Chapter 1 - Introduction

I almost wish this was a run of the mill story, revenge, cozy acceptance, scandalous romance, but no, This is not that story. So please be warned:

This should not be attempted at home.
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Foolish. How simple it seemed to just fulfill a fantasy, to sate a low, buried desire. As I lay, staring at the ceiling of a jail cell, I can’t help but feel that if I had just asked, at least once, maybe things could’ve turned out differently.

I will not tell you my name, and as of the beginning of this story, I am twenty two. I’m a college student at ####### and I am a feeder, at least on paper I am. I was once a child of a gorgeous middle class family, and spent a lot of time traveling for my dads work. My parents were in love in a time where most of my friends parents were divorced. I had a sibling, but I wish not to involve them out of respect. It is here that perfection ends. My mother had extreme anger issues, pile-driving lasting, irreplaceable trauma into our minds with physical, and mental torture, although I like to think that she meant well. It was this unique situation that combined horrendously with my shameful fetish that could maybe explain why I am. Despite my mommy issues, I emerged from Highschool as a cis hat bi-curious male, on neither end of the political spectrum, avoiding social media mostly, and a jack of all trades. The future was hazy, and I felt optimistic. All throughout school, I was informed that I was smart, and that I just needed to apply myself. My mother helped me learn how to use my intellect for evil so to speak. Many early years spent honing my skills of lying, deceit, and sneaking about, I took my frustrations with her out in art form, selling it for small cash, and this was when I began to realize my future. The haze cleared from my eyes fully when a critic approached me. I was working odd jobs at that point. I sold nsfw art online, I worked as a comic book illustrator, and more importantly, I was studying as a professional artist. Eventually, late In June of ####, I was finishing up a particularly favorite piece of mine. It merged all of my professions into one. It was contemporarily painted, it was outlined in pen, and of a nude, chubby woman. A woman approached me, and I looked up, instinctively embarrassed of the Introduction to my most intimate desires on canvas for the world to see. “Hello, lovely day isn’t it?” She said to me. I looked around for the first time in hours, having been too absorbed by my work. The woman was dressed expensively, electric red coat, Venetian Leather, hand-stitched in Sicily. Short, deep crimson locks spilled from her scalp, shiny, yet soft, and tied back into a neat bun, held by the wedding ring of a man no longer living. Her shirt was black, turtleneck, woven from sheep’s grass fed in the Swiss alps. Pants. Her slim, black satin slacks spilled down to her heels, I thought I saw some scuff marks on the pointy bit, no doubt from stabbing the last artist she commissioned. This woman came from money, or perhaps was of money herself. Tearing my eyes from the strikingly beautiful, terrifyingly powerful woman, I remembered that I was in the botanical garden of #####, heavy rain pattered against greenhouse glass as fragrances from plants I couldn’t afford danced in the air. “Yes, I’d say so.” I replied rather sheepishly after a brief pause. “I’ve seen your work, I’m rather impressed.” She pointed to the chubby woman on the canvas. Internally I froze, thinking of the pile of forbidden art located in ######### at my apartment off-campus. Externally I smiled and replied “thanks, I do my best.” She wanted something, her tone, the words she used, they had purpose. The only girls I attracted were gay men, but what was it? “You take commissions, yes?” “Of course.” “Good, I wish to strike a contract, look it over quickly, I have little time.” She was rushing me, she clearly didn’t have anywhere to be really, now that I was aware, I remembered seeing her watch me paint for just shy of 20 minutes before approaching. I accepted the appropriately red folder she handed me, and read its contents carefully. It was a contract, not a standalone commission, it would last three years, and would document… her. I signed after reading “$10,000 per piece.” I handed her the folder, and shook her hand. A faint smile fought its way onto her otherwise cold and collected figure, this kid was smart. “I feel this is the beginning of a prosperous contract.” She said.