"You've been so fucking good," I continued, my climax approaching. "Despite that little slip-up today, fourteen days without shooting that load is impressive. Such dedication deserves acknowledgment."
His eyes widened, hope flaring. He redoubled his efforts, sucking harder and faster, his tongue working against the sensitive spot just under the head. The skill demonstrated how completely he'd absorbed my instruction, how eagerly he applied himself to mastering whatever I taught him.
"Not yet," I clarified. "Your essence isn't quite ready. I estimate another week before it reaches the necessary potency. But soon, Micah. Soon, your release will become part of our work, fused into our greatest creation."
Disappointment flickered briefly before submission reclaimed his expression. His acceptance of continued denial pleased me immensely. Another indication of his progressing transformation.
When I felt my climax approaching, I pulled free from his mouth with a wet pop. "Close your eyes," I instructed, stroking myself rapidly, the slick sounds filling the studio.
He obeyed, face upturned toward me, lips parted and swollen from use. The sight of him waiting eagerly to be marked pushed me over the edge. I aimed deliberately, my release coming in thick, hot ropes across his face. My cum painted his face—lips, lashes, throat. Mine. Utterly.
"Open your eyes," I commanded when the last pulse subsided. "Look at what marks you as mine."
His eyes opened slowly, submission and arousal evident in his dilated pupils. My cum dripped down his flushed cheeks, catching on his lips and eyelashes, some sliding down to pool at the hollow of his throat.
"Beautiful," I murmured, appreciating the aesthetic quality. "Marked inside and out as my canvas."
My thumb pushed through the thick wetness on his cheek, pressing a drop of cum between his parted lips. He accepted hungrily, sucking my thumb clean.
"Thank you for your cum, Daddy," he whispered, voice wrecked from the rough treatment of his throat. His own cock remained achingly hard, the tip an angry red, pre-cum still leaking steadily.
I straightened my clothing. "Clean yourself. We have final preparations for tomorrow's exhibition."
He rose gracefully from his knees, moving to the small bathroom adjoining the studio. Before leaving, he collected the glowing moth, its light reflecting off the cum still marking his face. I watched him go, admiring the transformation. Two weeksago, shame would have colored his actions. Now he moved with purpose and satisfaction.
While he cleaned himself, I examined the canvas he'd been working on when I arrived. The exhibition opening tomorrow represented the culmination of years of work. Not merely the paintings themselves, but the careful cultivation of reputation and connections that would ensure their reception. The addition of Micah as my official protégé added a new dimension to the narrative I'd constructed, but he was ready.
When he returned, dressed once more though still carrying the faint flush of his punishment and service, I outlined our remaining tasks. The moth remained tucked against his side, its glow subdued but constant.
"The gallery director expects us at four," I explained. "The spotlight angles are critical for activating the bone ash properly."
Micah nodded.
"I've selected attire for tomorrow evening," I continued. "Complementary to my color palette without appearing deliberate."
"Should I pick it up from your tailor?" he asked. He absently traced the stump of his missing finger joint with his thumb, a habit he'd developed since the amputation.
"Already handled. It awaits you at home." I moved to the cabinet where specialized tools were stored under lock and key. "For now, we must complete the protective coating on the centerpiece. The coating must be exact—enough to protect, but not dull the glow."
As we worked side by side preparing the final protective glaze, I observed his technique, satisfied. The application required steady hands and absolute focus. He'd adapted remarkably to working with his maimed hand, transforming what might have been a disadvantage into a unique approach.
"I've also prepared something special for tomorrow," I said, measuring precise amounts of the specialized coating. "Cufflinks containing microscopic elements from our pianist. A private acknowledgment of your contribution, visible yet secret in meaning."
His eyes lifted to mine. “Thank you, Daddy.”
“Think nothing of it, my boy. You’ve earned it.”
The preparation continued for several hours, each canvas receiving its final protective treatment. Micah absorbed every correction, every refinement of technique, his desire to please me evident in his meticulous attention to detail.
When the work was finally complete, satisfaction settled between us like comfortable silence.
"You've progressed beyond my expectations," I told him as we cleaned our tools. "Despite your momentary lapse today. The exhibition will mark your formal introduction to my professional circle, but it represents something far more significant between us."
"The beginning of our true collaboration," he replied, understanding perfectly what remained unspoken. His maimed hand cradled the moth against his chest.
"Indeed." My hand rested briefly on his shoulder. "Soon you'll be ready for your first solo project."
The anticipation that flashed across his features pleased me deeply. His hunger for advancement, for deeper immersion in our work, had developed perfectly under my guidance.
