Creative Itch

Artwork

Michael entered, his expression neutral as he carried a bucket of brushes and paint cans. He glanced between Dale and Art, taking in the scene with a raised eyebrow of amusement.

"Our friend here had an itch he couldn't scratch, so I offered to help," Dale said with a chuckle, his eyes gleaming with dark amusement. "Turns out he's pretty ticklish. Oh, and his name's Artemis—goes by Art."

Michael placed the bucket down, wiping his hands on his jeans. "Well, isn't that poetic," he said dryly, his voice laced with irony. His smirk deepened as the corners of his eyes crinkled with amusement. "Art the artist. Let's see how much he likes art when we're done with him."

He turned to face Art, still bound helplessly to the recliner. "You know, you mentioned earlier that our house was too plain. That got me thinking." He gestured toward the bucket of supplies, the malicious gleam in his eye brightening. "You see, I'm an artist too. Though my canvas is a bit more traditional. I prefer paper to siding."

Dale, intrigued, raised an eyebrow. "What've you got in there?" he asked, a wicked smile creeping onto his face.

Without missing a beat, Michael reached into the bucket and pulled out an assortment of paintbrushes and small containers of non-toxic paint. "Since you were so generous in your attempt to 'beautify' our home, I figured it's only fair we return the favor," he said with mock politeness, holding up a brush and a container of paint. "You're about to become a beautiful piece of artwork yourself, Art."

Art's breath quickened as panic surged through him. His eyes widened in disbelief, dread creeping over him like a dark cloud. "No, no! Please! I'll pay for the damage! I'll do whatever you want—just don't!" he pleaded, the fear now evident in his voice.

Dale shook his head slowly, his grin never faltering. "Oh, no, no, no. You're not getting out of this that easily," he said as he dipped one of the brushes into a container of blue paint. "I think I'll start with your feet. Try not to wiggle too much, or I'll have to start over."

Art's heart pounded in his chest as he watched Dale approach. The sight of the brush, wet with paint, sent a new wave of terror through him. His feet, already hyper-sensitive from the previous torment, twitched involuntarily.

Dale knelt beside Art's bare feet; his brush poised for the "masterpiece" he was about to create. The moment the brush made contact with the sensitive skin of his foot Art shrieked. The sensation was a maddening mixture of icy cold paint and the unbearable softness of the bristles. He thrashed wildly in the chair, the ropes creaking but holding firm against his desperate attempts to escape.

"STAHAHAHAP! NOHOHO! I'M SOHOHORRY!" Art screamed, his voice breaking under the strain. His foot jerked helplessly, trying to avoid the torturous brush strokes as Dale slowly dragged the brush along his sole, leaving streaks of blue in its wake.

"You're gonna need to hold still, Art. I'm just getting started," Dale teased, methodically brushing over the most sensitive parts of Art's foot, particularly the arch and beneath the toes. The sensation was maddening, sending ticklish shocks through his body.

Meanwhile, Michael, having circled behind Art unnoticed during the chaos, yanked Art's hoodie up over his head, exposing his well-defined abs and chest. "You've got a nice clean canvas here," Michael remarked with grim amusement. He dipped a flat brush into green paint and, with a deliberate flick of his wrist, approached Art's torso. "Let's see how much color we can add."