Blakeney Point is a landscape defined by its raw, elemental power, a stark contrast to the verdant, sheltered coves of Cornwall I knew well. For a photographer, the location is a study in monochromatic textures, shifting light, and vast, dramatic space, which on a normal day would be challenging for any artist, let alone a photographer like me, who would describe himself as being above average in his talent and school.
The wind whipped my jacket like a tattered sail as I trudged along the shingle ridge, the only sound the relentless crunch of pebbles under my boots and the distant roar of the sea. Salt spray stung my face, a sharp, cleansing burn that chased away the city grime still clinging to my pores. Out here, solitude wasn't just absence; it was a tangible force, pressing in from the wide-open sky and the vast, churning expanse of the North Sea.
"Wow," I said to myself. "It's beautiful. Magnificent. Perfect."
I was a follower of the artistic school that says art must be reality instead of interpretation. Natural landscape photography captured everything, whereas the old school of art would argue that a classical landscape depicts an imagined or perfected interpretation of what the eye and the artist imagine they see.
The Isles of Scilly had been my sanctuary for years, their sheltered bays and jewel-toned waters predictable in their beauty. Too predictable, perhaps. My portfolio brimmed with variations on turquoise coves and sun-drenched granite; lovely, admired, but increasingly hollow. Something primal in me craved edges sharper than sea-smoothed rock, horizons wider than a sheltered harbour could offer. Blakeney Point, with its windswept desolation, was my deliberate antidote, a place where nature wasn’t curated, but raw and untamed. Here, beauty wasn’t gentle; it was a slap in the face, and I had decided to spend the summer there and see how the different scene could change my perspective.
As I turned my back on the sinking sun, I started the long trudge across the shifting shingle towards the distant silhouette of Blakeney village "That's it." I muttered to myself, shifting the heavy pack higher on my shoulders. “I get the vibe. This place is perfect.”
The promise of a solid oak floor beneath my boots, a roaring fireplace, and maybe a pint of something dark and bitter propelled me forward and in no time, I was standing outside the Old Anchor Inn, crouched by the quay, its weathered timber groaning against the wind like a ship straining at its moorings.
The landlord, a man built like a fisherman carved from driftwood, slid a key across the scarred bar. "Room five, which overlooks the harbour. Dinner's at seven sharp. Miss it, and you go hungry."
His wink held centuries of weathered humour. Upstairs, the room was cooler than the Point, but it was summer, I reminded myself. The bed looked deep and inviting as I dropped my bag onto the quilt, only to take a quick peek out of the window to see the darkening creek where moored boats rocked like restless sleepers.
I pulled back my damp hair, longer than I preferred, curling annoyingly at my collar, as I caught my reflection in the warped glass. Thirty-three years old, still sharp in the jawline, but the wind-burn and salt-spray etching faint lines around my eyes told the truth: time moves relentlessly. Fit? Absolutely. The hike proved that. Handsome? Well, the mirror didn't lie outright. There was a ruggedness now, replacing the softer edges of youth. It suited the landscape, I supposed. A face meant for elemental places, not city streets. The thought wasn't vanity, just an artist's detached observation, assessing the tool, the vessel carrying the vision.
I washed my face in the bathroom and then decided it was time. I was hungry and I certainly needed a pint or two, and so I closed the door and ventured downstairs.
The pub's interior was a cave of warm light and low-beamed ceilings, smelling of wood smoke, fried fish, and spilt ale. I found a table tucked into one of the old-fashioned snugs, panelled wood, high-backed benches, and a sense of enclosure against the vastness outside.
A barmaid with cheeks flushed from the kitchen heat took my order. The local catch stew and a pint of the dark bitter that had haunted my thoughts during the trek. The beer arrived first, a deep mahogany with a creamy head, tasting of roasted malt and the faint tang of sea air carried in on patrons’ coats. Bliss. I took a long, grateful pull.
Opposite, hunched in the shadows of his own snug corner, sat an elderly man. His beard was a thicket of wiry grey, his face deeply lined like the salt-cracked mudflats beyond the window. He wore a thick-knit jumper frayed at the elbows and watched me with unnerving stillness. His eyes, pale blue and startlingly clear amidst the worn features, seemed capable of seeing past the camera bag propped against my bench, past my wind-burned skin, into something deeper. Around us, the low hum of conversation ebbed and flowed, talk of tides, boat repairs, a lost lobster pot, the core topics of conversation.
He didn't speak immediately, just observed me sip the dark, malty ale, letting the silence stretch taut. When he finally broke it, his voice rasped like shingle shifting underfoot, direct and unexpected. "Why you 'ere?" He gestured vaguely towards the window and the darkening marsh beyond with a knotted hand. "Bird spotting, probably?" The question wasn't hostile, but it held an edge, a challenge, perhaps, to the predictable narrative assigned to strangers with binoculars and long lenses, and Blakeney Point is famous for its birds and wildlife.
"Actually, no," I clarified, shaking my head. The condensation from my pint dampened my fingers. "I'm a landscape photographer."
I met his unsettlingly clear gaze. "What do you do?" I asked. It felt like an absurd question directed at someone who looked carved from the Point itself. His stillness deepened, a momentary fissure in time, before a dry chuckle rasped out.
"Me?" He rasped, taking a slow sip from his pewter tankard. "Just an average artist in my retirement."
The phrase hung oddly in the smoky air. Average? Retired? I didn’t think either applied to an artist. Nothing about his presence felt remotely average. His eyes lingered pointedly on my camera bag. "Threw meself into paintin', seein' as I couldn't haul nets no more. Different way o' catchin' something."
"It appears you and I are both painted with the same artist's brush," I ventured slowly, swirling the dark ale in my glass, "but from different schools." The words felt clumsy yet strangely charged. His gaze sharpened, boring into me with unnerving clarity. The low thrum of the pub seemed to recede, leaving only the crackle of the fire and the rasp of his breath.
The arrival of my fish stew shattered the intensity. Steam billowed upwards, carrying the pungent smell of brine, bay leaves, and thick chunks of local cod in its fragrant swirl. I inhaled deeply, the salty aroma mingling with the faint tang of my bitter ale, a sensory promise of warmth and nourishment against the bleakness outside. "Looks superb," I murmured, more to myself than the barmaid who deposited the steaming bowl.
The elderly man watched silently as I broke apart a crusty roll, dunking it into the rich, creamy stew. The first bite was heaven, flaky fish, tender potatoes, and that deep, savoury broth coating my tongue.
"You speak of schools," he rasped suddenly, his pale eyes fixed not on my face, but on the steam curling from my bowl. "Like cod swimmin' in shoals. All moving the same way." He paused, his gaze lifting, sharp as a gull's beak. "What happens when one breaks off? Gets tangled in something unexpected?" His knotted fingers traced a phantom shape on the damp tabletop. "That's when things get worth painting."
The stew suddenly tasted thick, heavy. His "average artist" comment hadn't gone unchallenged in my own head. I wasn't sure I agreed. His implication lingered that painting, born of memory and contemplation, held a depth photography couldn't touch.
Not so," I challenged fiercely while chewing slowly. "Landscape demands immediacy. Its brutal shifts, the tide’s relentless crawl, the sudden squall tearing the sky can't be distilled later onto canvas without losing their visceral punch. Photography isn't interpretation; it's preservation. Art seized in the heartbeat of the moment, raw and unadulterated. The wind carving patterns in the shingle, the exact angle of light fracturing through a breaking wave, that's the truth."
The old man remained unnervingly silent, fingers tapping rhythmically on the damp wood. Outside, the wind moaned around the pub's eaves, a hollow sound that echoed the emptiness in my argument. Across the snug, shadows deepened in the crevices of his weathered face. My stew cooled rapidly now. The creamy broth formed a thin skin, the cod chunks turning pale and rubbery beneath the flickering lamplight. His stillness was a rebuke louder than words.
He huffed. Not dismissively, but like bellows stirring embers. "Names Ben Jacobs." The words scraped out, thick and slow. "Been paintin' the Point sixty winters."
He leaned forward slightly, his thick-knit jumper grazing the table's edge. "And you photographers... don't get it." He paused, letting the accusation hang heavy in the smoky air. "Think it's about snatching lightnin', eh? Freezin' time?" His pale eyes, sharp as fractured ice, fixed on mine. "You preserve the skin. The scream of the gull, the sting of the spray."
He jabbed a gnarled finger towards the window and the unseen marshes. "But you never find the bone underneath. The silence in the wind. The dread in the mudflat when the tide pulls back."
A cold knot tightened in my stomach. Ben’s intensity felt personal, an indictment of my entire artistic creed. Adrenaline prickled my scalp. "I get that, and sorry, I forgot my manners. I'm Steve, Steve Davis." My voice sounded strained against the pub's low murmur. "But let me show you," as I leaned forward, my chair scraping harshly on the stone floor, drowning out the distant clatter from the kitchen. "Let me show you what I see."
Fumbling with stiff fingers, numb from the cold and the confrontation, I wrestled with the buckles on my worn camera bag. The leather felt slick, resisting. A faint scent of ozone and damp wool wafted up. Inside, nestled beside lenses wrapped in microfiber cloths, lay my laptop, sleek, modern, utterly incongruous beside Ben Jacobs’ pewter tankard.
I lifted it out, the cool metal casing a stark contrast to the surrounding warmth. Setting it carefully on the damp, scarred wood, I flipped the lid open.
Ben leaned forward, his wiry beard catching the firelight. His pale eyes remained sceptical. "Go on then," he rasped, the words echoing my silent plea. "Show me what you can do."
The challenge hung thickly between us, mingling with the steam from my cooling stew. His gaze wasn't dismissive now; it was predatory, focused. Like a fisherman watching a lure hit treacherous water.
My fingers moved clumsily, punching in the familiar URL for my website and with one click, I opened a folder simply named "Blakeney."
The images were taken that day, and they were raw, unedited captures from the day's brutal trudge. Then, deeper still, the subfolder labelled "Monochrome." My thumb hovered over the trackpad. This wasn't curated beauty. This was the Point stripped bare.
Ben leaned closer, his breath faintly smelling of pipe tobacco and brine. His gaze sharpened as I clicked through the stark, high-contrast images of wind-scoured shingle ridges vanishing into mist; skeletal boat ribs half-buried in mudflats, stark as ancient bones; a lone cormorant perched on a rotting piling, wings outstretched against a bruised, storm-looming sky. No colour. Just texture, light, shadow, and the relentless grip of desolation.
"Honest opinion?" he grunted after a long silence punctuated only by the laptop fan’s soft whir. His calloused finger tapped the screen where waves clawed at a gravel spit, frozen mid-shatter. "Your technique... It’s got bite. Clean. Sharp."
He gestured vaguely at the screen, encompassing the monochrome folder. "These?" He nodded slowly, the firelight catching the deep fissures around his eyes. "These bleed. They feel… true. The colour ones?" He waved dismissively. "Pretty postcards, but these?" His finger jabbed back at the ghostly boat ribs. "These scratch at the bone." Approval, grudging but genuine, warmed his rasp. It felt like a benediction scraped from flint.
"Now," Ben Jacobs rumbled, leaning back into the shadows of his snug corner. His pale eyes held mine, unblinking. "You've shown me yours, lad," as he tapped a thick knuckle against his own temple. "But I can't show you mine." He paused, letting the silence thicken with the smoky air. "Watercolours and oils, see? Fragile things. Not meant for this…" he gestured vaguely at the laptop's harsh glow and the pub's clamour, "...this racket."
He pushed his pewter tankard aside decisively. "My cottage," he rasped, the words catching like wool on barbed wire. "Quiet. Proper light. We can buy a bottle of whisky, a decent single malt, mind, none of that blended swill, and adjourn." His stare was granite-hard. "Then I can show you mine."
A spark ignited in my chest, hotter than the fire warming the pub. Despite the abruptness, the inherent strangeness of following this weathered stranger into the night, I found myself nodding. I liked the fierce clarity in Ben Jacobs' eyes, the uncompromising honesty that felt as elemental as the Point itself. "Agreed," I said, pushing aside my now cold stew. I drained the last bitter dregs of my pint, the roasted malt flavour a grounding anchor and stood.
The nighttime chill outside was a physical blow after the pub's smoky warmth. Ben moved with surprising grace for his age, a rolling gait honed by decades on shifting decks. He led me, not towards the quay lights, but down a cobbled alley slick with moisture, towards a small, dimly-lit shop tucked away. "Finest from the Highlands," he muttered, pushing open the creaking door. He selected a bottle with a practised eye, deep amber liquid in a thick, green-tinted bottle, its label faded. "Ardbeg, Ten Years," as he paid and turned to leave, with me following.
His cottage was a squat silhouette perched above the harbour, its slate roof gleaming wetly under the weak moonlight. Before I knew it, I was standing in his studio, stuffed full of images that were certainly not average. Canvases leaned against every wall, stacked three deep; smaller panels lay flat on shelves, and sketches pinned to every available surface fought for space.
"Wow, you did these?" I asked, my voice hushed as I took in the sheer volume.
Stepping closer to a large canvas leaning against a cluttered desk, I froze. It depicted Blakeney Point, yes, but not as I’d photographed it. This was a storm-lashed nightmare of a shingle ridge rising like a frozen wave, the marsh a churning morass of bruised purples and sickly greens beneath a sky ripped open by jagged forks of impossible lightning. The perspective felt skewed, vertiginous, pulling me towards the vortex. The sheer ferocity wasn't photographed; it was felt. Every brushstroke writhed with the storm's energy.
"Ben, these are good, and this is even better," as I continued to look around as he handed me a glass, yes, a glass of 10-year-old and certainly not the normal 50ml offering you get in a pub.
Taking a sip from his glass, Ben looked me in the eye. "Thank you, lad. Thank you, and you're right, they're not bad, especially that one."
My gaze drifted past the storm painting, scanning the chaotic stacks. Then I froze. Tucked among larger seascapes leaning against a sagging bookshelf stood a canvas that didn't belong. It was the same size as its neighbours, but the subject stopped me cold. A male nude sat on wet sand, not posed conventionally but slumped sideways, one arm braced behind him, his head turned sharply away from the viewer towards a vast, empty beach stretching into foggy oblivion.
The execution was breathtakingly real. Every goosebump on pale skin, every strand of damp hair plastered to a tense neck, the play of weak, diffused light on the musculature of a lean back. It wasn't idealised beauty. It was a study in vulnerability and isolation, rendered with Ben's signature brutal honesty.
"This is magnificent," I breathed, the reverence in my voice surprising even me. I gestured towards the nude, my finger tracing the air just above the canvas. "The texture of the skin against that wet sand... it feels like I could reach out and touch the chill." My admiration was instinctive, unguarded. "That profound ache of solitude in the vastness....you poured into the paint."
"That's true, lad. I dabbled for a time using my nephew as my model, but I was inspired by Henry Tuke and his series of paintings on the same theme."
"Have you any more, Ben? I asked in the hope that he might have more hidden masterpieces on canvas.
Ben chuckled, a low rumble like stones grinding in the surf. "Aye, lad. A few." He gestured towards a stack leaning against the far wall, dust motes dancing in the lamplight as he moved. "But that one..." His knotted finger tapped the frame of the nude. "That was special. Captured something... elemental."
He fell silent, swirling the Ardbeg in his glass, the peat smoke aroma deepening the room's charged atmosphere. The whisky burned a slow path down my throat, warmth spreading against the lingering chill from the walk.
"Why did you stop painting that theme?"
Ben drained his whisky, "Ran out of willing bodies," he rasped, setting it down with a thud. "Tuke understood. Some scenes demand two figures. Two bodies leaning into each other against the wind, sharing warmth between each other... capturing that unspoken trust, the quiet camaraderie."
He sighed, a sound like wind through dry reeds. "Tried finding another young man to pose with my nephew, but couldn't get someone with the chemistry to join him. Apparently, my nephew's sexuality frightened some interested lads. They thought it a weird gay thing."
"Isn't it a gay thing?" I asked. “If I remember correctly, Henry Tuke was known for his paintings of nude boys and young men in outdoor settings, which are widely interpreted as expressions of gay homoeroticism."
Ben's laugh erupted, sharp and sudden, startling the silence. "Gay?" He slammed his empty tumbler onto a paint-stained workbench, making brushes rattle in their jars. "Of course, it's a gay thing. A celebration of gayness and gay culture. My nephew is gay, but could we find another person to pose with him? No."
His pale eyes narrowed, fixing on me with unnerving intensity. The peat-smoke scent of the Ardbeg hung thickly between us. "Tuke saw beauty in that closeness. That intimacy. Bodies bared together, not for titillation, but for truth. Against the vastness," he gestured wildly towards the storm-lashed canvas, "two figures whispering warmth. That's defiance. That's art."
"But didn't Tuke develop close relationships with his models, many of whom remained lifelong friends?"
"Aye," Ben rasped, refilling our tumblers with the smoky Ardbeg. The golden liquid caught the lamplight, casting dancing reflections on the chaotic studio walls. "Trust. That's the marrow Tuke captured. Not just bodies, but souls laid bare, naked." His pale gaze drifted past me, settling on the nude canvas. "My nephew... he understood. But finding another?" He shook his head, the wiry beard scraping his collar. "Local boys thought it weird, and finding a young gay man on the north Norfolk coast isn't as easy as it seems."
The silence stretched, thick with peat and pigment. I took a deliberate sip, the whisky's fire pooling low in my belly. My pulse tapped a steady rhythm against my ribs. "I'm bi," I said, the words escaping before I could temper them. "If that helps."
Ben froze mid-pour, the Ardbeg bottle hovering. His gaze snapped to mine, sharp as a gull's cry cutting through fog. "What are you saying, lad?"
"I'm saying," swallowing against the sudden dryness in my throat, "If you think it might inspire you again... I'd be happy to pose. Why shouldn't I? I've seen your work and it's fantastic and a shame that....."
Ben studied me, his gaze travelling over my wind-burned face, the damp hair curling at my collar, down to my hands still clutching the tumbler as a slow, knowing nod creased his weathered features. "Have you ever posed before, and not necessarily in a studio. Outdoors?"
"Only clothed," I admitted, the whisky warming my resolve. "Landscapes, mostly. Never... nude."
“Do you have a problem with being nude if asked?" Ben demanded.
I paused for a second and then answered, "No. Not with the right artist." My pulse hammered against my ribs. The admission hung between us, raw as the paint fumes clinging to the studio air.
Ben didn't move immediately. His weathered face became a map of shifting terrain, deep furrows beside his mouth tightening, his pale eyes narrowing with intense calculation. He studied me with a sculptor’s eye, assessing angles, light, and the potential beneath the worn hiking clothes.
The silence stretched, thick with the peat-smoke scent of Ardbeg and the faint tang of linseed oil. I heard the distant cry of a gull outside, muffled by the cottage walls. His gaze was intense, professional, stripping away layers before I’d moved an inch.
"Tell you what, lad, Steve," Ben rasped, as he snatched up a worn sketchpad and a stub of charcoal from the cluttered workbench. "Let’s have a proper look at you."
His pale eyes swept me from collar to boots, assessing angles, planes of muscle, how the lamplight might catch my skin. "We might be onto something here," as he kicked aside a paint-spattered tarp, clearing space near the window where the weak moonlight bled in.
"Strip off," he commanded, gesturing towards the cleared patch with his charcoal. "Stand over there and look out of the window at the moon and just be natural."
I was rather taken aback by the speed of developments. Minutes ago, we were discussing whisky, but now I had been ordered to disrobe.
Not being hugely shy, I quickly stripped down and assumed the pose Ben demanded. Ben circled slowly, his wheezing breaths audible in the sudden intimacy. The scratch of charcoal on paper began, quick, confident strokes capturing the moment while telling me what he was seeing.
"Steve, you are beautiful. Your body is lean and smooth, even athletic in build. And your skin appears light-toned and subtly shadowed with a warm glow from the light of the moon. Your torso shows your defined shoulders and a relatively flat chest and abdomen. Your thighs are lean and toned, and your groin is casting strong shadows against your pubic hair and your penis... your circumcised penis is hanging naturally, casting its own shadow against your thigh, and if I may say, it looks manly and, dare I say it, desirable....as in, I wouldn't mind having one like that."
His blunt assessment of my cock made me chuckle softly, but it instantly dissolved any lingering awkwardness. Here was an artist who saw the male form with a dispassionate yet deeply appreciative eye, understanding its lines and shadows far better than I ever could. His frankness wasn't lewd; it was pure observation, stripped of artifice. He saw the body as elemental as the storm he painted. Raw, honest, worthy of study. My chuckle echoed faintly in the studio's hush, mingling with the rhythmic scratch-scratch of his charcoal.
"I'm almost finished," Ben uttered when the front door to the cottage opened and in walked a young man of similar age to me.
"What the fuck, Uncle," seeing me naked by the window with his uncle sketching madly.
I flinched, instinctively twisting towards the sound while hastily covering my groin. Ben froze mid-stroke, charcoal trembling against the paper. Framed in the cottage doorway stood a young man, maybe twenty-eight or nine, drenched in the damp coastal night.
"Paul, meet Steve. Steve, Paul, my nephew."
His blue eyes, startlingly like Ben's but sharper, wider with disbelief, flicked between my nakedness, Ben's sketchpad, and his uncle's unrepentant stare. His angular jaw clenched tight as he slammed the door shut hard enough to rattle the jammed windowpane.
"Really, Uncle?" Paul spat, striding into the studio’s cramped chaos. "Who’s this poor sod? A tourist? Lost? Didn’t realise sketching required stripping?"
"A photographer, Paul, and a good one," Ben responded.
Paul stared at me, his eyes narrowing as he took in my nakedness, my hastily covered groin. His expression shifted from anger to something sharper. Recognition, maybe? Or disbelief? "Steve Davis?" he asked, his voice tight. "The landscape guy? The one whose monochrome shots from the Scilly Isles made the Guardian's gallery?"
"I didn't know that, Paul, when I met him this evening in the pub but we got talking and all and he saw your paintings, well my paintings, of you posing in the Tuke's themes and when I explained we couldn't find anyone to pose with you, he offered to fill the gap and well, here we are, doing a quick sketch.
Paul stared at me, his gaze lingering too long on my exposed hipbone where my hand failed to cover completely. The cold seeped through the windowpane, raising gooseflesh along my thighs. "The Guardian?" Ben echoed, brow furrowed.
Paul ignored him. "Those skeletal oak shots in the storm surge," he pressed. "Raw. Like you'd ripped the landscape's ribs out." His voice softened. "I really liked them, like lots of folks."
"Thanks, I responded. I liked them very much, but perhaps not my best work, though," was all I could say.
Paul’s gaze remained locked on me, unblinking, his cheeks flushing slightly beneath the damp sheen of rain still clinging to his dark hair. The silence stretched, heavy as wet canvas. Ben cleared his throat, the sound rough in the charged stillness. He gestured towards me with his charcoal stub, its tip blackened from swift, urgent strokes.
"So, Uncle," Paul finally spoke, his voice low and surprisingly steady, though his knuckles whitened where he gripped his wet jacket. "What do you think, Ben?" his eyes remained fixed on mine, assessing, searching. "Does he have the... presence?"
Ben lowered his sketchpad slowly. "Not up to me, lad," Ben rasped, setting the sketchpad aside. "It’s up to you, but he certainly has presence."
Paul didn't hesitate. Rainwater dripped from his dark hair onto the worn floorboards as he shrugged off his soaked jacket and let it fall with a wet slap. His fingers went to the buttons of his flannel shirt, eyes never leaving mine. "Alright then," Paul said, the earlier disbelief replaced by a fierce, focused determination. "Let’s find out if he truly has presence," as he kicked off his muddy boots. "You," he nodded at Ben, "do a sketch. Capture us while Steve and I get acquainted."
Paul peeled off his shirt, revealing lean shoulders taut with wiry muscle earned hauling lobster pots. His jeans followed, shoved down strong thighs. He stepped out of the damp pile, utterly naked. The lamplight caught the sheen of rain still clinging to his collarbones, the trail of dark hair leading down his flat abdomen. He moved with a fisherman’s rolling gait, purposeful and unselfconscious, closing the distance between us.
He didn't pause. His body pressed against the small of my back, its heat startling against my chilled skin. I gasped softly as his other hand settled high on my right thigh, fingers brushing the edge of my pubic hair, a contact feather-light and electrifying.
My breath hitched as he leaned in close behind me, his chest radiating warmth against my shoulder blades, his damp hair tickling my neck. "Look at the moon, Steve," he murmured, his voice rough velvet against my ear. His breath smelled faintly of salt and seaweed and beer. "Just breathe. Forget Uncle Ben. Forget me. Just be here."
His hand remained high on my thigh, a heavy, grounding weight. My skin prickled everywhere. Days spent alone chasing landscapes, months of celibacy, ignoring urges, it all collapsed inward. Heat flooded my belly, fierce and sudden, tightening my core. Below, utterly beyond my control, my cock stirred against my thigh. A slow, insistent thickening. Embarrassment warred with a visceral thrill as warmth bloomed across my cheeks. I stared blindly out at the blurred silver disc of the moon, acutely aware of the soft scratch of charcoal on Ben's pad, and Paul's solid heat pressing my spine, and the undeniable, rising swell beneath my own skin.
Paul must have known. He shifted his stance, widening his legs slightly behind me. The heel of his hand slid infinitesimally higher, grazing the coarse hair at the base of my groin. His thumb pressed deliberately into the crease where thigh met hip, sending a jolt straight through me.
His breath hitched against my ear, a quiet intake, sharp and knowing. "Steady now," he murmured, the words thick, vibrating against my skin. His thumb shifted again, a slow counter-clockwise circle directly against the sensitive skin right beside the root of my cock.
It wasn't accidental. It was intentional. An artist's assessment? A co-conspirator's confirmation? The distinction blurred, and my questions became meaningless. All I felt was the low thrum of arousal and the sheer impossibility of stopping it. Paul felt the hot pulse beneath my skin, the burgeoning stiffness nestling against his knuckles as he whispered into my ear, "You certainly do have presence, Steve."
"I'm sorry," I breathed, staring rigidly at the moonlit harbour below, my voice thick. "I just couldn't stop it." The confession was raw, vulnerable honesty laid bare, sharper than any blade. Ben's charcoal scratched faster, rhythmic, relentless. Paul's thumb pressed deeper into that tender crease, circling deliberately.
I could also feel Paul's cock stiffening between my buttocks as Ben started to chuckle. Paul lives for today, Steve, especially here on the north Norfolk coast," he rasped, "and sometimes, he gets a little excited when the opportunity arises.”
His comment wasn't lewd; it was appraising, like studying the curve of driftwood. "You have a fine cock, Steve. Nice and long, curved wonderfully with a splendid unmasked tip. As for your balls, they are nice and tight against your groin, presenting your body well. Strong and honest." He tapped the sketchpad. "That's what I'm capturing. Life and truth."
"You're telling me," I said. "I know, and it's all his fault if anyone asks."
"I know, and if you ask me, I think you're enjoying the attention," Paul declared as he moved his hand to embrace my hard cock. "It's even pointing upwards, the way I like it."
"Now, now, Paul, be nice to our guest, but it doesn't stop me from capturing the moment, though."
"I'm always nice to our guests, especially ones I meet for the first time, naked," Paul responded as he started to run his hand up and down my shaft.
My mind reeled. Every nerve screamed, embarrassment at being naked and aroused under an old man’s intense scrutiny, exhilaration at Paul’s confident hands exploring my cock, disbelief that this was happening. Yet, beneath the mortification, a fierce current surged. Paul wasn’t just touching; he was claiming, his breath hot and uneven against my neck, his low groan vibrating through me. This felt less like posing and more like surrender to a tide I hadn’t known existed, and I was enjoying the attention, and if he wanted to claim me, he could easily.
Ben’s charcoal flew across the paper in a furious, rhythmic scratching that filled the studio alongside Paul’s escalating breaths behind me. Paul shifted subtly, aligning his rigid cock perfectly between my clenched buttocks, its insistent heat branding me through the sweat-slicked skin. His grip tightened on my shaft, thumb swirling deliberately over the sensitive ridge beneath my crown, coaxing slickness onto his fingers.
Each stroke sent tremors through my thighs, forcing me to brace my weight against Paul, staring unseeing at the moonlit harbour below. Leaning back into Paul’s solid frame became instinctual, seeking his anchoring heat as my own cock pulsed urgently in his relentless grip.
He edged me closer to oblivion with every practised movement. He must have known I was close, but I hid the feeling that my ejaculation was inevitable, having passed the point of no return. A sudden, intense heightening of pleasure and a feeling overcame me, followed by my testicles pulling closer to my body, tight against my perineum.
Paul continued to edge me, and I resigned myself to enjoying it, even if Ben felt shocked as a witness; it would be his nephew's fault. And then powerful, involuntary, rhythmic contractions hit me as my pelvic muscles, my prostate, and the muscles around the base of my penis and anus exploded.
My cock wrapped by Paul's hands, pulsed and throbbed with each contraction, propelling my semen outward in ropes of white and clear liquid. The first spurt was the strongest, a thick jet that splattered hot against the windows I was trying to look through. Four or five more followed, rhythmic bursts that arched onto the dusty floorboards near my feet, each pulse accompanied by a guttural gasp ripped from my throat as my body shuddered uncontrollably against Paul’s solid frame.
Paul’s grip didn't falter; instead, it became possessive, milking the last drops from me as my groin muscles clenched and released. His chuckle vibrated against my damp spine, low and satisfied. "That's presence, alright," he murmured against my ear, his breath scalding. "I like it."
"Well, that was different, I have to say," Ben said as he put down his sketchpad. "Nice to see such a virile man respond in such a way when drawing them, but, Paul, next time, wait for me to finish."
Paul unwrapped himself from behind me, his heat leaving my back as abruptly as it had arrived. He padded barefoot across the studio’s cluttered floorboards, his lean silhouette moving with easy familiarity towards the small galley kitchen tucked into the cottage's rear. The moonlight caught the damp trails my semen had left streaking the windowpane beside me as he filled a glass with water at the sink, his profile thoughtful. My knees buckled then, a sudden, boneless collapse onto the dusty wooden floor beside the cooling puddles of my own release. The aftermath hit me, trembling thighs, a hollow throb deep in my groin, the scent of salt and peat and sex thick in the air.
Paul returned silently, extending the glass he was holding, which I took and gulped the cool water gratefully, its clarity a stark contrast to the feverish haze clinging to me.
Paul stood before me, his cock remaining fiercely erect, jutting proudly from the dark thatch at his groin, a thick, circumcised shaft flushed deep red, its hooded tip glistening faintly. "Right then," he stated, his voice low and steady, devoid of teasing now. "If you agree, Steve, I’d like us to model together properly. For Uncle Ben to finish his Tuke series." The invitation hung there, raw and immense.
A shaky laugh escaped me as I wiped condensation from the glass. Ben’s pale gaze flickered between us, sharp as a blade. "If that happens every time," I managed, meeting Paul’s unwavering blue eyes, the tremor in my voice replaced by a sudden clarity, "I would be utterly delighted to model with you." The declaration felt like stepping off a cliff into clear, cold water.
Paul grinned, fierce and sudden. Ben smiled more at the two naked men in his studio than at the idea that he might finish his project. I don't quite know what came over me, but seeing Paul's cock within easy reach and thinking Ben was accepting of his nephew's sexuality, I put the glass on the window ledge and twisted myself to kneel before Paul, whom I'm sure by this time had worked out what I was going to do.
I hadn’t sucked a cock in so long I’d almost forgotten the technique, but my body remembered the hunger. As I leaned forward, enveloping the thick heat of his shaft in my mouth, it all came rushing back. The salty taste of pre-cum blooming on my tongue, the soft resistance of foreskin yielding beneath my lips, the overwhelming scent of rain-damp skin and musk rising from his groin.
My jaw stretched wide to accommodate him, my tongue pressing firmly against the pulsing underside. A low groan vibrated from Paul’s chest, his hands instinctively tangling in my hair, not guiding, but anchoring himself as I worked.
"I'll leave you to the boys to get better acquainted, Ben said. "It's supposed to be a glorious day tomorrow, and I would like to get out early and sketch you both as many times as I can."
Neither of us responded to Ben. I couldn’t hold back my desire; the fierce need to taste Paul consumed me entirely. My world narrowed to the rhythm of my own desperate suction, the tightening grip of Paul’s fingers in my hair, pulling me deeper onto his cock as his hips began a shallow, instinctive thrust.
Paul’s thighs trembled against my shoulders. His breath came in ragged gasps, each exhale a low, guttural sound that vibrated through his shaft into my skull. His fingers tightened convulsively, forcing my face hard against the wiry curls at his base as he arched forward.
The taste changed abruptly to a hot, salty flood bursting against the roof of my mouth, thick ropes filling my throat as he shuddered violently. I swallowed greedily, milking him with my lips until the frantic pulsing eased, leaving him trembling, his cock softening reluctantly against my tongue.
Paul sagged back against the cluttered workbench, breathing hard. His eyes, glazed and half-lidded, met mine. "Christ, Steve, where did you learn to do that?" he rasped, his voice shredded. He didn’t pull away, though. Instead, his thumb traced the wetness slicking down my lower lip, scoping his semen up by the finger, only to devour it himself.
"I'm sorry if it was all too quick," I said. "I just had to...."
"That's fine, and I'm sorry too. It's been a while since someone did that, and normally I have more control, but clearly, you know what you're doing."
Ben’s shadow fell across us as we looked at each other, his expression unreadable. He glanced at the window pane still streaked with my earlier release, then at the sketchpad lying discarded on a stool. "Sunrise," he stated, his tone flat, practical. "Tide’s out proper then. Meet me down by the Point, where the seals haul out past the shingle and dunes. Be ready."
Paul finally stepped back, the cool air rushing against my skin. "Ready?" he echoed, a slow, tired smile spreading across his face. His gaze drifted over my own spent cock, limp against my thigh, then traced the drying trails on the window. "Oh, he’ll be ready, Uncle." He turned towards the narrow stairs leading to the upper floor. "Come on, photographer. Need sleep if we’re playing statues at dawn."
I followed, my limbs heavy yet thrumming with residual energy. The narrow cottage stairs creaked underfoot. Paul’s small bedroom was chaotic. Fishing nets draped over a chair, sketches pinned haphazardly to the rough plaster walls, the damp scent of wool mingling with old turpentine. Moonlight sliced through the lone window, illuminating the narrow bed.
Paul collapsed onto it without ceremony, pulling me down beside him. The mattress groaned. His skin was startlingly warm against my chilled flesh. He curled around me, his arm heavy across my chest, his breath evening out almost immediately against my shoulder. Exhaustion hit me like a wave. The day’s whiskey, the tension, the raw intimacy, the sudden fierce release, it all coalesced into a profound weariness. My eyelids grew leaden, the scent of Paul’s hair filled my nostrils as I drifted. Sleep pulled me under, deep and silent, an anchor dropping into dark water. The promise of dawn and the unknown contours of the Point felt impossibly distant. For now, there was only this shared warmth, the solid weight against me, and the echoing silence of the cottage below.
To get in touch with the author, send them an email.
