Jesus. That was horrific, yet captivating and somehow beautiful. I'm in awe.
It's bloody and violent and not for the faint-hearted. It's a tragedy in just a few pages!
Those are what some people told me after reading my story. I can't warn you enough about it. You just have to read it yourself.
Damien King is a painter who gets inspired from tormenting his models. Julien is his one-time muse. Warning: BDSM, torture, violence, dub-con
He could not take his eyes off the artist. His breath held fast for a moment when the painter seemed to glance his way, but apparently not, he didn’t stand a chance of being noticed. Damien King admired beauty and what he meant by beauty was a definite glory. It was obvious from his paintings. Damien needed a delicate-looking model for his muse and Julien would not even dare dream it. He was not in that category. In truth, he was nothing. Nothing.
Looking around in terror, Julien made sure he was still alone, hiding in a corner of the gallery where Damien displayed his artwork. No one he knew was anywhere in the vicinity although his father would eventually realize he was missing and begin to seek him out.
Knowing his hiding spot would not be safe for long, despite the shadow protecting it, Julien crept out toward the tall, floor-to-ceiling, blood-red drapes. Yet as he lifted his face, a pair of crimson-angry eyes fell to his and Julien shrieked, fleeing to a room where Damien had just retreated. His heart pounded hard, anticipating the horror that the future would bestow upon him.
Damien crinkled his nose as he rearranged Julien’s stance. The stench of blood and semen—his semen—assaulted his nostrils. The lad was unconscious now as he tightened the leather cords around Julien’s wrists. The ropes hung down from the ceiling, suspending the model in free space. Dark lids covered the boy’s clenched shut eyes, now drenched with sweat running from his brow. Those liquid pearls of sweat doused the boy’s face and body, including his bare chest and red, welt-covered back.
Damien tilted his head sideways, marveling at his own artwork, and that other lovely shape—definitely not his work—a well-rounded rump swathed with angry marks. The artist smirked, full of contentment. A little push to spread the legs apart and he would be ready to capture Julien’s startling expressions on canvas. Damien smiled, thinking of how it had all started.
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