Page 6 of Aries

“Watch yourself.” I chuckled.

She giggled. “And if that guy comes back in, I want to see him. I never get to see the men you date these days.”

“I’m not—” I was about to tell her I wasn’t dating him, but I’d agreed to do just that tonight.

“Not what?” she asked, hovering around the door for me to finish.

“Not going to entertain any of you,” I said, gesturing with a finger circling the air. “This is a place of work.” And occasionally, a place I found myself fucking, but only to those I was really into, usually guys I’d finished tattooing, often after hours.

I got lost to the information available about Ash on the internet. His entire life was blurbed several times over by different magazines profiling him. But I still felt like there was something lacking, like they weren’t giving me the bigger picture.

We’d fucked already, that was out of the way, but I needed to know what made him tick, and by tick, I meant like a bomb for him to explode with cum. I had two tattoo clients booked in for the day, but everything else going on in my head was set aside to plan what I was going to do with Ash when I got to lay my hands on him again tonight.

3. ASH

I’d been told my emotions were intense. This wasn’t new to me. I’d been told I came on too strong, and I asked for too much too soon from people. These were all facts I liked about myself. I hated wasting my time with people who couldn’t satisfy me, physically, emotionally, creatively, but it was rare when someone would satisfy me on all three counts.

Gael was Daddy, dominant and strong. But more than that, he had his title, Daddy tattooed right above his belly button. I couldn’t stop imagining it. I couldn’t stop myself from feeling the urge to body rock the ground by bouncing on my knees in front of him. He had me on strings like I was a marionette, and I wanted him to play with me.

I barely slept, even after his orders to take a nap before tonight. It was weird how hard wired my brain was to produce in these moments, whether what I was producing was precum, or my best art to date.

Gael gave me the option of where I wanted the date. He asked if I wanted to meet him for food and drink, and then head to one of our apartments. I flat out refused that awkward preamble to what we both knew we wanted. And then he said good, because I hate that bullshit anyway. It was a test, and I passed with flying colors.

I lived in a large loft apartment, the only space anyone concerned with creating art on canvas should live. I had three-sixty windows for light, and as long as I was creating during the day, I had all that good, golden natural light.

Buzzing him in, I started to feel butterflies. I was prepared. I’d eaten clean, I’d taken my fiber, and I’d cleanedwell too. Now, all I needed was to feel like the small, pleasure button he could press again and again until I begged for more. I wondered if it was possible not to sound as desperate as my internal thoughts had been making me out to be.

With the door open, I waited for him to get off the lift across the hall.And as it dinged and the doors opened, Gael stepped out, tripping the sensor lights. His hair was grey, slicked back still. He wore denim on denim, and usually, I’d read someone in a bitchy remark for it, but he rocked it. And slouching off his shoulder, a large reusable plastic bag, heavy as he shifted the weight of it back on his shoulder.

“Nice location,” he said, approaching me.

“Thanks,” I said, welcoming him inside. “It’s a bit messy, it doubles as my studio.”

I didn’t know if he was in awe or shock when he walked inside. I hadn’t been joking, and I rarely let people come over, but Gael did something to me that only someone who woke my muse could do. He’d earned the right to come over, even if our time together wasn’t longer than an hour. That was all I’d needed.

“You keep these dust sheets down all day?” he asked, placing his bag on the floor. “For painting, or are you remodeling?”

“Most of the time,” I said, trying to peek inside the bag as I closed the door.

He smirked. “Well, let me see some of this art you create,” he said. “I’ll confess, I’ve seen some of it online, but I want to know if it’s as good in person.”

I sucked in, usually never this nervous to show someone my art, but I’d poured a lot into my creation last night. “Ok, you’ll have to watch out that you don’t step on any paint. It gets everywhere.”

Immediately, he started to undress, placing his clothes over the bag to cover up the contents. “Easily solved. If I’m not wearing any clothes, it won’t get on them.”

“Good idea,” I said, tugging the bottom of my T-shirt.

“No, no,” he said. “Keep yours on. I want to have some fun with that.” He nodded to his bag, like I knew what was in it.

“What’s in it?”

“You’ll find out. Now, being a little whore and listen to Daddy.”

A full body shiver went through me. He saw and smirked. “Ok, Daddy.”

Daddy stripped to his boxers, not revealing any shape to the cock inside them. He seemed to have more tattoos now. I knew that wasn’t the case. Every other inch of skin had something on it, like he was a canvas himself, and I desperately wanted to paint on it too.

I showed him around the apartment, it was very open, but the splash zone of paint everywhere and the dust sheets made it almost smaller and compact than it was. I had a shelving for my canvases and a large swing ladder that went from one side to the other. My current canvas was on the easel in the corner of the room. It was drying. Sometimes a long process depending on how much paint was on the piece.