Filthy Jerk 2
“Sublimely inspiring beauty my ass,” Ilsa seethed at the rearview mirror.
She was checking her face one last time. It was pure habit, since she was completely unadorned by make-up. She wasn’t even sure she recognized the framed eyes staring back as she avoided the foregone conclusion her life had been polluted with the unrelenting sludge of reprehensible men.
Dorn was the worst of all. He made her husband look like an amateur. The list of instructions he’d emailed the previous evening, a few hours after leaving her speckled with cum in the salon where she’d been exiled from Dwyer’s retirement party was militaristic.
Arrive between 3:30 and 3:45. Don’t be late, as there will only be approximately ninety minutes for the light in my studio to illuminate you correctly.
No make-up. I’ll portray your face as I see fit, not according to some stunted image copied from the latest fashion magazine marketed by bubblegum snapping idiots to other bubblegum snapping idiots.
Wear whatever you wish, but do bring the boots that got you banned from Dwyer’s party.
Be sure your entire body is freshly shaven. I’ll presume you use some manner of lotion, but for posing, make sure it’s something with a reasonable content of both aloe and shea butter.
Most importantly, no sex; neither anal nor vaginal. Oral is acceptable, presuming you bathe afterwards.
He’d sent the message to Carson’s address since he didn’t have hers. Carson’s first reaction was to laugh until his tears ran. After reading the message herself, Ilsa had watched her gleeful husband pace the room excitedly. Her mind had been swimming somewhere between disbelief and disgust.
“That freak is gonna make me famous,” he’d said, as if Ilsa were somehow peripheral to the whole notion.
Ilsa almost felt sorry for him, but it was hard to feel pity for anything living so deep inside the rodent kingdom. She briefly considered not posing for the sheer pleasure of robbing her husband of the status of being married to a woman who’d modeled for an artist that famous and controversial. It would have been worth it just to see Carson’s confused lack of understanding. It would never occur to him to stand up and tell Dorn to fuck off for talking to his wife in the manner his email had.
But she was there, sitting too long in his driveway, painfully aware of the constant ache she’d been feeling in her nipples since the moment Dorn had demanded she unzip his pants in the salon the day before.
Ilsa studied her face in the car mirror until she realized there was nothing to primp or fix. It was merely her face. The one she came into this world with. Was it good enough for egomaniacs like her husband or Dorn? Was it even good enough for her? She wondered if Dorn would still want to paint her, but the question hadn’t planted itself completely in her mind when she realized she didn’t care.
There was a lake of numbness somewhere at her core beneath the persistent throb in her nipples and pussy Dorn had left her with the day before. Until then, she hadn’t even realized it was there, let alone for how long, but it was the kind of dead zone with which a lifetime of men like Carson and Dorn could scar a woman’s spirit.
But she had been trained all her life for men like them. Men of wealth and contrived power. Men of unfounded arrogance, whose egos never escorted their intellects beyond adolescence. Dorn was no different than the swarm of lawyers who buzzed around him like fleas on a mangy dog. He only believed what others allowed, that somehow his talent made him different. He was crass and demanding beyond decency.
He’d made her feel dirty yet angelic all at once. Made her do a dirty thing while her husband posed and joked with his colleagues in the other room. He’d left her wet, throbbing and speckled with dollops of cum. He’d degraded and exalted her, lifting her up like some kind of whore-queen. The viscous moisture of his desire had lit a fire in her blood she could neither explain nor confess.
She finally got out of the car and went to the door. Her nipples smoldered with sensation as she waited.
Dorn answered looking like the handyman, wearing paint smeared khakis and a T shirt from a concert tour of a band that hadn’t existed for years. He was wearing the same pair of sandals he’d worn with his suit the day before.
Ilsa held her coat tightly around her body, as if she were afraid of getting smudged if she touched anything. Dorn smiled and she took a careful step inside, her signature boots clicking crisply on the pristine, hardwood floor. The house was open and airy, more full of light than she expected, but it was a painter’s house, and if a painter needed anything it was light.
Dorn studied her face briefly.
“No make up,” she said dryly. “As per your instructions.”
He laughed and turned away. Ilsa followed him down a corridor toward the studio.
“I take it you read the email I sent Carson,” he said, still snickering as he opened the studio door.
She felt a moment of confusion. “Wasn’t I supposed to? Your instructions were so…precise.”
As she entered the studio, Ilsa felt surrounded by glass and slanting shafts of sunlight. She could imagine surgical theaters that weren’t as well organized. There was an easel arranged with a canvas and large sketch pads on a table nearby. Just off center was a simple, wooden chair painted black.
“I only sent that message to set Carson off. Got all excited, didn’t he?” Dorn snickered deviously.
Ilsa almost smiled. She was tempted to confess how badly her husband had wanted to fuck after reading the email, if for no other reason than to defy Dorn’s instructions. The no sex before posing rule had given Ilsa a welcome excuse to ban Carson from her bed just when he was at his gleeful worst.
“That’s not a standard list of instructions?” she asked dryly.
Dorn laughed. “I haven’t worked with a live model since I was studying. I’ve never sent a message like that to anyone. Ever. I told you yesterday, I don’t do erotic glamour.”
“Then what am I doing here?”
“Good question.” He approached her where she stood a few, short paces from the chair. He stood too close, studying her face again. “Maybe the answer will surprise us both.”
Ilsa studied him almost as intently, finding herself wishing there was something in his character to match the warm sparkle in his dark eyes. She’d seen it the day before, just before he turned to walk out of the salon. Now she promised herself if she ever met anyone whose life kept the promise of compassionate eyes all bets were off.
“Maybe you just want to order me to jerk you off on me again,” she said icily.
Now they studied each other openly. Dorn’s eyes filled with amused wonder while Ilsa stood her semi-defiant ground.
“Ditch the coat,” he finally said. “Let’s go to work.”
Ilsa looked down at the floor and waited for Dorn to return to his work area, then she slowly unbuttoned her coat. Her nipples and clit were nearly burning as each button came loose. She felt the air sliding against her skin as she finally opened the coat and tossed it aside on the floor.
She stood completely naked except for the boots. A quarter smile played on her lips when she saw Dorn hesitate, but she quickly lowered her head toward the floor.
“Will this be ok?” she asked quietly.
Silence filled the bright room as she studied the taper of her boots. The fine pores of her skin began to prickle as she felt the inner sting of Dorn’s appraisal. It stretched on long enough to wonder if he’d heard the question.
“Do you understand why a woman like you is even more terrifying without makeup?”
“Because then everyone can see how plain we really are?” She was still looking at the floor, trying to remember a time she’d felt as naked as she did just then.
“For Christ’s sake,” Dorn spat. “Somebody’s been over-feeding you spiritual junk food.”
Ilsa’s blood heated with anger. Her nipples hardened until the throb was spiraling through the meat of her full breasts. Her pussy felt thick and threatened to seep.
“It’s because,” Dorn went on, “it makes your spirit seem more attainable. And maybe a bit more naked. It’s bullshit, of course, but that’s more or less how it works.”
“You’re fucking crazy,” she said in a husky whisper. She still didn’t look at him, knowing his eyes would only glitter and seem warm. Talk about fucking illusion.
“Now there’s the errant bitch of the manor we’ve all come to know and love,” he laughed, quoting the words he’d admonished her for the day before.
She thought back to the moment, her face still trained downward. She could almost feel the shame and controlled rage all over again. When Dorn had come in and simply demanded she release and stroke his cock, it was as if he’d come along to complete her degradation. But he’d brought her something else, too. The hard weight of his aroused cock had felt like the heat of revenge in her hand. Before long, it became nothing but the burning strain of a man too aroused by her to be hampered by social convention.
But she didn’t imagine Dorn to be hampered much by social convention. He was the kind who invented his own.
“Now here’s the real challenge,” he finally said. “Can you sit in that chair and follow instructions without talking for the next hour or so?”
Ilsa bowed in silence and took a seat with her knees close together and her hands clasped on top of them. She wondered if geishas ever felt this way. The long heels of her boots brought the level of her knees higher than normal. It came as a relief to sit down. Her distended pussy was beginning to seep in spite of her efforts to will the sizzle down to a simmer. It was the first time she was able to look at him since she’d flung off her coat.
Dorn stared at her silently for a long time.
“Spread your thighs,” he finally said, calm and serious.
Ilsa placed a hand at the top of each boot where the tapered leather covered each knee and pushed them apart.
“Wider,” he said.
After a second’s hesitation, Ilsa spread her thighs until the petals of her aching slit were open to the artist’s intent scrutiny.
“Pinch your left nipple with the thumb and index finger of your left hand.”
She did as instructed, forcing herself not to wince against the electrical currents spreading through her flesh.
“Good. Now splay your slit with your fingers.”
With a burning knot of silence in her throat, Ilsa slid her hand along her thigh until the inverted fork of her index and middle fingers clamped down and opened her lips. She was painfully aware of the throb in her swollen clit.
“You’re fucking soaked,” Dorn noted. There was no trace of a taunt in his tone, but Ilsa didn’t reply. He was locked in concentration, focused completely on her, and the trancelike state he was in seemed to change him. She understood why he’d asked her not to speak and couldn’t imagine breaking his concentration now. She could even feel her own mind entering a level of clarity she imagined must be very close to his.
“Tilt your head. More. Too much. A little less. That’s it. Now look in my direction only with your eyes…keeping your head still.”
Ilsa did as he asked. There was something in his eyes she hadn’t seen before. She was only half sure of her expectation that he would make her sit that way until her body was aching and stiff while he sketched or painted. Even though his turning to pick up a camera seemed logical, the gesture took her by surprise.
But Ilsa didn’t flinch. She refused. She held her position with a vengeance born of a pride she never knew she had. She had been photographed more than most people she knew, but she’d never really considered the difficulties in this kind of modeling, especially for someone as eccentric and demanding as Dorn. It wasn’t the same league as Carson taking pictures of her while she knelt between his legs to suck his cock so he could show them to his friends.
It might as well have been a different planet.
Dorn moved closer as he took numerous shots from a variety of angles, muttering to himself as he studied and photographed her. She wasn’t sure what images he was capturing, but there were several times he pushed the camera invasively close to her pussy and breasts, capturing the kinds of images he’d claimed he didn’t work with.
“Move your head back a couple of inches. Yes, perfect. Now keep your head still and follow me with your eyes.”
Ilsa’s nerves began to sing with aching tension. Her nipple throbbed with electricity between her fingers while the slow, seeping drip of her pussy threatened to drive her insane. Yet she held herself as she was told, her determination to become a still, perfect subject an act of defiance she’d never thought herself capable of. It was nothing so petty as defiance of a self-centered husband or arrogant artist. She felt herself in total defiance of everything the world had expected of her.
“Now grip the other nipple the same way,” he said. “Yes…” He got close, taking several tight shots of fingers and nipples.
Dorn paused and stood back. There was a tubular bulge forming in the front of his pants as he looked back and forth between Ilsa and the gradually changing angles of the light shafts crossing over her.
“Do you need to rest?” he asked.
She barely moved her head side to side in negative reply. Dorn looked as if he were about to say something. The unwieldy bulge in his trousers looked painful, and Ilsa wondered how he managed to focus on what he was doing. There was a damp stain forming around the tip, reminding her of the powerful spray of cum he’d rained on her barely twenty-four hours before. She’d had to wipe drabs of it off the boots she was wearing again today.
She wondered if he was ever going to mention any of that, hoping he wouldn’t… hoping he would.
“Lower your head,” he told her.
She did as requested, her silk-fall of hair curtaining her face and breasts. She found herself staring down at her own pussy, pampered and shaven according to his bogus instructions. Yesterday, he’d told her it was perfect. She knew it was making him throb with need in those paint smeared trousers he had on. She studied herself in a whole new light, as if she’d never really looked at her own pussy before. A knowledge came over her he’d meant what he said, that whatever his myriad faults, he wasn’t the type of man to say such a thing just to hear himself speak.
“Place your hands on your upper thighs. Yes, like that. Open them wider.” The sound of the shutter snapped several times. “Now spread yourself open… pull your flesh taut… splay it…”
Ilsa found it harder to breathe as she followed his directions. The touch of her own hands so close to her pussy under his steady gaze was driving the force of her blood to an agonizing speed.
I will not flinch, she told herself, bracing against the onslaught of her own cells. She felt the engorged lips of her pussy pry apart as she pressed against the springy meat of her upper thighs. Shafts of sunlight lashed across her slit like heated tongues. There was a tremor in her body she refused to let show as she flushed under her own, constant gaze.
As the shutter clicked at least twenty times more, she wondered how long he would make her hold this position. She didn’t know if she was posing, being tortured or aroused… or all three.
“Fuck,” she could hear him hiss.
She held stock still, hearing the muted sounds of his clothes being removed and hitting the floor. Then he sighed softly. He sighed again but it sounded more like a groan this time. There was the sound of paper rustling as he muttered to himself.
Ilsa felt as if everything were submerged, and time was wrapping around them like schools of bright fish swimming around and between them. She’d never spent so long just gazing down at her own pussy. Under the circumstances, she had no choice.
It’s true, she told herself. It is beautiful. I’m beautiful. I’m a living myth and only those who can see that deserve me.
Despite the rush of heated blood throughout her body, Ilsa’s muscles were beginning to ache. And despite the sense of everything being submerged, she felt as if she were rising, as if she were taking flight within herself.
She noted the subtle changes in her pussy. She never realized the soft, pillowy nature of her own mound at full throttle. Her clit stood up like the arrogant little tyrant it was. She lost track of how long that slow, steady, torturous ooze of nectar had been going on, but the little hollows of silken skin surrounding her pussy were shining with it. There was a growing slick on the surface of the chair where her thighs opened out. Her nipples were jutting forward, painfully swollen and begging to be pinched and twisted and sucked hard.
She was losing track of Dorn’s motions by now, not knowing if he was painting or sketching, or if he was just standing there stroking his overheated cock. It almost didn’t matter. This bittersweet torture could only go on for so long. He would break and need her. She was sure of it. The sheer freedom to move would come on as hard and encompassing as an orgasm.
“Keep your head down but turn to the side. Yes, just like that.” His voice was beginning to show his strain. “Now grip your left breast with your left hand. Yes, like that but harder. Let your fingers dig into your flesh.”
Ilsa’s hand nearly felt like someone else’s as she clutched her breast harder than she’d ever dreamed.
“Good,” he said. “Very good. Now…with the right…middle and ring fingers…slide them up inside.”
Ilsa’s heart convulsed. She was afraid he might see the tremor in her body now, but she did exactly as he said. Despite her effort to choke it down, the faintest gasp escaped her lips as her fingers pushed past her slick lips into her aching sheath. She pushed her fingers deep and curled them upward, feeling as if the entire interior of her body were contracting around them. Just having anything inside her now came as a monumental relief, yet the need to go on holding still fell like an impossible trial on her will.
“Fuck,” Dorn hissed.
There was more rustling of paper, then near silence as one tool or another scraped furiously across its surface. Ilsa throbbed and oozed. The tendons in her neck felt like they were burning. Her fingers moved inside her, the only motion throughout her entire body except for the hard pulsing of her raging heart.
The feeling of being submerged was beginning to weigh on her more heavily with each passing second. She needed to break the surface and gasp. She needed to rip her fingers back and plunge them inside again… and again.
“Okay.” The large sketch pad slapped onto the table, but Ilsa still didn’t move.
“We’re done for now,” Dorn added.
With a deep breath of relief, Ilsa rolled her head in circles, bringing the flow of blood back into her neck and shoulders. She released her hold on her breast, but kept her fingers in her pussy, briefly indulging a subtle pull and thrust before she turned to pure stone.
Dorn was standing halfway between her and the table behind. He was naked. His cock jutted forward obscenely. It seemed bigger without his pants. He had that glittery warmth in his eyes again. Or was it still? It didn’t matter. It was nothing but a sweet façade. He looked at her face with a smile that didn’t begin to touch his lips, then he lowered his eyes toward the fingers embedded in her pussy. She let them slide again as he watched.
“Go ahead,” he told her. “Pump it. You’ve earned it.”
“Just do it.”
Breath caught in her throat. Confusion was the best she could feel for him, but in her current state, she wanted his cock instead of her fingers. But she began sliding her fingers back and forth, stroking her needful slit while she brought her other hand to her clit. Nothing mattered now but the total annihilation of the agonizing sizzle in her blood.
The sharp, huffing gasps of breath choking off her ability to speak felt like jolts of freedom punching into her body. Dorn’s eyes glazed as he watched the blur of her hands, working in convulsive concert as he gripped his cock and pumped.
Ilsa felt the wrecking ball swinging straight toward her. Dorn walked behind her, cock in fist, but then she felt his hands reach around and grip her breasts. He found her distended nipples and tweezed them hard as he put his face against hers.
“Nothing about you is perfect on its own,” he said. “But the way it all converges is nothing but bliss.”
“Fuck!” Ilsa shrieked. The wrecking ball struck. A wave of impact shuddered so hard through her body that her spine suddenly arched backward and her legs shot forward. She was cumming and coming apart at the seams. She was sure she’d taken flight for real when she realized the spastic motion of her body was tipping the chair backward.
Dorn caught the chair before she landed backward, easing it gently toward the floor as her fingers jerked and jammed into her saturated pussy, the other hand drumming her clit like a fucking car crash.
She felt her head come to rest against the floor as Dorn laid her chair down. She ground herself against the seat of the upended chair and wrung the last waves of the tide through her body with her digging hands.
Dorn was looking down at her from only an arm’s length. His face was upside down. They looked at each other for a long time without speaking. She felt how dangerously close they were to smiling. It felt strange – foreign yet not unpleasant.
Ilsa finally rolled off the chair and Dorn shoved it several feet across the floor. When she rolled back, he moved around to her feet and set to the arduous task of removing her boots.
“These must be killing you by now,” he said.
Ilsa had barely realized they were until he got them off. She wiggled her toes, stimulating the circulation. Dorn picked up her feet and massaged each one in turn. His cock stood up throbbing as she lifted each leg.
“Aren’t you ever going to fuck me?”
“It’s not as if I’m not dying to, but I want to keep the edge of this feeling when I paint you.”
“You’re crazier than I thought.”
“Maybe. That all depends on how crazy you thought I was in the first place.”
“Pretty bad,” she said as he stood up and walked to the table.
He connected the camera to his laptop, and while the jpegs were loading, he began looking over the sketches on his pad. Ilsa stood up, her knees still feeling a little wobbly as she stood beside him and looked at his sketches. They’d been done quickly, but there was a startling sense of motion and gesture about them. She reached for his cock and stroked him.
“I want to watch you paint,” she said.
“Watching grass grow would be more interesting,” he said. “Besides, there’s no way of knowing how long it could take. It could be days or even weeks.”
Ilsa felt the buzzing heat of his cockshaft and turned the corners of several thoughts occupying her mind. She finally sank onto her knees on the floor, pulling Dorn’s cock toward her face. She held his thick shaft as he groaned, bathing the head in a tantalizing rush of breath.
“Here’s how it’s going to be,” she said, giving the underside of his shaft a long, wet lick. “I’m going to stay right here in your house and watch you paint, whether you like it or not.” She licked his cock again, briefly sucking the head this time.
“I’ll be good, I promise. I won’t even open my mouth the whole time, if that’s what you want… at least not to talk.” She took him back inside her mouth and sucked halfway down his shaft, rolling her tongue against his aching flesh.
“And once you’ve given the final stroke of the brush,” she went on, “before the paint is even dry…you’re going to fuck me the way we’ve both been think about since you walked in the salon yesterday. Now… just to make sure you’re thinking straight while you’re working…”
Ilsa cupped his balls in the palm of her hand while she wrapped the other around the base of his shank. She squeezed and stroked him as her wet lips rode his cockflesh until he was groaning her name…and then until he was groaning disconnected syllables…until he was gasping and lacing his fingers through her hair…until he was rocking his hips, thrusting his shaft greedily into her mouth…until the spasms in his shaft buckled his knees and he exploded across her laving tongue with a piercing howl.
Dorn spent the next two weeks painting almost constantly. Ilsa remained at his house the entire time, but she was forbidden to look at the canvas until it was declared finished. She hadn’t been prepared for the number of hours he spent focused on his work, but she was true to her word. She sat quietly most of the time, watching him dab at the canvas with different brushes, once in a while cussing a blue streak as he slammed the brushes down and stormed out of the studio. He always apologized when this happened, but Ilsa understood.
They ate take-out food on the studio floor most nights. Dorn would move to clean up the mess when they finished, but Ilsa shoved him aside and told him she’d take care of it because he had work to do.
A few of the nights Dorn attempted cooking. Ilsa would join him in the kitchen and they’d work together. At some point, a tacit realization came over them there was a natural flow to the way they moved around even the most mundane of chores.
Ilsa had to borrow clothes, having arrived in nothing but her coat and boots. She didn’t need them much, though. She enjoyed the feeling of lounging naked in the studio. Dorn ended up working on the painting naked most of the time. He said it felt funny to be dressed when Ilsa wasn’t. She made him hard for hours on end as he painted. It was just as he’d said, that he wanted to keep the edge of feeling in his blood while he worked.
One night, they were eating nim chow in the studio, and after they finished, Dorn lay down on the floor and laid his head in Ilsa’s lap. She ran her fingers through his hair, still short, but in need of a cut.
“I love the way you smell,” he said, gazing off a thousand yards. Then: “Do you know why I wanted to paint you?”
“Only a stray theory or two,” she mused. “I was hoping it’s because I look hot in tall boots and a tight party dress.”
“No you weren’t. Besides, you know as well as I do there are approximately a billion or so beautiful women on the planet. It’s not about the way you look. It’s about the way it feels to look at you. That’s what beautiful really means. That’s what creating art is all about.”
It felt like her eyes were going to spill for a moment, but then she came back to herself.
“I’m not sure where I’m going when the painting’s done,” she admitted, almost absently. “I want to say everything’s different now, but it isn’t. It’s just…”
“…It’s just that everything’s exactly what it always was, only it’s just easier to see…for whatever reason.”
“Yeah,” she said. “Like that.”
There was a painfully long silence. “What would be the point of going anywhere?” Dorn finally asked.
She didn’t reply. She smiled. She knew he couldn’t see it, but that he knew it was there on her face. He lifted his hand and pulled her head down and kissed her until his cock started getting hard.
The day Dorn finished the painting, Ilsa had fallen asleep on the small sofa in the corner. She was naked and peaceful, and Dorn was excited. The painting had come out better than he’d hoped. He walked halfway to the sofa to wake her up when he changed his mind. Instead, he moved the easel where the painting would be the first thing she’d see when she woke up.
Then he left the studio. He thought she deserved the time to herself when she saw the result of their efforts for the first time. There was no way to tell how long she’d sleep, but in the meantime, he could take a shower, he could go outside and pull weeds out of his garden, he could putter in the kitchen, he could pace the house tearing his hair out while he waited for her.
When Ilsa awakened an hour later, she cast bleary eyes on the canvas. When she realized what it was, her eyes filled with moisture. She sat up and blinked to clear her vision.
She was flying on shafts of sunlight swirling around her like gusts of wind. There was no chair, but the position of her body recalled how she’d tilted backward at the peak of her climax that day. There was a defiant rapture on her face. As she started to wonder if she ever really looked that way, she realized it didn’t matter. It was how he’d seen her. Somehow, her expression managed to appear so purely sexual that it rounded the corner into something beyond eroticism.
She was relieved to be alone, and spent a long time in the studio studying the canvas, walking away and then back again to look at it some more. She realized he was right about the coming shitstorm from the critics, while many would condemn the image as obscene.
She thought back to something he’d said a few days before, about it not being important how something looks, but what it feels like to look at it. The more she looked at the painting, the more she realized she had unlocked something within him. He had unlocked something within her.
She lost track, realizing it didn’t matter who unlocked what. Everything was unlocked, and there was every reason in the world to open the door and walk through it.
She sat down again and gazed at the painting with a smile. She was relieved to be alone, but even more so because she didn’t feel alone.