Lust Over Morals

AUTHORS NOTE:

As usual, with my attempts at writing, there's a very long build up. I fully respect if that's not your thing (mine either when I usually come on here) but there's fair warning -

most of the sex is in chapter 4...

I also wanted to express some points from the outset because I know how things get twisted around and then you get negative comments at the end, people get upset or offended. So here's the deal:

I don't condone rape in any way. It's wrong. Don't fucking do it.

There are a lot of people out there that have a rape play fetish. I don't, but I've been involved with girls that have.

Just because a girl flirts/engages sexually with a guy and turns him on, does not then give him the right to take it further or diminish his responsibility for it. This story might suggest things happen that way or there is some justification;

but that doesn't make it right.

Point 2 is where this story comes from. It's my way of trying to process some fucking odd things. I enjoy giving my partners whatever they want and in the last couple of years this has become confusing. I may well write about this later but here's some snippets.

One girl I met on a date, we got on very well, both pretty kinky which was fine. I tried to kiss her and she wouldn't let me, so I stopped. She then said "If you want it, you'll have to take it." And that formed the basis of the whole relationship.

Another told me "if you have to ask for consent you don't understand what turns me on." This really did confuse me because

consent is pretty important to me.

But this girl clearly did not want that. Cue some violent sex.

Lastly, I've been involved with a girl who basically begged me to fuck her while she slept, so she'd never consent. She didn't even want to be woken up half way through (difficult), but got massively turned on when I had to recount what I'd done to her without her knowledge.

What this has left me with is a ...

curiosity?

A feeling that doesn't sit well, but it's fascinating at the same time. Like when you're young and you find a dead animal; it scares the shit out of you but you still have to prod it with a stick?

If you don't want to think about this type of thing

PLEASE DO NOT READ THIS STORY.

I don't need a lecture from some asshat about right and wrong. If you feel that then you've missed the whole point;

it's not about having answers it's about asking questions...

I hope that those of you that read it enjoy it for what it is, and I'd be interested to hear any thoughts so long as no one tries to save my soul. Jesus won't be wanting me for a sunbeam I know.

Thanks for your time.

Yoshi.

*****

CHAPTER 1

"Thank you so much." I said as I was handed the unassuming door key by an old hippy called Greta. "I'm sure I'll enjoy working here."

"I hope so too, but just remember the other artists wishes; most are fine but one or two are a little quirky." A comment she matched with a perfectly quirky grin. "For your work I'm assuming you don't need too much space."

"Just desk sized - enough for a laptop and a little bit of wiggle room." I felt her demeanour shift with the mention of technology but she kept her opinions to herself saying;

"We have never had a photographer amongst us" Clearly separating photographers from the real artists "so you will have to let me know if there is anything specific you need."

"Just a few plug sockets." Which was intended as a joke but it stopped Greta in her tracks.

"Ah. Yes. I hadn't thought about that. No matter, I can put you over near the back." We both turned to face the rear of the shared studio but then she hesitated "Maybe not. Maybe an extension lead would be better and a desk nearer the front." To which I about faced again only to hear here say "No. No. Lee will just have to accept I have a business to run." As she walked away, and I obediently followed, she told me of the artist that worked at the furthest reaches of the room.

"You must understand we are all sensitive people Mr Rix."

"Please call me Darren."

"Yes, of course. Darren. Anyway, as I was saying, some of us are extremely private and the artist who works in this area is particularly insistent about this. I would consider it a personal favour if you did not cross the line on the floor." Masking tape formed a worn looking border between the studio and an easel; with a small desk covered in papers, books, paints, and basically the entire contents of a crafts shop. To say it was chaotic would be generous indeed. Greta eyed me with the sort of determination I would normally associate with mountain climbers until I agreed.

"I am here for my own privacy. Of course I will respect other people's wishes." To which she replied.

"Excellent. You have a key and so you are welcome to work at any hour you choose. Again, let me know if you need anything."

Greta walked away while I slid my laptop onto the table and sat on a dusty office chair as I took in my surroundings. The room was dim but clean enough, and smelt of acrylic paint and PVA glue; it was exactly what I had expected. Photoshop finally booted and I sat down to some fine pixel adjustment.

Over the next few weeks I managed to get to the studio a number of times, generally finding a few people there who were polite and superficially interested when they heard I was just editing photos. It was clear that they wanted to be left to their art, which was entirely fine with me, and so conversation was minimal between us all with the exception of two old painters who behaved like they were married.

Each time I wove my way to the desk I had been allotted, the restricted area at the back would be different; brushes cared for and neatly arranged but everything else in total disarray. The artist was never there and I found myself wondering what this person was like now I had a face to go with every other work station. I could not fathom gender or age at all, and the curiosity was really beginning to naw at me. As I sat working, there would always be the tingling awareness of the masking tape preventing access to further clues; the reflection of the white easel in my screen a constant temptation.

Finally the day arrived when I found someone standing at the easel. He was nothing like the person I thought; a handsome man, very smart in a well cut blue herringbone suit. No tie. Evidentially a person of confidence, his body language being both commanding and thoughtful at the same time as he rested his chin on thumb and forefinger contemplating whatever was on the paper in front of him. He stayed like that, statuesque, while I made my way through the artistic carnage until we were merely feet apart, and then raised an eyebrow and tipped a nod to me in greeting. I responded with a firm, even grim smile, and continued about my business. Not a word said in the most English way possible.

With my back to the stranger I could only use the screen as a mirror to keep an eye on his movements - although details were lost to me. Instead of the usual boudoir photography that I liked to edit here, I felt uncomfortable with this man being able to look over my shoulder while I worked; so I loaded up a landscape and went through the motions of tidying up the image. Behind me the man hardly moved, however he did seem most perturbed by my presence, and only a few moments went by before he strode past me, brown brogues clacking towards the door.

Minutes past as I sat wondering - and one shouldn't judge a book by its cover I know - how such a smartly dressed man would even be an artist, let alone such a messy one. Perhaps he had just stopped in on his journey home from work and had no intention of picking up a brush.

The brushes were very well cared for

, perhaps this hinted at a link however tenuous.

All the while my curious mind broiled over what was painted on the easel.

I bet after all this it's utter shit

. Probably one of those cubist attempts that the crazy old folks at the other end kept turning out. It didn't do any good. I simply had to know. So I stood up and turned to look at the work area. A single spotlight illuminated the white easel and not much else - in the sort of way a film director might have gone for in a bid to add tension. Certainly, as I cautiously stepped forward as one does when he shouldn't be stepping there at all, the noises that had been incidental now sounded like another person in the room; catching me red handed in my treachery of poor Greta's request.

Skipping over the masking tape Siegfried Line with a heady sense of glee that breaking the rules gives, I took in the image on the canvas which stopped me in my tracks...

It was a girl. She was sitting in an egg-shaped hanging wicker chair, naked, her legs drawn up to her chest. I was utterly convinced her fingers had just dipped inside her pussy by way of her expression - which was erotic in a way I can't say I'd ever experienced before. It made me feel excited and terrified all at once; that I had witnessed this sort of rapture on a girls face. I was both the hunter and the hunted. All my self-confidence as a lover - as a man - was being questioned:

could I ever make a girl react in such an intense fashion?

But then, I knew such a girl would break me and my self control. My heart.

It was black magic and sexual alchemy of the calibre I had no answer for and I felt humbled and aroused. I realised that my cock was fully erect, throbbing with lust. Without thinking my hand squeezed it through my jeans. I knew, as I stood there looking at this painting, I could cum in seconds if I stroked it - even through the denim. She was magnificent. The painting itself so incredibly convincing it vividly showcased the artists ability to pull on every emotional fibre I possessed. Time stood still, and so did I, just taking in this awe inspiring work.

Eventually I recalled how late it was and made my way home, very sure of the first thing I was going to do when I got there.

A day at work had gone by and I found myself slinking through the door to the studio which was already unlocked. Several artists were happily creating their life's work as I made my way to the back and I wondered how many of them had looked at the canvas. Probably none of them because how on earth could you expect to concentrate knowing what was on it? Throughout the day, every other thought that passed my minds eye had been the girls wanton lust, and as I booted up my laptop the proximity of the picture stirred my arousal.

I had only been pretending to work for ten minutes or so when an email chimed its way onto my screen from an address I didn't recognise: leethebrush@abcdefg.com. My mouth went a little dry as I clicked on the message with no title, and was struck dumb with the content.

Mr. Rix,

I confess I am in something of a predicament.

You broke the agreement made with our mutual friend (and my employee), Greta, by blatantly staring at my work when it was expressly forbidden. Typically the result of this would be to rescind your access to my studio.

However, your reaction to my painting was very flattering.

What do you think would be a fair course of action if you were in my shoes, Mr. Rix?

L.

The sounds I had heard it seemed,

were

from a person catching me in my indiscretion and a blush settled across my face that I could feel the heat of. I looked up from my screen in something of a panic only to find the same serene scene as it was before I read the email. No Greta in sight either which was a relief. However, I still had no obvious way to reply other than admit my sin and agree to find another studio. After several timid attempts I finally composed a response.

Mr. Lee,

I think it would be fair if I looked for another studio to use as I did go back on my word. I am very sorry to break a trust.

I would like to say, without a shadow of a doubt your work is the most powerful I have ever seen. You are truly talented.

Thank you for allowing me to work here. I shall return my key to Greta.

Apologies again,

Darren.

Shamefully I clicked the send icon. The back of my chair squeaked as I leaned back and stretched; trying to dissipate some of the anger and guilt at being caught out. This studio was convenient for me; the next closest a tube ride away which wouldn't be pleasant given the hours I kept. There was, even though totally unjustified, a lot of resentment in my heart for Mr. Lee; and I had all those crazy thoughts of retribution that normally go hand in hand with a loss of face. I even considered just taking the fucking picture with me when the other artists left. They'd be no way to prove I was to blame as lots of people had a key. Before I could dream further of all the rash things I would never dare carry out, another email arrived.

Mr. Rix,

I would like you to continue working here if it suits you.

Also, I am not a "Mr".

The painting that you were having so much pleasure viewing last night was, in fact, a self-portrait.

L.

Oh my god.

It was

her. Fuck.

A tirade of thoughts crushed any ability I might have had to accept the concept the person who had just mailed me was the siren on the canvass. Several cognitive fuses had blown and all I could do was sit there, fingers an inch away from the keyboard waiting for information from the brain that wasn't arriving.

I needed to make sense of this and started to write an email. Only to delete it and try again. This process went on for some minutes until I finally settled with a rather pathetic set of sentences.

Mrs. Lee,

Thank you for letting me stay.

I am completely in awe of your work and therefore you. I cannot find the words to accurately give you a sense of how your painting makes me feel.

I am also curious; were you here last night? How did you know I had looked?

Yours respectfully,

Darren.

I waited. And waited.

Mrs. Lee did not reply.

CHAPTER 2

During the days that followed I checked my inbox more times than I would ever care to admit, but to no avail; the mysterious Mrs. Lee had sent nothing. All I had were the two emails which I had read many times. At first they struck me as stern, a women of tight control and discipline. Later I fancied them to be playful; not in the way of light hearted banter; more... as a cat is with a mouse. Playful with an edge. She knew what she was doing. Mrs. Lee was doing this on purpose and it was driving me slowly mad.

I had avoided the studio out of what might be described as a fear; the painting would be there along with the compulsion to take second look, and getting caught again really would be further embarrassment. There was also the distinct feeling of playing into the hands of Mrs. Lee, and my pride needed to recover before it risked another beating. So staying away entirely seemed the best course of action.

However, it was Friday night, and I had fallen into a tradition of meeting up with a few friends at a local bar after work. We stayed until it closed, last orders a little before midnight, and I slowly ambled back towards my flat a little worse for wear until I arrived at the junction that would continue my journey home... or plot a new course to the studio.

The interesting part was all evening I had pretended - to myself - that I was just going to back to mine, when deep down I knew I would end up at the studio. A few extra, intentional, glasses of whiskey had both fortified my resolve and assuaged my pride; being drunk always solid justification for questionable behaviour. The time it took to fit the key into the lock paid testament to just how much justification I'd allowed myself.

No one else was there, the room cast in a dull yellow hue from the streetlights spilling in from the windows to show odd shapes of stands and sculptures, but no movement at all. The smell of turps was prominent giving an indication that the last painter had only just left. I didn't bother turning on any of the main lights to make my way to the back; preferring the darkness as cover because clearly I knew I shouldn't be doing this. Not an hour had passed since I stole a look at the painting that I hadn't thought of it or thought of the artist. I'd masturbated over the image so many times even a fleeting memory of it stirred my cock. I wanted to have it for myself. Steal it with the camera on my phone so I could cum while I actually

looked

at it.

Walking from the door - which I had locked from the inside - to the back of the room took a mere twenty seconds but in that time, with the excitement of the situation, and knowing just how erotic I found the painting, I had become fully aroused. This act felt as powerful as if a girl really was there waiting for me to fuck her. Even though sexually yearning for a painting was bordering on idiotic, at that moment I really didn't care. Crossing the masking tape boundary a second time was no big deal at all as I rounded to face the canvas.

It was blank.

Where the best artistry I had ever experienced once hung was now a brand new and unblemished white rectangle. I was stumped; the wind knocked out of me so easily but it was so damn

obvious

that she would remove it. At no point had I thought she would do that and cheat me of another opportunity. I was angry for the most horrid reasons; like a man who feels rage for not being able to molest a girl because she has removed herself from the situation. It was repugnant how I was so keen to ignore this persons wishes, even though I understood the intimacy and private nature of the work - made worse by my indignant reaction. My plan of artistic rape foiled and, as disgusting as I felt,

I still wanted to see the fucking painting.

A loud

ping

stabbed into the contrasting silence of the room; a startling notification from my phone which I dragged out of my jacket pocket. It glowed in my hand as I read the information on the lock screen from gmail chat: leethebrush has invited you to instant message.

This couldn't be coincidence, and all at once a multitude of emotions crashed through my mind. Dumbly I watched my thumb unlock the phone and click on the app. I knew this was an insane action to take; I was being played, stalked, but willingly because within seconds I had accepted the invitation. A blank chat window lit up the dark room as I stood in the middle of the artists work area, the bright screen giving out a sort of comforting warmth as I stared at it. Had I pulled my gaze from the phone I would have realised the light also caused the darkness in the shadows to grow deeper. Not less than a minute later a little message told me that 'Lee was typing'.

Lee: Mr Rix, it appears you have again crossed the line as you're standing in my workspace.

A quick scan of the room showed there was no one looking back. Nothing had changed, and there were no sounds at all save the odd car passing by outside.

Darren: How do you know?

Lee: With so many people having access to the studio, do you not think security cameras might be prudent?

It would be impossible to see in this dim light if there were cameras, but I couldn't recall ever seeing one. On the other hand it would explain an awful lot.

Darren: I'm afraid you have caught me again. I'll admit I couldn't help myself. Am I in trouble?

I was hesitant writing this but more than a little resigned to my predicament; caught red handed a second time. However, the real feeling being one of utter disappointment, I had wanted to see that picture so badly.

Lee: That rather depends on how co-operative you care to be...

Cringing, I tapped out:

Darren: What do you mean?