I’ve been painting for quite some time now. Not just anything; I create queer art. Intimate, raw, and erotic pieces that make men hard in ways they didn’t expect. But it’s not all lust; I also craft romantic, emotional art that stirs something deeper, pieces that linger long after you’ve looked away. Some say my work is erotic. Some call it tender. Either way, it’s mine. Every brushstroke, every color, every curve I put on canvas comes from me.
Over time, I built a little community; people who understand my art for what it is and aren’t afraid to desire it. Loyal art collectors who keep coming back, craving more of the raw intimacy I pour onto every canvas.
But a couple of weeks ago, one of them came to me and said something that made my stomach turn.
“Leo...I saw your work,” he said. “But across the street… there’s this shop. It’s not quite the same. The colors are wrong, the emotion’s off. It feels... Like a knockoff.”
I didn’t believe it at first. Until I searched online and saw it for myself. A fellow “artist” who also paints right across the street. A gallery full of half-baked imitations of my pieces. My style. My vibe. Even his store name was eerily similar to mine. The more I scrolled through his art, the tighter my chest felt. Matt wasn’t creating art; he was mimicking it. And now… he was going to find out what happens when you cross the line with me.
The bell above the door jingled when I stepped into his gallery. It smelled like cheap paint and desperation. The walls were lined with his “creations”...poorly executed copies of my most recognizable pieces.
My eyes drifted to a half-finished canvas propped in the corner. It looked similar to my most sought-after portrait: The Neighbor Across The Window. The paint was still wet. It didn’t take me long to realize why it felt so familiar. It oddly resembled a painting I had done of Adam; my straight neighbor who used to flash me from across the window of my room. One evening, in a moment that felt almost unreal, he’d even posed for me nude. That painting of him had been raw, intimate, and utterly mine.
But here… in Matt’s gallery… the colors were muted, the life drained out of it. The composition was tweaked just enough to make it technically different. Yet anyone with an eye could see where he had drawn his “inspiration.”
Matt looked up from behind the register when he heard me enter. “Hi… uh, Le--” He stopped himself mid-word, lips pressing shut like he’d swallowed it down. Pretending not to know who I was. But we both knew better. He had been “inspired” by my paintings a little too much to not know exactly who I am.
“Go on,” I said, stepping further into the gallery, my voice low. “Say my name.”
He fidgeted behind the counter, fingers drumming nervously on the wood. “I-uh-I don’t think we’ve met.”
I tilted my head, letting my eyes wander over the walls plastered with his sad little imitations of my art. “That’s cute,” I murmured. “You can use my paintings, my style, even the way I sign my pieces… but you can’t say my name?”
His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard. “Look, I..”
“You know exactly who I am, Matt,” I interrupted, my voice cutting sharp. “And yet here you are. Imitating my work and my style. Poorly.”
Matt flinched at the weight in my voice.
“Do you even realize how much work goes into every one of my paintings?” I stepped closer, my shoes thudding lightly against the cheap laminate flooring. “Every piece I create is an expression of me. My thoughts. My hands. My art. And you…” I let my eyes sweep over the walls again. “…you’ve been copying them. Repeatedly. For months. Without hesitation. Without shame.”
“Leo… uh…” Matt stammered, his hands gripping the edge of the counter. “I… uhm… I’m sorry. I didn’t know you’d find out.”
I tilted my head slightly, letting his guilt hang heavy in the air. “Well,” I said, my voice calm but sharp, “deep down, I’ve always known. I’ve seen your little knockoffs floating around for months now. But lately…” I let my eyes drift over the poorly imitated paintings on the walls. “…you’ve shown no shame. No hesitation. You really ought to be punished for this.”
Matt’s face flushed crimson. “I’m sorry, Leo. I swear I didn’t mean...”
“No, don’t swear.” I stepped closer, my shoes clicking against the cheap floor. He shrank back instinctively. “You wanted to mislead my loyal art collections right?"
He swallowed hard. “I am sorry, I just… wanted to be like you.”
“Like me?” I chuckled darkly, my voice dropping. “Oh, Matt. You’re not even close.”
His lips parted like he wanted to defend himself, but there was nothing he could say to defend himself.
I took another step forward, closing the space between us, close enough now that I could feel the nervous energy radiating off him. “Do you really want to prove you’re sorry?” I asked quietly, my tone laced with dangerous amusement.
“Yes, Leo…” he murmured, his voice low.
A faint smirk tugged at the corner of my mouth. “Then show me.”
His eyes darted up, uncertainty flickering in them, but his body didn’t resist as I reached out and brushed my fingers along his jawline.
“On your knees,” I commanded.
Matt hesitated for a split second before sinking slowly to the floor. The sight of him there, looking up at me with wide, nervous eyes, made a deep satisfaction coil in my chest.
“Good boy,” I said softly, unbuttoning the top of my jeans with deliberate slowness. “You’ve been so eager to take from me,” I murmured, letting the tip hover close enough for him to smell the heat rising off me. “So let’s see how well you handle it when I give it to you.”
His eyes flicked up, nervous but hungry.
His lips parted slightly as I pulled myself free, the thick weight of my cock hanging just inches from his face. He licked his lips, like he’d been wanting it so bad. I undid my jeans and tugged my cock out of my underwear...around six inches, completely soft. But I wanted to see if he could do it. “Get me hard. Show me how sorry you really are.”
"Uh-Okay. I'll try", he replied.
“You want this, don’t you?” I murmured, my fingers threading lightly through his hair.
“Yes, I do…” he whispered again, almost breathless.
“Then open up.”
Matt’s mouth opened, his tongue darting out to wet his lips. I gripped his hair firmer, guiding his head closer. “No teeth. Be a good little slut for me and suck properly.”
The moment his lips wrapped around my cock, I let out a low groan, the heat of his mouth pulling a shiver from my spine. “That’s it,” I murmured. “Nice and slow. Let me see how sorry you really are.”
Matt whimpered softly around my cock as he took me deeper, his tongue sliding clumsily along the underside. I tightened my grip in his hair, forcing his head lower, feeling his lips stretch around the base. He gagged, but I didn’t let up. “Come on, take it all,” I growled.
His throat worked around me as he tried to adjust, wet sounds filling the small gallery as his spit began to coat my shaft. He bobbed his head faster now, eager, almost frantic, as though effort alone could make up for his lack of skill. I watched him struggle, his jaw flexing as he tried to relax and let me in deeper.
“Not too fast,” I murmured, tugging sharply on his hair to slow his rhythm. “If you’re going to steal from me, you better know how to use that mouth.”
He moaned around me, the vibration sending a faint tingle up my spine. I pushed his head down again, holding him there just a second too long until he choked, his hands gripping my thighs for balance. Saliva dripped from his lips and down his chin as he pulled back for air, eyes glassy but determined.
“That’s it,” I said with a low chuckle. “Don’t make me do all the work for you. Earn it, Matt.”
He went back down, this time slower, trying to swirl his tongue around my tip as he sucked. He hollowed his cheeks, the pressure tighter now, but there was still something missing. The rhythm felt off. His desperation was obvious, but it didn’t ignite the spark I wanted.
No matter how eager he looked, no matter how desperately he tried to please me, my cock stayed stubbornly soft in his mouth. His technique was sloppy, unpracticed. He sucked harder, sealing his lips tighter, his tongue flicking hurriedly like he could will me to respond.
It didn’t work.
With a frustrated growl, I yanked his head back roughly, forcing him off with a wet pop. He gasped, spit trailing from my shaft to his reddened lips.
“You can’t even get me hard,” I said coldly. “How do you expect to use this knockoff shit and get real art collectors hard with your erotic work?”
“Leo… please…” he panted, his voice breaking. “Let me try again. I can do better. I want to suck you..please.”
“You haven’t earned my cock,” I said coldly, tucking myself back into my underwear and zipping up my jeans. Matt stayed kneeling, head lowered, saliva glistening on his swollen lips as he panted softly....desperate little thing.
I ran my thumb along his jaw, smearing the wetness across his cheek. “Clean yourself up boy,” I murmured, my voice low and sharp. “And think about what you've done”
His wide eyes flicked up to mine, full of guilt and need. “Sorry, Leo…” he whispered.
I straightened, brushing the dust from my palms. “You want to be like me, Matt? Start by learning what it takes to please men… and maybe next time I’ll let you suck on my cock, you slut.”
He nodded silently, still kneeling like a punished desperate slut.
As I turned to leave, I tossed one last glance over my shoulder. “I’ll be watching,” I said, my voice smooth as silk, “so don’t give me another reason to come back.”
The bell above the door jingled as I stepped out, leaving Matt on his knees in the middle of his gallery… still trembling, still desperate to be me, and finally knowing exactly who the real artist was.
Note: I hope you enjoyed this cheeky little one-part story.... a bit of denial, a bit of tension… and a whole lot of fun. ;)
