[Original?] Soul of an Artist

Totally not inspired by this game

I turned on the lights to my dark and dry attic, making sure that no natural sunlight through the little circular window could get inside, reinforced by some old window curtains that I've long forgotten to use. The purpose of my travel to this abandoned part of my house was because of an artwork that an artist friend of mine finished before dying, and he saw that I was fit to inherit his final piece.

Strange man, he was, as I know that he has other acquaintances far more appreciative of art than me. I chalked this final decision that we were old friends, and through all kinds of obstructions that came our way, we made it to rather comfortable lives - at least that was the answer that comforted me the most as parts of me thought he wanted me to sell it, perhaps as an insult knowing that I don't have a means of steady income.

Standing in front of the easel, dressed in my evening pajamas, I uncovered the artwork's white fabric gently and had it lie limp on the floor. Soon I came face to face with my artistic friend's last artwork.

It... it was rather beautiful. Whoever his muse was seemed familiar, but I was too dazed to fully remember as to whose face she could've possibly had been. With a long yawn, a part of me felt as if something happened.

The literal glowing face, to me, seemingly disappeared, and the book was closed. It was possible that I went mad, but no, my hallucinations and madness were both dispelled as the woman had the book sit in her lap right in front of my eyes.

"Rather rude to stare." A disapproving shaking of her head commenced right after and I almost burst out giggling, wondering if I was in a dream, "Were you and George always like this? Were you two staring at Anne and me before we all met?"

Anne and George. My artist friend and the one he had his eyes on. Bloody hell, what was happening?

After pulling my sleeve and pinching my forearm, I realized that no, I was, in fact, awake, and my confusion resulted in a giggle from the woman in the painting who then rested an elbow on her lap and her head on her palm, "Tommy, Tommy, Tommy. What would've you done without me?"

"You?" With a simple guess within a cluttered mind, I uttered a name, even if it's just pieces covered in cobwebs, "Then you must be Ally."

"Alice." She corrected, "And yes." Picking her book up, she had it opened at a random page and scanned the content of the novel, "Or at least, how George envisioned I was when we were together."

"But how?" I inquired, "You're supposed to be in Australia by now, taken away by that Uriah Heap mongrel."

Alice, or the portrait of her, looked at the corner of her frame, "Mmm, that is true. But in a sense, I am not your Alice, I'm how George envisioned Alice was."

"A tad depressing..." I confessed, "so you're the manifestation of what George thought of you."

"In a sense," And she threw her book at the background. As her expression turned serious, she turned straight into my eyes, "but I have a feeling that I somehow inherited what he thought we acted. I have memories, Tommy, the two of us alone at the park or simply chatting, then I either you or I turn to my direction, hearing myself be referred to George."

I pointed a finger at the portrait, "In essence, you're a part of George."

"Correct."

"Feels rather... homosexual, don't you think?"

"Would a homosexual do this?" Popping the buttons of her blouse, the portrait of Alice somehow never managed a corset, her perky breast were as spherical as I remembered them, if not larger and pinker. Much to my delight and the unhinging of my jaw, "I find it strange that I have no memory between the two of us in any sexual interaction." and she leaned in, "Mind if I see what I buggered back in the day?"

Slowly reaching for my trousers, a bulge was already forming. The lack of any resistance from the garter made all the things simpler, as well as underwear, making the process of grabbing hold of my hardening manhood all the much easier.

The portrait was seemingly skeptical as an eye squinted with a shaking of her head, "This is what I had to work with? I remember George having one far larger."

"Hey!"

"Oh I'm kidding, I'm kidding. But tell me, did he draw me correctly?" Lifting her skirt, I witnessed Alice's bare crotch - slimmer than what I remember, and George seemingly got rid of the small amount of baby fat she was always ashamed of. Parts of me thought it would've made the real Alice happy, knowing that George painted her without those bits of fat (that I never found to be unattractive).

Her hand manifested behind her gown as she proceeded to toy around her privates, hand circling her own womanhood. I pondered as to how this was all possible, but the primitive part of my mind took control, and my penis grew harder.

I held onto my shaft and proceeded to stroke it, the moans of Alice encouraging my haste. The portrait repositioned herself on her chair, having me witness both her crude masturbation and caressing of her breast, eyes closed as her mind wandered onto goodness knows what, and I simply enjoyed the show.

Though not a fan of voyeurism and telling George that, when possible, I'd be the star of the show, the memories of Alice and I together simply just flooded in. It was those substitutes that encouraged me the most, pushing forward as I sat on the floor and witnessed the portrait of Alice handle herself in such a way, that I could only imagine was how Anne performed with George.

As it was I that handled myself, and in my haste, I was ready to burst. Standing up and pointing my genitals at the painting, the portrait of Alice stopped with her toying of breast and wagged a hand at me, "No! No, I'm just a bunch of colors. I'll melt in liquids!"

Right before I climaxed, I pointed to the wooden floors, making sure, not one drop landed on the easel or the canvas. It'll be a bastard to get rid of when it dries, but it's worth it compared to George's painting, who simply continued until she promptly stopped after a few more minutes.

Gasping for air and slouching on her chair, she seemed more confused, "Blast it, I can't cum!" Then she shook her head in disappointment, "I suppose paintings can't cum. I actually can't remember an erotic painting with cum on it."

"I can volunteer to be a start," I joked, "but that'd be suicide."

A disappointed simper was lent to me, all before the portrait yawned and stretched her arms, "My goodness I'm tired. I don't feel like moving at all. Tell you what Tom, we'll talk in an hour or so, but I need you to cover me just in case." Not bothering with my garments, I had the white fabric from before covering her once more. Then I heard the portrait utter something, "I've missed you, Tom." And a quick kiss.

It was only after climbing downstairs, getting dressed, and found myself flaccid but long did I utter a realization, "Was that partly homosexual? Did I just jack off to the thoughts of George?" A strange thing to utter and think about, but when everything was strange, how much of it was ever normal to begin with?