Irina Reyes, from artist to exhibit

Snooty artist Irina Reyes had standards. Only the best paint, the best brushes, the best galleries and most of all, the best canvas for her esteemed works. None could rise to her creative genius. She said it time and again for every reputable art journal to spread the word. Raise her profile. Push the sums and acclaim of her paintings until everyone wanted a piece of her.

She never counted on how literally one of her fans could take it. When she hired Keith as her protégé, she thought she had a real loser of the suffering artist brood to play for her whims. Fetch supplies for her from the nearest shop? Why not. Display her masterpieces with his garbage to unveil her excellence? Of course.

Now she was his garbage. And the critics loved it.

"What was your inspiration?" a well-to-do reporter asked.

"Irina always tried to PAINT herself as a sophisticated and classy artist, but what hid beneath those layers was always a nakedly vulgar woman," Keith regaled. "I wanted to capture that essence, her truth laid bare despite all her past attempts at disguise."

Applause pissed Irina off royal, but she kept her pose. The balls of her feet ached. Her sexy come-hither stare held. In this horridly frigid room, the air licked her nipples erect and blew a draft up her gaping pussy. Keith's cum dribbled from her snatch freely every so often, serving to draw his attention. A brush dipped inside her. Its tickle and tease nearly broke her stance, but she managed, as Keith 'painted' her lips with more of his splooge. She could taste and smell it, the acrid bitterness assaulting her senses.

"How did you ever get her to agree to this?!" pondered an absolutely amazed high society lady.

"Oh, it was little trouble, really. Once she saw one of my pieces, she was moved to orgasm. Truly. She fell to the floor and writhed for a full minute. When she recovered, she begged me to take her under my wing."

The liar! Yes, she did those things just like she posed for him today, but only because the fumes in Keith's paints made her eager to please. It was addictive. Worse than huffing. However he stumbled upon the mixture, she needed it to keep her going. So she let him tell his twisted story while patting her on the head like a proud master of the craft.

"More than that, Irina wanted me to use her in my work. Although ****, I found the challenge of turning such a cheap and wretched canvas into something of worth quite stimulating. Nothing speaks to an artist like the chance to find meaning in filth."

"Why, I dare say you have eclipsed even the greatest in that respect!" a bespectacled appraiser praised. "Duchamp's Fountain and Serrano's Immersion could hardly match how well you manage to take perhaps the foulest subject matter yet and find beauty."

Irina herself fumed when the critics present laughed. How dare they compare her, a tried and true visionary, to a pair of piss-soaked stains on the world of art. Not that she had room to complain, with splotches of the same across her body. Yet the gravest insult came from her traitorous tongue, as it spouted the lines that elevated Keith's work from pedestrian to masterpiece of his own.

"Irina sniff some cocks. Irina sniff some cocks now, sir."

"Patience, girl. Remember that this is all part of your training. With a little suffering, you too can become half the artist I am. Or at least a fourth. An eighth?"

She sneered, demonstrating for all assembled why the great Keith had so aptly named her with such a degrading title: The Painted Piss-Take.