Mixed Media by Devon Layne

In 2016, I was traveling around the world with a backpack and my computer. I read a request for submissions to an anthology of erotica titled Lustily Ever After. Submissions were to be retelling of fairy tales, myths, or legends with an erotic twist. I’d been working on a series of stories that each looked at the myth of Pygmalion, the artist who fell in love with his sculpture for eventual publication under my pen name, Devon Layne. I sat on the balcony of my hotel room in Southern Thailand, looking out at the beach and began typing a story that considered the myth from the opposite direction. What would happen if it was the artwork that fell in love with the artist? The story was published in the anthology Lustily Ever After later that year and in the 2017 release of Devon Layne’s Pygmalion Revisited, a series of six stories that look at the myth from different directions. I include this story even though it was published under the name Devon Layne because it is only gently erotic and very romantic. ©2018 Elder Road Books.

Mixed Media

MY FIRST AWARENESS was a splash of color—a violent assault on my infant senses. An awakening. It touched every fiber of my latent being with passion, anger, madness.

I was alive.

And then there was nothing.

No. There was, with my awareness of self, an awareness of other, as well. I dwelt upon that.

I would like to claim that in my embryonic state, all the mysteries of the universe were revealed. That I transcended the mundane. That I understood the mind of God. But truthfully, those were concepts that had not even dawned on my burgeoning awareness. My mind, my being, was filled with only one thought. There was other. I was not alone. All my desire and my being was focused on other.

When you have but one thought and it keeps playing over and over again, time crawls. How many times can you count to one in an hour? A day? An eternity? And yet I was never bored. I was refreshed with every thought of other. Deep within me, I yearned for other.

The next stroke was gentler. Or perhaps, since it did not startle me to consciousness, it only seemed gentle. Passion continued to underlie my awareness, but it was tempered with sadness. A sense of great loss overwhelmed me and I desperately clung to the desire for other, begging to not have it torn from me. My heart, if I had such a thing, was filled with inconsolable longing for other. Awareness of other overrode awareness of self. Other filled all my thoughts and all my desires.

If only, I sighed and felt my own thoughts echoed from beyond. Or perhaps I was echoing that longing. Could it possibly be that other yearned for me as much as I yearned for it?

I say ‘it,’ for truly I could not conceive of either male or female. Those thoughts evaded my mind at such distance that I would not find them for many ages. But the idea that two beings could be so drawn together by desire flooded me. If desire exists, surely satisfaction must also be possible. I floated on a new emotion as I found hope.

What I would do for other.

Of course, I had no means of doing. I was, for all intents and purposes, non-corporeal. Yet, I felt as I touched other with my mind, my awareness, that even this gave it some peace. I bathed in anger and madness when I awoke to my being, but as other tickled my consciousness into cognizance, I leapt from passion to sadness to despair to hope.

I felt the soft brush of flesh on my body. The very thought of having a physical existence with which to express my emotions filled me with joy. I wanted to test my limbs as I felt them take shape. I wanted to leap, to grasp, to run, to hold. What could I do with this body that suddenly encompassed my emotions.

Other skillfully, but with tenderness, bathed my body in light so pure that I wept for the sheer magnitude of my being.

I could feel! Not just the emotions I found inexplicably in my mind, but the gentle caress on my skin. I could feel the loving care with which my boundaries were explored. This is me. This is other. With touch came my first genuine contact with identity. My breath caught in unseen lungs as I was massaged and manipulated. Muscles took shape beneath my skin. Structure. A skeleton that gave rigidity to my stance. And with structure I found boldness. No matter how locked to my environment, I stood firm. I was one with my world and I embraced it as it touched me.

I absorbed all I could feel. I had known no other senses and now there was a mysterious world unfolding around me. I felt the hard stone where I was seated, its edge pressing into my thigh. I cherished the feeling. Where before there had been nothing, now sharpness began at a pinpoint and radiated outward, causing muscles to tense and flex as I sought comfort. The cloth, draped casually over my arm, was soft and warm, unlike the hard coldness of the stone. And across my shoulders, down my chest, there was a movement of air. Breath against my skin. The other.

My scalp tingled with delight as hair grew from my head. And suddenly, I knew by its absence what silence was. I had not known I lived in silence. But now, hearing the whistle of a bird, the rustle of cloth, gentle brushing, the sigh of breath… now I knew what silence had been.

The soft breath on my ear brought with it the sound of other’s voice.

“I don’t hate them. I did, but not any longer. I’m just through with them. They can’t conceive that their actions hurt others. Or their inactions. A word could bring such all-consuming joy, yet it’s absence is such pain and sorrow that I cannot help but weep. Would it be so difficult to say, ‘I love you?’ Does saying the words cause them pain? Or is love itself but latent pain?”

I love you. I savored the words in my mind. This. Love. This combining of all the emotions I had learned with the physical senses of my body must be love. Hate, Anger, Passion, Madness, Sorrow, Despair, Hope, Joy, Touch, Sound. All taken together, I knew love. I love you.

“Worse yet are those who say the words but can’t abide by them. Those who swear to be with you always but then leave without a trace. Forsworn, forsaken, forgotten, and forlorn. And yet, he was so earnest. He loved me like no other, but he was just like all the rest. He left and went to war. A woman needs… I need more than that.”

A woman. I knew, now, the voice of other was woman. I had no frame of reference for woman. Yet I defined her in my mind. Woman was the perfect complement to me. We would match. Woman would mold around me and fill those spaces within me where there was nothing, as I would fill her heart. She had voice. I had hearing. The voice was musical. It did not screech or scold like the distant bird. The voice was like her touch. She was firm and precise, but gentle and soft. Each touch, each word, sparked more passion. Whether she spoke of her anger, her disappointment, or her love, she was passionate. Her breath caressed and raised my ardor where it touched me, even when it cooled the temperature of my skin. She stroked along my body from my hair to my toes, each inch coming alive with her touch. This was woman. She gave life, gave being. She breathed sweetness into my soul and called forth the best that I could offer. I will not forsake you.

And her scent…

Scent? What new sensation was this that aroused and inflamed and flushed my skin?

I could smell the oil and turpentine. They were near. But they were a part of me and easily filtered out. One never noticed, I supposed, one’s own odor. But wafting to my newly opened nostrils was a pale essence of almond and the heady scent of woman. There was a pungent aroma that accompanied her breath. Chamomile. The words identifying the scent accompanied it. I would learn to love this as well. It changed as days progressed.

Time now had meaning. It was measured in seconds we were together and hours we were apart.

I could feel my environment taking shape around me. Through the sound of her voice, I learned of life. I basked in the glow of her attention, even when she was not directly touching me. I was connected to everything around me through her. I could feel the coolness of the window, the warmth of the fire, the bitterness of the past, and the passion of the present.

“Love inflames me,” she said. “I can’t think when I am in love. I can only feel. I feel such a strong connection that I cannot separate myself from my lover. I don’t ask myself if this is right or if this is good for me. I am so inflamed that I’m consumed by my lover. When he touches me I am aroused. I don’t need anything else. It is enough to know I am the source of his pleasure. That is pleasure to me. So why am I surprised that he turns from me and takes pleasure from someone else? I’m not good enough. Eventually, he will leave me. Even the one who came to stay.”

I felt the splash of moisture touch my cheek and wondered at the sense of loss I felt. I longed to reach out to her and caress her skin the way she touched mine. If only I could make her feel what she does to me, there would be no doubt left in her mind. But I am passive, unresisting as she works around me, unable to make the sounds that she makes.

Reach out to me. Touch me. I will love you always. Don’t search for another. Don’t hold yourself from me. I worship you. Free me from this silence that binds me. I love you. I will never forsake you.

“I know how foolish it is. I am not an automaton. I have needs. I know how to pleasure myself. I know at least one man who could give me that pleasure, as well.” She hummed to herself as she arranged the bedding. It was soft, and while it would provide warmth when we were tucked beneath, it was cool to the touch. The crisply pressed sheets caressed my skin where they touched me. “Of course, he’s gone. I’m sure he didn’t mean to go. I know he loved me. I’m sure he intended to come back. But war… But war.”

A sob and a clatter and she was gone.

Don’t leave me. I am here for you. Please be here for me.

I wondered if I would ever be able to make sounds like she made. Would she hear? I would pour my heart out to her. I would bring her into my world; I would show her what love and devotion truly are. But an immense gulf separated us, even when we were together. Some undefinable difference between self and other that I could not cross. I could not break free of the scene that bound me. She could not see past her grief to where I waited.

I wondered how it was that I could feel so intensely what she felt, but could not communicate the depth of my love. She had added grief and loss to my repertoire of emotion. And I found that with each addition, my love grew.

Was I woman, too? Was I one of the hateful he who hurt her? I would not be. I would love her, care for her, protect her, hold her. I would be whatever she wanted… whatever she needed me to be. And I would wait here in this unfinished emptiness for her to find me and love me.

“Lush lips, my perfect man,” she said. “Not lips drawn thin in anger or anemia. Not fattened by overindulgence and violence. Lush. Kissable. Soft to nibble around the edges of my areolae but muscular enough to latch onto my nipples. The pinch of lips on my sensitive nips. And if you are good at it, there are other sensitive bits you could nibble on.” She almost sang as she worked.

And into the mix of my senses, I tasted mint on my tongue and felt the heat of lust in my groin. Water passed between my lips and I greedily sucked it down, wondering if this was the nipple she wanted me to touch. My sense of smell was magnified until it burst in my mouth, stung my lips, and forced my throat to open to its flavor. I could smell her and so sensitive were my newly awakened taste buds that I could savor the sweet and pungent moisture of her arousal. This nectar was all I wanted to live on. I would drink from her ever-flowing fount and use my tongue in combination with the lips of which she sang praises. A nibble, a lick. My face would glide through her moisture and I would bring her the pleasure of love.

“I am aroused today, my lovely man. It was the dream I had last night. It left me on edge, unable to come to completion. You spoke to me. You spoke soft words of love in my ear—the dream so real, I could feel your breath. Do you dream of me in your little two-dimensional world? I think I’m finally losing it. I’m talking to a painting. But I don’t think I will ever let you go. You are so easy to talk to. And you will never leave me for another. You will never march off to war. You will never grow cold and distant.”

A painting? I knew I was a creation, but even now, I had no concept of why that would hold us apart. She was my goddess, giver of life. Surely she was one with her creation. When I was complete—when I was whole—when she had made me into her perfect mate—I would hold her in these arms and taste her sweet lips with my own.

I love you. I am drawn to you with every breath I take. Feel my breath on your ear as I kiss you and take me in your arms as I love you. You are my whole being, my reason for existing. I love you.

My face tingled with the touch of her brush. Let there be light! And there was light. An explosion in my senses so intense that I lost touch with myself and floated in the brightness. And gradually I began to distinguish one color from another. I could see the color of her passion, her sorrow, her creativity, her love. My eyes had been opened to a new world.

“My ideal man, my love. I could make your eyes any color of the rainbow. They could be dark and brooding or limpid pools. They could be a witchery of gold and hazel or a warm and mossy green. I think—no I know, for I have always known you in my heart—that your eyes are the blue of the ocean’s depths, reflecting the light of the sun and the image of your lover. I will ever be reflected in your eyes.”

Shapes began to form as she continued her work. Around me were the things that I had sensed as sound, touch, taste, and smell. The bed awaiting my lover and me was turned down and covered with silky sheets. The pillow that cushioned me against the stone wall was soft and fluffy. The fire that burned on the hearth was warm and welcoming. I could hear it crackling and smell its smoke.

But before me stood the goddess. Other. Had I not known before, I would instantly have understood what her otherness was. We were different. My shoulders were broad, my stomach flat, my muscles hard beneath my almost translucent skin. She was soft and had no hard edges. Her long hair was pulled back in a knot. Her hips were broad and from her chest blossomed curves that I knew immediately were meant for my lips. Between her legs, where the scent of her womanhood rose, was a thick thatch of curly brown hair. Between my legs… there was nothing. Perhaps she would place her scent there, as well.

She was perfection. I was a poor image of her, chiseled and hardened into he.

“Ah, your eyes. There is a hunger there. You look at me as if to worship me and I see myself reflected there. I think I will never let another woman stand before you. I would be too jealous to see your hungry eyes cast upon her.” She cleaned her brushes and set her palette aside. She stood boldly in front of me and I wanted to cast my eyes down because her glory was so great. “You like what you see. I’m not as trim as I was as a youth. Time has taken its toll. But my butt does not sag overly much,” she said, turning her back to me and lifting her nether cheeks in her hands. I felt my heart pounding within my chest. She turned back. “Nor do my breasts. I’m a pretty well-preserved old bat. That’s only by comparison to you. You are but days old. I am ancient by comparison. Why have I never met you? You, my wonderful ideal man. Goodnight, my darling.”

She turned and left me to my thoughts, my head filled with the vision of her beauty. And a greater yearning awoke in me than I had known before. Her image was burned into my retina and wherever I looked I saw her.

Come to me. I will take care of you. Teach me how to please you and I will ever be your mate. I love you. I love you.

Now that I had eyes, I could see where I stood. Things looked different than they felt. My world had been limited to my canvas, but now I gazed out upon a different reality. My little cozy fire was a mere reflection of the fire that burned in the hearth and it stayed lit when that other fire had gone to ash. Beyond my easel, her chair sat. Brushes, pots of paint, and other paintings all were within my vision. I wondered if I, too, would end up propped against a wall as she went on to create something more wonderful. I sensed no consciousness from the other subjects. Surely if they longed as I did, I would have felt it.

And, though I had a sense of time passing before, now I saw day turn to night and day again. And again. As I waited.

Come to me. I will love you. I will be your lover.

“Why?” she asked as she came into the room. She shed the smock she wore as she came into the studio. This was her norm—to be naked as she worked. She picked up her brushes and palette and began mixing my skin tones, darkening them slightly. “Why do you fill my dreams? Why has the only climax I have known in weeks been when I dreamed of you? And even now, I blush knowing that you are looking at my nakedness. I know your desire.”

I felt a stirring in my groin. My maleness took shape. Her touch caused my heart to skip and I hardened beneath her caress.

“Fine. Firm. Not grotesquely huge. A perfect fit. You lean back so casually with your erection proudly displayed for me to see. And I know it is me you are looking at that makes your manhood so proud. Look at me. I am wet from imagining you pressing toward me. Into me.” Her brushes clattered to the floor and she leaned back in her chair, her legs spread before me. Her fingers moved rapidly, flicking the small protrusion between her nether lips. My priapic core strained against my pelvis searching for that perfect union I knew awaited me between her legs. And as she gasped her climax, my heart stopped as I suffered death and life anew.

“There is only one thing to do,” she sobbed as her own little death released her. “I cannot leave you in that condition and I would not have you gelded. You must have a mate.”

A mate! You are my mate! I love you. I pray to you, my goddess; join me here. Let me fill you, fulfill you. Let me embrace you in my arms.

With her next strokes, a warm softness pressed against me. My hand caressed flesh for the first time.

It was so different than the other things I sensed. Not hard like the stone, nor cold like the silk sheets. Not hot like the fire, but every bit as consuming. I held out my arms and she filled them with her body. Our foreplay filled in the details of her body. I could touch her! Her leg wrapped around my thigh. Her breasts pressed against my chest and I felt the tiny nubs that she said were her nipples. Her hair fell across my arm. Her breath touched my cheeks. Her lips touched my lips and I strained forward once again to reach her swollen sex.

Sex. Yes, an awakened desire to be fully immersed in her body.

I love you.

“Then love me.”

Had she spoken an answer to my plea? Had she, at long last, heard my words and responded? Her lips were on my lips and her mouth opened to my probing. Her taste had the lingering bitterness of coffee and chocolate. I savored her tongue. I caressed her breasts and felt their fullness in my hand. The round plumpness of her bottom filled my other hand. She grabbed my hair and held my mouth to hers, both of us gasping for breath.

I felt the soft, hot moisture at our middle open to let me enter.

Every nerve ending in my body fired and came alive. As I moved in her, I felt our bodies become one. I felt the soft tickle of her pubic hair against my groin and the dampness mat our hair in tangles with each other. Her warm breath on my cheek and the moisture of her tears on my face. The scent of her arousal increased my own. I was driven to new depths in her body, finding that place where I could fill her emptiness as she drove the darkness from my soul.

Now I knew. I knew I was alive.

And this time—this time when the muscles now surrounding my manhood began to pulse and vibrate with her impending climax, my orgasm responded. The tightness between my legs erupted and I felt the contractions begin at the base of my spine and rocket through my entire body. I flooded her. The soul she had given me, I poured out within her.

She cried out, clutching me to her. I felt her spasms grasping me. I held her as her bones threatened to dissolve in the passion of our union.

“What have I done?” she cried out. Her eyes opened wide and I saw my own reflected in them. “What have you done?”

“My darling, my goddess, I have loved you,” I said. My voice! A reality that I never thought to hear. My love resting her head against my chest. “I have called and you have answered. And you have loved me.”

We turned our heads slightly and looked back to that other reality. That world she had forsaken to join me in mine. The artist’s brush lay on the floor beside the hardening palette. She turned in my arms, her lips touching mine again, her eyes seeking assurance.

“I love you. I will never forsake you,” I whispered.

Her colors blended with my own. And we were caught forever in each other’s eyes.

THE END