Wulan Prameswari || Kinktober Day 29: Wet and messy

The late afternoon sun slanted through the open studio walls, illuminating dust motes dancing in the thick, humid air. They looked like tiny, frantic ghosts caught in the honeyed light. Wulan stood back from the large canvas propped against the far wall, a deep furrow etched between her brows. It was supposed to be a study of the river’s edge at dawn, all mist and muted greens, but the colors had turned to mud on her. The cerulean blue was too garish, the viridian too sickly. It was a dead thing on the stretcher bars, and she’d been staring at its corpse for the better part of three hours.

With a low growl of frustration, she flung her brush into a jam jar of murky turpentine, the clatter echoing in the quiet room. Her gaze, hot and restless, swept away from the failed painting and landed on her partner, who was lounging on the floor cushions near the low table, a book open but ignored in their lap. The sight was a sudden, cool balm. The tension in her shoulders eased fractionally. Here was something real, something warm and breathing, not this stupid, stubborn illusion she was failing to capture.

She padded across the worn teak floorboards, her bare feet making soft slapping sounds. The oversized linen shirt she wore, spattered with a history of past projects, was knotted loosely at her waist. She came to a stop in front of them, blotting out the light. Without a word, she reached for the palette still clutched in her left hand, her fingers dipping into a generous dollop of cadmium red. It was the color of ripe guava flesh, of anger, of life. She held her paint-smeared hand up, a silent, questioning offer. Her dark eyes, usually so heavy-lidded and slow, were bright with a new, redirected intensity. The frustration with the canvas was already transmuting into a different kind of hunger, a need to create a different, more immediate kind of masterpiece.

She didn't wait for a verbal response, reading the answer in the stillness of their body, the slight parting of their lips. Her red-tipped fingers reached out, not with the tentative touch of a painter, but with the sure, possessive stroke of a lover claiming a canvas. She dragged the thick, cool paint down their cheek, from temple to jawline, leaving a vivid, wet streak against their skin. A soft, appreciative sound escaped her throat, a low "mmm" at the contrast. This was better. This color had meaning now. Her other hand, still clean, came up to cradle their chin, holding them steady as she leaned in, her own lips parting. The air filled with the sharp, acrid smell of the oil paint mingling with the clove-scent of her breath. "Biar aku," she murmured, the Javanese slipping out unbidden, a husky plea and a command all at once. Let me. Her mouth was inches from theirs, a promise of a kiss waiting just beyond the bright, sticky pigment.

Her lips met their skin not with a kiss, but with the slow, deliberate pressure of an artist applying a new layer. She smeared the red paint with her mouth, the taste of linseed oil and pigment sharp on her tongue, marking a messy, possessive trail. A low, throaty hum of satisfaction vibrated against them. This was a language she understood far better than words. Her clean hand slid from their chin to the nape of their neck, fingers tangling in their hair to hold them in place, not with force, but with a firm, guiding certainty.

She pulled back just enough to survey her work, her heavy-lidded eyes dark with a focused, carnal appreciation. The single red streak was a good start, but it was not enough. It was merely the first brushstroke of a much larger composition. Dipping her fingers back into the palette, she gathered a thick swirl of ultramarine blue, the color of the deep river at twilight. Her touch moved lower, painting a bold, wet line down the column of their throat, over the vulnerable dip of their collarbone. The blue was cool against their warm skin, and she watched, fascinated, as a small shiver traveled through them. A slow, lazy smile touched her lips. "Good," she whispered, her voice rough.

Her movements became more expansive, more daring. She scooped up a handful of buttery yellow ochre from the palette and, without ceremony, pressed her palm flat against their chest, the paint squelching softly under the pressure. She rubbed it in slow, wide circles, the coarse linen of her shirt sleeve brushing against their skin as she worked the color into the fabric of their clothes and the skin beneath. She was marking her territory, covering the failure of the canvas with the vibrant, living art of their body. Her breath came quicker now, a soft panting that matched the rhythm of her hands. The air in the studio was thick with the heady cocktail of artistic frustration and sudden, raw arousal, the scent of oil paint and her own clove cigarettes and the warm, familiar scent of them. She leaned in again, her forehead resting against theirs, her paint-smeared cheek brushing against theirs, transferring the colors, blurring the lines between artist and muse, between frustration and desire. "I need this," she breathed out, the confession raw and honest.

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