dontravis.com blog post #518
Image courtesy of dreamtimes.com
Image courtesy of dreamtimes.com
Okay, now Martin’s talked Slake into modeling for him. And he’s also preconditioned the handsome landscaper to a little touching to make sure he gets “everything just right” about the statue he’s going to create. Sounds like everything on schedule, doesn’t it? So let’s see what happens.
STATUE OF LIMITATIONS
The next morning, Slake showed up in his thin running shorts and a slipover shirt. Upon request, he skinned out of the shirt and stood shifting self-consciously from foot to foot. I decided to pose him like David, and had him stand with his shirt slung over his shoulder. He was stunning.
I sketched him first, making sure to walk over occasionally to feel this muscle or that, more to get him used to the idea than from necessity. Before this was over, I intended to do some serious touching. He started the first time I ran my hands over his shoulders and down his arms, but permitted my touch. I made sure to explore some particular vein or muscle. All too soon, I paid him for the day, and Slake took his leave.
Unfortunately, I didn’t need him again until I worked the stone down to the general shape the finished statue would take. But he stopped by midweek as he tended the grounds of the estate.
“Coming along,” he said, eyeing the stone. “Are you finished with me?”
“Not by a long shot. I’d like you to start posing again next Saturday. You okay with that?”
Slake showed up on time Saturday morning and shucked his shirt. Every time I saw that physique, I salivated. He took the position, and I started to work. Occasionally, I’d wipe my hands on a rag and go over to explore with my fingers. Guess it was a good thing we were starting with the head so he’d get used to it. But when I ran my fingers across his lips, he came close to rebelling. Little did he know how lucky he was. I’d seriously considered exploring those luscious lips with my own.
My David—that is, Slake—slowly emerged out of the stone. And the flesh and blood Slake was impressed. “Damn,” he said on more than one occasion, looks just like me. How do you do that?”
“Slog away at it,” became my stock answer. Then I usually added, playfully, “It helps that I can come over and explore a curve and a bend now and then.”
As the torso emerged, I found plenty of opportunity to “explore.” I just had to make sure his pecs were done right, including the nipples. I found I could make them stand up just by brushing them lightly. He always flinched when I did that.
Finally, the portion of his anatomy that I was really curious about began to emerge. I felt every rib, explored his deep navel, and measured his waist with my fingers. And each time I laid a hand to his flesh, it became more of a caress. Surely, he had to see that, as well. But by now, my touching and rubbing and patting had become routine to him.
Eventually, my David stood on his pedestal looking as hunky and handsome as I could make him. And Slake approved of what he sat. He made that evident.
“Awesome, Martin. Really awesome. That’s really me, isn’t it?”
“As close as I can make it,” I said. “But The hips and thighs aren’t quite right.”
“Look okay to me.”
“You don’t look at them with an artist’s eyes. I do. Go take up your position.”
Slake walked back to the nook I had created for his posing and took his stance. I gave him a long, studied look, shook my head, and went over to him.
“I was right. Something needs fixing. I’m gonna lay hands on you, guy. Don’t panic.”
He got a weird look in his eye at that statement, but I ignored him and went to my knees in front of him, my hands on either hip. Humming and mumbling like I was really studying something, I moved my hands around until they rested on his buns. He gave a little jump, but didn’t say anything. Then I clasped his left leg in both hands and moved up on him, pausing to pretend to study some shape or the other. Eventually, they rested at the bottom of his thin shorts.
Swallowing hard, I moved up even more. My hands disappeared beneath the cloth of his of his thins. He mumbled, but that didn’t stop me. Soon, my right hand cupped his sac. He gave a little start, but said nothing. So I moved my left hand until it covered his manhood. It moved, causing him to squirm uneasily. But I grasped him firmly, and he sagged back against the high stool he sometimes sat on. In moments, I had his shorts around his knees and my head in his groin. The only sound he made was a soft groan. In truth, his manhood wasn’t in proportion to the rest of him, but I took it eagerly, no matter how big it was.
For the next few minutes, my brain shook with the thought that I was taking him. I was as intimate with my David as one man can be with another. And David was enjoying it. His groans became moans and then before I expected, he erupted. I looked up to catch his expression as he shivered through his orgasm. And as I watched, his beatific, blissful look grew thunderous. He morphed from David back to Slake.
“What the hell!” he yelled, placing a palm against my forehead and roughly pushing me over on my butt. “Why’d you do that?”
Somewhat addled, I stammered. “W-why’d you let me?”
“You’re paying me to pose, not to let you service me. Gimme my money, you frigging fairy. I want outta here.”
Still uncertain as to whether he was putting me on or not, I gave him a grin. “And do I add anything for the servicing?”
He balled his fists and took a step toward me, looking both threatening and ridiculous with his prick exposed to the world. “Hell no! I’m no whore. Gimme what you owe me or I’m liable to take it out of your hide.”
Convinced now, I got to my feet and handed him the envelope I’d prepared for him earlier. He snatched it, slammed open one of the garage doors, and stalked away stiff-legged. All I saw was his back, but I assumed he’d restored his running shorts to where they should be.
I finished my statue of Slake-as-David with a lot less enthusiasm than I started it. The more I thought things over, the more convinced I was that he knew what was coming, accepted my offer, and then—feeling guilty over it—took it out on me.
After the statue was done, I wanted it out of my studio. No sitting around for a week for this one. All it did was raise my ire. Before calling for a truck to move it to my dealer, I walked around it a couple of times before the idea working its way out of my brain walked out into the open. I considered it. I liked it.
So the next morning, I took my chisel and my abrasive materials and started to work. Erasing the running shorts from the hips backward, presented no problem. The high curves of his buttocks emerged with nothing to cover them. The front presented a bit more of a problem. But finally, the job was done to my satisfaction.
That afternoon, I called the trucking company and had the piece sent to the art dealer. Then I followed it up with a personal visit to have it shown the way I wanted.
Before the afternoon was over, the statue—it was no longer David to me—stood with his back toward the entrance to the art gallery. Fetching. Arresting. Titillating. One couldn’t help but go around to the other side to see what this magnificent figure of a man looked like full on. What they saw was Slake’s handsome face, his impressive chest and defined abs. And below that, he sported a tiny dink of a penis with gonads to match.
A perfect replica of James Slaker with all his limitations.
And so, we have a Statue of Limitations, right? Now who was the aggrieved partner here? Didn’t it look as if Martin’s intentions became clearer and clearer as time went by. And Slake didn’t object to his touch, even the more intimate ones… until after the seduction was over. Aha. It seems to me that Slake was willing to go along, but he was one of those straights who become mortified after they’ve willingly participated in a gay relationship and react with barely controlled violence. Anyone who’s found himself (or herself) in just that sort of situation, please raise your hand.