derek_williams
patreon
Mind Trap
🕑 Added 2022-03-31 22:58:51 +0000 UTCHey folks - I meant to get this out earlier in the month, but it just wasn't coming together. When I woke up this morning it all clicked. I hope you enjoy this one as much as I enjoyed writing it. Don't forget to leave a comment!
----------------
Midnight had come and gone, but Karl Ackermann was working. He was dressed in black from head to toe, stealing across the south lawn of a sprawling estate. The architecture reminded him of England, though it was nestled in the woods of Connecticut.
Americans were ridiculous, he thought. Pretending they weren’t new money.
Karl worked briefly with a window, double-checked his work and quietly slid the frame open. He couldn’t hear anything, and if his equipment was working, it looked like he hadn’t tripped the silent alarm either.
The blueprints showed that Abbott’s private gallery was severely under-protected. Alarms on all the entrances, a couple of motion detectors that Ackermann had already locked into a loop, and one incompetent security guard who was knocked out cold, taking a nap behind the bushes.
So far as heists go, Karl knew this one would be easy.
The movies would have you believe that every art thief spends their time robbing the Louvre or the Museum of Modern Art. Not Karl Ackermann. He knew the real money was in private collections – the security is terrible. Not to mention, half the pieces were stolen property. Sometimes a private owner just can’t call the cops – they’d get arrested themselves.
Karl slid inside and took a second to look around.
Liam Abbott made his money selling pharmaceuticals to third world countries at absurd markups. He’s not a good man, but he had excellent taste in art. His private gallery took up an entire wing of his country estate. Now Karl was standing in the middle of it.
Have you ever been to Versailles? His gallery was reminiscent of the La Grande Galerie, the famous hall of mirrors. A room so long that it seemed to narrow in the distance, and an arched ceiling with a hand painted mural. In any other building, the room itself would have been a spectacle. At Liam Abbott’s estate, it was merely a backdrop for far greater pieces.
Karl had stolen a painting from Versailles once. The French government still hasn’t noticed.
Tonight, his target was another painting. One that barely existed in rumour. He had found a few buried allusions in art history texts and one scrawled note in a ships manifest, but there wasn’t a single photograph. The painting was almost two centuries old. They called it “Le Bel Homme”.
Abbott had purchased the painting over twenty years ago. It was squirrelled away somewhere in his gallery. Tonight, Karl thought, Le Bel Homme would become mine. Assuming it was more than a rumour.
Karl heard the click of a pistol behind him.
“Don’t move,” he heard a voice say. Ackermann recognized the voice from his research – Liam Abbott was holding a gun on him. The thief was unarmed. If an art thief needs to shoot his way out, he’s already going to jail. No need to add manslaughter charges on top of everything else.
The gallery lights started flickering on. Karl’s face flushed red. What had he forgotten? Was there a hidden alarm system that wasn’t on the blueprints? Or was it pure chance – had Abbott been out for an evening stroll and he happened to see the break-in? Sometimes it’s just bad luck.
“Turn around,” Abbott said calmly.
Ackermann turned and took in his first look of the man. Abbott was in his fifties, with steely grey hair and clear eyes. He wore a beard that didn’t suit his face.
“I’d imagine the cops are already on their way?” Karl chuckled.
“Hands in the air,” Abbott said, gesturing with his other hand. The pistol never wavered. Clearly, Karl thought, this guy had received some real training.
Karl reached his hands up towards the mural.
“Relax young man,” Abbott smirked. “I’m not going to call the police.”
“Oh yeah?” Ackermann said with a cheeky grin. “You’ve got some stolen merchandise in this collection, huh?”
“No,” Abbott said, his voice softening a little. “But I won’t incarcerate a fellow art lover. Tell me, do you love art, or do you simply steal?”
Ackermann paused. It seemed like a genuine question.
“I think it’s beautiful,” Karl said slowly. “Honestly... I’ve lifted so many pieces in the last few years... I could easily retire. But the art keeps calling me back.”
“I understand,” Abbott said. For just a moment, he gave off the vibe of a father, telling his son how proud he felt. Karl’s Dad been gone for over a decade, but you never forget that feeling.
“I assume you’re here for L’Homme?” Abbott asked.
“So it’s real?” Karl said hopefully. He’d done his research, but he still harboured a slight concern that the whole thing was some elaborate work of fiction. That’s not impossible you know. The art world is full of fakery and ‘lost masterpieces’.
“It exists,” Abbott said with a wistful smile. “It took me almost a decade to find, but yes, the rumours are true. I hold L’Homme in my private collection.”
“Damn,” Karl said with a shake of his head. “Unbelievable.”
“Would you like to see it?” Abbott asked, raising an eyebrow. “One bad movement and I will shoot. But if you are truly a lover of art, perhaps you still wish to risk it.”
Ackermann thought about it for almost a second.
“Yes,” he said. “I’d like to take the risk. If it’s as beautiful as the legends say...”
“Be careful young man,” Abbott said. “Once you’ve seen it, it will always live on inside your mind.”
“Please,” I said.
“Turn around. We’re going to the end of the gallery. The blue door on the left wall.”
Ackermann walked forward slowly. A moment later he heard Abbott’s echoing footsteps follow. It took almost two minutes to walk to the door, a plain wooden artifact that looked older than the house.
“Open it,” Abbott said. “It’s unlocked.”
Karl grabbed the handle and tugged gently. The door swung smoothly despite its age. Someone had been oiling the hinge regularly.
There was a small room through the doorway. They left the echos of the gallery behind, the small room sounding muted and dull. A single piece of furniture dominated Karl’s attention – an unfinished wooden cabinet with heavy shutters. It looked out of place, such a simple piece in an elaborate mansion.
“Wait there,” Abbott said, circling around the thief. The pistol sight never left Karl’s heart. Eventually Abbott stopped moving, taking up a position beside the cabinet and a little behind it.
“You don’t want to look?” Karl asked.
“I want a clear shot,” Abbott shrugged. “Should you misbehave, I don’t intend to shoot Le Bel Homme.”
Ackermann’s heart beat faster. He realized he would have to open the cabinet shutters to see the painting. If he flung them open fast enough... Abbott was standing too close. He could knock the gun from Abbott’s hand, maybe even knock him unconscious. The painting could still be his.
“Okay,” Abbott said, giving Ackermann his trademark smirk. “Go ahead and open the doors.”
Karl grabbed for the hanging brass handles and, using all his strength, flung open the cabinet.
He heard the door hit Abbott, the pistol clattering to the ground. Karl knew he should be rushing at him, taking control of the situation.
But Karl’s eyes had already landed on the painting. Le Bel Homme was exactly what the title suggested. A simple painting, red strokes on white canvass. Each stroke was thoughtful. Careful. Taken together they formed a man. A handsome man. The most handsome man he had ever seen.
Karl couldn’t pull his eyes away. He had to keep looking. It was like nothing else in the world.
Ackermann heard Abbott pick up his pistol and carefully lower the hammer. He wasn’t going to shoot. It didn’t matter if he did. Karl could die happy.
“So you see,” Abbott said softly. “Describe it to me.”
“It’s... it’s perfect,” Karl stammered, trying to process what he saw.
“More.”
“The brushstrokes are simple. Like a Picasso, but this can’t be one of his. He never produced anything this perfect.”
“Describe the painting for what it is,” Abbot ordered. “Stop telling me what it’s not.”
“It’s a nude. A man. He’s handsome. Rugged. Muscular. The lines suggest so much while saying so little. It’s so subtle and simple...” Karl trailed off. “But surely, you know all of this.”
“I have never looked,” Abbott admitted. “The stories... this painting is a trap. It captures those who look at its strokes. The risk was simply too great, to become lost in it forever.”
“Captured... this is worth it,” Karl said. He meant it. He would never forget the way he felt at he stared at the painting. The utter calm and tranquility that came from its presence. The rapture of standing with God.
“Perhaps,” Abbott said. “I intend to look before I die – mere moments perhaps.”
“You’ll regret it,” Karl said. “The wasted years.”
“Close the shutters,” Abbott instructed.
Without thinking, Ackermann reached out and did as he was asked. Even as the heavy shutters locked back into place, the painting stayed fresh in his memory. The tiny nuance of each brushstroke fresh and alive, echoing across his retinas and refusing to fade into a memory.
His mind felt cloudy. Karl knew the painting was gone, locked away again. But for him it was still there, fresh and new. He couldn’t pull my attention away.
Abbott smiled. The art thief had been intelligent and engaged, but no more. This was how Abbott preferred his men – young, handsome, with a stunned look on their face.
“Turn,” Abbott said. Karl found myself staring at the blue door again. “Walk into the gallery.”
There was a playfulness to the lines, Karl thought. A childlike glee with the way it used spacing to create form. An irreverent touch with the way the brushstrokes varied. Seemingly random and planned. Chaotic and principled. Every touch to the page must have been elaborately planned or whimsically cast. There was nothing average in this painting. It was intention in its purest form.
Abbott told him to stop, then pulled out a cell phone. It was late and there was no answer, but that wasn’t an issue. He left a message, setting a meeting for 10 AM. Then, without hesitation, Abbott pocketed his cell phone and walked out of the gallery.
The art thief stayed behind, standing where he was left, his thoughts totally focussed on the painting.
“This the my first one?” Karl heard a deep voice say behind him. There was light pouring through the windows. How long... it was after midnight when he first slipped inside. And now? Did it matter how long?
“Yes, you will be responsible for his training. He tried to steal L’Homme,” Abbott said, faintly amused. “Boys will be boys.”
Karl smiled lazily, thinking about the proportions of Le Bon Homme. He was somehow large and slim at the same time. Tight and bulky. His chest seemed impossibly proportioned, and yet so perfect for his frame.
“Does he even realize?” the trainer asked. Karl was staring right at him, but he wouldn’t remember enough to describe the man. Big. Masculine. All the details were unimportant.
“They never do,” Abbott said with a chuckle. “It takes up all his attention now, appreciating L’Homme. We might steal his attention for a moment or two, here in the outer world, but it’s like reading a document while you’re on a conference call – he’s not really following this.”
“Huh?” Karl said. He felt like Abbott had just said something important.
“See,” Abbott laughed. “I could explain to him, but he’s not really listening.” Karl ignored Abbott – he was thinking about the arc of the shoulders in that painting. How could they be so simple and so powerful at the same time?
“Hmmm...” the trainer said, chewing his lip. “He’s got potential. A little on the scrawny side, but if we add sixty or seventy pounds of muscle... yeah, he might be worth something.”
“Go to work,” Abbott said, gesturing at the zoned out thief.
Karl followed after the trainer, his mind focussed on the way L’Homme used whitespace to imply his fierce masculinity.
“Lay down on the bench,” the trainer said, jolting Karl out of my reprieve. They were in a small gym, dedicated to free weights and a few cardio machines. Ackermann was standing in front of a bench press. Karl wondered about the model of L’Homme. Did he exercise, or was he naturally that built? Had the artist exaggerated, or –
“On the bench,” the guy said, pushing down on Karl's shoulders. The captive thief relaxed onto the bench and stared at the bar above him.
– had the artist exaggerated, or was there actually a man that perfect. Art is a representation of a thing, not the thing itself. Karl felt his hands grip the bar while he pondered the question. What was would a photo of the model look like? Karl supposed that L'Homme was painted before photos, so he might never know.
The trainer knelt down next to Karl’s ear and instructed him. Unrack the bar. Lower it to your chest. Push it up away from your chest. Karl followed the instructions without really hearing them. The words snuck past his critical reasoning... his mind was taken up entirely by L’Homme.
“One more rep,” his trainer commanded. “You can do it.”
Karl felt his legs tense, his focus being ripped from the painting. He was squatting... his heart was pounding... his head was swimming... Karl wondered if there were sketches. Was Le Bon Homme the only depiction of the model, or were there other papers out there? Rough sketches, different angles...
The trainer instructed his body while L’Homme took up his mind.
Karl let hot water run over his body while he wondered – the style seemed French. Definitely European. If there were sketches, surely they’d be locked away in a private vault somewhere, guarded against the day that someone like him might approach.
Those brushstrokes. Surely, if more existed, the world would know about it. But L’Homme had been kept a secret, perhaps the sketches would be hidden away too. Karl could write a volume about L’Homme. An entire library. The depths of analysis available seemed almost limitless.
The trainer told Karl to unbuckle his seatbelt. They were off the estate for the first time in months, visiting the city for a haircut. Karl was wearing more than a thong for the first time since his training had begun – it would have been uncomfortable and itchy if he had noticed. His t-shirt and sweats were both a size too small, stretching seductively across his slightly inflated muscles. The daily workouts were starting to have their effect.
“Get in the chair,” the trainer told Karl.
“He doesn't talk too much, does he?” the hairdresser said in a nasal voice.
“He’s just preoccupied,” the trainer laughed. “He’s got a lot on his mind."
Karl sat vacantly in the chair, staring at his own face. His hair was long and shaggy, not the neat buzzcut he normally kept. Karl thought about L’Homme’s hair – just a few lines, but the lines conveyed their meaning so clearly. L’Homme’s hair was short. Messy but styled, chunks of it pointing in different directions.
The barber ran his hands through Karl’s hair.
“It’s pretty thin,” he said. “Texture, I mean, he’s got plenty of it. We probably want to stay away from looser styles, they’ll tend to fly away. I’m thinking something short and chunky, a little paste to give it some volume.”
Karl caught a few stray words and his heart soared. He hoped his hair would look like L’Homme’s by the end. He wanted desperately to look like L’Homme.
He stared in the mirror as pieces fell away. If the artist sketched him, Karl thought... would his hair look like L’Homme’s did? My hair was fine, thin strands. L’Homme’s seemed thicker. Textured. Even as the barber shaped his hair, Karl knew it would only ever be a cheap imitation of L’Homme’s style.
A couple of hours later, Karl was back in the car, staring blankly as they drove through the countryside. His newly blond hair was spiked up in messy chunks. It paired perfectly with his glassy eyes.
“The boss is gonna love this,” the trainer said as they sped along the road. “He’s all about that dumb jock look. Like you to look real dense, y’know?”
“Huh?” Karl said, not really paying attention.
“Nothing bro,” the trainer chuckled. “You’re good.”
The trainer kept pushing Karl during his workouts. One extra rep. A little more weight.
Through it all, Karl was wondering – what made L’Homme so enrapturing? If it was a pencil sketch would it still work at well? How about charcoal?
Another bicep curl. Another tricep pulldown. Another cable cross. The trainer hit every muscle from multiple angles. Karl would never have done this before, the monotony of the training, the slowly building results... the weights would never have held his attention.
They didn’t need to. His attention was on L’Homme.
Were L’Homme’s proportions even possible? Or was it just an optical illusion, hitting the brain the same way aspartame makes us think it’s sugar.
Another ten miles, running a track, surrounded by men who shared Karl’s preoccupation. It would have felt like torture, if he'd bothered to notice.
Karl’s fascination all came back to those brushstrokes. That was what made Le Bon Homme so special, it had to be. The gentle curve of each line, the thousand bristles that so cautiously combined to create so much more.
The days flew by, Karl barely noticing the passage of time. Every so often he would wake up, a moment of sharp focus where he gasped under the bar, pushing as hard as he could. For just a moment his thoughts would shift, suddenly back in the world, fighting for his life. The bar was so fucking heavy... then it was done, clanging back against...
How had anyone been able to paint something so beautiful? His thoughts would fade back to L’Homme.
Karl’s body was growing. Responding to the repeated weight of iron, adding bulk to handle the load. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror and stopped. For a long minute Karl stared, comparing his proportions to L’Homme. His waist was too big, his chest too small. His shoulders were wider than before, but they still fell short of L’Homme’s miraculous build.
“Look at that,” the trainer whispered in his ear. The smirking athlete hovered just behind Karl, tickling Karl’s skin with his breath. “It only took two years.”
Two years, Karl thought. Had he... how long had he been here? L’Homme was in the gallery, ageless. The moment he was captured on canvass... the moment Karl was captured by him... it all blended together. Karl felt like he had just closed the cabinet, like his mind was still lingering on the paintings perfect form...
Karl flexed his arms into the air, trying to match L’Homme’s pose. He was shaking, exhausted from his exercise. And too small. Far too small to match the paintings epic body.
“Let’s lift more...” Karl mumbled, turning back toward the bench.
“We’re done for the day,” his trainer said. Karl caught his first real look at the trainer. He was older. Short. Powerful, but still smaller than L’Homme. He wore a greying moustache and a bristle cut.
“I wanna lift more,” Karl insisted, laying back below the bar.
The trainer swapped out weights, going smaller and smaller as Karl grew even more exhausted. Finally Karl struggled to lift the empty bar.
“We’re done for the day,” the trainer said, a slight smile twitching beneath his moustache.
Karl was so tired he stumbled as they walked away from the gym. Yeah... L’Homme would be proud of him today. He pushed with everything he had. That’s how you become art. Push yourself relentlessly, until there isn’t anything left.
Karl wondered how many days L’Homme had like this. Thousands, he guessed.
Karl shovelled food into his mouth while I thought about those brushstrokes. Those perfect, beautiful, impossible brushstrokes. With every bite he grew his body, getting closer to L’Homme.
Everyday Karl repeated his plea. “I wanna lift more,” he said.
More iron. More weight. More training. To be like him.
Everyday Karl became more like him. Karl flexed and posed in the mirror whenever he could, lining his body up to the brushstrokes. He was trying, but there was so much work to do. Had the painter exaggerated? Was it even possible to look that beautiful?
Karl noticed a strap holding down his head. His face felt numb.
“Are you certain it’s big enough?” Karl heard Abbott say.
“Yes sir.” Another voice. “His jaw will be exactly the size and shape you requested.”
Karl’s heart leapt. Oh yes! Please! L’Homme’s jaw was so strong and masculine. Karl hoped that his would match. He pictured the paintings jaw and tried to wish his into existence.
He wasn't allowed to workout until his plastic surgery healed. All Karl could do was lay on his bunk and stare at the boards above him. He let his eyes run along the woodgrain, admiring the brief lines that resembled Le Bel Homme in some small way. Nature was inadequate. Beauty had to be created.
Karl needed to be created. Recreated. Remolded.
“I wanna lift more,” Karl said again, begging for more weight, even as my legs tried to collapse under him.
“Calm down,” his trainer said. “Hurting yourself doesn’t help.”
“I wanna lift more,” Karl repeated. Beauty had to be created. Day after day, Karl dreamt about L’Homme, obsessing over every small detail. If he could understand the painting, could he become the painting?
Karl thought back to L’Homme’s left arm. It hung with a slight flex. Just enough to hint at the true power he held behind those perfect brushstrokes. Karl practiced holding his arm like that, not quite loose, not quite flexed. He could feel himself getting close.
“Happy Birthday,” his trainer said, racking the empty bar. Karl had exhausted himself yet again.
“Huh?”
“It’s been five years since you came here,” the trainer chuckled.
Ridiculous. It only felt like a few minutes since Karl had looked at the painting. He hadn’t forgotten a single line. Not one stroke.
He flexed for the mirror, trying to match L’Homme’s beauty. The muscle, the jaw, the dumb look in his eyes. Almost. Karl could almost do it.
Cut. Bulk. Cut. Bulk. With every cut, Karl felt his abs getting closer and closer to L’Homes. The way his veins stood out, the way his sixpack flexed into a deep chasm. The painting was only made up of a few strokes, but it implied so much more.
Mirrors were dangerous. Karl could get lost for hours in a mirror, just trying to look like L’Homme. His trainer stood patiently, smirking behind Karl.
“That’s right,” the trainer would say, reaching his hands out and adjusting the angle of Karl’s hips. “Like this. Yeah... that's it.”
Karl grinned with pride. He barely recognized his own smile, He’d had so much plastic surgery. A hawkish nose. A thick jaw. Lips that were thick and plump.
At night Karl dreamed about him. During the day Karl thought about him. In the gym, Karl worked to become him. He was almost there... but still, Karl felt something was missing.
“You’re getting very close,” his trainer said one day.
“Huh?”
“Come with me.”
The trainer led Karl away from the gym and into the gallery. Karl's heart beat fast – he knew the painting wasn’t far. He had so many questions, so many details he’d missed with his first look – would he finally see L'Homme a second time? One more look, and Karl could finally become L’Homme.
Instead his trainer led Karl to an empty pedestal.
“You’re going to be art soon,” he told Karl. “It’s time to practice being art. Don’t worry about the name on the plaque... Mr. Abbott forgot to ask your name, so we decided on ‘Doyle’. I think it suits you.”
Karl was’t worried. He was too busy thinking about the two strokes that made up L’Homme’s eyebrows. The slight spacing between them making him look confused and confident, all at once. Karl tried to hold his eyebrows like that.
The trainer told him to climb on the pedestal. Without being asked, Karl immediately copied L’Homme’s pose. One hand on his waist. Chest high. Chin tucked.
He stayed there for hours, but Karl loved it. More time to think about the painting. More time to try and become the painting. It never bothered Karl, standing for that long. His mind was always occupied, thinking about the swoop of the artists brush. The type of pigment he must have used. Was there anything special about the canvass?
Karl’s days were routine. Wake, wash, lift, pose, sleep. The occasional interruption to get his roots bleached or his eyebrows plucked.
He wore a dopey smile. That’s how Karl felt – happy that he’d seen the painting. Privileged to think so much about it. It occupied his every waking thought. Comparing himself to it. Wondering about it. Praying to see it again.
“Look at him,” Abbott said with satisfaction, looking up at Karl on the pedestal. “I love art. Doyle, step down from there,” he said, unzipping his fly.
Abbott had Karl drop to his knees. His cock was thick and musky. Karl knelt dumbly in front of Abbott, still thinking about the eyebrows.
“Describe the painting,” Abbott said, smirking down at the thief.
“It’s a painted nude,” Karl said, easily prepared for the question. “There are sixty-one strokes of the brush that make up the figure of a man. He –“
“No,” Abbott interrupted. “What about the cock?”
“He has the most beautiful cock...” Karl said, unsure of where to go. “I haven’t thought much about the cock yet but –“
“All cocks are beautiful,” Abbott said firmly. “Say it.”
“All cocks are beautiful,” Karl repeated, accepting it as fact. He wondered why he had never thought about L’Homme’s cock very much before. Cocks were beautiful, and L’Homme must have the most beautiful cock. The painting was nude, while Karl wore a bright red thong. Was that the difference? Did Karl need to show off his beautiful cock too?
“Suck my cock,” Abbott commanded.
Karl leaned in automatically and started sucking on Abbott’s cock. He thought of the seven strokes that made up L’Homme’s cock and traced them out, licking his way around Abbott’s cockhead and down the big vein. He painted Abbott’s cock with his tongue, doing his best to reproduce L’Homme.
Abbott moaned above him. His hairy balls churned, eager for release.
“Turn around Doyle,” Abbott ordered. “I’m gonna fuck your ass.”
Karl turned, planting his elbows on the pedestal. This was wrong... he’d never... but L’Homme had such a beautiful cock. All cocks were beautiful. A cock inside of him... Karl couldn’t wait.
“Uhhhn yeah...” Abbott moaned, pushing his way inside Karl’s virgin hole. “That’s right boy, take it.”
“Move your hips,” the trainer said, crouching down so he could whisper in Karl’s ear. “Focus on making his cock feel amazing.”
Karl gasped, his focus jumping away from the painting for the first time in years. For a moment he forgot about L’Homme and just followed his trainer’s command. Focus on making his cock feel amazing.
“Oh yeah,” Karl moaned, pushing his ass back against Abbott’s cockhead. “Yeah! Fuck me! It feels so good to fuck me!”
Riding Abbott’s cock, Karl felt his mind go free. His new obsession grew. Making his cock feel amazing. Karl put every ounce of thought into it, using each and every muscle fibre to massage Abbott’s cock.
“Unf...” Abbott moaned, grabbing onto Karl’s shoulders and thrusting faster. “Doyle... you’re fuckin’ amazing,” he gasped.
“Doyle,” Karl thought, the new name echoing around his head. Karl was an art thief, a criminal, a skinny little bitch passing for a man. Doyle... he turned and caught his reflection in the mirror. His over muscled body thrusting back onto Abbott’s cock faster and faster, bringing the man toward climax. Karl was an art thief, but Doyle was art.
Something clicked inside his mind. He was so beautiful, maybe even more beautiful than Le Bel Homme. He was muscle and sex and passion. He was... he was Doyle.
Doyle gasped as Abbott came inside of him. He felt Abbott’s hot cum coat his hole. Perfect, Doyle thought. That was perfect.
Without waiting for any instructions, Doyle climbed back on his pedestal and posed, hot cum still dripping down his leg. He loved the feeling, knowing that he’d driven a man to blow his load. Knowing the power he held.
Doyle smirked in the mirror. Yeah, he was fuckin’ perfect.
More days passed by – they weren’t that much different. Doyle would wake, wash, lift, pose, and fuck. He spent every waking moment thinking about how incredibly hot he was... and how to get even hotter. For rare moments, he would think about L’Homme again, but only to compare with it. Doyle understood his pecs were perfect, and his abs, and his ass. The painting was beautiful, but Doyle was art.
Doyle was standing on his pedestal when Abbott came by with another man. Doyle grinned smugly, pleased to be seen.
“Why are you selling?” the other man asked. Doyle switched poses, choosing for the moment to emphasize his triceps. Deep dents appeared as he flexed.
“Oh, my collection is getting too big, I’m simply running out of room,” Abbott said, gesturing around the room. Doyle vaguely understood there were other pedestals, but he never paid them any attention. He was too busy thinking about himself.
“They don’t talk much, do they?” the buyer said. “I like a good conversationalist.”
“Then go buy a university graduate,” Abbott laughed. “All my boys have something else on their mind.”
“Well...” the buyer sighed. “I guess you can’t have everything.”
There was a long silence while Doyle changed poses again, this time emphasizing his ass.
“I’ll take it,” the buyer said. “It must be the most beautiful piece you own.”
Doyle grinned vacantly. He was thrilled, happy to be bought.
The man had good taste in art.
Comments
Derek Williams
Hey, if I had a copy, I’d post it online and let everyone check it out. All I’ve got are these veiled references in art history books and a questionable shipping manifest.
Derek Williams
Thanks! The ending really surprised me. I didn’t expect him to evolve past his obsession with l’homme, but sometimes chatacters just tell you what’s gonna happen.
Bill
Very clever. I really like this. Well done and unique.
Naks
i need to see this painting now! i want to revel in its sixty-one strokes... and i wonder what kind of art it would inspire in me?!
