Palette of Oils

It was for a worthwhile charity, and eccentric and artistic as I am I couldn’t pass this down. It could be fun. And it was for charity. Besides, my partner for the event was going to be Craig Parker, and Craig was pretty cool.

I’ve been acting for a long time now, and it’s funny how my sudden sex appeal has eclipsed anything else I’ve ever done. Aragorn was my most famous and beloved character. I’m similar and yet dissimilar to that person. I’m actually weirder. That’s a nice term for it, a polite term. I don’t think twice about wearing a war protesting tee shirt to a Hollywood premiere. That’s me. Show up in jade colored denims and beaten up cowboy hat while others wear suits and dresses and are well groomed.

This is for charity, and Craig, as I said, is pretty cool so why not? Though they didn’t tell me Craig would be my partner. I called around, he was available, and he’d fit my idea of what I intended. What I intended would probably surprise some people. It would definitely cause a stir. And I thrived on stirring thing ups a little.

Craig came out of a change room, a becoming pale flush on his sculpted cheeks. “Umm… you sure this is okay?”

My home had a studio where I painted. Canvases were strewn everywhere, some drying, and some waiting for packing. I had drop cloths on the floor because sometimes I got a little inventive with paint. It looked no different today except that there was no easel with canvas waiting. Craig would be my canvas.

I took his arm and led him to the drop cloths. “It’s perfect. Remember, it’ll all wash off later.”

“That’s a comfort,” Craig glanced down once more at the small linen colored Speedo he wore. It was all he wore. Well, that and that pale flush because Craig didn’t think his body was well built enough to be a canvas.

Artistically I disagreed. “Just stand there, and I’ll move around you.”

Obediently Craig stood there, and when the first globby feel of paint and brush touched his back he shuddered, inhaling sharply. “Christ, sorry about that. Caught me unawares.”

I didn’t reply really, I just grunted. Once I began to paint I entered this realm of artistic haze where nothing else mattered but the canvas and the brush. Grabbing colors was done by rote, unnoticed until later when the haze cleared and I could stand back and critically eye the work I’d done. This was no different.

A swirl here, a long and slow stroke there, and over here a few hard slaps of the brush. My creative haze began to clear in degrees like mist slowly evaporating beneath the rising sun of a new day. First it was Craig’s shivers, and then his breathing that was penetrating that haze. His breathing was growing more and more erratic, and now I could see his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. Glancing down I could see his toes wriggling and clenching also. He was agitated.

“Problem?” I asked, my brush sweeping down over the side of one flank and to the back of his knee.

He cleared his throat a few times, and his voice was hoarse when he replied, “Er… no. No, I’m fine.”

“You’re fidgeting,” I tell him, not believing him ll. ll. The paint could be uncomfortable if you’re not used to it. Maybe he’d been standing unmoving too long? I was about to ask if he needed a break when I shifted to his right side, and with more indigo carried the sweep of the brush up the front of his thigh, and…

My only reaction was a quick twitch of one eyebrow. That was a hell of a hard-on he was growing. I hadn’t thought of it, but the feel of the paint and brush could possibly be erotic. No wonder the guy was fidgeting. I could sympathize with him, I really could. I began to remember the first time I let a woman paint my body. I pretty much had sported a high, hard one myself, and when she was done painting we ruined her body-art by having some pretty wild sex right there on the floor. Those were good memories. The butterfly soft sensation of the brush passing over my gooseflesh covered skin, the wet and cool smack of the paint that was quickly warmed by my heated flesh, the sweep or hard dab or slap of the brush that created different sensations in different areas, and finally the slip of her hands following contours and hollows as she ‘finger painted’ to get it blended just right. I knew what Craig was feeling right now, and what he would feel later. I could sympathize with him, I really could.

I pretended not to notice his predicament. “Want to stop?”

“No,” he got out through gritted teeth. “It’s for charity.”

With a shrug I kept painting. Craig has a surprising body. More muscular than I had considered him to be, well toned really. His skin is like pink rose petals floating in cream. That is how I describe it. He’s very fair for a dark haired man. Which was why being a blond for the Lord of The Rings movies suited him. There must not have been much padding in that elvish armor of his to make him look so good in the movie.

The brush has always been an extension of my arm when I paint. It guides me, and not the other way around. There was no difference Not Not even when a bright passion-red streak was forming over that hard-on of Craig’s. He trembled, his eyes falling shut and his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed hard. A fine mist of sweat began to appear on his brow. I didn’t mean to make this… hard on him, no pun intended.

The brush leads me up over his belly, around his navel, up and up to his chest and encircling each nipple before sweeping over the collarbone and over his throat to his chin.

His head has fallen back, his eyes still shut. Down and up his throat, and down again. His full bottom lip has fallen from it’s thinner mate, and as the brush falls down his torso to his belly which quivers in response a soft pant sighs from his mouth. His eyelashes are very long, dark, and spiky. Like tussled hair after an energetic bout of lovemaking.

Around to his left side I move, and the brush keeps working over his skin, new colors blending and appearing. Like a kaleidoscope of broken shards of colored glass you turn and turn to make myriad pictures to look at. That is Craig’s body at the moment. It is becoming a picture to look at. Over arms, down legs, up sides, over shoulders the brush travels, each limb a new canvas to create on.

I drop the brush, my hands now splaying over his chest and blending colors, slicking over the oily surface of paint to follow the contour of muscle and bone, and the hollows and dips. His nipples are tight little pebbles that tickle my palms, and the feel of body hair is now subdued beneath the layer of paint. I use palms and fingertips and knuckles to move the colors and create new ones. His chest is heaving, and his breathing fills the room. Or is that mine? Painting always excites me. I have a passion for it. I find it erotic, sensual, and adventurous.

The line of his back becomes arched under my hands, and the texture of skin compared to the spandex of the Speedo is almost crudely harsh in its contrast. I much prefer the feel of his skin. So true, less fake, and more natural. His legs part for my hands on their own volition, and shake as my touch sweeps down to his feet, over his toes, and up the front once more. He has hard thighs, each one slightly more than the span of both of my hands combined.

There is the sound of a low moan, quickly choked ofs hes he embarrassed I heard it? Why should he be? It’s a natural sound, one of pleasure and pain co-mingled, and the thick hoarseness of it is not unappealing. I should have hesitated or not let myself get caught up in the artistic moment instead of letting my hands encompass the front of the Speedo. I had forgotten about his condition, now blatantly apparent by the scorching hardness I felt.

Hurriedly I moved behind him once more, and the motion made me aware of my own predicament. Rubbing incessantly at the zipper of my denims, and raging to be free, was my very own hard-on. Not uncommon when I paint because to me painting is like foreplay. But it was making concentration on what I was trying to achieve with the paint more difficult.

I could feel the frown I wore even as I carefully used fingertips to stroke color upon Craig’s ears and face, avoiding his eyes and lips. His head rested on my shoulder, and his nostrils flared. Still his eyes were shut and his lips parted. Moist, hot breath whispered over my fingers as I ever so slowly ran a fingertip around his lips. I saw the tip of his tongue barely caress over his lips to wet them. I felt the Adam’s apple in his throat convulse under my palms. His heart pounded against his chest, and the nipples were still tight and hard. He leaned back into me now, his limbs trembling, and my fingers skimmed his belly and over his hips.

I swallowed hard, my own eyes falling shut now, but not before I saw the head of his hard-on jutting out from beneath the band of the Speedo and the pearl of seed that blossomed at the tip. I could feel the same moistness at the tip of my own, as sticky as the paint of his back now smearing over my chest and shoulders. My hands shook slightly now as they tried to reach down over his thighs, but I fell short. Back up I tried to pull them, and they grazed his groin. The shock of material and then heated moisture and burning skin told me without a doubt what I had touched.

Craig gave a small cry, and I felt him twitch and stiffen. He slid against me as he went limp in my arms, and my own orgasm rocked me. We stood there a while, unmoving, unsure how to react to what had happened.

“Beer?” I offered. What else could I say?

“Sounds good,” he moved away. “I hate to tell you this, Viggo, but this just looks like a hell of a mess now.”

I halted, one brow arching. What did he mean by that exactly? “What do you mean?”

“The paint. You can’t tell the colors apart anymore. It’s all…brownish now.”

There was still a quaver in his voice, and he hadn’t faced me yet. This was definitely an awkward moment, and I ran a hand over my chest and grimaced at the paint. I had forgotten I was now covered in it also. “We can shower and start over.”

Now his eyes rose and met mine. “We?”

“I’m a mess too.” Pun intended, in many ways.

He nodded. “Sorry about that.”

“Why apologize?”

“Well, I…” He flushed dark enough I could see it through the gaps where the paint wasn’t even on his face.

“The first time I had my body painted I got a raging hard-on,” I told him. “And I was nude when I was being painted.” I could tell he was interested in this story. “We had some wild sex on the floor that time.”

A small grunt escaped him. “Do tell.”

“Not exactly like what happened here,” I dared to add. “But…” His eyes snapped to mine again.

Nothing was said.

Nothing needed to be said.

Everything was going to be okay.