger now, with his dick in her mouth. He looked at Jake and sniggered. "Hey, faggot, if you're real polite I'll let you watch as my whore gets me hard enough to fuck her again." Jake started to raise the pistol and the man's face turned fearful. "Oh holy fuck!" he gasped just before yanking his limp dick out of her mouth and taking off with the speed of an Olympic athlete.

Jakes' anger betrayed him and he missed with the first shot. By the time Jake could step out and orient towards him the man had reached the 6 foot high privacy fence. As Jake took aim, he cleared the fence in one desperate, adrenaline inspired leap, and before Jake could pull the trigger a second time he was gone. Jake noticed in a distant part of his mind that his hand was rock steady as he lowered the pistol. He slowly turned to face Mary and the same distant part of his mind took in all the details in a glance.

Her bikini top was pushed up above her lovely breasts and her nipples were rock hard. The bottom lay discarded on the patio floor and as she sat there he saw a stream of white fluid discharging from her gaping vagina to puddle on the floor beneath her. She had her eyes locked on the revolver but even as he noticed that fact she shifted them up to meet his. Her face and chest were still flushed from the sexual encounter and she was still trying to normalize her breathing and there was a bruise forming on one of her cheeks. Her eyes, those lovely eyes, were extremely wide with shock and fear.

They stared at each other for the longest moment and suddenly Jake felt another emotion, one powerful enough to displace his raging anger, and it took him a moment to classify it. Nausea, a deep twisting in his belly as if he would spew the contents of every meal he had ever consumed, and he spit saliva out in an attempt to prevent his vomiting. It landed at her feet, unnoticed by him, and he grated "You really are a slut and a whore."

He dropped the pistol, not caring if it discharged, spun and headed towards the front door. He heard Mary cry "JAKE, WAIT!" but he ignored her. He had his hand on the doorknob when she managed to reach him, and, at her touch he unthinkingly backhanded her. She landed hard on her ass and, as he looked down at her, he saw the stream of cum still discharging from her. Without another word, he yanked the door open, went through, and slammed it behind him. He fumbled his car keys out, got in, started it up, and without looking slammed into reverse.

He later considered it the act of a kind God that he didn't either run someone over or hit a passing car. He slammed it into drive and, hammering the accelerator, he peeled out.

He traveled less than a block before he realized he couldn't see the road through his tears. Blindly he pulled over and as the front right tire impacted the curb, put the car into park, bent his head to the steering wheel, and cried. He cried and cried and cried. Not the soft gentle tears of acceptance but the gut-rending wracking tears of loss. Finally composing himself he drove back to his refuge from the world, his second home, his studio.

He stood before his painting easel, staring at the blank canvas he had unthinkingly placed upon it, and felt his demon finally break its' chains. He systematically reduced everything to shards and shreds. Works in progress, blank canvas, paints, brushes, even the very walls fell before his rage. Finally, standing alone in the midst of the wreckage he collapsed and, wailing his anguish, curled into a fetal position. He felt a darkness descending that ate his soul and was content it was so. He didn't know how long he stayed there but eventually he heard footsteps. A face descended to peer into his eyes, and he heard a sharp indrawn breath. "Jake?"

One part of his mind realized it was Mary yet the greater part refused to acknowledge her. The darkness which surrounded him was so much safer. "Send me the divorce papers, I'll sign them." he said woodenly. She gasped then withdrew. He laid there and finally heard other voices.

"The guy is fucking gone, Georgie. Christ, look at his hands. Ain't no doubt he did all this damage. He goes postal and then he goes catatonic? Fuck the E.R., he needs to go to the nearest psych facility!" said a male voice.

"Not our call, Pete. I know you did service in the military, and you probably saw more cases like this then I have, but it isn't our call. We take him to the E.R. and let the docs take it from there." said a second voice, this one female.

"Okay, okay. But just in case this dude goes off again I want him restrained during transit." said the male.

"Oh, fuck, yeah." replied the female. "Last thing I want is this boy loose in the back of the ambulance."

Jake felt himself being lifted and placed onto a soft surface. The anti-septic smell of clean sheets filled his nostrils. He didn't bother to react. Darkness was so much safer.

"Christ, this guy is at least 50 pounds under-weight, Georgie, he's like one of those walking skeletons in the films. Those guys rescued from the Nazi death camps, y'know." said the male.

"Poor fucker's done it to himself, though." she snorted. " I've seen it before. Artists can't be bothered with minor details like eating."

"Yeah, but did you see that big ass painting in the warehouse? Fuck I would give my left nut to create something like that." said the male and Jake gave an inward smile. He WAS good after all.

"Uh-huh." replied the woman. "But this poor bastard gave up both his health and his sanity to do so. Is that a trade-off you would make, Pete?"

A long silence followed, then as Jake felt his bed being boosted up, came the reply. "No."

Jake heard the smile in the woman's voice. "I didn't think so." A pause then she continued. "Okay, he's in a fetal position. Strap down his head, chest, hips, and feet. If he gets out of those his name is Houdini and we might as well let him go."

"Gotcha, boss." replied the male. Jake felt the straps being laid and tightened and, although he normally feared restraints, in this case darkness was more comfortable. A tiny voice whispered in the back of his mind that he deserved it but he ignored it.

After a journey he wasn't able to comprehend he found himself speeding down a long white corridor. "What have we got here, Georgie?" asked another female voice.

"His wife called. We found him in a fetal position. He's unresponsive and malnourished. Artisitic type. He's definitely in shock and probably apathetic. Vitals are strong given his condition. Other than that, doc, we got zip." Jake felt himself fading out as the second female voice began giving orders. Maybe, he thought, he would be lucky and not wake up.

He came to in a bright and clean room. He was on his back, exposed, and he tried to curl back up but was unable to. He slowly realized it was because all four limbs were restrained. He was tied up and helpless. Panic filled his mind and he began to hyper-ventilate.

"Whoa, white-boy, no need for fear." a deep male voice said. He looked around and found the owner of that familiar voice. Jason Smith was his best friend and had been for years. The product of an inter-racial marriage he had inherited his fathers' build and voice and his mothers' light skin. "About time you woke up." he added.

Jake tried to say "Jason?" but only a croak emerged. Jason held a bottle with a straw attached to its top out to Jake. "Take a sip of water, white-boy, and try again." he commanded. Jake wrapped his lips around the straw and felt the cool water enter his mouth. This must have been what the old Greeks meant when they spoke of Ambrosia, he thought, as the water revived him. He desperately wanted more to quench the parched feeling in his mouth but Jason pulled it away.

"Jason?" Jake managed to whisper.

Jason laughed. "That's very good, white-boy. You passed the first test." He extended his hand out with the bird finger raised. "Second test. How many fingers am I holding up?"

Jake felt mirth, something he hadn't thought of in a long time, and answered "Yeah, blackbird, you're number one in my book too." he whispered.

Jason laughed softly then turned serious. "What the fuck happened to you, Jake? I mean I'm looking at the guy most likely to succeed and I'm seeing a fucking corpse restrained in a nuthouse. Mary isn't in much better shape, dude, cause she stares at a painting all day and cries. What the fuck happened? Neither of you will talk, damn-it, and it's driving everyone else fucking crazy."

Jake turned his head away and stayed silent. Jason seemed to be willing to outwait him but eventually he exploded. "Damn-it, you stupid ignorant white son of a bitch, Mindy and I have fucking put our lives on hold to come help you and if you're too fucking proud to tell me what happened, then...then...FUCK YOU, ASSHOLE." he ended up screaming. Jake heard him stomp to his feet, weighed the comfortable blackness against the loss of his best friend, and croaked "Wait, Jason, please?"

Jake turned to see his best friend holding the doorknob and looking back at him. "I'm...I'm...FUCK." Jake panted. "I'm not sure how to explain it even to myself much less anyone else." Tears filled his eyes, tears he wasn't even able to wipe away. "I'll try to, though." his voice cracked. "It's that fucking painting." he finished. The tears spilled down his face and he couldn't even touch them much less remove them.

Suddenly he was choking. The shortness of breath caused by his crying, added to the snot building up in his nose, combined with the fact that he was restrained all contributed to his not being able to breath. Alarm monitors went off, he felt his body beginning to spasm, voices began shouting, but all he knew was he couldn't breathe. Eventually he found himself sitting on the edge of his bed, puking into a bowl, with Jason slamming him on the back and white clad people all around him.

"Fuck, Jake, you okay?" he heard Jason ask. With a weak nod he tried to stand up. He would have collapsed onto the floor if not for Jason.

"Oh, God." he moaned into Jason's broad chest. "I thought I was going to die." The tears began to flow again. "I deserve to die." he sobbed. Jason made comforting noises but Jake wasn't put off. "I hate Mary, Jason, for something that was my fault!" he cried softly.

"Tell me about that fucking painting, Jake." commanded Jason. Jake failed to notice that the gray haired man who had held his bowl was still in the room just as he didn't notice the slight nod he gave Jason. He was fixated on Jason and the past.

"I spent almost 4 months making it, Jason. On her birthdays I bought her something and she always said 'It's sweet dear, but the only present I want is from your heart.' so I determined to give it to her." He stared up at his best friend. "It took me over two years to decide. It took another year to plan. It took almost four months of 24/7 effort to execute. At the end, I walked in to find her fucking someone else, and I re-acted poorly." His face flamed red as he confessed his shame.

Jason laughed. "Hell, white-boy, Mary has at least told us that. Did you really mean to kill that fucker?" he asked.

Jake nodded. "If I hadn't been so angry I would have." he confessed. He paused then added "Strangely enough it wasn't because he was fucking Mary it was because he was calling her a slut, and a whore, and a bitch while he did." Jake shook his head. "I haven't figured that one out yet."

"Take one step at a time, white-boy." Jason said. He looked into Jakes eyes. "You're going have to eat, and exercise, and talk...damn-it...before the docs are going to let you go. You know that, don't you?" At Jakes' shy nod he released him. "You know Mindy is going to want to talk to you." His voice lowered. "Should she bring Mary?"

Jake shook his head then rubbed his hand through his shaved hair. "No. Matter of fact I don't want to have any female contact until I figure out where my head is at. That includes my Mom, Jason." he said apologetically. "Sorry. Tell Mindy I said hello?" Jason nodded his head, hugged Jake, and left.

The gray haired man walked up to Jake. "I'm Dr. Kaminski and I'm the top nut in this peanut bag." he grinned at Jakes' confusion. "I'm the guy in charge, Jake, and the one you'll have to convince you're safe to discharge." He held up his hand to still Jakes' assurances. "I don't think you're crazy,only confused, but I've been wrong before." he grinned. "My door is always open. Come talk to me when you feel the need." He turned serious. "You'll have to meet with your wife, in a controlled environment, before your release. Not a threat, dude, just a warning."

As he was leaving he glanced back. "Hey, if you're really good we'll move you up to the guys' who play checkers against a mystery guest, jack off frequently to phantom lovers, and babble." He shrugged his shoulders. "At least it'll be company."

Jake muttered "Thanks." as the man left.

For the next 4 weeks Jake ate, exercised, slept, and had almost daily conversations with Dr. Kaminski. In one of their earlier conversations Jake had mentioned the picture he had burned into his brain of Mary climaxing under that other man and how he had to fight against his anger and then deep sadness.

The doctor had suggested that since Jake was an artist he sketch the image he saw then try to wrap his brain around it. "You can't hide from it, Jake, and you can't suppress it forever. If you try than when it does surface it'll really bite you on the ass. It's an ugly image so see if you can somehow change it. At the very least you have to come to grips with it."

Another conversation zeroed in on why Jake had wanted to shoot the man for calling Mary foul names and not because he was screwing her. Jake had to really think about it but when he finally realized why it was absurdly simple. He had been raised to speak properly around women and it really pissed him off when some man used foul language to women. Dr. Kaminski had quietly said "Talking dirty while having sex is a common occurrence, Jake, because it heightens the intensity of the act. If, or when, you have sex with your wife again try it."

One night Jake took a blank piece of paper and sketched the image of Mary being fucked by that other man. He felt his anger rising as he finished it and almost crumpled it up but stopped. Somewhere deep in his mind an idea formed and he started to modify the sketch.

Instead of her arms holding the man he sketched in manacles and chains connecting to the lounger. He grabbed another sheet and re-drew the image, this time making the lounger into a metal framed low table with an elevated back. In addition to Marys' arm restraints he also sketched in a restraints for her feet. He paused, looked at it, and suddenly realized he didn't feel anger any more. What he felt was arousal. For the first time in months he was erect.

Taking a third blank sheet he sketched what a top view would look like. He had her totally restrained with a collar around her slim neck and her face averted as if in disgust but drew her nipples erect and her vagina open and indicating desire.

He stared at the sketch for several long moments and was completely surprised when he ejaculated. "Holy shit" he exclaimed as he got up to shower. He looked at himself in the mirror as he considered the matter. He wanted to be a kind and gentle lover but there was no question that taking Mary while she was restrained excited him immensely.

He shook his head at his image and whispered "You are a sick son of a bitch, Jake Monroe." before going back to bed. That night he dreamed of having Mary tied, bound, and at his mercy. He dreamed of making her beg for sex and then for release. He dreamed of treating her like a whore, making her feel like a bitch in heat, and forcing her to act like a slut. He woke up to find he had had a wet dream and his belly and shorts were sticky with his sperm.