Another Brush Stroke (The Carnal Exhibitions Book 1) Read online

  Contents

  Title Page

  Another Brush Stroke

  Painful Prologue

  Awakened Ghosts

  Coming Home

  The Invitation

  Run Ins

  Date

  Intimacy

  Heart to Heart

  Apologies

  Warning Signs

  Building Blocks

  Chicago

  Introductions

  Revelations

  Extensions

  Wrong Move

  Willful Ignorance

  Ramifications

  Terrible Reminders

  Awakening

  In the light of day

  Evan's Plantation

  Boundaries

  The Gift

  Consequences

  Accountability

  Crossfire

  Understanding

  Teasing Temptations

  Interrupted

  Desire

  Masks Revealed

  Conflicting Fears

  I'll Huff and Puff and Blow Your House Down

  Acknowledgements

  Playlist for Another Brush Stroke

  75,000 words.

  Another Brush Stroke

  The Carnal Exhibitions I

  By LW Barefoot

  Another Brush Stroke

  Author's Note:

  I am deeply moved by music. Any mention or reference made to actual songs and musicians in this work of fiction, is an attempt to share what inspires me.

  Any places, establishments or products I write about is to share my adoration and appreciation for that place or item.

  However, this is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents either are the product of my imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2015 by LW Barefoot

  Cover Image © Shutterstock

  All rights reserved.

  The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author's rights.

  A previous edition of this book was originally published in January 2015, the characters are the same, the story has been irrevocably changed.

  Warning

  Due to the dark and explicit nature of this book, it is intended for mature audiences and deals with topics and situations that some readers may find deeply emotional and disturbing.

  ***There are rules in BDSM. This book is not intended to educate or inform readers of those rules. My characters don’t follow those guidelines, because this is fiction. Unfortunately this happens in the real world we live in and some use this type of relationship to justify cruelty. I do not encourage abuse either verbally or physically.

  This book is for adults only.***

  Prologue

  I lose myself completely in the arms of a madman. Thrown down through the darkest valleys in waking light and terrifying nightmares.

  I’m stuck in a schedule I have no say in. He paints, I model, and then the prick of a needle pushes through my skin when my metabolism burns off the last round of drugs, just when I’m gathering up enough strength to fight back. Drugs rush and swim in a dizzying haze through my bloodstream and disable my muscles, but not enough to effect my brain or cease my heart from beating.

  There is no way for me to calculate the passage of time. Agonizing hours could be only terrible seconds.

  The blindfold falls off my eyes. Light blinds me as memories and regrets try to surface of how I ended up like this. I vaguely recall coming back to my apartment after class. I was stuck in my usual routine and overlooked small details of someone invading my home. My key was stuck in the door after I unlocked it and instead of paying attention, I pulled my cell phone out to call the apartment manager. Before I was able to pull up the contact number, a needle bit into my shoulder.

  My life is no longer my own.

  “They say the eyes are the window to the soul, but I never believed that until I met you.” The dark voice slithers over me as I struggle to focus. “I took one look into your glowing hazel eyes and I was spellbound.”

  My captor’s covered face doesn’t hide enough. His ice cold eyes display the absence of his soul. They beckon for my surrender. They move over me in a sickening caress. I would shiver if I were capable, but I feel it nonetheless.

  I’m nothing more than his puppet on a string.

  He lifts a cup of water to my mouth and tilts the bottom up. My numb lips tingle with the weight of the glass as cool water splashes across my dry tongue and even drier throat. A clumsy drop falls down my chin as he wipes it away with the pad of his thumb.

  “If I ease up on the drugs, will you promise to cooperate this time?” he whispers.

  I nod my head with all the force I can muster, but I can’t tell if he notices. My tongue feels like a dead weight in my mouth. I’m not sure what he means by asking for cooperation. With each injection, I lose a piece of myself along with my control.

  A smile smooths across his lips as he smirks and tucks the fresh syringe back in his pocket. He starts the process of placing me in a pose for his next painting. Rearranging my limbs on the floor.

  I’ve gotten used to his routine and the role I play for him. I wish I could tell time by the stacked canvases he piles up. Today he seems different, or different from an hour ago. I can’t tell anymore because the drugs mess with my head.

  The first poses he placed me in were somewhat innocent, but as each painting is completed and a new canvas placed on the easel, he takes away a piece of my clothing, or repositions me like the live mannequin I’ve become. I went from the fetal position the first session, to gradually working my limbs out and open with each stacked canvas he finishes and places on the ground.

  His eyes are delirious as he peels away another layer. I’m down to my bra and panties. Fingertips barely smooth over the cotton. I can’t stand to watch him in his adoration.

  “Soon, but not yet,” he promises as he cups my breast in his palm and licks his lips.

  He moves back to the easel. I watch as he lifts the large canvas I bought for one of my senior finals. It should be covered in a misty morning haze of dew and long overgrown fields instead of whatever he plans. I close my eyes and envision myself running through that intended scene in my head, free and unencumbered. I try to feel the long wet grass as I run my fingers over the blades, but even in this he has control. He turns music on that I once loved, until this moment. Even now he takes something that isn’t his and ruins it.

  This session is different to the ones I can remember and it’s not because his intentions are becoming more forward.

  He’s nothing if not calm and collected. Time has lost all meaning, but however long I’ve been with him he’s never looked like this. With a paint brush in his hand, he’s always focused and diligent. But right now his eyes keep betraying his dedicated session. Blond hair hangs out of his mask as his strong arm dictates his desired outcome.

  I feel myself falling back to sleep until a strangled moan comes from across the room. My eyes shoot to where he’s been painting and land on his hand moving over his belt and working it off his pants. He strides with easy confidence to where I’m pathetically laying, waiting for him
. The metal buckle clanks against itself, back and forth. The sounds get louder with his approach. The belt slams heavy against the floor as he drops to his knees next to me.

  “Please forgive me,” he whispers his request but it’s a warning. He’s incapable of remorse.

  His warm breath fans across my skin and causes goosebumps to cover me in an instant. I close my eyes as his lips press to mine. Tears escape as my heart takes off, pounding painfully against my chest.

  “Let me love you, gorgeous girl.”

  He begs for my cooperation. He swears it will make this easier to bear.

  My lips tingle with his attention and I want to give him what he desires. I want to become that shallow shell he accused me of. But there’s a rock hard place in my heart that refuses to give in. Refuses to let me give myself to him of my own free will, because he took that from me. I never had a choice.

  A muffled groan escapes my lungs when his tongue finds mine. Stroking in and along, breathing into me with reverence, and I want enough strength to bite his tongue off.

  With every furious pound of my pulse, the word fight echoes through me. Fight. Fight. Fight.

  Strong hands pull my legs apart and inspect me for his desired effect. The soft cotton shouldn’t feel like sandpaper as he brushes over the material separating his skin from mine, but it does. His jaw clenches when he rips away the only thing protecting me from him. Instead of satisfaction, he’s anger wrapped up in hard muscles and a face too beautiful to be real. Too beautiful to have to resort to this. This must be what it’s like to stare at the devil himself. He doesn’t look like a monster at all.

  Black leather hides his cheekbones and the top of his nose. His cold blue eyes hold the pallet of colors I would express and convey freezing winter with. His full lips glisten with our combined moisture. His scent works its way into my senses. It’s crisp clean masculinity. Even the cologne he chose is a lie, because there is nothing clean about him. That promise was made clear the first moment our eyes locked and held and I have yet to find a release from them.

  My pulse deafens me as it thumps furiously in alarm. I should have worked my lips over his. I should have kissed him back. His lips trail the path of my destruction with gentle caresses. Soft exhales of his breath fan over my skin and make me tremble. His tongue sweeps over me and my empty stomach rolls. Bile burns the back of my throat and sits there, unable to move any further.

  A drip of perspiration slips underneath his carefully placed mask. I’m not the only one who’s affected.

  I stare up into the eyes of the man who possesses my body, but I’ll be damned if I let him take any other part of me.

  Fight. Fight. Fight.

  But this is how I slowly and irrevocably fall apart. Adrenaline pumps and fuels my fight or more accurate, my defense.

  My hands attempt to dig into the drop cloth underneath me as he prepares to claim a certain part of me. Lick. Bite. Stroke. His terrible lust spirals. It pushes against me and my very soul pushes and fights it off, but nothing happens. I lay still despite the whirl of rage I feel burn under my skin and rush through my overwrought muscles.

  Fight. Fight. Fight.

  My captor moves down my body and his tongue plays across the seam of my entrance. A pathetic attempt at a scream tries to break free as he keeps trying to get a reaction out of me.

  I fall apart and he drinks it in. He holds me down and takes more than just my virginity. My sanity slips with his words and adoration.

  “My muse.”

  I taste myself on his lips and the bile rises higher.

  “My love.”

  Another shred of who I am departs when he starts moving over me as if I belong to him.

  “You’re mine now. Sweet sinful flesh, you’re fucking mine,” he roars in triumph. I die inside.

  For the first time since he stole me, I welcome the needle as it plunges in my skin. I guess I didn’t cooperate after all. As the needle penetrates, he strokes himself to have me again. I feel the proof of his attention trickle down between my legs along with my lost innocence.

  The bile that feels like hell fire comes up. He flips me over and holds me while I throw up and heave. He cradles me like the object I am. Holding me back as a storm churns in me and makes its fury known.

  He massages my shoulders and wipes my mouth with a damp cloth, taking care of me in my distress. He pushes my hair out of my face and tucks it gently behind my ears. But as my body settles down, his anger washes over me. I feel it choke me as my sticky thighs get draped over the back of the couch and he takes all pretense away about caring for me. His words push and sink their disgusting meaning in the deep corners I didn’t realize existed within me.

  Darkness awaits me, while I pray to never see the light of day again. The chemicals answer the demand for my release. I pass out and the darkness holds me tight. I want it to keep me forever.

  I wake up with hands moving over me as I float in water. My back brushes against his smooth chest and his arms encase me. Soap stings the tenderness between my thighs and makes my tears flow like rivers. I black out when it becomes too much and I’m reminded all over again of how I gained the infliction. The darkness holds its arms wide open and I find refuge in oblivion.

  Compared to his constant touch, the paintbrush is worse. It resembles my magic wand in this world that possesses so little enchantment. It’s the only thing I’ve been good with in my entire life. It’s the only way I’m fully able to express myself. But as this vile creature takes my beloved tool, my magic wand, my key to success, and pulls it across the part of me that he’s obsessed with most, it breaks me. The hair on the once beautiful brush sweep slowly across my entrance. Back and forth, I’m oversensitive and on fire as he works the tool up and down. I wretch as he finally pulls the desired reaction out of me. He takes full advantage of my body’s betrayal. Praising words coat my skin in strangled elation. The vessel that contains my soul is poison. Not only from the drugs mingling in my blood, but the very submission it offers my rapist. Even my marrow feels the deception as I endure, and repeat the word fight over and over in my mind.

  Whatever tiny thread of sanity and strength I was clinging to is cut by a brutal hand that soothes with false sincerity. And all of his thought and preparation is another scene for his next painting. I hear a canvas picked up and another one is placed on the easel. My easel. My paintbrush. My chance at a new life I can no longer imagine. I wail in silence as I once again become a prop. I now will the dark to find me, hold me, and let me escape. It becomes my long lost lover and one true friend.

  The disabling drugs burn out of my system. It feels as if millions of tiny ants are rushing through my veins. My skin goes from being hot to cold in a matter of seconds and then it repeats the process, before going completely numb.

  I wake up from the nightmare after all, only to find it was real.

  I attempt to shift from under the weight of his arm draped over me, but even in sleep he pulls me in closer. Dried up tears make my skin itch. It serves as a reminder of the cruelness of my situation. Between losing control of myself completely and the way he has used me over and over again is too much.

  My fingers inch across the drop cloth, reaching for something. Reaching for anything. My fingers touch a discarded pallet knife. Tugging on the cloth, I bring the metal utensil in until I’m able to grip it in my fist.

  Between decision and action is only a mere second. It’s him or me. There’s absolutely no way I can take more of his undivided and obsessive attention. I doubt I could even look at myself, let alone live after what he has done to me. I drown in memories of all the ways he has tortured me and tried to kiss away my tears at the same time. I don’t have the strength to fight him, so I do the only thing that will offer me release.

  One heartbeat and I bite my lower lip as hard as I can. I plunge the dull edge of the knife in and pull it back out. There is no pain; I’ve had plenty. The quiet is interrupted as I register his rhythmic slumber and the sick gush of my pu
nctured flesh. Freedom taunts me with the outstretched hand of death and relief is just out of reach. I am incapable of regret as I repeat the action. I take full responsibility for myself and the consequences. I believe my abductor’s repeated words that I’m nothing more than a worthless piece of flesh. I might not have been when he found me, but he has turned me into the broken shell of who I once was. His words fuel my resolve to get this over and done with.

  The effects are not immediate. It’s not working fast enough. I will my life to flow out of these wounds before he wakes up. I lift my arm to keep going, but my new inflictions battle the ones he has caused. It feels as if every inch screams for attention and relief. Soon so very soon. I lift the knife again with single-minded determination.

  I scream when he wrenches it out of my hand. Thankful I’m finally able to voice my agonized rage. I scramble across the floor of my apartment. I’m clumsy as I slip on the linoleum covered in my blood, but I’m not sure if it’s from earlier violations, or the inflictions I’ve willingly fought for.

  I can’t have his hands on me again. Terror takes over and with each harsh beat of my pulse, I feel every place on my body he’s touched.

  My heart races as I grip the wall and move to my bedroom. That’s it pump harder. I tell my shattered, hopeless heart.

  I watch in morbid wonder as he tears off his mask. Pale agony is written across his perfect face and tears escape his eyes. His hands cover my self-inflicted demise.

  “How could you do this? How could you fucking do this to me?” he bellows as he presses over the wounds.

  I did it for me, but I’m not sure if those words leave my lips.

  My vision blurs, but not before I see him carve into me, signing me with his signature. My creative psychopath is the Sculptor. He didn’t strike or beat me like all his previous victims. But he ripped out my soul and devoured it like the devil himself. His famous mark and notorious sickness is now on my dying body. Even in death he still has a claim on me.