Study Me Privately

Nico's fingers itch — not with fatigue, but with a desperate yearning for her. She rides his face, relentless, her moans sharp as knives, owning every shudder. Her thighs clench, shuddering, heat spasming as she rides him into oblivion. He can almost smell her — salt, sweat, and that ripe wet tang.

Apartments, hotel suites, studios, alleys, beaches — intercut with flash vignettes spanning 1928 toon madness, sci-fi crash landings, and grimy alley encounters. In a hotel suite, he's exposed, hardness in hand, heart on sleeve, nothing left but raw want. In a studio reeking of turpentine and lust, he grabs the thickest brush and lunges at his muse. He's bent over Mae, one hand braced on slick vinyl, the other pumping his hardness in a frantic rhythm, oil and need painting her surface in thick sticky streaks. Flash sections: a 1928 steamboat with Mickey and Minnie. A rogue mercenary in rubble. A shuttle crash on a molten planet. The muse is the canvas. The studio is the bedroom.