Sins Of Desire | 18+

There was something about the way he painted. Something I couldn’t really name. He held the paint brush in hand, and his eyes never drifted away from the canvas. We weren’t sure what he was painting yet, but that was the beauty of this class—the initial ignorance and understanding that came along.

We watched him, his back turned to us, the room so quiet we could hear the subtle sound of the paintbrush on the canvas. I have no interest in art or anything artistic. I do not fancy the palette, I fancy the painter. I do not fancy the art, I fancy the artist. Which brings me to my interest of the day, the artist—Milo Rivera. Yummy and strong pounds of muscle stretched underneath his red t-shirt, ash pants hanging a little below his supposed waistline and flip flops showing off his sexy long toes. I come to this class solely for the purpose of watching him paint, watching his arm glide over the canvas with little to no interest in whatever becomes of the canvas. But today, let’s try something different. Today, I will pay little attention to the art itself.

The painting seems to be coming together—or so it seems. A naked woman, her head tilted upwards, her hair falling behind her back, her breasts marvellously exposed, one perky nipple, the other at rest, her thighs spread apart and one of her hands reaching to grab one of her breasts. It seems like a memory frozen in time, captured only with the eyes of this artist.

The chatters begin, women admiring the art, mimicking the woman’s posture, making attempts on their canvases, finding out that such a position is actually doable and not impossible to say the least.

I am not one of them. I’m seated behind, in my glasses and button down shirt, palazzo pants and a pair of brown pumps. Milo turns backwards to us and a better half of the women present hold on to their breaths.

“The class is over, we meet again next week.” He says with a brief smile that barely reaches his eyes. Hmm, wonder what that’s about.

One after the other they all move to admire the painting, after which they leave through the door. Milo on the other hand has occupied himself at his desk, the mysterious man act seems to be working on every female. One by one they all leave. I remain at the back of the class, my empty canvas before me, because like I said, no interest whatsoever in the art—just the artist.

“The class is over, ma’am,”Milo Rivera says as he takes his seat behind his desk.

I move towards him, “You seem to have no interest in our canvases,” While normal art teachers would move around the class to see what every one else has done, Milo is the opposite. For the past six classes, he hasn’t checked anyone’s canvas. Weird or different method of teaching?

“I don’t check canvases until the season is over,” he admits, surprisingly. I never took him for some who spoke more words than art and class.

“Why is that?” I dare ask.

“Because I’m a perfectionist who assumes that everyone doesn’t want their work seen until its finished,” He explains, his eyes boring into mine.

“Would you like to see my canvas?” I ask him.

He looks at his watch and back at me, “I have some time, but I would be breaking my own rule,” he hasn’t still taken off his messy apron.

“Were you always a rule follower?” I ask, his hazel eyes so striking, it is impossible to look away.

“I’ll bite,” he pauses with a realising nod, “Not always a rule follower, I guess,”

“Good,” We’ve established that, “My canvas, then?”

A rumble of a chuckle escapes him, the first I have heard in all my classes here. Its soft, low, like a cool breeze on an autumn evening.

“Would you like to come or should I?”

“What is the gentleman answer to your question?” I raise a quirky brow at him.

“Right,” It seems as though he catches himself, “I should come instead,” another small chuckle escapes his lips,

He walks towards me, and we reach the canvas together from different sides of the class.

“It’s white,” he folds his arms, his gaze controlled on the canvas.

“What?” Forgive me, but I expected a different reaction.

“It’s white, like a void,” He explains further.

“That sounds like an artist’s way of saying that I didn’t draw shit,” I chuckle.

“There is art in a blank canvas,” He turns to me, his gaze determined.

“What kind of art is there?” I ask.

“The kind where there’s room for a billion opportunities, so many to choose from, and while no choice has been made, that is the beauty of it,”

So much meaning to a small thing, are all artists like him or I’m I being mislead? “I am not artistic in anyway,” I tell him.

“I noticed,” Slowly I turn my head towards him, he’s definitely trying to make conversation because absolutely no way he noticed.

“What do you mean you noticed?” I dare ask.

He steps behind me, and he inches closer to my ear as his next words unfold,

“You never pick up your palette,” he gestures to said palette. He is right in every way possible, the palette remains untouched. “You always sit here, where you hold on to your paintbrush and try to convince the rest of the class that you are participating,” he continues, “Your eyes are never steady, they are always darting around the class and never on your canvas, somedays, you unintentionally ditch the paintbrush and you focus on one element in the room,”

I ignore the goosebumps spreading across my skin.

“That’s very detailed for someone who’s back is faced towards us the entire time,” I express.

“I have my ways,”

“What are y0ur ways?”

“What then do you think of my art?” He deflects and he points me in the direction of the unfinished naked woman. He steps out from behind me and he stands next to me.

“She’s a beautiful naked woman,” I state the obvious, “Whoever she is, she is lucky to be captured in this form,”

A deep laugh ricochets out of him, his dimples pop and his lips reveal pure white teeth. That was… unexpected.

“That’s obvious, what else do you see? Tell me in detail, I love details, humour me,” he presses.

“I’m not artistic,” I remind him as I mentally say a silent apology to his artistic ears and whatever they’re about to here.

“You don’t have to be, this is about telling me whatever it is you’re seeing,” I’m quiet for a while so he continues, “What can your eyes see?”

“Like I said, she’s naked,” I reinforce my point. He doesn’t seem to agree.

“Look closely,” he sits on one of the desks around us and he folds his arms. He seems to think there’s more, and the more I actually look, there is—more.

“Her breasts her apart, separated from each other, not hanging in the air, but naturally positioned,” I observe, “One is bigger than the other, it’s obvious but at the same time not too obvious, it looks so natural,” He makes a hmm sound in my ear, like he’s urging me to continue, and I do, “Her left hand is reaching to cup her left breast,” I state after another minute of staring at her.

“What else?” He asks again. He’s really going for it, trying to make me an artist.

“Her eyes are shut and her lips are slightly apart, like she’s taking in a breath,” I continue, but I don’t meet his eyes. I hear him stand up behind me, the shuffle of the desk and the soft brush of his paint-stained crocs against the floor.

“There’s more,” he guides me, “What else?” We move closer to the painting.

“Her thighs are also apart, it’s almost as if she’s touching herself,” “Arousing herself, or about to?” I’m more focused on the drawing than I ever was. “It’s almost as if she’s rethinking the act, but she wants to do it, she needs to do it,” the words leave me feeling breathless.

“And yet you said you were not artistic,” he chuckles and we share another glance. It seems tense, somewhat heated, as if we’ve entered a new territory. One I have no control over. And for some reason, that’s not threatening at all.

“You clearly have me on some voodoo shit,” I try to lighten the air. Voodoo seems to be the only explanation why a fresh theoretical physics graduate would suddenly be pointing out the things on a canvas.

“Just some little call and response, Sofia,” I suck in a breath at the sound of his voice. Clearly my attempt to lighten the mood has failed. He did just call my name. I’ve never heard him call the name of anyone, ever.

“You know my name,” I tell him.

“I know the names of all my students,” he admits.

“Why did you start this class?” I ask, another attempt at a lighter mood.

“Why do you attend when you have no interest in art?” He asks right back. Fair enough.

“Fair enough, but you answer first,” I tell him.

“I think the female body and anatomy is a beautiful work of art, the most beautiful art to ever exist, and what makes it exceptional is that no art is ever the same,” he explains, his eyes focused more on me than the art. Suddenly I feel extremely exposed under his gaze.

“What do you mean?” I gulp as I ask. I see the way his eyes follow the movement of my throat. A certain heaviness sets in my lower abdomen and the twitch in my panties returns.

“Women’s bodies are different, there are never two alike, there’s always a distinguishable feature, no two women are the same, in mind, in body, in every fucking feature,” he explains, his eyes now focused on the art.

“And how do you know this?” My curiosity peeks out.

“I observe, I notice things, important things, I pay greater attention to detail,” he continues, “One woman might have a dimple in her bum, the other might have a different shaped dimple on her end of her spine, same feature, different design, different positions,”

“That’s a rather intimate detail,” I suck in a breath and I look away.

“I have my ways,” his eyes are still focused on the painting.

“You must have the longest roaster of people willing to fuck you,” the words rush out of my lips faster than my brain can process the words. I want to slap my hand on my mouth, but I don’t. I wait for him to turn around.

“I assume that’s why you’re still here, yes?” A somewhat mischievous grin strikes his carefully constructed face. A first.

“What?” My eyes go wide. Okay, that was not the response I was expecting. It’s somewhat inviting.

“I’m sorry, that was a joke, I’m normally never crude,” he chuckles, his baritone bouncing off the walls.

“I’m not prude,” I roll my eyes, ignoring the twitch in my panties. There are many ways this night can go. I could go home, but my curiosity won the bet a long time ago. In search for the answer to the question—how many layers are there to Mr. Milo Rivera.

“No you most certainly are not,” he confirms. “Would you like to know if you’ve got some art in you?” He’s not pushing, what he’s doing—it’s different. He’s inviting. Like a ‘come give it a try and see what gives.’ And I do—I want to see what degree of art I have left in me.

“What other voodoo are you planning on doing to me?” I make a joke and he chuckles, his perfect teeth out for show again.

“Would you stick around to find out?” He asks, honesty ever present in this voice.

“When do they close the place?” I dare ask, even though a part of me wants to stay here for as long as I can

“I know the owner of the building, I have a key for whenever I stay back to do some finishing touches,”

“That’s convenient,”

“Would you stick around? I promise not to take too much of your time,”

“Alright Mr. Rivera, show me what you’ve got,”

A small smile crosses his face as he makes his way to his desk. He pulls out a paint-ridden apron from the drawers and he makes his way towards me.

“May I?”

I nod, swallowing a gulp. He places the apron from my neck and I turn around for him. He ties the ropes and his fingers and knuckles brush my lower back and my spine. I resist the urge to shiver at his touch but my body betrays me anyway.

“I know we’re approaching the winter but are you cold?” Concern dots on his features.

“Bring out the artist in me before I change my mind,” I order him, the possibility somewhat exciting.

“Very well,” he rubs his palms together. “We’re going back to your empty canvas,”

“I thought you said the void was art,” I raise a brow at him.

“Yes I did say that, but now we are going to fill the void,” he’s already closer to the canvas than I am. In his defence he appears to be ab avid lover of art.

“What if the void doesn’t want to be filled?” I ask, but my mind goes to the dirtiest of places. I catch myself before I stray too far

“You have your apron on, you want your void to be filled,”

Fuck. “Or I’m I misreading anything?” He checks his watch again.

“No, of course not.” I shake my head as I offer a smile.

“Shall we?” He asks. I nod and he hands me a paintbrush. He grabs the palette, and he pushes a desk towards me. He makes himself comfortable on the desk, the palette in his hands and our eyes clash.

“What colour are you thinking?” He asks as I look away.

“I am not artistic,” I remind him.

“Pick any colour that comes to mind,” he urges me in a soft spoken manner,

“Black,” I say out of the blue. Black is the only colour that comes to me. Does that say something about me? Is there something dark about me? He definitely meant a brighter colour because the jaw dropping stare has me rooted in my stance.

“Another void,” he chuckles, “Okay we can start from there,”

No judgement.

“Tease your brush on the palette,” the twitch in my panties return and somewhere in my mind is a debate on how best to rub my thighs together without being noticed. If this were a class filled with students and I was at the very backseat like always, yes. But this is different, unexpected, and I am indefinitely losing the debate.

“Like this?” I take in a deep breath as I ‘tease my brush on the palette.’

“Yes, you’re getting the hang of it,” Our eyes meet briefly and I look away. My mouth is suddenly dry and my breaths are deeper

“Now,” he pauses, “Place your brush on the canvas and paint whatever comes to mind,”

I paint a diagonal line across the canvas. My eyes snap back to his painting and for some reason I notice something else.

“What do you see?” He steps behind me, and my chest heaves. “Did you notice something you didn’t notice before?”

“Why would you paint a woman on the brink of pleasuring herself?” I ask the question weighing on my mind.

“Because as much as the woman herself is art,” he leans closer to my ear and our clothes touch, “Pleasure is art itself,”

“How so?” I ask him. My throat feels incredibly dry.

“People get themselves off in different ways,” he starts, “Some prefer to do so with their clothes on, some with their clothes off, some with some clothes on,” he continues, his lips dangerously close to my ear, “Some require a kind of visual aid, some feed on their numerous imaginations, some have an object of desire,” he pushes my hair behind.

“The woman, in the picture, is she your object of desire?” I dare ask.

“And what if she is?” He asks right back.

“We are treading a new territory here,” I admit. My curiosity has gotten the better of me, because for some reason, I have no intention of turning back.

“Would you like to turn around?” He whispers, “Would you like to walk away?”

“No,” I breathe.

“What then would you like to do?” Another whisper, this time his warm breath is fanning my neck.

“Show me how you would do it,” I muster the words.

“How I would do what?” He asks,

“How you would pleasure yourself,” I stutter.

“I need you to be clear,” he urges me.

“Don’t make me repeat myself,” I turn to him and he takes a step backwards.

“I need your repeats for clarity,” he says through his teeth, like he’s been holding himself all this while, waiting for my go ahead.

“How. Would. You. Pleasure. Yourself?” I say the words as clear as I can manage. Suddenly everywhere feels hot, my clothes, my neck and most importantly my panties feel soaked. “Is that clear enough?”

“Clear enough for me, yes,” he sucks in a breath as his eyes rake all over my body. If eyes could rip clothes apart, I’m sure I would be telling an entirely different story right now.

“Would you like me to tell you or show you?”

“I would prefer to be shown,”

Slowly he unties his paint stricken apron from behind, his eyes never leave mine in the process. The apron pools to the ground before his feet and he chews slightly on his bottom lip. His hands unfasten his belt and the buckle comes apart before my eyes. It is then I notice his growing erection. I swallow a gasp, but it escapes me anyway. A ghost of a smile graces his lips at the sound of my gasp.

He makes himself comfortable in one of the closest seats and he brings his pants down a little. He relaxes further into the seat and I step backwards until my body hits the nearest desk. Another gasp escapes my lips as he pulls his overly grown erection out. I gulp once, and again, and again. My throat is dry, my body aches to be touched, my mind is racing, all the possibilities, but nothing in my wildest imaginations prepared me for this.

“Do you still want to be shown?” He asks as I take off my glasses.

“I think we’ve established the area of showing,” The torture is immense. His palm is wrapped around his erection and he refuses to stroke it. He refuses to move it.

My teeth grind against each other. Fuck.

“Would you do me a favour then?” He asks, his eyes focused on a certain area of my body.

“What do you want?” I dare ask.

“I want you to show me how you pleasure yourself,” the words roll off his tongue in a way that vibrates through my body.

“That depends on you,” I feign strength when heaven knows I’m beyond weak to my knees.

“Trying to make me work for it, yes?” He chuckles, his fist still wrapped around his growing erection, “How so?” He gives it a light squeeze.

“When you do that,” I breathe.

“Do what?” He gives his erection another light squeeze. It makes the crown really visible and as a result I suck in another breath. “This?” A little smirk glides across his face,

Milo Rivera does the most unexpected thing. He spits on the crown of his dick and proceeds to spread it around, and in so doing, he strokes himself. It happens so fast, my eyes focus on the motion and the motion alone. His hard fingers moving up and down. Another round of saliva and the urge to touch myself overwhelms me.

His eyes never leave mine as he strokes up and down, the full weight of his crown appearing and disappearing with each stroke. My teeth grind together, and I reach into my pants as I ditch my pumps.

“No, leave them on,” his voice sounds like a plea, “You wanted to see how I pleasure myself, this is how,”

The room is hotter than usual, my clothes are itchy. In a battle between my mind and my body, my clothes kiss the tiled floor, one after the other. My fingers reach between my folds. Wet as expected and that earns me a hiss from him.

I hold my left breast with one hand and my other hand makes its way around my folds. My back is still rested at the desk. I want to close the gap between us as he strokes himself. He curses, one foul word after the other, I shut my eyes, when I open them, his pants and underwear are completely discarded to the floor.

“Come to me,” he commands and I shudder as I make my way to him, still in my pumps. My feet wobble as I make my way to him. I feel extremely exposed, my breasts, my tummy, the dimples somewhere around my spine.

But he doesn’t stop stroking. The effect he has on me must be intoxicating, and watching this grown man pleasure himself… it’s an incredible sight. The heat increases as I stand before him and his lips hang open, slightly apart. He stops stroking and he repositions his body upright on the seat.

“Make yourself comfortable,” he says, “Sit on it,” he clarifies with a slight suck of breath that has me panting in an instant. I shiver as I spread my legs around him. I look to him for permission to hold his erection, he responds with a nod and another suck of breath. He watches me intently as my fist wraps around him. Another suck of breath, followed by a groan from his throat.

Locking eyes with him, I stroke the crown of his dick and he gives me a tortured gaze, and a little strike of vein pops on his forehead. Slowly, I adjust my body such that his dick is facing my entrance and then, I lower myself on to it.

“Fuck,” he curses out, his hands pinned to the sides of the seat.

“Can I hold you? If that’s okay?”

“Yes, yes you can,”

“Good girl,” he slides his arms around me and he supports me as I move up and down his shaft.

He releases a streak of curses, the vein on his forehead still popped and his eyes rolling into his head. I bite my lip as I squeeze him in, he moans—-he moans, somewhere between a strangled grunt and a whimper. He takes control, fucking me from beneath and pulling my hair at the same time.

We’re a mess of moans and guttural groans, clinging to the walls of the class. Skin against skin, the messiness of pleasure and the slow approaching of the release. His hand reaches between us and when our eyes meet, he pinches and rubs my clit. I throw my head back in a gasp.

Fuck. I’m coming all over his length, my body shaking, my mind completely clouded by the strange yet wonderful sensations sparking through my body. He doesn’t stop, he continues to fuck me from underneath and when I crash back to reality, his jaw his tight and his eyes are locked on mine.

“Can I also, come?” He moans, “Please,” with a whimper.

“Fuck, yes you can,” I approve.

My words seem to undo him completely, as he continues to fuck me from underneath with a higher intensity than before. I see the moment he approaches his orgasm, his jaw tightens, his eyelids fall shut and his lashes peek underneath.

His body shakes, but not enough to push me away. He holds on to me and I throw my arms around him. His entire body shakes, and he lets out a string of curses and my name at the end of them. He releases all of himself inside me and I take it all with a series of incoherent words. I stay here, watching him come back to the world completely.

I remove one of my arms from around him and I soak my fingers into his hair. He blows on a breath. It’s messy beneath us, nasty even. We share a look and I watch the way his throat works. I see his eyes clearly now, hazel, different swirls of patterns to each eye. I catch him staring at my lips. In the heat of a breath—

Milo Rivera kisses me, again.

Author’s Note

Hi, hi? it’s been what? Forever? I’ve missed making notes like this.

This was a come back to writing what I love piece. I wasn’t going to share it because this is really personal to me but well, it’s here. You all have been asking when I was going to update this so here it is❤️ For a long time it felt like I lost my writing voice. I’m on track to finding my voice it wouldn’t hurt to share that progress, I guess.

Do you want more of this?

Xoxo, Mira💋