Concealed Art by SkyEventide

Concealed Art

Maglor is a model for erotic art: a voyeuristic threesome with a wedded pair ensues, with the blasphemy of sex against the Laws of marriage and not without some humour.

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« Indo? », Macalaurë asks, with the tone of a soft warning rather than a question.

« Cáno », Indovarno answers, mixing colours undaunted, though shifting, perhaps, a touch awkwardly on his feet.

« That is my face. »

« Forsooth. »

Macalaurë stands, stark naked, with his prick still half hard, next to the painter, his hands firmly planted on his hips. He gazes at the little figure at the bottom of the small wood panel, a little figure, also stark naked, that reclines against a black background, onto an invisible lounging chair. The little figure holds its own prick in a firm grip, voyeuristically caught in the act of languidly stroking it – Macalaurë himself can very well feel the sweat that yet runs down his neck, down the curve of his spine, and the pleasant throb of the indolent orgasm he drew out of himself, as Indovarno painted, the aftermath of which he wiped from his own stomach with a wet cloth.

« I must beg your pardon, Indo », Macalaurë says, « but I vividly recall agreeing to this solely, and I must reiterate solely, if you gave the painting a face that is not rather obviously mine. »

Indovarno shifts again. « Please, worry not, I shall paint over it. »

« And what is all that blank space above it, anyway? Is the composition not unbalanced? »

His friend now bristles almost visibly. « Why, now you are just critiquing my technique. Paint it yourself, if you must be so meddling. »

« Oh, nay, I am no painter. »

« Then I beg of you, Cáno, just let me work. »

Indovarno has rolled the sleeves of his house robe to his elbows; the velvet, a dirty white the colour of the Pelóri’s peaks under Laurelin’s light, has nonetheless already be stained by pigments many times before, leaving faint halos of colour that might never fade.

Between the folds of the robe, Macalaurë spots the bulge of Indovarno’s trousers. He raises a hand, touching his own nape, picking the locks that stick to his shoulders, and casually he says, « You are aroused, my friend. »

Indo’s green eyes cut to him sharply, glancing briefly at his crotch, then at his unbound hair. « Why do you think. »

The heat of want rolls from Indovarno’s thoughts to his own, filling the room. The tip of the boar brush mixes flesh colours in varied shades, dipping in water, preparing the pinks and the brows and the blues. The light from the large windows in the parlour plays interesting games on the painter’s ashen brown tresses.

« Besides », says Indovarno, who seems a breath away from clearing his throat, « I thought perhaps I could fill the upper side with more figures. Perhaps – you and my wife…? »

A jolt draws Macalaurë’s prick slightly up again, a sudden flood of thoughts from his friend’s mind to his own, such that it takes air from his chest with the faintest gasp. « Ah – you want me to take your wife, now? Are we doing blasphemy, is that so? »

Indovarno’s face flushes. « Only if you would like – »

« Gladly. »

« Well, I am delighted. »

Macalaurë wets his lips and drops his voice to a velvet that is smoother than any robes. « You would like me to come in your wife? Feel me tease your souls’ bond ‘till neither you nor she know pleasure from shock? »

Indovarno inhales sharply, pulling the brush away from the panel before his hand might tremble and betray him. « Ai, Cáno! »

He laughs, resonant. « So, then, where is your wife? »

 

*

 

Aranorellë leans face down on piled pillows, her hips thrusted back and raised, her lower back arched; Macalaurë slides slowly inside her and stills when he is deep into her heat, the back of her thighs flush against his own legs. He throws his head backwards, torturing the both of them with the forced immobility, broken but by the faintest hint of rocking into her cunt.

« I could make a music sheet out of the sounds you make, Noryë », he whispers.

« Please, refrain from trying to seduce my wife, Cáno. »

Aranorellë lifts her head, strands of hair from her topknot brushing her skin. « I daresay he’s doing more than seducing me at the moment — »

Macalaurë gasps a chuckle. She begins rolling her hips and bottom, clenched around him, sliding back and forth however much the position allows her, and Macalaurë dips his head down again, to watch his prick disappear inside of her body.

Indovarno takes numerous and generous looks, his face emerging from behind the easel, his hand hovering as it holds a thin brush. Macalaurë locks eyes with him, settling into the melting rhythm of Aranorellë’s swaying, into the tempting whimpers of her appreciation. He locks eyes with Indovarno even as he reaches around her and presses his fingers right at the top of the mount of her cunt, rubbing over her hair, and on the outer folds.

Something in both their spirits stirs, in husband and wife, that oath to each other against which they play when they both lick and suck at Macalaurë’s erection, or when they both bed him, whoever is in the middle, or as now, when one of them watches as the other shivers.

How liberating is, at times, this most taboo of transgressions.

He leans down, panting over Aranorellë’s ear tip. « Shall I fill you? »

She moans, pressing herself upwards against him.

Indovarno steps to the side almost agitated. « Wait – can you do more positions first…? »

A groan escapes her. « Indo, please! »

But Macalaurë pulls out of her all at once, bemused, the air too cool on his prick glistening from her wetness. With his arm, he pulls her upright by the waist and drags her against his chest. « Come, let us make him happy. Why don’t you sit on me, facing him? »

A frustration builds in her and makes her move quickly – he loves to feel that eagerness to take him inside again, the eagerness to reach blissful pleasure to which she was already oh so close. Macalaurë watches her straddle him, lean against him back to chest; he cups her breasts, so sweetly soft, sinks his fingers in them with a gentle hold, and half-lidded watches Indo.

It is a triangle of watching, as Indo watches them, watches his wife’s breasts touched, and watches his wife’s legs hook the sides of Macalaurë’s own thighs, spreading, exposing her sex, watches as she brings herself down on the hard shaft of him.

Macalaurë finally closes his eyes and thrusts slowly upwards into her.

His head lulls back, a hand leaves her breast to crawl high into the knot of her hair, lock after lock patiently undoing it, freeing the mane to come down to tickle his shoulder.

« How is the view, Indo? », he calls throatily.

« My pants are quite tight, I must admit. »

Aranorellë arches her back, quite theatrically. « How many other positions? »

« Perhaps two more…? Perhaps – you look at each other next. »

Macalaurë sighs with pleasure, engulfed in heat. Ah, the profanity. « Tell me – shall I come as I look into your eyes and see your vows there, Noryë? » He knows how she shudders, how her thoughts both recoil and, in their flinching, startle with thrilled titillation, with a flare of wild want.

« Yes », she gasps, clenching around him. « Soil me. »

 

*

 

Macalaurë lies cooling on the lounging chair, his skin yet warm. He turns to observe the heart shape of Aranorellë’s legs and bottom, and her sex tucked between, slick with their pleasure, leaking sticky white. After a little while, she leaps up with a sigh and announces that she shall go bathe.

At a time, Indovarno had suddenly abandoned his painting, opening his trousers with flustered haste, and had set himself behind his wife, carefully yet determinedly penetrating her also, her flesh so eager, giving in to the thrust. And Macalaurë had felt their pricks rub together in her, who quivered doubly taken, in a bundle of breath-stealing pleasure. And when Indovarno had come, he had slipped out, leaving Macalaurë to sink into the slippery warmth as he returned to his art.

He stands also from the wicker chair, slowly, stretching his back with his feet on the cool marble. With measured paces, he walks along the hexagon of the window-walls, looking into the empty gardens of the house outside. A songbird chirps, unawares of the secrets of this afternoon, their uncaught misbehaviours.

He halts next to Indovarno again and tilts his head, observing the little figures caught in their intercourse.

« He still does look a little like me. »

His friend sighs. « No one would recognise you. And besides… » He turns to the table and picks up a painting of fruits and flowers. « This goes in front of it. It slots in from the top and hides the lower panel. »

Macalaurë hums. « Well, they are very pretty. »

« I know that tone, Cáno. »

He gestures, an eyebrow raised. « It is only that your fruit look somewhat ill. But it is very pretty, if wilted fruit is what you wanted. »

« —I’ll pretend it was on purpose. »

---

Chapter End Notes

Indovarno means "resolute guard", Aranorellë means "from the noble land".

The image prompt that I loosely used as inspiration: