For the Love of Art Pt. 03

He sat there in the silence that followed, poking at his uneaten ice cream, but watching me as I resumed mine. Then, whenever he was satisfied with an unknown accomplishment, he leaned forward, arms folded on the table. "I don't think I've ever heard you be this talkative. Do I need to stuff ice cream in you more often?"

I ate another scoop. "Maybe," I muttered, unabashed.

He almost cracked a smile, before his face became one of stringent business once more. "Art is subjective. We may add a caption to the million dollar art exhibit pieces, but no words, no matter their order, will show the world what emotions influenced the creator. And as you must know by now, no matter what level degree you hold to your name, with art, your prestige is measured in the limitlessness of the mind's imagination. Something tells me you don't stem from an imaginative family."

I shook my head. "They say I need to get a real education. No real job in coloring. They're stubborn headed people. I don't think there's any . . ."

The change was sudden. Mr. Ryne's eyes were closed, teeth gnashed. Powerful ripples of anger took over the collected profile of before.

"Sorry," I sighed, tired. "But this time I'm really at a loss as to what I've done." Besides rob the man of apparently his last standing edible in the house.

After an eternity, he gave one lateral shake of negation. When he opened his eyes, no amount of blue could conceal the red, fiery flames. "Miss Larson, you are a stunning artist. When you wake in the morning to the drawings on your walls, lose yourself in them, not by their lines but by what you put into them. The moment you walk the path of creation for approval of those outside rather than what's inside, is the moment you've given in. You're better than that.

"And I don't hate you, so get that out of your head. I'm stern with you. You bury yourself in colors black and blacker. Your own hands, they tie the blindfold of anxiety and fear around your own eyes. You see the world for what it truly is. You see it, and they do not. People are shallow and closed minded. Empathy was a luxury bred out of humans centuries ago. No matter what colors you use, the simple minds of today's society will always win out. I've learned long ago to give absolutely no fucks about what the world deems a suitable contribution to planet Earth or respectable achievement in life. I suggest you do the same, or you're setting yourself up for numerous episodes like this."

. . . I sat, mid-scoop. Staring.

Mr. Ryne was the very definition of today's youth's favorite word: triggered.

Then I felt bad. I actively avoided allowing anyone to play savior with me, and here I'd walked right into this one. He had no business being upset. Not over a problem all my own. Downing another spoon, I bought time. Dealing with an angry Mr. Ryne when the upset wasn't directed at me for once was out of my domain. In the end, I chose my long friend reason. "You're right. I'm a broken record with myself. I say I shouldn't care, but in the end, they never fail to bring up my old doubt. Art is a competitive field job wise. My mom always told me, art wouldn't put food on the table. But," I said quickly as I practically saw the nerve that ticked in his eye. "I know they're all wrong. I've always seen art as sacrificed portions of the soul. That stroke of paint was dipped in our spirit before it touched the canvas, that granite statue was hammered with a part of ourselves we can never get back. So when we do try to sell it?" I smiled. "We're basically selling our soul to the world. I say that's hardcore enough."

This time, the barest smile was spared. "Hardcore and poetic. I'll take it. I gather that's about the only tough part of you, huh?"

"And here you were doing so well." But I knew it was a joke. Or I hoped it was.

He finally ate one scoop of his ice cream. "Put that way, why try to sell your soul to your family? You shouldn't bend your spirit into a language they understand. Art what you love. Spin your frustration into what you find most beautiful in the world, and let no judgement be the death of it. The color of success isn't always green."

"Is that what you do?" I asked, not liking how his words made me feel like I could have the world with the sketch of a pencil.

"That's exactly what I do. My gallery is filled with the things that are dear to me, things I can revisit time and again when I'm in dark places."

I wasn't ready to confront him about those things he revisited. Not yet. Instead, I asked with a gentleness towards his confiding, "And where are these dark places?"

He stirred around the small amount of ice cream, watching it with his brow creased again, a frown coming on. "Lately?" He looked up. "Anywhere you aren't."

My heart did a strange thing. My stomach became lighter and lighter, like fireflies glowing and buzzing around inside of me. The next spoon of ice cream tasted different from all the others. It was creamier, rich vanilla decadence. And like that, my worries were gone.

I wouldn't press any further. Maybe, in his own time, he would describe those dark places in more vivid detail and why they plagued him. For now, I was content to know I was his beacon. So I focused on finishing the container, which ended before it began, seeing as I'd just eaten the last spoon.

A screech atop the marble island made me look up just in time to see the bowl of ice cream sliding my way. Praise this man, I thought as I took his bowl.

He was shaking his head. "If this was all I had to do."

"It's my weakness." Who didn't succumb to anything and everything in the face of cookie dough ice cream? Again, in much defeat, "You found my weakness."

"Among other things," was his vague reply.

I just smiled to that, and when I finished, I located the trashcan and rid of the container, then strode over to the kitchen sink to clean the few dishes. All the while, my skin turned to gooseflesh knowing his eyes watched my every move. Strange though it was, there was a strange part of me that didn't care at all. It was an oceanic flavor of peace, a taste I didn't know I craved until I was searching for the dish soap.

"Bottom left cabinet," Mr. Ryne guided.

"Thanks." I crouched, mindful of the t-shirt's length, and saw what I didn't think was normal. A variety of dish soap choices. Why was that so funny? I had to put my wrist in my mouth lest I have to explain to him why no man should need nine different scented dish soaps. I grabbed one at random.

The feeling that'd washed through me in the lounge room returned, but this time, I knew perfectly what it was. It was the ease of routine. A husband and wife, shuffling about their home as though all was as it should be. As I dabbed dish washing liquid into the bowl, I couldn't decide if the stream of placidity should be embraced or rejected. This, whatever it was that we had, it could only go so far. Between the discoveries I'd made and the fact that he was my professor, it seemed all roads led nowhere.

It was as I lathered the sponge that a shadow fell over me. I hadn't even heard him get up. Before I could turn, he was against me. He closed his arms around my middle, beneath my chest, enclosing me to his. I had to tip the bowl away to keep from spilling the water on the shiny tiled floors.

It took being wedged between the sink and his unyielding barrier for me to finally realize just how big Mr. Ryne really was. Or how small I was. It was enough so that if he wanted, he could easily rest his chin atop my crown of curls, or if I wanted, I could tilt my head back against his chest and nuzzle the pricks of his shadow beard. But I was paralyzed, the water still running, soap suds dripping from my hands, the bowl and the sponge as I stared vacantly.

Then he began to rub my arms gently, slipping down to my waist where he groped and I was ashamed to say just how good it felt, strong hands digging with measured force into my skin. The cool air in front of me, his solid warmth pressed behind me, rhythmic strokes of his hands shifting the thin layer shirt against my skin with a lulling tranquility. The scent of pomegranate dish soap and his midnight aroma had me lost. How were his hands so tender as he skimmed them over the flat scape of my stomach, fingers drawing into the shirt briefly before releasing . . . Before I knew what was happening, I found my lids struggling to remain open. And down below, I was unmistakable aroused. The transition was a subtle sneak, as though his hands had massaged the sensation from my arms, to my stomach, to my thighs and that in between.

"By all means, don't let me stop you," he murmured, but how could I when my back was hyper aware of the defined chest plastered to it? And his belt buckle was a metal reminder against the small of my back, and lower, his erection rested at the curve of my butt.

"You didn't think I'd let you curl up in bed with all of that self doubt and swallowed tears, did you?" He chuckled.

I made a show of swishing the bubbly water around in slow motion. "No?" Why was this so damn calming, being rubbed and pet? I wasn't a house cat, but in that moment, I'd have gladly purred if he asked.

Luckily for my dignity, he said nothing. Just kept the soothing rhythm, sliding me closer to a skin tingling haze. But then he reached out and turned the water off, the gesture both ominous and telling of what was to come.

His hand skimmed lower, a small patterned circle over my thigh. Each motion was precise, soft and tender. But when he wandered towards the inside of my thighs, I resisted the slightest at the delicate rush of heating pleasure to awaken, my legs coming together to subdue the embers. That one iota of reflexive defiance was all the motive he needed to drop the act. His chest tensed against my back, his fingers coaxing the fabric of the shirt between my legs with or without their permission, where he then gave a warning squeeze. Worse even, he sighed. "Miss Larson, we can do this the easy way or the hard way."

What did he expect? I was jittery and on edge without him touching sensitive areas, let alone with. It didn't matter that I welcomed the touch and wanted nothing more than him to continue. I pressed back into him, tilted my head back the slightest so that our eyes could meet. "I want it."

"Act like it." He waited until my muscles relaxed around his hand before he carried on, guiding the material of the shirt higher, then higher.

I took a deep, faded breath. Calm. Calm for only so long. Smooth material was worked between my folds and no sooner, he was dragging it back and forth over the surface, never dipping between to stoke the pleas. He knew how badly I wanted his fingers to glide over the nub, each arch of my back and press of my hips frightening the fingers away until I was heavy lidded and annoyed.

"Mr. Ryne," I bit out, grabbing hold of his hand, my own still wet.

He scrunched the seams up until I felt a draft that told me just how wet I'd become. His hand beneath the shirt, nothing stopping him, he once more enveloped his signature abrupt edge.

He buried his fingers to the knuckles inside of me. I moaned something long and less than human at what may have been two or three fingers, snug within my sudden clamped walls. The sheer force of it, the way I contracted and released, once, twice, trying to expel their filling presence, had me gripping the counter and panting. He didn't have to move; I undulated against him. Losing it at my own doings. When they remained lodged, my body threw in the flag.

"Good," he murmured, confirming just what I'd been thinking. He'd been waiting for control, waiting for the spasms of bliss to simmer down. Just so he could begin working his fingers in and out languidly. Then deeper.

"Relax," he was saying, but my body had a hard time complying as it hungrily moved against the comings and goings of stimulation, desperate to sate the pressure gathering in my stomach. He slowed, then stopped. I felt the warm liquid of my own juices lubricating his fingers. And I guess that made him trying. He poised what had to be the third finger at my entrance, with another mellow, "Relax," to follow.

Chucking down the rapid inhales, I forcibly commanded my walls to release their bringer of rapture, letting out only one whimper of loss as the sensation crept to the edge of my spine before wilting into numbness.

He swirled his fingers once, mediating a comfortable space for the third. "Good." He kissed my grimace of discomfort, but the affection died when he started to pump his fingers inside—and met resistance.

"Of course you're this tight," he said, a tie between amused and vexed.

"What—"

One heartless thrust forward and I cried out in shock and pain. Both disintegrated into stuttered gasps as the steady pumps of before became a ruthless pace. My sight was eaten away by the splintering force. He didn't slow, his fingers an ungodly piston. Before I knew it, my yelps of pain digressed to grunts for more. Each breath was interrupted by jolt of it all.

He was driving his fingers into me faster than the pounding of my heart. It was too much. I stumbled to the tips of my toes to escape it, grabbing hold of the counter. The room was toppling and I was seeing green blotches that hadn't been there before.

"Uh-uh," he admonished. "Down."

I couldn't take it. I've masturbated more times than I could count in my life, but never had I subjected myself to something so daunting and vigorous. I was still breathing in half tatters. I may have even wheezed once. "C-can't. You h-have to slow down."

"Slow down," he tested the words on his tongue. Then his hand was in my hair; he pulled just enough to get my unabided attention. "You wanted it. So take it. Down. Or we'll be here all night."

I would be here all night regardless of if I obeyed. Something told me he wouldn't appreciate that argument. With a final deep inhale, I eased from the tips of my toes, sinking down onto his fingers just as he propelled them into me. It was just as jarring as the first time, except now he brought to play his thumb, massaging between my folds at a tempo too fast. Then too slow. Much too slow.

And then he was back to the pace that left me mindless. At the edge. Each glide out, he curled his finger towards his palm, burrowing against my g-spot over and over, until my fingers dug into his forearm. The moans were back. The blinding pleasure. The building pressure. I needed to come. But I also needed to close in on myself as I was teetering on the edge.

Mr. Ryne sighed again, the only man I knew who got so frustrated with these things. "Hold my belt and don't let go." When my grip on his arm tightened, his voice lowered. "Hold the belt or I use it."

What . . .? He couldn't be serious.

When he released my hair and I felt his hand begin to fumble with his belt, I latched onto the leather like my life depended on it. "Alright, alright!" I panted, learning the hard way that there were few moments he wasn't serious. My weight fell back into him, his frame my sole source of balance.

"I mean it," he continued. "Your hands do not move until I say. Now spread your legs. Further."

Everytime I parted them, he embedded his fingers deeper, reaching for the core of me. And when his tolerance wore thin, his other hand came up behind one leg—and lifted.

Oh God . . . I clung to his belt as he now had his way and surged fast and hard. "Ung, god, yes!"

"It feels good, doesn't it?" he murmured, not slowing a second.

Not wanting to risk having this taken away, I nodded readily. "So good."

"So what was that earlier, something about me hating you?"

"Nothing. Nothing at all," urgent and compliant, the pressure growing and winding my muscles to the point of pain. It sent loose shivers of thrill to the tender nub Mr. Ryne relentlessly tormented. Flicking and swirling against the sensitive area at his leisure. My walls, dripping, clutching the fingers still moving inside of me, reached their max compression, to where my only defense were the useless moans slipping free.

He switched intensities, thumb pressing onto my swollen clit and dragging in small, lethargic circles, hitting every nerve that left me seeing colors across the scales.

"A-ah . . ." My toes curled. The deadly grip I had on his belt was the only thing anchoring me to reality as he pushed deeper. Delicious shudders slithered between my shoulder blades. The pleasure was dizzying. Nauseating. I needed it. Head thrown back against his chest, eyes closed, the stupor was a riveting cloud that expelled my troubles, doubts, questions. All meaningless as my mind blackened beneath the assault of his fingers and their welcome intrusion.

Gently, through the palls of ecstasy and my involuntary whimpers, he whispered, "Are you going to cum for me?"

That was all it took. Every piece of me shattered against him. Violently.

I was quivering sightless, taut, mind shutting down from aching bliss. Against his slowing thumb, my muscles contracted, convulsed. He kneaded, and with another dragging circle, there came a mortifying spurt of liquid. My cry of release quickly became one of surprise. Even as I realized the action, another wave forced another spasm, less potent than the first, but another spurt gushed out of its own volition.

"Oh . . ." he said. "She squirts." Dubious. No different than a child who discovered an unknown feature on their favorite toy.

I felt a burning between my chest that may have been embarrassment or exhilaration as he eased his fingers from me and slowly released my leg, banding his around my waist for support as though he knew the number he'd done on my balance.

Being coddled was neither of our plans. I turned in his hold, finally releasing the belt he'd threatened to use even though I hadn't been told. He allowed it. Our eyes met inevitably, and neither of us wasted time. I kissed him hungrily, gratefully. This time, he let me lead. For a whole second before pulling away and leaving me misty eyed.

His state was no better, his hands on my hips, flecks of no return clustered in his eyes.

My gaze went to the permanent swell of his member. It had to be painful and for the second time today, I was reminded of our total solitude. Completely removed from civilization. The animal things that could be done, the isolation would wipe away by morning.

But Mr. Ryne waved a dismissive hand. "I'm patient."

I . . . wasn't, I realized. I looked up at him, incredulous. "Then I have no words."

"Really? And here you were so chatty when presented with an icy treat." He saw my tired regard of his light jab and dropped it. Reaching behind me, he quickly rinsed the washed dishes and set them aside on the drying rack. Just as I felt excused from the kitchen after his handling of me, he looked down. "That's done. You're done. What would you like in this moment?"

So I hadn't been forgotten.

I had my list ready. I wanted sleep. More ice cream. To tend to the patient thing in his pants. I gripped the edges of the sink beside him and said none of those things. "A shower."

The shirt was ruined, his hand, once coated with the evidence of my expressive climax, had bunched into it while holding me. And besides that, I needed a shower before bed, seeing as all hope was lost on a ride home. And I needed a shower to meditate over the bizarre day.

"A shower." He smiled. "I say you earned it."

I stared a moment, dazed. It was the first true smile with nothing attached. A smile as authentic as the one in the photo. But this one was for me and only me.

With an effort I seldom summoned for anyone outside of my brother, I tried to return the smile. To show him I was grateful for everything he'd done. Not just the tutoring session and the usage of his expensive tools, not just the length he had gone to ensure I stayed warm in the storm, but the words he shared moments ago . . . They say actions speak louder than words, but I don't think this infamous they ever heard Dimitri Ryne defend one of his aspiring students.