The painter

Night after night the painter wakes up soaked in her own nightmare, paint splattered up her arms like blood. Her demons won’t quit chanting—slice that wrist, make the red run, feed the canvas its favorite color. Tonight the nightmare kicks the door in. Her shadows burst out of the corners, too solid to be ghosts, all claws and heat and muscle. Two, three, maybe four grab her arms from behind, yanking them wide while another forces her thighs open so she’s spread against the wet table. They aren’t gentle. They slam into her, thick and rough, stretching the soaked canvas under her ass as if daring it to crack. One hips deep, another slides greasy fingers past the stretched grip, stuff-jamming more fingers in beside the cock that’s still hammering. She bites down a scream that turns into a filthy moan, cum already dragging in thick strings down the inside of her knees. They trade off like criminals sharing loot—two thick cocks spit-roasting her while another teases her ass, forcing the hole open with wet jabs of palm and shaft until it gulps down the whole length. Pain, shame, heat—they hit like paint flinging fast; her masterpiece slams together stroke by wet, violent stroke. It’s no dream left. Her shadows are rewriting flesh the same way her paint used to eat up every inch of skin.