AN: This is a work of pure fiction. All characters represented are shown in a fictional context and I own neither the characters or the paintings mentioned.
Upon first meeting the boy the initial concerns I had developed through his writings became concrete, he was all passion without having common sense, his brow set in a constant glare of suspicion. I had heard all about his exploits with Signac of course, how could I have not? Their quarrel was legendary amongst those who practised our craft but I was not concerned, those kind were foolish with their dots and colours and it was only natural for the boy to rebel against such nonsense. Paris was always bursting with such dubious characters that it only seemed right for us to meet in Pont-Aven. The Brittany summers were always the best with the sun shining so bright even the watermill seemed to gleam in its brilliant light. Despite such pleasantries the meeting was brief and without much ador, he was so young after all and the wine seemed to rush to his head immediately making him giddy and excitable. He spoke of art like a man of twice his eighteen years but the alcohol held me back, with his cheeks reddened and his words slurred and pitched I was reminded of his youth and innocence and internally scolded myself for thinking such corruptive thoughts. With the wine finished we went our separate ways, my mind full of fleeting images; freedom and beauty residing together in one single being. I was intrigued but soon forgot about the whole ordeal, after all it was foolish.
We continued writing after that of course, his art developed and came to my attention more than once, it seemed surreal that such a naïve creature could produce such paintings with the vigour and character of a man with all the life experiences of rejection and love. I found myself questioning his life in Paris, he was acquaintances with Toulouse-Lautrec after all and the brothels were all too inviting for men of such poetic natures. Was he such a virginal thing as I had once thought? Perhaps not. But I did not let the thoughts linger, they seemed too invasive and dangerous for even my own liking.
Vincent began to mention Bernard in his letters a year or so later after meeting him in Paris. The two of them had begun to work together and although I longed to see the results for myself my own paintings were beginning to take momentum and took up the majority of my thoughts, even fucking became an afterthought to my creations as the paint began to take form upon the canvas and the figures came to life. I was not concerned, after all I had learned in my life that women brought nothing but trouble and poverty, stealing your money and your seed, planting children in the ground like crops. I told Vincent and Bernard just as much in my letters. "Don't fall for their spells my dear friend" I wrote to each of them "they bring you nothing but misery and in return take all you have for themselves, do not commit my foolery and make my mistakes."
A year later the young thing surprised me in Brittany. It was quite out of the blue and I was unprepared to lodge the boy. His naivety to my surprise had not been tainted by the filth of Parisian life or faded by the sands of time but his looks had matured giving the illusion of a character older than his mere age of twenty. His enthusiasm for the arts had, if anything, grown along with him, and he was eager to talk of his friends in Paris and to show me his work which was quite astounding. The colours seemed to radiate from the canvas and the figures were drawn with such passion and intensity I was left open mouthed and foolish.
I tried not to be affected by it of course, he may have seemed to have matured but the boy was still a boy and had not yet reached his peak. How could he? He was half my age and without the experiences and valour of a grown man. He had never travelled the world as I had, he had never worked a hard labour job in his life, and he had certainly never loved anyone other than a cheap whore in a dirty brothel. I was momentarily inspired and took advantage. Who wouldn't have? Did Raphael not take ideas from Michelangelo after all? The images were vibrant, the figures thickly outlined...what did he call that? Cloisonnism? I took what I had to in order to complete my work.
The boy was furious. His passions which had previously been reserved for his art came to life in his rage, words were shouted across the room, arms flaying like a madman, it was amusing really...that such a young thing could produce anger like this over such a small triviality. He was never violent, all the pain was in his words which he expressed at length, using such filthy insults I was almost impressed, who knew such spiteful words could come from such a sweet lush mouth and that his tongue could whip just as intensely as it could undoubtedly pleasure. I had never felt so alive, a blush much similar to the one he had supported when we first met rose to his normally unblemished cheeks and all of the blood in my body seemed to rush South. I considered walking away, leaving the worked up creature to it, but my body would not let me. I stood my ground as the figure drew closer, I could see the fury in his eyes, I could smell his scent, the musk of a man mixed together with the chemical concoction of an artist, I could see his own erection standing proud in his tight tan trousers and I had the overwhelming urge to put something, anything, in his mouth to just stop his whining. So I overcame my pride and pushed the boy to his knees.
He seemed tentative at first, I could not work out if it was his anger or his lack of experience which led him to behave as such. He pulled down my own trousers as if it were a chore, sparing no thought for comfort or foreplay as he began to fuck me with his mouth. It was almost violent, the motion of his mouth began to quicken and I couldn't help but lose myself in the moment and let out a moan, the sound catching in my throat and sounding almost beastly. His hand grasped at the base of my penis with such hate I was momentarily concerned, but the thoughts were lost as my member escaped the boy's mouth with an orgasmic pop and he began to lick and such at the tip, wrapping his wet tongue around the head in a circle before taking me back into his mouth entirely, my penis disappearing inch by inch back into the warmth. I could see the boy trying not to gag but he handled me well, once again picking up rhythm. I couldn't help but question where he learned to do such things out loud, and at once he stopped his motion to look me in the eyes. The previous anger had not yet faded and I couldn't help but be worried that I had ruined my chances of having him completely.
Much to my surprise Bernard did not walk away as expected but simply uttered for me to fuck him under his breath. I complied of course, undressing myself and the boy with such speed and poise I did not know I possessed and kissing him passionately as I turned him around. He kissed me back with all the buoyant vigour I had expected of a youth his age and I couldn't help but smile to myself as I prepared him, holding his hips down to stop his damn wriggling and stooping down to briefly wet him with my tongue. The gasps and splutters were followed by a declaration of annoyance as he begged me to fuck him already, and my mind was immediately brought back to the matter of his virginity. Perhaps the artist was not so chaste after all. I kept this in my thoughts as I fucked him thoroughly, thrusting hard and deep as I curled my fingers in his long and slightly wavy brown hair. His moans and curses were delightful and only added to my enjoyment, profanity spilled from his lips like wine from the bottle of a drunkard, and I could feel my orgasm getting closer as I fucked the boy, stars brighter than any Vincent could ever paint filled my vision as I spilled out into the boy, those last few thrusts full of absolute immersion and without the usual worry of having another seed to fund.
We both collapsed upon the ground, Bernard's erection still standing unfulfilled, as he caught his breath. I thought of our situation for a moment, marvelling at how I had enjoyed seeing him so angry and how satisfied he had made me. I looked down on the pathetic thing, his hair a mess, his eyes without emotion, his blush staining his face. It was enough to almost feel sorry for him, but I had no time for games and so I dressed quickly, without looking at him again. As I finished fastening my belt I felt a hand on my leg, the boy was looking up at me with such longing, I almost began to stir again. But I replaced the sinful thoughts with the image of his art work, so expressive and sincere, but without the life experience to complete it. I shook him off and left without a word. If it was experience he needed I would supply him with it, and what could produce any more feeling in a young artist than the pain of unrequited love?