The Artist


The spring internships were about to be announced, and most of my classmates were buzzing about Jackson. Jackson this, Jackson that. If I believed everything I heard, he had single-handedly saved the avant-garde American art scene from its inevitable irrelevance.

Truth be told, there were several local artists and studios which took interns from our academy each spring, and I was excited about the opportunity to work with any of them. It just seemed that Jackson was the fascinating character who most captured the imaginations of my young peers.

“Did you read the New York Times’ review of his MoMA show?”

“Did you know, every intern he’s ever chosen has gone on to a successful career?”

“Did you hear, he has work in his loft that nobody has ever seen?”

“Haven’t you ever seen him walk on water?”

OK, so I made that last one up, but it’s not much of a stretch. Me, I wasn’t getting caught up in all the fuss – I just felt lucky to be at the academy. I would be happy with any internship placement I got, because it would mean my first steps towards becoming a professional artist. It’s all I’d ever wanted to do since leaving behind my small town life, my small-minded family.

The morning the internship announcements were to be posted, I calmly sat down on a bench at the end of the hallway outside the academy’s main office, my coffee cup in hand and my art supplies resting at my side. The rest of the students gathered in a bunch outside the office, the guys trying to look cool and the girls nonchalant, as they watched out of the corner of their eyes for the director to emerge with the single sheet of paper which would reveal the next few months of their future.

After fifteen or so minutes of tense silence, the office door opened, the academy director emerged with the paper, weaved his way through the throng of eager students, pinned the paper to the bulletin board outside his office, and as quickly as he could, retreated again into the safety of his office, closing the door behind him.

I waited and watched as the other students dove in, pushing each other aside to get to the information, some of them crying out in excitement, and others just crying. I jotted down a few quick sketches in my notebook of the mob before finally getting up myself, walking towards the bulletin board as others walked away, and moving my eye over the page until I finally saw my name:

Tatiana: Jackson

Wow. Without any lobbying, without any political maneuvering on my part, Jackson had chosen me. In just a few days, I’d be meeting the notorious character, completing whatever tasks he saw fit to expand my potential as an artist, starting on my way towards my dream career. I could only smile as a few jealous students gave me dirty looks on my way out of the building. I’d worked hard, I’d put in my time, this was the reward.


I was just a little bit nervous as I knocked on his door at the appointed hour on the appointed day. I’d done enough research about his quirks to know that it was vital that I arrive on time, professionally dressed and ready both to show him samples of my previous work and answer any questions he might have about my background. Anything less would be disrespectful to someone of his standing in the art world: successful, but also mysterious and unpredictable.

I expected an assistant to open the door to his loft studio, but instead I was greeted by the man himself. Jackson was a handsome and athletic man in his mid-late forties, and was dressed in the uniform of a self-confident artist – clothes which were at one time expensive and tailored, but which were now untucked and splotched with oddly shaped stains in various colors of paint.

He took my outstretched hand in both of his, gripped it firmly, and with a smile but no words, motioned for me to have a seat on a sofa at the far end of the huge room, while he returned to his work of the moment. I sat down and watched as he added stripes of red to what was already a multi-layered and multi-colored canvas, an abstraction of incredible depth. I soaked in the whole environment, not just his artwork but also his slow, even movements, the eclectic mess of the large room, even the view out the windows of the top-floor loft.

He didn’t speak a word for at least an hour, occasionally stopping his work to look towards me, sancaktepe escort but always seeming distracted, as if he couldn’t begin to acknowledge me fully until he’d finished the artistic thought on the canvas. When he did look in my direction, it wasn’t just my face he studied, but also my body, and that in a way that cut right through me, making me aware of every inch of my skin.

I had no way of knowing whether he was seeing me as a grouping of lines in motion, as any great artist might, or whether he was ogling me as a beautiful young woman. My mind wandered, wondering how many students had sat on this sofa before me, whether he’d looked at them in the same way, whether they’d felt as self-conscious as I did now.

I uncrossed my legs and sat up straight on the edge of the sofa. My petite 22-year-old frame was dressed in what I’d spent a few hours deciding was the ideal aspiring-artist-meeting-the-great-artist outfit: perfectly fitted jeans (classy but not afraid to get dirty) and a white blouse (professional but reminiscent of an artist’s smock). I’d left my long brown hair down that day, so it cascaded down past my shoulders, framing my face, as I continued to study Jackson with my big hazel eyes.

After a few more moments, he looked towards me once again, this time finally speaking in a voice which surprised me with its combination of affected British accent and kindness, “Don’t just sit there, make yourself at home, look around.”

Chuckling to myself at his impatience with me – that he was somehow disappointed I hadn’t made myself at home, snooping through the loft of a world-renowned artist, I nonetheless obeyed. I stood up and walked slowly around the room, stopping every few steps to admire some new discovery – from works of art which were familiar to me from my studies to a conglomeration of dirty dishes in the sink, remnants of days’ worth of meals enjoyed by a man at once king of his genre but also unable to perform basic household tasks.

I looked back at him once again, and finding him still engrossed in his current project, walked further towards one end of the room, where my attention was drawn in by a section of wall covered with what looked like old-fashioned poloroid photographs. From a distance, the content of the photographs was mysterious. As I came closer, I could clearly see that they were photographs of naked women – primarily torsos, focusing on their breasts, but also the occasional face or curve of a hip or leg – each caught in the perfect light and adorned with a design in some sort of white paint.

In any other setting, the dozens of pinned-up photos would have struck me as pornographic, perhaps even disturbing in the sheer number of women depicted. But in this room, in the studio of this great artist, I was tremendously intrigued. Each picture was perfectly staged, perfectly lit, and I studied them each individally and as a collective, unable to quite ascertain a pattern or purpose, but fascinated nonetheless.

After some time, I became aware that Jackson was standing immediately behind me, observing me observing his works, and I started as I turned to find him nearly touching me.

“Oh, I’m sorry, Tatiana, I didn’t mean to interrupt your observation. Do you have any questions for me?”

“Well, um, yes. I didn’t know about this aspect of your work, I’ve never seen it before. I mean, um, but it’s wonderful. Could you tell me more?”

“Certainly, darling. This is really a special project of mine, one I’m afraid the public isn’t quite ready to understand, so I keep it just for myself. What would you like to ask?”

“Well, um, what is the meaning of the painting on each of their bodies? What is your inspiration?”

“The meaning is a difficult question to answer, of course. That you might have to discover on your own. But the work touches you, yes?”

“Oh yes, absolutely. It’s very powerful. It’s hard to explain, but I can’t tear my eyes away from it. And the paint, how do you achieve that particular textured opaque white?”

“It’s a technique of my own, I call it casein unfiltered medium.”

I’d heard of casein, a paint base in which milk is the glue, creating an opaque watercolor texture. But I’d never heard the term he used. “Um, excuse me? I’m afraid I’m not familiar with that?”

“Of ümraniye escort course not, dear, it’s not something they teach you at the academy. But I’ll be happy to show you if you’re interested. I usually refer to it by its acronym.”

“Um, OK, so casein unfilterted medium would be c, u, m… um, CUM?”

“That’s right.”

It suddenly dawned on me that I’d just said ‘cum’ to one of the leaders of contemporary American art. My eyes darted back to the photographs on the wall, and it was suddenly clear to me. These were snapshots he’d taken of beautiful young women after covering them with cum. His own, I could only assume. I blushed hot and red.

“I see that you understand now. You see, it’s quite frustrating to me, this genre of cum art being that which I consider my greatest achievement, yet one which the outside world simply views as pornographic.”

“Oh,” I said breathily, attempting to regain my composure, “but they’re beautiful!”

“Thank you. You see, only at the point of orgasm do I feel truly free in my expression. Any other genre – paint on the canvas, clay in my hands, I feel the constraints of academia, of centuries of art history. It is only at this point of release that I feel I do my best work.”

“Can I… um, help?”

“Ah, so you’d like to be one of my models?”

“Yes, it would be my pleasure.”

“Ah no, it would be mine. You are a beautiful creature. Please, step over here, take off your clothes.”

He guided me towards the light of the windows, and I quickly stripped down to my matching white lace bra and panties in front of the city view, my skin illuminated by the light from outside.

“Beautiful,” he said, smiling, as he too took off his clothes, tossing aside his silk shirt and slacks, stepping out of his boxers, revealing to me his impressive cock, long and already erect.

“Let’s help you out of these, shall we?” He stepped closer to me, pulling me into his embrace and unhooking my bra, tossing it aside, fondling my breasts for a moment before moving on to my panties, bending down as he pulled them down and quickly passing his hand over my clit and pussy lips before standing up straight again.

He was at least eight inches taller than me – six foot to my just-over-five-three, and with an athletic build to contrast my petite body. I quickly fantasized about the delightful challenge of taking his hard cock into either my mouth or my pussy, and could barely contain my excitement, a mood which I clearly projected.

“Calm down, my dear. We’re going to take this nice and slow.”

He hoisted me onto a nearby table, spread my legs with his strong arms, and began kissing first my toes, and then gradually moving up my left leg until he had finally reached my dripping pussy. Kneeling now, he focused his attention slowly and gently on my pulsing sex, combining fingers and tongue to pleasure me as I moaned and writhed beneath me.

After several glorious minutes of this attention, he abruptly stopped, and I looked up to see him walk a few feet to another table, where he picked up his camera and brought it back to where I lay before him, and began snapping pictures. With any other man, I may have felt self-conscious, worried about his motives in capturing images of me in such a vulnerable position, but with his man, Jackson, I simply felt beautiful, felt his saliva and my pussy juices glisten against my skin.

He set the camera down and motioned with his finger for me to move towards him. I climbed down from the table and knelt before him, taking his stunning cock into my hands, my long fingers wrapping around it and beginning to stroke up and down. I looked up at him with a naughty smile as I shifted my hands so that just one remained on his shaft, while the other cupped and fondled his balls.

After a few moments of enjoying this, he whispered down to me, “Take me into your mouth.”

I didn’t hesitate to do as I was told, and after a few moments of wetting his cock with my tongue, I began a slow motion up and down, taking his full length deep into my throat with each stroke. Once I had settled into a rhythm, he wrapped his fingers through my long brown hair, forming it into a tight ponytail, and began to guide me, moving me first to a faster tempo, then once again to a slower tuzla escort one, until I felt that he was moving closer to his climax.

Just as I thought the time was near, however, he stopped and pushed me away. I looked up at him with a hint of disappointment, but I quickly realized he simply wished to prolong his climax and enjoy another position. He helped me onto the table once again, where I again spread my legs wide for him, as he rubbed the head of his cock tantalizingly against my pussy lips.

I desperately wanted for him to enter me, but he seemed to enjoy this teasing, asking me to hold my own ankles as he reached forward to squeeze my breasts and pinch my nipples while he continued to rub back and forth against me. Finally, he too succumbed to the inevitable, pushing into me with one strong stroke, and then holding in that position, deep inside of me, as I adjusted to his size, panting and gasping for air.

Once I signaled with my eyes that I was ready, he began a steady in-and-out rhythm. I continued to pull my own legs back as far as possible, creating an intensely satisfying position, as he wetted his fingers in his mouth and began rubbing my clit. I wasn’t able to hold back much longer, and after just a few more moments, watched him reach for the camera as I came, screaming out in pleasure as wave after wave of sensations rushed through my body.

After snapping a few quick photos of my moment of climax, Jackson slid out of me and knelt beneath me once again, lapping up the juices which still trickled from my pussy. After allowing me to recover, he helped me down from the table and again down to my knees, where I too had the opportunity to taste myself, with no option but to lick my own juices off of him as he clutched me by the hair and forced me down onto his cock.

“Did you enjoy yourself, Tatiana?”

“Oh, god, yes. That was the most amazing orgasm of my life!”

“I’m glad to hear it. Are you ready to help me reach my climax, to be part of this important artistic moment?”

“Oh, yes!”

“Alright, I want you to take me into your hands, stroke me, and tell me how dirty it makes you feel to be fucked by such a great artist.”

I took his cock and balls into my hands, gently stroking as I carefully considered my words, being sure to play exactly the part that would get him off. I looked up at him with lustful eyes, and began to speak.

“I knew when I came here today that you were a great artist. I’d seen your oils, your watercolors. But now that I know you’re also a cum artist, I want nothing more than to be your dirty little cum slut. I want you to climax just as hard as I did, and cover me with your brilliant cum.”

“Yes, Tatiana, that’s it, keep going.”

I increased the tempo of my motions, fondling and tickling as balls as I firmly jacked him off. “I know you can’t get enough of my beautiful breasts, that you’re still remembering the sensations of fucking my tight little pussy, feeling my cum cover your cock. Now it’s your turn, I want you to cover my sexy chest with your cum. Shoot it all over me, cover me! I want nothing more than to be your filthy cum whore!!”

“Yes, yes, I’m almost there, Tatiana, keep going!!”

I tried to speak once more, but before I could, Jackson once again clutched me by the hair and forced me onto his cock, bottoming out deep in my throat and holding himself there as I gagged and fought for air. He released me for a moment, and I quickly began a rapid up and down motion, before he pushed me away for good, and I let myself fall to the floor beneath him, a blank canvas for his latest work.

He held his cock in his hands, and I looked up into his eyes as he jerked with pleasure as his orgasm arrived, and stream after stream of cum shot from his cock, splattering first across my breasts, then on my face, then down towards my belly. I lay, still and content, knowing that I needed to wait for him to recover, reach for his camera, and capture the moment for his collection.

His hot cum oozed slowly across my skin, dripping from my cheek, sliding down from my nipple, coming to a rest in my belly button, as I looked up into the camera. Poloroid after poloroid dropped to the floor around me as he continued to click the shutter, before he finally stopped, setting the camera down and letting his own weight drop into a nearby chair.

My eyes wandered from the wood beams of the ceiling to the view out of the windows as I pondered my contentment. Not only had I experienced the best sex of my life, I’d also been witness to the purity possible in art – expression in its most basic form. Not acceptible to the gallery-going establishment, perhaps, but a wonderful inspiration, nonetheless.

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