Title: Caravaggio´s Painting Author: klatschmohn and Ashlyn K. Toliver E-Mail: KTR525@yahoo.com Rating: R to NC-17 Characters: Sean B./Viggo M., Orlando B. Warning: This story deals with a dark side of love – jealousy. It contains elements of BDSM Disclaimer: All fiction! Summary: Orlando gets unexpected support… but as they say: be careful what you wish it might come true Chapter Four – Caravaggio’s Painting Three days later I passed by the hotel reception counter and flashed my most winning smile to the young clerk across the desk who I knew had a very big crush on me – then again in this place, who didn’t? “Is Mr. Bean is his room,” I asked, my eyes at their most flirtatious. The man smiled and put down the receiver he’d been holding. “Yes, Mr. Bloom,” he answered shyly as I leaned over close enough to touch, “And I was just going to let him know that a message just arrived for him.” “Oh well then, I can take it with me,” I replied breezily. “I’m on my way upstairs. No sense in anyone making an extra trip, right?” He didn’t even hesitate, just handed the envelope to me, and I allowed our fingers to linger longer than necessary. With a wink and a jaunty wave, I walked off, craning my head to see my young desk clerk blow a kiss in my direction. As soon as I was around the corner, I took the opportunity to open the envelope and retrieve the contents. Viggo, as I had assumed… Dearest Bean, The house is quiet without you and I’ve been painting a lot – I thought that would be a good thing until I realized just how much I’ve missed having the sound of your voice, even when you’re screaming bloody murder at the t.v. over your football matches (I want to call it soccer, but I know it drives you to distraction when I do). I’ve tried to keep the place in order, but it doesn’t seem quite as clean, and yes, I have watered your plants, but they seem rather forlorn too. I even tried to do laundry, but I forgot about what goes in which temperature and well – two of your Sheffield United shirts are an interesting shade of pink. I tried to make strawberry pancakes and started sobbing into the batter because I thought of you…silly isn’t it, a grown man crying over a lover away on location. I miss you. I miss you reminding me to do little things like eat or come to bed. I miss the warmth of your body next to mine, miss your kisses, miss the feel and taste of your body underneath my tongue…miss having you naked and wanton beneath me…miss those green eyes when almost black with desire. I miss fucking you until you scream my name, miss loving you until you you’re sighing your pleasure…and I can’t believe any of it. So I’m just saying to hell with it and am flying over there tomorrow and will arrive at five o’clock…Love, Viggo. Shit. My heart took a nosedive for more reasons than the most apparent one. True, I was running out of time, but if it were possible to hate Sean Bean even more, then at that moment I did – to have someone like Viggo write such a letter, saying how he missed him…and all Sean would do was either laugh it off or get embarrassed by Viggo’s passionate sentiments. Sean planned to visit St. John’s Cathedral in Valetta tomorrow and he had asked me to accompany him. He wanted to see Caravaggio’s depiction of the murder of St. John the Baptist. Since being with Viggo, not only had his appreciation of art grown exponentially, there was also an obvious personal interest in Caravaggio since his having played the murderer- slash-muse Ranuccio in Derek Jarman’s film. Nothing personal, but churches were not high on my list of places to see with Sean, especially since all my thoughts concerning the man were anything but holy. Now it seemed this would be my last opportunity to seduce Sean before Viggo arrived. Then again, I often work better under pressure. And the message? Of course I didn’t deliver it. Sean would have changed his plans and waited for Viggo the entire day at the airport. Looked like this former altar boy was going to church after all… ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ The next morning, before Sean and I went off to Valetta, I hired a taxi- driver (in Sean’s name) to pick up Viggo at the airport and bring him to the hotel. I bribed the clerk to let Viggo in Sean’s room, telling him it was to be a surprise for Sean. The information in Sean’s travel guide proved to be wrong and we ended up on one of the days where the church was closed. Sean appeared crestfallen but I persuaded him to take advantage of our fame. Many people recognized us from our past films, like ‘Rings, and that included the caretaker of St. John’s when I rang the bell of his flat near the church. After a strenuous bout of signing autographs and snapping pictures for practically the man’s entire extended family, Sean and I were rewarded with the key to a small hidden entrance to the church. We slipped in, and I carefully locked the door behind us. A few minutes later we stood together facing the infamous painting in one of the side-rooms of the church. The room was dark with only a dim light trickling through a small window, supported only by the faint flickering of candles, shimmering yellow and red, while shadows danced and crept over the thick walls. “That painting is so creepy, and yet…,” I whispered, the sensation of icy fingers trailing down my spine. “John the Baptist is so young and beautiful, with his long blond hair and his face as pretty as a girl’s. And there he is, almost naked, with his hands tied behind his back, his ass lifted up…if it wasn’t for the blood pouring from his throat, I’d swear that half-naked executioner had other plans than to kill him.” Sean grinned mischievously. “Oh yes, Caravaggio was one sneaky bastard. He slept with his models, you know – men and women both – and there’s little doubt this painting is about the lust for the young man tied down. But 500 years ago just like today in the media, it was no problem to show a brutal murder, but impossible to confront the audience with open sex between men.” Sean took my hand and led me closer still, his eyes transfixed on the scene before us. His touch was electrifying, sending passionate currents throughout my body. He didn’t look at me as he continued: “Look at the man above John who’s pushing his head to the floor…the corner of his loincloth points exactly to John’s ass. You find a lot of not-so- subtle hints like that in many of Caravaggio’s paintings. He made it as clear as possible what he wanted to say – any more distinctly and he’d have ended up tortured and burned at the stake. But seen as a vicious murder and a martyrdom, the painting earned him widespread praise, fame and honour. Who knows,” Sean mused almost dreamily, “Maybe the real meaning of the painting, the inherent homosexual and sadistic desire for possession of the body of a beautiful young man fuelled the fantasies of the priests and monks who saw it…” “So, it’s really just lust disguised as murder.” I contorted my mouth with disgust, but wasn’t disgusted at all. The more I stood there, looking at John with his pert, almost feminine ass in the air, the more I saw myself in his place – forced to submit, the danger inherent in the desire I had for Viggo…and even Sean… I lit some more candles and carefully examined the room while Sean continued his silent vigil. I sat down at a church pew, wondering just what the hell I was doing here, confused by a slow growing lust for the golden-haired man who was my only rival for Viggo’s affections. Sean’s steps echoed quietly as he crossed the room and sat down beside me. “Caravaggio,” Sean murmured thoughtfully, “Acted out his violent passions in his art. He was a murderer nevertheless, but who can say how many acts of violence have been and still are prevented by the arts because the creator uses their art as an outlet.” Painting…or acting… I had seen Sean in “Essex Boys” and couldn’t help experiencing a split second of fear as I realized how easily the part came to him. The thought had occurred to me before and I remembered an acting teacher trying to drum the concept into my head, but now - now I truly and honestly understood - that acting didn’t mean to fake feelings and motivations, but to reach for them deep inside and let them out. It all made sense now – how Sean, and even more so Viggo, could portray so many dark and violent men in their films, because they already had those passions within themselves, just as we all did. Though Viggo’s a peacenik and Sean was a cultivated, elegant man, though they could control their wild and “slightly mental” side, it was all right there - like when Michelangelo said he didn’t have to invent the sculptures when he worked the hard marble, they were already inside and he just fetched them out. Sean and Viggo expressed their dark sides while acting – and even when making love, reminding me of their heated exchange in the stairwell…of the glossy black and white photos I’d seen in the cupboard… Just as Caravaggio did while painting… …The image of Sean as Ranuccio, a thief and a murderer who himself became a victim, his throat sliced like St. John’s in the painting… The image began to blur until Sean/Ranuccio’s faces imprinted themselves upon my psyche, until something seemed to block my way, insisting on its importance, like a warning… I don’t know how and why, but I shoved all caution aside. I had waited far too long to let the opportunity that I felt was within my grasp slip by. I knew it might be dangerous to wake up the wildness in Sean, but I’d tried every other way and it seemed to be the last possibility, and somehow this painting suited my purposes. “When I ignore the blood,” I said quietly turning to him with growing desire in my eyes, “It turns me on…” Sean looked surprised and I locked eyes on him, burning him with my stare. “Did you ever do anything like that, Sean?” “You mean…bondage…” Sean shifted nervously, turning his profile to me. The prominence of his features, the proud hawk nose and his well-shaped chin marked an interesting contrast to the awkward nervousness, as he ran his fingers through his hair. The thought of Viggo softened him, made him vulnerable… I realised at once… He missed Viggo… missed the sex with Viggo, just as Viggo missed the sex with him. It was hard for him to fight the memories and fantasies my question had brought to the fore. Hang on, I thought to myself, sensing imminent victory was closer now than it had ever been before, don’t let him off the hook now… “Tell me, Sean,” I pressed, breathlessly, whispering, as if Sean had already admitted “yes” to my last question. “What does Viggo do to you when he dominates you…?” I moved closer, lips parted for a kiss, my hand resting lightly on his shoulder. “Does he make you beg…does he punish you until you obey… until you do anything he wants you to…?” Sean’s eyes narrowed, the green swallowed by the darkness within him. I felt the war within him, saw him gripping the wooden pew, his knuckles white with the effort. “…Does he try to break you when you defy him? Do you hate him for making you want to be broken, want to be beaten… want to get down on your knees and beg…?” Sean’s breathing grew more unstable. It was more confusion than excitement or anger…he was upset, completely in a mess. I knew it was dangerous to direct all that dark energy he radiated towards me. I didn’t really want him to dominate me – I wanted to be the one in control, but as I looked into the maelstrom of his eyes, I could feel myself slowly and steadily losing control, and I didn’t care. There was only one path to his seduction, even though my heart was racing with fear. Then I pushed all the way, knowing that whatever happened, I would never go back. “I saw the pictures, Sean…I saw what he does to you…Sean…did you ever want to do that to someone else?” I saw he knew, and the look he gave me almost made me want to run as fast as I could from that shrine to one artist’s perverted lusts. The incidents of the last days appeared in a different light now and I saw the dawning realization in Sean’s green eyes as he understood that I had been out to seduce him from the beginning. There was ferocity, cold desire and rage...those very things I’d seen in his films from The Big Empty to Golden Eye… “Sean…” a little squeak, faint and thin, but I knew I couldn’t stop him now. I wasn’t quite sure I wanted to… I can’t say he was brutal, but he certainly wasn’t kind. At my attempts to resist he only used as much force as was necessary to keep me still, and he was so unbelievably strong that it wasn’t much of a struggle. In an instant he had me pinned to the floor, my cheek rubbing against the cold tiles, one of his hands holding my neck down, both of my wrists captured in his other hand, so that I was forced in the same position as St. John in the painting above us. Ironically, that was where my gaze went, and in that moment John and I formed a partnership forged in blood that transcended centuries. Even though he couldn’t hold both my wrists with one hand when I tried to free them in earnest, he just turned my arm and tightened his grip at my throat enough to let me feel what he could do to me, and I realised all I could achieve was to make it more painful for me. Despite my sudden fears, I also saw how absurd it was that I now fought against what I’d wanted to happen for so long. It never had occurred to me that I might not want it the way it would happen, thinking only of the end result. Sean turned my arm again, just to distract me with a sudden short pain and pulled down my trousers without even unzipping them (that’s the disadvantage if you have slim hips). I heard the sound of his zipper being undone that sounded like a thunderclap in the silent edifice, and then a burning, searing fire tore through me as he shoved deep inside and fucked me. I couldn’t call it rape – after all, one can’t rape the willing – but it felt completely impersonal, as if I had randomly pressed a button and started a “program of nature” that simply went automatically into fuck mode. Sean said nothing, not even a curse, just pounded into me for what seemed like hours, his fingers sinking into the flesh of my buttocks, holding me still. It felt so incredible and I revelled in the sensation of how much he filled me – and yet it felt somehow empty too. I wanted what I’d seen between him and Viggo in the stairwell – I wanted what I had tasted in Sean’s kiss a few nights ago. Sean fucked me hard, and though it wasn’t what I’d dreamed of, I still moved beneath him, begging with my body for more. I tried to moan, but he simply placed a large hand over my mouth. “Don’t say a fucking word,” he growled hotly against my back, “Just take it…” And I took it and more, caring nothing for the stone scraping my knees, or Sean’s hand on my neck and mouth. I cared nothing for how sore I would be later – it was just enough for him to be inside of me, stroking my sweet spot over and over with his hard cock. I didn’t even spare a thought for Viggo… When Sean finally came in my ass, I was too far gone in my own orgasm to notice. Then I felt the immediate loss of his body when he stood up and zipped up his jeans again, leaving me on my knees, my hand covered in my own semen and his come trickling from my bruised hole. He didn’t say a word, didn’t offer to help me clean up, just walked away as if it – as if I – meant nothing to him. Bastard! I found a piece of semi-clean cloth behind one of the pews and used it to tidy myself up as best I could, then followed him outside where he waited, cigarette in hand, for me to join him. If I had felt even the slightest remorse for my seduction of Sean, in that moment it had dissipated completely. Oh yes, I would make certain that Viggo heard all the ugly details… As he drove back, Sean didn’t speak in the car either. Once he looked sideways at me, and for a moment it seemed that he would say something, even an apology, but he remained dead silent. Everything had worked out even better than I had planned it, to a point, but it felt so different than I had imagined. I didn’t want to feel this emptiness – this coldness inside of me. However, I was determined to go through with what I had started. I had come too far to let it all slip away now...Viggo was one step closer to being mine. It didn’t matter – it shouldn’t matter how Sean fucked me – only the result of his losing control. Besides, once Viggo left him (or he left Viggo, I didn’t care which) Viggo would make it up to me with days and weeks and months of tender lovemaking. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ In spite of the pain and the need to shower the smell and the semen from my body, it was more important to me that I accompanied Sean to his room. That was the main reason why I had arranged for Viggo to wait in Sean’s room. I wanted to witness his reaction when he saw Viggo. I wanted to watch him squirm. I wanted to be there when they met. As we passed by the reception, the clerk winked to me and I knew: Viggo was waiting up there… Sean could hardly bear my presence any longer. Even when we took the lift up to our floor, he stood as far from me as the tiny space would allow. The colder he behaved towards me, the more resolute I became. It wasn’t as if I’d forced him to fuck me, I thought, wounded pride mixed with the anger I felt at the way he just walked away from the deed. No, Viggo would definitely be better off without him… “I need to get my script from your room, Sean,” I said just as coldly, as if what had happened back at the church hadn’t affected me in the least. “I’ll look for it, bring it tomorrow,” he said grumpily, hands in his pockets. “I was planning to go over some of my lines tonight, that’s all. What,” and I looked at him with disdain, “You can’t possibly think I want a repeat of earlier today. At least most of my lovers leave me with a kiss and a smile.” He growled at that, but let the smart-assed comment pass. My heart was beating faster than those moments when I was half insane with stage fright. Viggo was waiting just behind that door. I remained a few steps behind Sean as I watched him slide the key card into the lock. “Sean!” Viggo bolted off the sofa and pounced upon him. Sean blanched. I smirked. Things were just about to get very interesting…