Joe stood naked before an easel (he worked better unhindered), a paintbrush poised mid-air, his eyes distant and thoughtful. He wanted this portrait to be perfect--a masterpiece.
A work of love. Inspired.
He looked from the painting to his beloved model, Champion Courser, who stood a few feet away. She looked at him with tired eyes, "My love," she said, "Are you done yet?"
"Shut the fuck up and hold still."
She shifted her head back to the agreed upon pose, her head hovering over a bowl of grapes.
A messenger knocked, then entered. "My lord, sorry to interrupt your, erm..." his gaze lingered on Joe's painting. "You are aware that it looks like a three legged penis, my lord?"
Joe twisted, his face a mask of inspired rage. "This is art, you uncultured pig! It is beautiful, and captures the essence of my beloved!" He pressed his face to the paper and inhaled. "Can you smell the art?!"
"N-no my lord."
Joe drew his paint-stained face back and, seizing his painting, leapt across the room, his dick sent a-flopping by the explosion of movement. He pressed his masterpiece against the messenger's face. Leaning in, he whispered, "Can you smell it now?"
A mumbled, "Y-yes," was the reply.
"Good," he flung the painting away. "The message?"
The man, his face coated in reds and blues and pinks, took a moment to remember. "Acre. Acre isn't doing shit."
Joe gave him two thumbs-up. "Fucking fantastic."
Distracted from his work, he rubbed himself absent-mindedly, tracing little blue swirls around his nipples. The movement stirred something inside him: an idea. He walked over the courser and, ignoring the messenger's presence, dipped a finger in some spilled paint. He dragged his finger across the horse's flank.
"What are you doing to me?"
"Painting. I have found my Muse."
"Alright then."
