Sick and Twisted

Sick and Twisted (BoyxBoy)

This story is published and is available for sale on Amazon. Link in bio.

New story has been edited, extended, fleshed out, and packed with new thrilling twists and turns!

Xoxo,
N. A. Moore

Chapter One (Gabriel)

I'm twenty-one years old, I've never had a boyfriend, and I'm still a virgin.

As depressing as society tries to make that sound, it's not all that bad. Believe it or not, it's pretty common. And you learn that there is a lot more to the world than overactive libido. Besides, I had other things on my plate that distracted me from that so-called 'harsh' reality.

My art.

Sculpting was my current passion, but it varied from painting and sketching, to photography and digital art. I loved getting lost in a whole world created simply by my imagination.

And I had quite the imagination.

I had to, because only in my mind was I able to fabricate an entire relationship with someone like Harley Neilson. The sexy six foot four wetdream that dominated the college football team as their quarterback. Cliché, I know. But, I was immediately entranced by all those rippling biceps and triceps the moment he stepped foot in our Drawing Fundamentals class my freshman year of University. Of course, I never stood a chance because hello, socially anxious loner over here. I found more comfort in my own company than that of others, which they instinctively picked up on.

And then there was that small detail...he was straight.

Fucking typical.

Why do we always long for what we can't have? The number of available gays in our area, mostly due to the dense population of the city, was high. I had many options. Yet, who do I yearn for? The stereotypical, toxically masculine, unavailable straight guy. Never going to happen.

So that leaves me with my freaky art obsession including visuals of him glistening with sweat, ready to take me in every position.

Yeah. I sculpted him naked.

Did that make me creepy? Or crazy?

Probably, but that's fine because I really don't give a fuck. Okay, maybe a few fucks. I'd die before I let anyone ever lay eyes on my collection, but that was beside the point.

I'd be at his mercy any day of my life if it meant that I could sit myself on those powerful thighs of his. Since I couldn't do it in real life, fuck everyone who says I can't at least enjoy some creative fantasies.

The moment I first laid eyes on him was forever ingrained in my memory. As an art major, we were required to take the fundamental course, which of course included drawing. What's an art school cliché without nude models? Most of the models were current students looking to make an extra buck. Thank goodness, Harley happened to be one of them—though I have no idea why, since his parents were known to be well off. Perhaps he was the type that liked to make it on his own?

He came strolling in with the standard white robe, all dark hair, bronze skin, and intense gray-blue eyes.

He wasn't shy, like all of our other models. He wore confidence like a second skin, dropping his robe almost as soon as the door closed behind him. And we felt it. It made us comfortable drawing him, which in turn made for better quality drawings.

As artists, we objectify the body when studying or drawing the form. We simplify them into shapes, not stare at the dangling dong minding its own business. But...I could not. I was infatuated and could not separate the man from the form. Any time Harley was the model, I made sure to double the amount of sketches I produced and put as much detail into them as possible. I remember rotating my drawing horse for every pose, getting every angle, secretly sketching him during breaks even. My professor always praised me for my diligence, but little did she know, I would use them to fuel my obsession. They became the blueprints for my private collection.