Smut slot: A Friday Smutty art lesson

Chiaroscuro (Italian for clear-dark) is a term in art for a contrast between light and dark. The term is usually applied to bold contrasts affecting a whole composition, but is also more technically used by artists and art historians for the use of effects representing contrasts of light, not necessarily strong, to achieve a sense of volume in modeling three-dimensional objects such as the human body........

Yeah yeah - blah blah. It's been used by Rembrandt and it's still being used today - think of Frank Millar's Sin City and you get modern chiaroscuro. But for me it was a good excuse to write a sexy tale of an artist who falls in love - or is it under the thrall?- of the beautiful young man he's been commissioned to paint as Icarus Fallen.

Chiaroscuro is a novella in Aspen Mountain Press' "Night Moves 1"anthology and tells the story of Michel di Posco who is being paraded around 19th century Florence by his Patron, showing him off as his new prodigy.

It is a vampire story as the cover suggests - all four novellas are - but it's not the emphasis of the story. It explores the good and evil in humanity and vampires. Where are lines of light and dark drawn? Who is good? And who is evil?

I hope you enjoy these two smutty snippets!

Michel has his first sitting with Yuri.

I moved back to him then, ready to start work, my shirt drying on my body in the warmth of the room. Kneeling down beside him, I arranged the sheets beneath him into the shapes I needed to give the impression of lightness and softness.

His gaze did not move from my face and his was impassive, nothing in his elegant countenance showing any emotion except those ageless, deathless eyes. I turned to him and without words unbuttoned his waistcoat with eager fingers, which stumbled and faltered, finding themselves almost incapable of such a simple task.

I do not usually, I add at this point, make a habit of undressing my models; an artist who commits such a faux-pas even once would never find models to pose for him a second time.

But there was no thought of him undressing himself; somehow we both knew such an unveiling was no sexual act, no prelude to eroticism. I had moved above and beyond my lust for him. I was simply preparing him as I would any still life.

He kicked off his house shoes and shrugged his way out of his waistcoat almost without levering himself from the floor. He went to sit up to remove his shirt but I pushed him back down, moved around to his head and pulled it up and over his head. Looking back now, I can hardly believe just how matter of fact I was in disrobing him that first time.

So many times since then have we playacted our first moments, cheated as it seemed we were of the sensuality of disrobing by my concentration and haste. We peel the clothes from each other like the layers of an onion, taking hours to become fully naked for the delectation of the other. It seems inconceivable that that at first I did no more but tug the clothes from him as roughly as if I were undressing one of my small nephews for bathing.

But the muse was within me; I did not see him as he became exposed to me. Did not see the pure lasciviousness of him, the maleness of his sensual perfection.

All I saw—as more and more marble-white flesh was uncovered—were the tones and shades of his body. The places where the light hid, or gleamed in brightness. Places that were breathless in their mystery. A hollow at the base of his neck, a pair of matched and wonderful shadows on his cheeks, soft adumbration causing a sudden and unexpectedly glorious magic in an otherwise rounded hip. Shadows deepening in a delirious and dangerous fashion as the heavenly triangle of his hips curved inward to meet in an abundance of golden fleece so glorious that Jason would have cast aside his rancid ram skin and sworn allegiance to these bright crisp curls.

And even Buonarroti himself could not have done justice to the proud flesh that which rested between his pale thighs. The most perfect and the most sacred part of him. Buonarroti had a talent for understating a man's anatomy and his David was sadly underrepresented. This sublime column of flesh would be faithfully depicted, I promised myself, and my mouth watered at the anticipation of transposing it onto the canvas.
I realised I was staring at his member, and for the first time since the early days in my master's studio all those years ago, when the male model stood in the centre of us apprentices and removed all of his clothes, I blushed deeply.

To cover my embarrassment, I picked up charcoal and sketched furiously; ignoring the deep chuckle my subject gave.

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And later....

I followed Yuri up the stairs and into the studio. It was much as it had been the time before, save that the curtains were drawn, no doubt to save the furnishings from the damaging sun.

He saw me glance at the windows. “The light; I hope that it’s not inconvenient?”

“No, not at all, the candles give you more colour anyway.”

He smiled, closed the door upon us and took hold of my arm, pulled me close. “I want you, Michel.”

“The work.”

“Can wait.” He was breathless and impatient, and God forgive me, once more I was swept away and I forgot all about duty and Bettano and even the consuming passion of my art as he buried his mouth in my neck and kissed me, causing my spine to shiver in delight.

He undressed me with rough haste, shrugging his few items off and pulling me to the soft rug beside him. “I have thought of nothing else than you for days, since we met. You consume me.”
He interspersed his words with kisses and all the while he stroked my cock, which shuddered with delight in his hand. “I want to take you Michel, want to fuck you and to spill my seed inside you. Do you want this? Do you? I think you are a virgin.”

The flutter of fear I felt at his words calmed as he kissed and stroked. His hand gradually moved further down my shaft until it left it completely and cupped my balls.

“Yes,” was all I could manage, gasping as his hand slid behind my balls and massaged the sensitive skin behind. Already he knew my body as well as I knew the intricacies of a canvas, knew every bump and crevice, every action to give me pleasure. “Yes.”

“I’ll take that as answer to both,” he said with a deep chuckle. He reached up to the settle behind us and pulled off the bolster cushions, put one under my head. “Roll over onto your side,” he ordered. I did as I was told, but in spite of the warmth of the room I shivered; I felt goose-flesh spring across my skin.

He settled behind me, lovingly. “Don’t be frightened, Michel.”

“I’m not,” I lied.

His hands moved all the while, over my shoulders, my back, my arse. I pressed back against his touch, relaxing more and more. Then one hand slid forward to take hold of my cock again while the other slid between my arse cheeks, and his finger slid up to find my entrance. Instinctively I tensed, but he kissed my neck and stroked my cock so slowly that I found that before I knew, it his finger had slid inside.

It was like a ripple of pleasure that started behind my balls and travelled all the way to the tip of my cock, like the disturbance caused by a pebble in a pond, wave upon wave of something like I’d never felt before. Within minutes, as his finger moved further and further in I found I was pushing back against him, as if wanting more. I did, although the fear was still there.

Something inside of me trembled when his finger touched a place deep within. The sensation was like nothing I’d ever experienced. I thought I’d spend myself immediately, but the urge passed, then returned when whatever it was he’d touched, he touched again. I gasped, arching my body like a bow, pushing my arse into his hand and leaning backwards to receive his kisses. “Again, again, I beg of you.”

He worked me for what seemed like hours, from time to time resorting to a little bottle of oil that he’d hidden beneath the settle. Such foresight and care made me love him more, and the scent of that the oil, pungent and deep, will ever remind me of him. Finally, he pulled his hand away and I felt his cock slip into the cleft.

“I love you, Michel,” he said. He did not so much as push into me, but pulled me by my hips back against him. It was uncomfortable, at first, but not painful. I blushed to feel my own erection wilt.

“It’s all right,” he murmured, his mouth at my neck. “It’s normal. Just breathe.”

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Erastes