Kiki Von Kristmass

Failed Aesthetic

Dave was asleep on the studio floor in a nest of soiled porn mags and empty lager cans. His face lay drooling into the polystyrene box of a half eaten kebab.

His brain was yet unaware of the hangover awaiting it caused from a heavy night of absinthe and 7up cocktails. 

A sickly smell emanated from one of the corners of the studio where a pile of vomit had been lazily mopped up with someone’s still life studies.

The door of the studio creaked open.

It was Mike. The only other person Dave shared a studio with. 

There had been others but they had soon requested a transfer on the grounds of 

the duos intolerable ‘loutish’ behaviour.

They were quite the double act having already earned a reputation as enfant terribles and it was only the second week of term. 

Mike and Dave had decided in the pub one evening to become artists. Not because of a sudden flash of inspiration or a desire for self-expression but because of a post they had just seen online.

It concerned a female artist who knitted jumpers for child refugees from wool she had stuck up her vagina beforehand. Some of the jumpers were even embellished with splatters of menstrual blood.

Of course these jumpers were not given to the refugee children. 

The piece was intended as more of a catalyst for debate as opposed to a direct aid donation. No, the jumpers were in fact brought by art collectors for several thousands pounds a piece. 

“Seven grand for a jumper smeared with fanny blood!” Mike exclaimed over his pint of lager. “It would take me half a year to make that!”

The next day they got a book on contemporary art from the library and proceeded to laugh their way through the entire thing.

Colourful dots, unmade beds and childish scribbles. It was without a doubt the greatest con of the 21st century, and they wanted in. 

Though they didn’t have an academic qualification between them they managed to get into the prestigious Slagg School of Art by merit of  a promising portfolio alone. 

Dave submitted a film entitled I like England and England Likes Me. It consisted of filming himself for three days while he laid about on his couch smoking weed, eating kebabs, and wanking whilst in the company of a Staffordshire bull terrier.

It was a directly inspired by Joseph Beuy’s 1974 performance I Like America and America Likes Me, although the Beuy’s original had far less wanking in it.

The tutors viewing the work considered it a highly sophisticated and ironic comment on the original. Though they couldn’t quite agree on what exactly the comment was, it was no doubt something very clever to do with Beuy’s penchant for self-mythologising and its modern equivalent seen in the creation of idealised avataristic selves on social media.

Mike went for the minimalist angle. By taking a series of photographs of piles of breeze blocks on a building site he had been labouring on during the summer. 

The tutors were sceptical at first, but then someone suggested the photos must be in reference to Carl Andre’s 1966 work Equivalent VIII, whose controversial acquisition by the Tate in the 1970’s had provoked nationwide ridicule and had brought into question the very value of modern art itself.

One of the faculty suggested that by reverting the positioning of the work from the white walled gallery space of the original to the more proletariat setting of the common building site he was creating a tension between two discourses, an encounter which subverted both of them. 

Their admission into the Slagg School of Art was also helped by the fact that they were both working class and hadregional accents. This alone fulfilled the art schools diversity quota for that year.

Now that they had successfully blagged their way into art school they planned to spend the next three years pissing their grants up the wall while banging their way through an endless line of eager and willing art fanny.

“Oi” Mike shouted

Dave opened a bleary eye to see Mike standing above him armed with a water pistol.

He squirted it into his face. Dave sat up sputtering, there was a foul but familiar taste.

“Bastard!” he shouted. It was unmistakably piss. 

Dave jumped up and swung for him but he deftly dodged the clumsy swipe and gave Dave another squirt in the face before dashing out of the room.

He ran down the stairwell and into the one of the 3rd years studios on the ground floor.

Dave was close behind.

As he swung the door open Mike was lying in wait firing another shot of warm piss straight into his eyes.

Dave charged blindly at him tackling him to the ground, they fell back knocking over an easel and landed in a mess of oil paint and turpentine.

There was a scream. 

“What are you doing! You’re behaving like hooligans! This is an artists studio not one of your common building sites!”

It was Genevieve. A notoriously stuck up 3rd year. Her shrill upper-class voice cutting through the air.

They stood up, red faced from their scolding and helped to righten her easel.

She screamed again. A tube of red oil paint had burst and had leaked paint all over the surface of the canvas.

“My painting! You’ve ruined it!” 

Dave hurriedly fumbled with a rag trying to wipe off the paint but only proceeded to smear red across the entire thing. 

She burst into tears.

Dave and Mike looked helplessly at each other. 

She sat back on her stool. Staring in horror at the ruined canvas.

“I’ve been working on that thing for weeks!” she said “I’ve been so busy that I haven’t had a decent shagging in ages, not that I ever get one. My boyfriend may be 9th in the line to the throne but he’s hung like a sea horse and can’t seem to get that harder than an over cooked baby carrot”

She dried her eyes and looked up at them.

“Maybe I could do with something a bit…rougher” she said her eyes falling on the large bulge in Mikes joggers.

They looked at one another.

Genevieve may have been an up stuck up toff but she was also a quality piece of art gash with a cracking set of knockers!

“You two can make it up to me by taking it in turns to eat out my cunt”

Mike jumped to work and within seconds had whipped down her jodhpurs and had her toff art twat in his mouth.

Dave’s large hands fumbled clumsily with the tiny buttons of her paint smeared smock.  She grew impatient and ripped it open for him revealing her large milky white breasts. Taking one in his hand he suckled at the pink nipple, taking it between his teeth and nibbling at it. She moaned as Mike lapped eagerly at her cunt while Dave gnawed away on her tits.

After a few minutes they swapped places, Mike manning the nipples as Dave got to work on her slit.

He reached onto her desk and pulled down a handful of bushes. He worked the thick handle of a palette knife into her pussy while he rubbed her clit with the soft hairs of a Winsor & Newton No. 7 sable, which was also good for fine line work in watercolours and acrylics.

He juicy twat was now so wet it was dripping onto the paint splattered studio floor where it had begun to form a puddle.

“I want some of that filthy oik cock!” she said after several orgasms. She pushed them off and on her knees. Unzipping them in turn and pulling out their meat. 

Mikes penis was long and thin, pale white with a shiny red helmet in contrast Dave’s was short but thick, dark brown and crowned with a purple helm. They nodded in approval at what each of them were packing.

She gave them each a quick blow job before bending over the stool. She grabbed Mikes buttocks and pulled him towards her. She licked his balls while she worked his shaft with her hand. 

Dave went behind. Gobbing on her twat and getting it ready for a pounding.

“Yeah, give me that filthy common cock! You proletarian piece of shit!” she said looking back at him.

She was so tight it took him a while to slide it in. The tip of his helmet stretched open her beef curtains before it slowlyentered her depths.

She gasped as she felt her shores widen.

“Call me a whore!” she demanded.

“Whore!” he said

“No, no, with a dropped h!”

“’ore” he repeated slamming it up her 

“Talk dirty to me, tell me something…common!”

He thought for a moment.

“I sometimes dip oven chips into hummus”

She wailed like a banshee as she orgasmed.

“More…more” she pleaded.

“I mix absinthe with seven up…”

She came again, even harder.

“I pronounce the German artist and influential member of the Bauhaus School Paul Klee’s second name Klee instead of Klay”

Her pussy tightened gripping his rod as she shot off several simultaneous orgasms at once. Warm art slag cum trickled down her legs, like the clear juices from when a roast chicken is safely cooked.

She now took Mikes cock into her mouth. Working the entire shaft down her oesophagus as expertly as a sword swallower. 

As he fucked her mouth he squirted the piss filled water pistol into her face. 

“Fub my arf!” she said gagging on the cock thrusting in and out of her mouth.

Dave pulled his cock out of her wet twat, his purple helmet glistening with pussy juice. Spreading open her pale ass cheeks he looked down at her tight little arsehole. 

He tried to stuff his helmet into the hole but it wouldn’t go. He was far too big and she was way too tight. His guess was that she had never had anything up there before. Or if she had it had been so insignificant that it hadn’t loosened it up for anyone else. All the girls Dave had ever arse banged from back home had had gaping purple sphincters from years of taking it up the shitter from an early age.

He looked around and finding a bottle of linseed oil he poured some on her tiny hole while he oiled up his shaft.

Grabbing her shoulders he forced himself in.

She let out a shriek and surging forwards she eclipsed the entirety of Mikes long dong down her throat so his balls were squashed against her chin. She gagged and pulled back to avoid suffocating, leaving a string of slimey mucus trailing from her mouth to his nut sack.

As she retreated back she impaled herself onto Dave’s thick cock forcing it half way up her guts which pushed her forwards again onto the cock rammed halfway down her gullet. She slid between these two extremes, being stretched and gagged at either end.

She really was caught between a rock and a hard place!

Dave looked at her painting. He tried to make out what was underneath the smear of red.

“So, what’s your work about?” he asked.

“The failed aesthetic in painting” she said taking the cock into her cheek so she could speak.

“So, deliberately shit painting?” 

“mm hmm” she mumbled her mouth full of sausage once again. 

“That’s really clever” he said “I wish I’d thought of that”

She mumbled a few words which the lamen wouldn’t of been able to decipher. Luckily Dave was an expert in translating gagging-on-cock into English. He took the words to mean: “Get back to work!”

He returned his attention to the job at hand and the vice like sphincter gripping his cock.

Her anus was the tightest thing he’d ever been inside. It was so tight he imagined himself pulling out to see his knob transformed into solid diamond by the extreme pressure of her sphincter. 

He wondered how much that would sell for.

Damien Hirst’s 2007 diamond encrusted skull sculpture For the Love of God had sold for $100, 000, 000. 

Imagine all the lager, porn mags and kebabs I could buy with that! He thought to himself.

The idea of a priceless shit smeared diamond phallus was enough to send him into orgasm.

“Shit, I’m going to cum!”

“Do it on my painting!” Genevieve screamed.

He pulled out just in time, the tip of his cock smeared in steamy hot shit.

He emptied his balls all over the painting and then scraping the shit from his cock he applied it to the canvas with a palette knife. 

After a few more violent thrusts Mike also pulled out and made his contribution to the work. 

For good measure he also squirted the remainder of the piss onto the canvas.

The dark umber hues of the excrement complimented the lighter tones of the almost lemon yellow urine. While the semen had mixed in with the red oil paint to create a subtle range of mid toned pinks.

They stood with their arms around each other looking admiringly at the canvas.

“Wow” said Mike who wasn’t much of an admirer of that abstract painting bollocks but this one he really dug.

“It’s…wonderful!” Genevieve agreed.

At the graduation show that year, a famous wife beating art collector acquired the work for several thousand pounds.

A few days later Dave and Mike found a gift wrapped bottle of vintage Pernod Et Fils absinthe in their studio. 

The promptly downed the bottle in pint glasses with 7up and went into town where they banged a couple of local fisherman’s wives under the jetty.

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