"I—I didn't mean—"
"Say. It. Again."
"Daddy," I whispered, and his hand resumed its movement with new purpose.
"Perfect," he breathed. "My perfect boy."
His free hand came up to steady my painting hand, guiding me to continue working even as his other hand undid my jeans.The cool air hit my heated skin for just a moment before his hand wrapped around my bare cock, and the sensation was so overwhelming I nearly dropped the brush.
"Keep painting," he commanded softly. "Keep creating while I take care of you."
I tried to, but my strokes became increasingly erratic as his hand moved on me with a sureness that made my breath catch. Every nerve ending seemed to fire at once, my body responding to his touch in ways I'd never allowed myself to imagine.
This was wrong. Everything I'd been taught screamed that this was damnation, that the heat pooling in my groin was hellfire, that the pleasure building in my spine was the devil's own temptation. But if this was sin, why did it feel like salvation? Why did Ezra's touch feel more sacred than any blessing I'd received in church?
My cock throbbed in his grip, harder than I'd ever been. But this wasn't like those desperate, guilty fumbles in the dark. This was deliberate, reverent.
My hips moved of their own accord, seeking more of Ezra's touch, and I gasped at how good it felt to stop fighting, to stop denying, to simply let my body want what it wanted.
"There you are. My good boy, finally letting yourself feel what you deserve." His lips pressed against the side of my neck, and I shuddered at the contact. "Do you have any idea what it does to me, watching you discover pleasure? Watching you stop fighting yourself?"
He pressed closer, letting me feel the hard line of his cock against my back, evidence of how much my surrender affected him. "You're making Daddy so proud," he murmured, and the combination of his arousal and his praise sent fresh heat spiraling through me. "So beautiful when you let go."
The bone ash on the canvas seemed to pulse in time with my heartbeat. My legs trembled, muscles I'd never been aware ofclenching and releasing. I'd touched myself before, of course, but this was something else entirely. This was worship, but not the kind I'd been taught.
"How long you've waited," he murmured against my neck. "How long you've denied yourself. But you don't have to anymore. Daddy's going to take care of everything."
The word 'Daddy' sent a fresh spike of heat through me. Not the father I'd never known, not the Father in Heaven I'd been taught to fear, but something else—protector, teacher, the one who saw my darkness and called it good. My body shook, every muscle drawing tight as something immense built inside me.
Years of shame tried to surface—memories of cold showers meant to kill desire, of prayers begged through gritted teeth, of my grandmother's tears when she found those drawings hidden under my mattress. But stronger than the shame was this: the feeling of being held, being seen, being accepted exactly as I was. If God had made me wrong, then why did this feel like the first time I'd ever been right?
His words. His hand. The bone ash beneath my fingers. It all built into something like rapture. My body drew taut as a bowstring, every muscle tensing. I was standing at the edge of something vast and terrifying and holy.
"I—I can't—Ezra, I'm going to—"
"Let go," he said simply. "Let yourself have this."
Pleasure struck like rapture. Like being consumed from within by the God I was taught to fear. My vision blacked out completely, my body convulsing with an intensity that bordered on religious ecstasy. Somewhere distantly, I heard myself cry out—not the muffled sounds I'd trained myself to make, but something raw and honest and free.
My cum arced onto the canvas where the bone ash still glistened wet, the two substances mixing in abstract patterns. Through the haze of aftershocks, I watched it happen with a kindof awe. We'd made something new, something that shouldn't exist. My shame and my pleasure and the remains of the dead had all transformed into art. Life and death combined on the surface, creating something new, something that belonged to both of us.
My knees gave out completely. Only Ezra's arm around my waist kept me upright as aftershocks wracked my body. I dropped the brush, unable to hold it any longer.
"I've got you," Ezra murmured, turning me in his arms and guiding me to the nearby chair. "I've got you, sweet boy."
I collapsed into the seat, boneless and overwhelmed. Tears leaked from the corners of my eyes, not from sadness but from the sheer intensity of finally, finally being touched, being seen, being accepted for exactly what I was.
Ezra knelt and reached for a cloth. "Let me take care of you," he murmured, his touch infinitely gentle on my oversensitive skin. I hissed at the contact, still too raw, and he soothed me with soft sounds. "I know, sweet boy. I know. Just let me clean you up."
He wiped down my jeans where I'd made a mess, then carefully tucked me away, his movements reverent rather than clinical. Only then did he turn his attention to my face, his clean hand gentle as he wiped tears from my cheeks.
"You did so well," he said softly. "If you need to cry, let it happen. You're safe here."
"I'm sorry," I whispered, suddenly noticing the mingled substances on the canvas. "I ruined your painting. The bone ash—"
"You ruined nothing," Ezra said firmly, following my gaze. "Look at what you've created. The way the materials merged, the patterns they formed. You made something beautiful, Micah. Something good."
The words sank deep, displacing years of shame. Beautiful. Good. Not the broken thing I'd been taught I was, but someone capable of creating beauty even in my most vulnerable moments.
