It had just made its entrance, the night that is, and the moonlight seemed to whisper itself into the house. The gently fluttering red drapes danced with slight transparency making the waning Luna visible. Some leaves moved in the breeze but their weight kept them from taking flight completely and the hustle and bustle of hours ago now seemed a deep, lost memory.
He had been deep in contemplation throughout the morning and now his nightly routine was about to begin. An artist not by trade but by heart, the house was effectively empty apart from all things related to his soul. Instruments were strewn around the rooms, paintings settled themselves upon various walls of marble.
Sculptures of men, women, shapes and animals alike were dotted here and there and...
a knock at the door interrupts our little tour.
The same knock, however, glides parallel to the plans of our artist who has just, without our knowledge, taken a handful of psychedelic mushrooms...
His relationship with nature's teachers had begun years ago and after his first trip (during which he witnessed his own death and rebirth among other things) he had made them a lover of sorts. He doesn't make love to them of course, he's not completely wild and weird...
The door opens and there she stands. Helena. Adorned with golden rings and nothing else.
Has she walked all the way naked? Did she drop her clothes in the bushes upon arrival? The questions may be answered but we may never get to them.
"You took them?"
"Not a minute ago."
"Where do you want me?.. Other than on your face of course." They share a kiss as she grabs his manhood gently with one hand.
"Well part of me wants you just to stay there where you are..."
"Which part is that?" She gives him a look and tugs on him with a light squeeze "The part that made it hard to stop moaning your name last time?"
"Get on the chair before we repeat last time Helena."
"I love when you say my name." She lets go and turns around.
His arms rest on her waist.
"Say it again."
"Helena..."
"You know I'd ride you into battle like a horse right?"
He pats her petite bottom and walks over to the easel "Chair. Now."
"Oooh yes Sir."
...
Art had entered his life... well, that's an interesting one actually.
Is one born an artist with all the tools and talents, and simply finds these tools tucked away through the inevitable journey of life?
Is it a latent thing, or does one 'become' an artist through experimentation and experience?
In any case, as his 20s began music crawled in through the cracks and drawing awoke from a slumber started just as formal education began. Maybe the system of his schooling simply covered up his artistic expression like sand covering a building and leaving it a ruin to be discovered.
Now here he was, naked and becoming quite high, painting someone who he loved dearly in a marble home in the moonlight.
A sensual being, he had the uncanny ability to get the same effect of arousal from simply living as he would from sexual acts. All this meant he could reach a handsfree orgasm frequently and with no effort. Helena knew this fact well because one of their little games was to see how little it took for her to send him over the edge.
For instance, one night they were lying in bed together and the hours had wandered lazily until suddenly a proposition had been tossed his way by a wine-filled Helena.
"You know how you just adore me, darling?"
"Where are you going with this my love?"
She pulled the covers down.
"I knew it. How long has he been awake?"
"I don't know, I gu-"
"I don't care. How much do you love me?" She got on her knees beside him and laid her palms on him. One on his chest, another on his outer thigh. "Close your eyes. Just humour me, how often do you touch yourself to me?"
He closed his eyes with a light smile on his face. Now blood had begun rhythmically beating in his swollen member, and he put his hands on his head.
"Every time I touch myself it's to you."
