"You done yet? Can I put my arms down?"
Mecklinger laughed softly.
"Almost. Just a few more touches. … And… done."
Bittenfeld abandoned his props and stumbles over as quickly as the toga costume he was wearing would allow. He looked over Mecklinger's shoulder and whistled.
"Is that really what I look like?"
Mecklinger set down his paints and pulled one of Bittenfeld's arms over his shoulder, playing idly with the fingers.
"You don't like it?"
Bittenfeld shrugged and found a place next to Mecklinger on the chair where he was sitting.
"I dunno. I've never been painted before."
Mecklinger smiled slightly and leaned against Bittenfeld's shoulder.
"I've told you the reason why I decided to use you only as the model for my paintings."
He slid a hand down the painted Bittenfeld's chest and Bittenfeld looked away.
"Yeah well, it's still kinda weird."
Mecklinger turned, pressing that hand against Bittenfeld's chest. The toga costume was moderately cheap and the sensation passed right through the fabric. Bittenfeld shuddered as Mecklinger grew close.
"I thought you liked it…"
Bittenfeld frowned.
"Yeah, alright, I do! But it's still damned weird if you ask me!"
He disengaged and stood up, storming over to the area where he had been seated. It had been set up to look almost Roman in origin, with long ivy colored pillars.
"Let's just get this over with."
He huffed, flopping back into the spot where he had seated. Mecklinger licked his lips and slowly stood. He crossed purposefully over to Bittenfeld, ripped open the costume, and spread his legs with little resistance.
"Fritz… You shouldn't enable me like this."
Mecklinger smiled and buried his head in Bittenfeld's crotch, getting to work almost immediately. Bittenfeld groaned slightly and closed his eyes. Mecklinger was a fast worker, and soon Bittenfeld was fighting to keep last bit of dignity he had left. He had his head buried in his arm, the only noise coming out of his mouth being an occasional whimper of 'Ernest!' and 'more please!' At Bittenfeld's request he worked faster and then it happens, Bittenfeld hit the breaking point, yelling out Mecklinger's name a lot louder than he should have before slumping back into his chain. Mecklinger slowly pulled back and looked up at Bittenfeld, at the way his body had crumbled and had left the usually frightening man seemingly defenseless and weak. He stood and observed how his chest heaved and how his muscles twitched from the left over pleasure.
"Yes…" he whispered and he wiped his chin on his sleeve. "This… is true, living, art."