Art

Art

Corbin was an artist.

Cerise understood that.

She understood it and respected it.

But she had to admit that sometimes it was hard.

She loved Corbin with all her heart and soul but sometimes his work got between them and she always came off second best.

Cerise would have been a lot angrier if his work was boring and mediocre.

To be brushed aside for something less than brilliant would have been a tremendous blow to her ego.

Corbin’s work was better than brilliant; it surpassed all possible adjectives and just shone.

To be brushed aside for brilliance still stung.

Cerise was also one hundred per cent positive that if she told Corbin that she felt rejected because he spent so much time painting or drawing or sketching, Corbin would be shocked.

She was also sure that a revelation of that magnitude would shock Corbin to the point where he would devote every spare moment of his life to her.

She was also sure that if asked Corbin would give up his painting and drawing and sketching (and yes, when asked Corbin could explain the difference between drawing and sketching).

She was also sure that if he did she would not only feel guilty, but subdued while still feeling warm and content with Corbin’s level of commitment for her.

While the idea of asking Corbin to forgo his art in favor of a long, happy life with her was ludicrous it was also faintly appealing.

It was on days like today that she pondered the possibility and seriously considered it instead of dismissing it as stubborn selfishness on her part.

Cerise hated the rain.

And it wasn’t just raining, it was pouring.

Rain exploded against the window with tiny bursts like pellets being thrown against a solid object.

The power was out.

Cerise had discovered that hours before and had resorted to waiting for Corbin to come home.

He hadn’t been home for a week and a half and Cerise was lonely.

So she had resorted to pushing the curtain to the front window aside and settling down in the window seat.

It was a quaint little Georgian apartment building and she had been delighted to find a cozy little nook in which to hole herself up in and read or think or, her more frequent activity, wait.

Corbin had rung the previous day informing her of his imminent arrival home and that was when Cerise began contemplating the possibility of asking him to stop traipsing about the country painting.

She missed him, and she loved him and she rested her head against the cool glass of the window as she dragged her legs up to her chest, wrapping her arms around them as she shivered slightly from the cold.

Cerise was halfway through a rather satisfying yawn when she first saw Corbin.

She knew was Corbin from the way he walked.

Tall, and no nonsense with a straight back and no unnecessary arm waving or hip wiggling.

She also knew it was Corbin because no other sane person would walk calmly down the street without an umbrella.

A small smile tugged at the corners of her mouth as she watched happily make his way down the path towards the apartment building clearly disheveled. His hair was matted to his head and his clothes were clearly drenched and stuck to his body in what she knew to be an uncomfortable manner.

And it was watching him making his way towards the apartment they shared looking calm and carefree even though he must have been soaked to the bone, that (as horribly corny and clichéd as it sounded) Cerise fell in love with him all over again.

~*~*~*~

Corbin was an artist.

He knew that.

In fact Corbin loved it.

Art was his passion, his fire and his driving force.

It was as much a part of his as his arms or his legs or the strange little birthmark he had on his inner right elbow (a small heart shaped brown spot barely visible against his dark skin).

He never considered the downside to it being a part of him until he met Cerise.

Sweet, loving and charming Cerise.

It wasn’t until after he had fallen head over heels in love with that his work became problem.

He always knew he wanted to be an artist and he was one. A good one.

A well respected artist who worked away from home and who had a career and loved it.

Until he and Cerise moved in together and he couldn’t stop thinking about her.

But he had to stop thinking of her because he had to leave her at fairly regular intervals for his work and he was starting to resent it.

Cerise was starting to as well and he knew something bad was brewing.

Corbin had never been good at speaking.

Talking was fine, in fact most had difficulty shutting him up.

But speaking about thoughts and feelings and such…

It freaked Corbin out.

Not many things scared Corbin.

He wasn’t scared of thunder or lighting or floods. (His eardrums were rendered almost useless after years of loud music and he was a fairly good swimmer anyway.)

He wasn’t scared of spiders or bugs or creepy crawlies. (As far as Corbin was concerned they were harmless either brush them out of your way or crush them.)

He wasn’t scared of car accidents or plane crashes or other vehicle fatalities. (He walked everywhere and he didn’t travel overseas often.)

The only thing he could say he was pretty much scared of was his mother. She was a lovely lady and she had raised him to the best of her and his dad’s ability but she was terrifying when she was angry, really truly angry.

His mother and rejection.

To Corbin, it made sense; if he told Cerise how he felt and those feelings weren’t reciprocated he would be crushed.

And yes, it was most likely that he would he cry.

Corbin wasn’t scared to cry.

In fact Corbin cried frequently.

He cried whenever his paint refused to blend together to make the exact shade of the color in his head.

He cried whenever he couldn’t get a painting just right.

He cried whenever his sister decided to be particularly vicious and deliver a painfully accurate blow to the genitals. (She refused to believe that yes they were that sensitive and yes hitting them hurt like you wouldn’t believe.)

Therefore, crying because the girl he was hopelessly in love with did not love him back seemed perfectly acceptable.

As acceptable as walking home in the rain was. He never got sick from it and he was always careful to not to get dirt everywhere when he went inside and even if he did he always cleaned it up.

Corbin stopped whistling as he unlocked the door to his apartment and entered.

He dropped his keys on the floor as Cerise jumped into his arms, hugging him to her tightly. Corbin kicked the door shut behind him and hugged her back, careful not to get any dirt on her.

Corbin gently lowered Cerise to the floor and kissed the tip of her cute little nose as he told her to wait a little longer because he needed to shower. At her nod of confirmation Corbin turned and walked down the hall to the bathroom.

~*~*~*~

Cerise gently rubbed at her now damp arms as a cold breeze drifted through the apartment. Her clothes and her skin were a little wet after hugging Corbin and she tugged her damp jumper off and threw it over the couch as she went into the single bedroom in the apartment.

She pulled one of Corbin’s jumpers out of the chest of drawers and lifted it over her head before pulling it on. It was big and fluffy and it was guaranteed to keep her warm.

She slowly made her way out of the bedroom as she heard the shower start up. Cerise slid the kitchen drawer open and pulled out the emergency candles. She counted seven of them and set them on the counter as she went looking for matches.

She wearily ventured into the second bedroom that had been converted into Corbin’s makeshift studio. Cerise gasped as she entered, facing the half finished canvas in the middle of the room. The open blinds lit the room with a strange, ghastly glow as the shadows of the raindrops on the window painted the room with a strange blotched pattern.

Cerise cautiously approached the easel in the middle of the room, her eyes trained on the painting.

It was of her.

Cerise covered her mouth with her hand as she appraised it.

Portrait her was asleep on her stomach, the half-painted burgundy sheets pooled around her waist. Her skin was alabaster pale, contrasting against the dark bed sheets, her hair a perfect wave of crimson splashed out behind her. Her left arm was covered by the wave of hair, but her other was placed on the bed besides her, her fingers splayed across the dark sheets.

Clipped to the easel was a photo of Cerise asleep, face to the side, hair out behind her, completely naked and on her stomach. The bed sheets weren’t a rich burgundy color but she recognized them to be the sensible pale cotton of their bed.

The photo and the painting seemed to be almost identical with a few artistic allowances being allowed (the color of the sheets, the position of the pillow). But the most obvious difference was the intricate designs painted onto her shoulder.

Cerise looked down at the sketch and saw a rough draft of a beautiful collage of colors, patterns and small verses painted across her back. She gasped when she felt the slightly damp skin of Corbin’s hand sneaking up the borrowed jumper, breaking her from her reverie.

She opened her mouth to apologize but Corbin’s other hand came up to softly press a finger against her lips to silence her. The hand near her lips, his left one, came down and slid under the jumper to encircle her waist.

Corbin slid the right one out from underneath the jumper and he picked up a paintbrush. He handed her the paintbrush and used the fingers of his right hand to curl her fingers around it so she held it right. A cup of fresh water was placed on the table next to her and so was a fresh palate of paint.

The hand encircling her waist soothingly rubbed at her side as Corbin curled his right hand around hers. He began to guide her movements, his head bent to her neck to kiss at the soft flesh and to whisper soft words of encouragement.

Cerise took a deep breath and nearly swooned. When Corbin came home he smelt like rain and damp and she could swear she smell the faintest traces of apple. Now, after his shower he smelt different. He smelt like soap, pine and she could definitely smell apples.

Corbin pressed a light kiss to the base of her neck as he dipped the paintbrush in water to loosen the bristles. He gently taped the paintbrush on the side of the cup to shake off all traces of water. He then guided her hand, holding the paintbrush to the green paint.

Cerise watched as they dipped the paintbrush into the paint before bringing it up to the canvas. She took a deep shuddering breath as he murmured a deep, husky relax into her neck as he guided her hand in a delicate swirl, painting a vine onto the shoulder of the painting. The paintbrush was dipped in the green paint again as Corbin continued to paint a vine continuing down the girls back.

Corbin slid his left hand down her stomach and came to rest at the apex of her thighs. He pressed the flat heel of his palm against the crotch of her jeans and applied pressure. Her grip on the paintbrush loosened as she threw her head back moaning.

Corbin gripped her hand a little tighter and she followed his example and tightened her hold on the paintbrush as it was placed in the cup of water. Another, thinner brush was also dipped in water and shaken off. Corbin than helped her dip the paintbrush into a darker shade of green and together they began to trace down one side of the vine’s stalk with the contrasting green.

It would have been a lot easier if Corbin hadn’t used his left hand to open her jeans and tug them down a little. Cerise used her free left hand to reach behind her and give him a warning poke to the ribs. Her fingers came into contact with the smooth, firm muscle of his bare stomach and she felt him grin against her neck as she groaned.

He budged her legs apart gently with his knee, anchoring her by intertwining their left legs. The fingers of his left hand began to mimic the actions of their right hand as Corbin continued to guide her in tracing the vine on the canvas.

Her eyes slid shut as his firm and steady right hand continued to guide hers, occasionally dipping back into the paint. She whimpered softly as he started to rub his muscles against her back as his left hand maneuvered themselves inside her panties. He dragged the ragged end of his teeth bitten nail along her clit and she bit down into her lip as she tried not to lose her grip on the thin paintbrush.

“Can I paint on you?” He whispered, his teeth catching her earlobe and gently nibbling on it.

“Pardon?” She gasped as he dragged his nail along her clit again. Their right hand dropped the paintbrush into the cup and he placed a hand on her waist and began to waltz backwards, bringing her with him.

“Lay you down on our bed and cover you in paint. Non-toxic of course.” They continued on backwards and his hand only left her hip to hold the door open.

“S-s-sure.” She stuttered, his fingernail periodically flicking along her clit. His hand left her hip again and he untangled them, lifting her up to place her in the middle of the bed. Corbin dragged his jumper over her head as she arched up off the bed. Her jeans were dragged down next, his rough tongue moving down from the front of her bra to her belly button. The underwear’s next to go and Cerise feels a sudden burst of sensuality as Corbin looks at naked body hungrily.

He tied her down next. He used the business ties he sometimes wore and she felt a little afraid as he left the room leaving her tied to the bed naked and completely open. Arousal took over from fright as he reentered the room a few minutes later with the glass of water and some tubes of paint along with a palette and a handful of paintbrushes.

The blue paint was cold against her left nipple, the soft bristles of the paintbrush gently caressing it. She whimpered as the soft bristles glide around her whole breast in a seemingly haphazard fashion. Her breasts have always been sensitive and the cool paint combined with the paintbrush were making her whimper with need. She watched the look of concentration plastered across his features and she vowed never to doubt his devotion to art again.

She whimpered softly as he cleaned the paintbrush off, a steady stream of blue covering most of her stomach. The paintbrush was dipped in red paint and swirled around her torso, filling in the blanks left by the blue paint. The paintbrush finally found her right nipple and she moaned deeply, a needy wining starting to thrum in the back of her throat. Her right nipple was painted skillfully and is brought to painful awareness by the soft bristles.

She arched high off the bed moaning loudly as he pushed into her. She didn’t know when he discarded the pants but she figured it could have been when he painted her, distracting her to the point where she didn’t notice that he was painfully hard and ready for sex.

Corbin doesn’t last long. He chalks it up to being his two favorite things combined.

Art and Cerise.

She looks like a piece of art, torso covered in blue and red paint.

He snaked a hand between them to press at her clit, gently rubbing the pad of his thumb against it with his left hand as he used his right to continue painting her torso. He’s trying to makeup for his lackluster performance and it seems to work.

Cerise arched high of the bed when she came, her breasts in the hair, wobbling slightly, pushed up towards him like a bizarre sort of offering. An offering he would normally accept but she’s covered in paint and he likes his teeth too much to risk them. He’s also worried about the binds and he quickly untied her.

She threw an arm around his chest as he lay next to her, gently working the bed sheet out from under her so that he can throw it over them while they sleep. He covered them gently as she nuzzled into his shoulder. He realized that they haven’t kissed properly yet and decided to do it later when she isn’t so sleepy and she isn’t pressing her paint covered body into his side.

He wraps an arm around her around her as she murmured something sleepily to him.

He knew she wasn’t sleeping just yet because she smiled as he replied.

I love you too.