Drawn to Him

AUTHOR'S NOTE

This story was originally written to be published in the Illustrated Stories category, but because of changes to the site's policy regarding artwork, I am publishing it in Toys & Masturbation without the artwork included instead. You may read more about the policy change regarding artwork in the The Visual Artists Corner in the forums.

For the story, I'd commissioned three drawings from the very talented DoctorWatson1975. As of this writing, the artwork that was to be included with the story is visible in his thread in the forums section of the site. If you'd like to see the drawings, for as long as they are available, navigate to The Visual Artists Corner in the forums. Search for Drawings commissioned by @SanityCheck, for use in a story he is writing. The drawings are presented in the proper order. In the story text, I will include a placeholder stating where each of the drawings would have appeared.

If you liked the Doc's work, leave him a comment. I'm sure he'd enjoy the feedback.

If you'd like additional help finding the drawings, more detailed instructions follow.

Because links are forbidden, you may reach the forums by one of the methods listed.

1) Clicking the link on the front page (found at the bottom left of the page).

2) Typing Literotica Forums into a search engine.

3) Navigating to the forums directly by entering the word forum and a dot before the site address.

After arriving in the forums, scroll down to The Visual Artists Corner. It is the sixth entry in the list. Click the link to enter the forum.

The drawings can be found in the discussion titled My Erotic Art - DoctorWatson. Scroll down until you find the discussion. As of this writing, the discussion is on the first page, but it is unlikely to remain there. The drawings are located on the seventh page, post number 172.

You may more quickly find the entry by using the search function. In the upper right corner, just above the blue button labeled Post Thread, there is the search icon, a magnifying glass labeled Search. Click to search.

Enter Drawings commissioned by @SanityCheck, for use in a story he is writing. into the search box and click the Search button. As of this writing, three results will appear. Click on the first entry, the one that shows the exact match for the phrase.

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I smiled to myself as Patches, my Calico, jumped onto my bed and demanded scratches. Having him greet me when I came home always improved my mood.

"How's my boy?" I murmured as he purred and rubbed his head against my hand.

He meowed that he was doing okay, and my small smile widened. After giving him another vigorous but gentle scratch between his ears, I picked my purse up from the bed, where I'd placed it when Patches demanded my attention, and hung it in my closet. I wanted to remove my low-heeled pumps and change into something more comfortable than my suit, but I didn't. I was wearing shoes until I sealed the OSB---oriented strand board---I'd found beneath the linoleum.

I'd spent all weekend moving furniture from one room to another, before grunting and sweating as I ripped up the old, disgusting carpeting and linoleum. When I finished the room, I moved the furniture back in and then started on the next one.

There were dull and scarred hardwood floors under the carpeting, which would be nice once I had them refinished, but finding and carefully removing the pad staples and carpet strips, so I didn't damage the floor any more than it already was, had been an exercise in tedious frustration.

When I'd discovered the OSB someone had put over the original plank subfloor before glueing down the linoleum, after a lot of grumbling, I'd driven to the home improvement center and bought two, 5-gallon buckets of a thick sealer to splinter-proof the wood, so I didn't have to wear shoes all the time, and to protect my socks, until the new floors were installed. Unfortunately, getting the staples and linoleum glue up had proven to be a much bigger task than I'd anticipated, and by the time I was finished, I was too exhausted, stiff, and sore to even consider starting the sealing project, even if it hadn't been late Sunday afternoon... which it had been.

I considered changing into something grungy, so that I could start cutting the ripped-up carpet and linoleum piled in one-half of my garage into small enough pieces that I could start stuffing them into my trash can... but I couldn't face that. Not today.

Removing my jacket, I hung it up as well and then made my way into the kitchen. Patches and I were living the dream. We'd moved to Chattanooga from Sevierville about a year ago when I'd been offered a Branch Manager's job with Pinnacle Financial Partners. I'd leapt at the promotion, and three months ago, I'd bought my first house. The house had good bones, but being built in 1925, and with no updates since probably the sixties, the small, two-bedroom house was in desperate need of a sprucing up.

When I'd made my offer, I was excited with the idea of starting work to convert the house into my home, but it hadn't taken long before the shine had worn off that idea. I'd quickly learned that everything took twice as long, and cost twice as much, as I expected. So far, both of my projects had proved that to be true.

Still, after I'd finished painting over the garish blue walls and the dull ceiling and trim, the greatly improved appearance, and finishing my first project, had energized me. Ripping up the flooring reminded me of how much work, and expense, I still had to go. I'd decided to rip up the floors because I didn't think it would cost very much, and I could work on filling holes and gouges in the hardwoods while waiting on my bonus so they'd be ready to go when I had the money. Who expects to have to buy four hundred dollars of paint for the floor?

Seeing the ancient appliances was another reminder of how expensive the renovation was going to be. I was doing what I could to keep the cost down, like doing my own painting, and ripping up carpeting and linoleum before hiring someone to come in to install and refinish the hardwoods, but it was still going to take years for me to complete the renovations... and I hadn't done anything to the outside of the property except mow the grass.

With Patches weaving between and around my legs, I prepared his dinner before starting on my own. After working all day, and still achy from all the tugging, pulling, scraping, and crawling around on my hands and knees the two days before, I didn't feel like cooking, so a frozen microwave meal it was.

As the cheap countertop microwave buzzed, I glanced around. The walls looked great, and in a couple of months, the floors would look great too, but the appliances, cabinets, and countertops were depressing. I didn't know what was worse... the kitchen or the single bathroom.

While the bathroom was stained and tired, the kitchen appliances were green for God's sake---what I'd since learned was called avocado---and was a popular color in the 1960. The countertop was also a shiny green, where it wasn't so badly dulled and scarred, and the cabinets seemed to be covered in wallpaper that was, of course, a green and white pattern that looked like baby poo had run down them. Only my stainless-steel refrigerator, newly purchased after I moved in, didn't hurt my eyes. Nodding to myself, I reaffirmed the kitchen had to be next.

The good thing about moving to Chattanooga was my friends back in Sevierville were far enough away that I didn't go out every weekend, which saved me time and money that I could put toward my house. The bad thing about moving to Chattanooga was my friends were back in Sevierville, more than two hours away, and I hadn't made any new ones in the almost year I'd been in Chattanooga.

To combat boredom and loneliness, I'd taken up drawing again. I'd always loved to draw, and everyone said I was good at it, but Dad had said if he was going to pay for my college, I would have to get a degree in something that would pay enough so that I could earn a living. I knew he was right, so I satisfied my creative side as a hobby. Maybe, someday, when I was done with this damned house, and I had a few extra hours a week to devote to my art, I could become one of those local artist types and earn a few bucks on the side.

As I ate, I persistently tried to convince myself that after I finished, I was going to change out of my skirt and blouse into some sweats and go cut carpet, but as I quickly washed my plate and glass, because I didn't have a dishwasher, I knew I wouldn't. I'd worked my ass off this weekend, so instead of cutting carpet, I decided to do some laundry. Doing a chore gave me the excuse I needed to justify not working on the carpet.

After the load was in the washer, I looked around the living room to see if there was some small, mundane task that needed doing while I waited for the washer to finish. Only about fifty things came to mind, but I didn't want to do any of them.

Deciding that a load of laundry was enough after the weekend I'd had, and that I deserved a small reward for all my hard work, I glanced at the four-legged stool, easel, and repurposed nightstand tucked into the corner near the living room window, the one that let in the amazing evening light. Someday the tiny second bedroom might become my studio, but right now, it was my junk room.

I started toward the stool, stopped as I debated changing into something more comfortable, but started again. Everything more comfortable was in the wash.

I settled on my stool, all my frustrations with the house disappearing. Looking at my situation logically, I'd made great progress so far, I hadn't bankrupted myself trying to do too much too fast, and I was going to make another huge stride forward as soon as I received my quarterly bonus to pay for the floor.

I sat for a moment, staring at the partially completed pencil sketch. On the paper, Patches was taking the place of Tom as he waited and stared at a perfect little Jerry like mouse hole in the wall, the image inspired by Patches becoming captivated by a hole in the wall plaster when I'd been painting. I considered working on that, but I didn't want to think about my house anymore, so I carefully flipped the paper over the top.

I stared at the blank page a moment before I smiled. Today some guy I'd never seen before came into the branch to discuss moving his business account to Pinnacle. I'd given him all the information he wanted, and we'd had a productive discussion about how Pinnacle could help him grow his masonry business. The thirty-minute conversation had been completely professional, and he was wearing a wedding ring---dammit---but oh-my-God had he been good looking.

[Image #1]

Picking up my charcoal, my hand began to move. I was drawing from memory, but it didn't matter if I didn't get every detail exactly right. It wasn't like Mr. Sloyan was ever going to see the work.

I started with his face. I roughed in the major shapes, my hand moving without conscious thought. With quick, sure motions, I shaped his strong jaw, his thin and noble nose, and the way his hair lay across his forehead. I studied the lines before adjusting a bit here, tweaking a little there. Satisfied with the basic shapes, I went to work on his eyes and mouth. Eyes always gave me trouble, and just like always, it took me several attempts before I had them roughly as I wanted them.

With the fiddly parts of the face completed, I began working on his torso with broad, bold strokes. I smiled to myself as I realized I was drawing him without a shirt. He'd been wearing a short-sleeved shirt, and I'd certainly noticed his muscular arms as he sat in my office, so I extended that to what I hadn't been able to see. I didn't fully draw his chest, leaving that part unfinished after I roughed in the basic shapes of his shoulders and arms.

After a few moments of work, I paused to study my progress so far. The light was fading, so I reached up and turned on the lamp before I made a few adjustments here and there until I was satisfied.

The rough outlines in place, I switched to a darker charcoal and returned to his face to begin adding details, shading in his hair and trying to capture his quick smile and lively eyes. As I added lines and shading, Paul began to come alive. A small smile colored my lips as my hand worked to add details and dimension to the drawing.

Without conscious thought, I changed his eyes slightly so that he was staring directly at me, his gaze speaking of his desire. Satisfied with his eyes, I moved on to his lips. His lips were slightly parted, and I could tell he wanted me just as I wanted him, his gaze and small smile mirroring my own to speak of our mutual attraction.

I squirmed slightly on my stool as a pleasant heaviness and warmth spread inside my womanhood. I continued to work on his face until I was satisfied. It wasn't a perfect representation of Paul's face because I'd narrowed his nose slightly and strengthened his cheekbones, bringing him closer to what I considered attractive in a man.

I switched back to my grapevine charcoal and began to outline again. I'd stopped with his shoulders and just a hint of his chest and arms, but now I wanted to see more, to see how I imagined Paul looked under his shirt. With quick sure motions, I sketched in his torso, my lines sculpting his chest and arms. With an almost silent groan, I switched back to my darker charcoal. As before, I added lines and shadows to give the drawing depth and realism.

The man in the drawing, though drifting away from Paul Sloyan, was coming to life. With every touch of charcoal to paper increasing the realism, I longed to feel his touch. My hand busy, I added shading and subtle marks to define his muscular chest and powerful arms. I paused, examining my work. It had been so long since I'd felt the tender touch of a man, and I ached for the man's touch. I changed my charcoal, and returned to the drawing, tweaking light and shadow, and adjusting his smile and eyes. Sometimes a drawing spoke to me and took on a life of its own. This was one such drawing.

My excitement increasing, my right hand danced over the paper as I imagined the man and me walking hand in hand through the Hunter Museum or riding the carousel at Coolidge Park. My smile spread slightly. Even more fun would be playing in the park's fountain so that our white shirts stuck to us like second skins.

My hand slowing, I examined the drawing as the heaviness in my womanhood increased. I studied the man. He looked at me from the paper, his gaze and face soft, but there was a hunger there, and I was returning his gaze in kind.

Leaning back on the stool, I looked into the kitchen to check the time. The three hours that had passed felt like three minutes. Looking over my drawing with a critical eye, I picked up my charcoal again and made a few tiny adjustments. It wasn't my most technically advanced drawing, but there was something about it, something that continued to speak to me. It was almost as if the man were calling to me. I smiled at the thought. I should be so lucky that a man like the one in the drawing would want me.

With a groan, being careful not to transfer the charcoal on my hand and fingers to my blouse, I stretched, suddenly feeling the three hours sitting on the backless stool. It was getting late, I needed to move the laundry into the dryer, and I needed to shower, but I couldn't seem to stop staring at the drawing. The charcoal still held loosely in my hand, I touched the paper, adding a bit of shadow here, softening a line there. As I gazed at the drawing, I considered sealing the piece and then having it framed, though with his bedroom eyes and exposed chest, the piece wasn't something I'd be comfortable hanging in my living room. A tiny smile touched my lips as I considered. My bedroom wall, however, was a possibility, positioned so I could see it as I lay in bed. My smile grew slightly. I'd look at the drawing tomorrow and decide if it was worth displaying.

[Image #2]

I was about to put my charcoal down and go move the laundry before taking my shower, when from the corner of my eye I saw the picture change slightly. That was impossible, of course, but the perceived movement instantly captured my attention and caused my gaze to snap back to the drawing. I stared at the picture, trying to determine what had changed.

I could see nothing different. I watched the drawing for a long moment before smiling to myself. It must have been a trick of the lamp light reflecting off the lenses of my glasses.

I was moving to put my charcoal down again, keeping an eye on the drawing this time, when the man began reaching out of the paper, a gentle smile on his lips as he slowly reached for my face. I was so shocked that the nub of charcoal fell from my hand, but I didn't feel threatened or afraid.

Leaning out of the easel, his face soft and kind, he gently caressed my cheek. His hand was warm and soft, and though I flinched with his gentle touch, I didn't pull back. As I relaxed under his caress, his hand slowly, gently, left my cheek before wrapping around the back of my head to pull my lips to his. His smile soft, his touch light, I could have easily broken away as he drew my lips to his, but I didn't.

Our lips met in a slow and gentle caress. As our lips parted, he watched me, his gaze speaking of his desire. After a moment, I leaned in, took his head in my own hand, and pulled his lips to mine. The kiss was more heated than our first, and after I pulled back a second time, he watched my face, his lips silent, but his eyes speaking volumes.

Taking his hand, I urged him closer as I rose from the stool. With a warm and gentle smile, he stepped from the easel, appearing as if stepping through an invisible portal. Though I'd drawn him only to his chest, he stood before me in all his male glory. He was perfect in every measure, with his body lean and muscular, his muscles taut and well defined, and his classically handsome face clearly expressing his desire for me.

He stepped closer, his manhood proudly erect and weeping for my touch. This couldn't be happening, this stranger of light and dark appearing from some unknown place directly in front of me, but I wasn't afraid. I stood, watching, waiting for what he would do next, unable and unwilling to move. Taking me into his arms, he drew me into his chest, his manhood pressing into my stomach as he kissed me. I moaned into the kiss, my flesh heating as my knees weakened. Never had a kiss been so powerful.

As the kiss slowly dissolved, I tried to step back, but he continued to hold me as he gazed into my eyes. I was trapped by his gaze, frozen like a mouse confronting a predator, but I knew this man was no danger to me. As he gradually relaxed his embrace, I took a step back. As I did, he reached for my face again, this time taking my glasses, gently removing them, and placing them on the nightstand that held my art supplies. His movement was steady and sure, placing the lenses in the only available spot, yet at no time did his gaze break with mine.

After placing the glasses aside, he cupped my face, holding me gently as he stared into my eyes. Again I was the mouse. He held my face for a long moment, his gaze intense, as if waiting for something, some signal. Swallowing hard, I nodded slowly.

With a smile, he released my face, his hands drifting down my neck and across my shoulders to meet at my throat. His fingers deft, he slowly, gently, worked the buttons of my blouse, his hands caressing my flesh with every movement.

As the last button of my blouse parted, I began to pant slightly. As one of his hands went slowly around my back, the other drifted up my body. His delicate touch left behind a crackling trail of pleasure as it traveled upwards between my breasts and along my throat. Again taking my lips, he drew me into his warm chest, one hand around my back, the other behind my head to hold my lips to his. My passions fully aflame and consuming me, I moaned into the kiss.

As our lips parted, he slowly slid my blouse over my shoulders, and as it fluttered to the floor, his sure and nimble fingers quickly unhooked the clasp of my brassiere. I gasped with the sudden lessening of tension, catching my breasts before their covering could fall away. I whimpered softly as he slowly drew the straps over my arms, and as he did, I released my mounds to free them from their lacy prison.

He pulled me into his body a third time, my breasts flattening against his muscular chest as his lips nuzzled at my neck and ear. I squirmed in his embrace, wanting, needing, to feel his hardness inside me. Holding me close, he kissed me from ear to ear, his lips and tongue sensuously caressing my neck and throat. Moaning with pent up desire, I writhed as I was consumed by my yearnings.

Having taken his fill from my neck, he released me, but as I began to kneel, intending to take his hardness into my mouth, he pulled me upward while turning my back to him. Pulling me firmly into his chest with strong hands, he roughly shoved my skirt and panties down, as if he couldn't contain his desire another moment.

Mewling softly in excitement and desire as I stepped out of my skirt, he crouched slightly before guiding his hardness into my wetness. Holding me tight, he began to slowly lunge into me, his cock filling me to perfection. My mouth opening in a silent scream of ecstasy, he held me close, his big, strong hands gripping my hips as his cock plumbed the depths of my womanhood.

I could feel my orgasm coming already. My face twisting in pleasure, I surrounded his head with my arm to hold his lips to my neck and shoulder. As I squirmed and writhed, he thrust into me, his cock stretching and touching me as never before, taking me to the edge of pain, and the peak of pleasure.

[Image #3]

I began to moan, then whimper, as my orgasm surrounded me while rising to a terrifying height, my flesh burning as if the lamp's bulb was a tiny sun. Unable to move, unable to speak, I endured as my looming rapture climbed higher, and then higher still.

I reached for myself, needing a push to end the exquisite torture of my approaching rapture, to stop the erotic pain of my imminent orgasm, but before I could touch myself, he blocked my hand and gently, but firmly, pulled it away. I moaned loudly with his tug of my hand, unable to endure, but unwilling to stop.

Feeling unstable despite the shortness of my heels, I began to sag as I tipped into the abyss, my legs no longer able to support me. My moan became a long, almost inaudible wail as the man held me tight, his chin draped over my shoulder as he watched me struggle against my coming destruction.

Clasped tightly to his chest, I barked as I sizzled in the roaring fire of my bliss. I sagged, tried to rally, but sagged again as my face twisted. The man tightened his embrace as I gripped his hair, mewling softly and fighting my body as I struggled to keep my feet.

As I battled my pleasure, the man lunged deep with a harsh grunting growl as his essence flowed into me. Holding me tight as I writhed, his climax as I orgasmed pushed my release on. I wanted to scream, I needed to scream my pleasure to the room, but the power of my rapture had silenced my voice.

Exhaling slowly, my eyes closed, I slowly drew my hand from inside my skirt. Blowing out a long and cleansing breath, I relaxed onto the stool, using the last of my strength to stop myself from turning into a puddle of goo and running into the floor. When I'd gathered enough strength to open my eyes, I saw Patches sitting on the arm of the nearby chair, staring at me.

"What?" I growled, not liking how he was judging me.

Saying nothing, he rose and sauntered along the chair's back before jumping to the floor and strolling away without a backward glance.

I sat for another long moment on the stool, basking in the warmth of my orgasm. That had been a good one, and all the tension I'd been holding for the past several days was gone. Thank God my skirt was black so the charcoal smudges on my hand and fingers wouldn't stain. I sighed as I looked at the man staring at me from the easel.

I smiled. I still didn't know if I was going to have the drawing framed, but even if I didn't, the man was going to be paying a visit to my bedroom, and soon, because I wanted to see what he could do when I wasn't perched on a stool.