He couldn’t fully explain why he had gone to the party. He had done some consulting for this company, mostly writing bogus copy for a campaign about “team partnership simulation” and “improved assessment experience.” He once had writerly ambitions, but now somehow he had fallen into this professional niche: the thinness of corporate babble. For every gig he aimed for parody and satire and each time his clients ate it up, maybe precisely because none of it made any sense. All capitalists are nihilists, he would think to himself—and then deposit the checks. Maybe it was the emptiness of this whole process that led to his attending the party, as if to punish himself for his unearned success.

He didn’t even know what the party was celebrating. It was being held at a midsize art museum—there were cocktails and snacks in the lobby and the company had rented out the place so that its employees could enrich themselves by looking at some art. Weren’t they rich enough already though? Most stayed in the lobby, laughing and drinking heavily. He could barely stand talking to anyone; the volume of his regret kept drowning everything out. Why not some art, he thought to himself as he slipped into the gallery.

The museum had a decent collection, donated by one industrialist or another, including a Rothko that was displayed prominently in the main hall. It was a large piece, with two shapes on it, separate but seemingly exceeding their boundaries. The square on top was a dull rose with a ghost of violet in it while the smaller, cramped rectangle below it was a faded scarlet. He couldn’t help but pause standing next to it. It had a warmth to it that was both threatening and comforting at the same time, as if the vividness of the colors was met by some lingering darkness that flooded the painting. He had known this about late Rothko, but it felt different now actually standing in front of the painting.

He was so taken by it that he hardly noticed her standing next to him. She too was mesmerized, but it seemed to be a rather visceral experience for her, not least because the color of her hair matched Rothko’s colors almost exactly. It was as if she and the painting were kin in some cosmic way. She wasn’t actually trembling in front of the painting, but he sensed a kind of vibration to her.

After a moment he realized he recognized her and that they had worked together on a project. She had some kind of entry-level position, though, like everything else in the company, he didn’t know exactly know what she did. But he had liked working with her, maybe because he sensed she too didn’t particularly understand—or care to understand—the corporate universe. Maybe it was a cruel joke to her too.

“Oh, hello. You’re K, right? Is this your painting? I mean, I know it’s a Rothko, but you and the painting seem to fit together in some way, right?”

She startled, as if woken from a dream. “I guess, yeah. You mean my hair?”

“Yes, but probably something more than that too.”

She looked back up at the Rothko and then stepped closer to it. There was a platform in front of the painting, and her feet were now snug up against it, her whole body angling toward the shapes.

“You want to touch it, right?”

“More than you know.”

“Do it.”

“I don’t think I’ve had enough wine in me to be that brave.”

“But I think the painting is yours, really. It’s your skin.”

“My skin?”

As she said this she reached out her hand, closer and closer to the painting. The tips of her fingers seemed to glow in concert with the warmth of the colors, which seemingly floated off of the canvas toward her…

And then the sound of an alarm filled their ears. Childish fright ignited in their eyes. He grabbed her hand and they immediately started running, though they didn’t fully understand why. Maybe it wasn’t even the alarm that made them run, for what would happen really if they were caught. They seemed to be reacting to some premonition, a recognition of their bodies in and through the painting. As if the painting had seen something in them. And so they ran, through the galleries, down stairs, through dimly lit hallways, aimlessly, impulsively. An unmarked door appeared and he opened it. Inside, before their eyes could adjust to the dark, the sound of their heaving breaths was deafening.

Some moments later he realized he was still forcefully gripping her hand. He let go suddenly, as if returning to himself, but also felt that emptiness again, immediately clasping his hands together to try and fill it. Some part of him wanted to laugh, and at first he was reluctant, but finally he let something rise in his throat, emerging first as a sigh through his nostrils and then a curving of his lips. This was permission—she too let the first crumbs of laughter crawl up from her diaphragm, in sputtering breaths before allowing something more full-throated.

“What the fuck was that?” he managed between chortles.

“Why did we run like that?” she asked as she shook her head, wringing out a few more laughs.

“I don’t know. I honestly don’t know. What are we even hiding from in here?”

“Are we even hiding?”

“Yeah.”

His eyes began to adjust to the dark. They were in a storage closet with office supplies, the kinds of things no one really needs anymore: printer paper, pens, paper clips. It was clean but cramped. He could swear that somehow her hair was making the room brighter, warmer, as if she had brought some of the painting with her.

“Are you ok?” he asked, touching her elbow to find her still trembling. He didn’t have to reach far. There was barely enough space for the two of them in the closet.

“Yeah, just trying to calm down still. I don’t usually run around like this.”

The trembling was subsiding, but the same vibration from before remained. He kept his hand on her elbow. He had caught a strand of her hair under his thumb and he reached his other hand across to brush it away, but along the way his fingers grazed across the top of her chest just under her chin. She breathed in sharply, audibly, and something electric went through him, from his fingertips to his shoulder. He gripped her elbow tighter, and without knowing it his other hand had become enmeshed in her hair, smoothing it down past her shoulder. He brought his hand up to the nape of her neck, holding her gently just below her ear and jaw, pausing there before sloping down again to her shoulder. Her breath came out heavy and she leaned toward him, her right hip point nudging against his, her hand finding his rib cage.

“Oh, I… I don’t… sorry, I…” she sputtered as she tried to pull back, though there was nowhere really to go.

“Oh, K. Don’t go anywhere.”

His hands were suddenly on her hips and he folded her into his body. His mouth went for her neck as he breathed in her smell, and her body went both languid and electric at the same time, rising to his touch while giving in to his hold on her. His lips found hers and pressed, opening slightly before breaking away to bury himself into the other side of her neck. This time he opened his mouth to taste her, leaving the lightest impression of his teeth in the soft muscle behind her earlobe. She moaned, a moan that came from somewhere deep, as if breaking through the vibrations into something fuller, something more alive. Her skin began to feel hot to his fingers.

Hands were everywhere now, as if released from a dam, grabbing and pulling and rubbing. Her curves seemed to swell to his touch: ass, rib cage, nipple, shoulder. He pulled her skirt up to grip her thighs and she immediately spread them open for him. She reached around to press his body into her, his stiffening cock pressing against his pants and flush against her body. He reached down to her labia and felt her growing dampness. He dipped his fingers into her and then up to her clit as she gyrated against him, a half growl escaping from her mouth as she struggled to find a rhythm for her breath. He brought his fingers to his mouth to taste, and then to her mouth—she swallowed them eagerly—before dipping them into her warmth again. As he felt her gushing he could not help but thrust into her out of sheer animal desire, his sudden movement knocking her over.

“Whoa!” he called out, as if sobering for a moment. But she hardly noticed. Finding herself on her knees, she immediately found the belt and buckle of his pants, pulling at them to release his hard cock. He could not wait either: he seized her head and plunged himself into her mouth. She grabbed his hips and pushed him further into her. She gagged for a moment as he pulled back, but she pressed him again into her mouth.

“Yes, take me, K. Take all of me.”

She moaned on his cock, and again he felt that vibration. Yes, it was her vocal cords trembling around his aching erection, but also something of her trembling desire. How much she fucking wanted it. He slowed his thrusts into her, as he gathered her hair in his fist—as if he was tearing into the painting itself.

“Don’t forget yourself, K.”

She moaned again with his cock in her mouth as she reached down to rub her clit, her saliva dripping down her chest. She squirmed underneath him, wanting so much at once but unsure what to choose or even if she was allowed to choose.

He ached so much, the pleasure mounting inside him. This vibration between them, this warm merging of colors—it needed to find its proper release, even if it would only temporarily account for the emptiness that had so terrified them before, the space between the shapes, the space between each other.

“Get up and turn around.” He hiked up her skirt again and seized her from behind. He let her hips sway back and forth between his hands for a moment, here and there letting the soft skin of her ass graze against the tip of his dripping wet cock. He finally settled her, letting his cock rest between her cheeks for a moment, feeling the the blood rush through him. She could hardly wait though.

“Please. Please. Please please please give it to me….”

He slipped in so easily, and then her walls gripped him tightly. She pushed back into him, gripping a shelf for support. He let out an immediate guttural “Fuck.”

“Oh fuck, K, your pussy…. Oh fuck, K, you’re so warm.”

“Yes, yes, yes, fill me up with your cock…”

He hadn’t even started fucking her yet. She kept pushing back up on him.

“Wait, K. You hold still.” He held her firmly by the hips. He took a deep breath and felt her pulsing around him followed by his pulse mirroring and merging with hers. And then he swung into her. She let out a growl and whimper simultaneously.

“Yes, yes, yes,” was all she could manage. Each yes was punctuated by an animal sound and the crash of their bodies against each other. He pounded her, plowing into her cervix, over and over again. She crumpled against the wall, folding into her pleasure and becoming a vessel for his. He was drowning in her, holding onto her hips for dear life as he buried himself into her. Again and again, flinging himself into her warmth, bridging the distance with the force of their combined desperation.

“Yes, yes, yes, give it to me, give me everything, I want all of you…”

“I’m going to give you everything I have, I’m going to fucking fill you up…”

They lost their rhythm for a moment—the animals in them mismatched as they tried to find the words for their desire. He paused for a moment as she inched away from the wall and steadied her legs.

She became suddenly calm. “I want you to cum deep inside me. I want you to breed me. Fucking cum in me.”

“Oh, K, you already knew. You knew as soon as we started running.” He thrust into her again and the calm disappeared from her face, to be replaced by that feverish desire. It felt as if her pussy became even warmer around his cock as he stiffened further, filling her even more.

“I am going to fucking fill you up, I am going to drain every lost drop into you.”

She put one hand against the wall and with the other she started rubbing her clit, the juices lathering to her touch. He pounded into her, over and over again. His speed increasing, he began to rise onto his toes.

"Fuck, K, fuck. I'm going to fucking explode in you.”

“Yes, yes, yes. Please. Please. Please. Fill me. I need you to fill me.”

“Fuck, fuck, I’m going to, I’m going to…”

He could feel her spasming around him, her legs shaking—that vibration approached some unfathomable speed—and the air rushed through his lungs, catching all his desire along the way, emerging in growls and groans, as he pumped into her those last desperate thrusts, until he too spasmed and released all he had, everything he could possibly have, deep into her warmth, waves and waves of it, without any rhythm now, just the ragged edges of everything that he could ever want, gushing and gushing and gushing into her.

They both leaned into the wall together, as he slowly, reluctantly, slipped out of her. Again it was their breath that filled the closet, much warmer now than before. She reached down to clean up some cum that was leaking out of her already. She licked her fingers, almost absent-mindedly, before pulling up her panties and rearranging her skirt. He also settled himself, pulled up his pants. He put his hand on her elbow again. They stood there for a moment before he opened the door for her.

The alarm had long since stopped and no one seemed to be looking for them. He led them to the coat check where he gathered their things.

“Come with me, K.” They headed for the exit, but not before both of them stole a glance through the gallery doors at the painting, which seemed to pulse in the dim lights.

​

written with help from u/-Vault_Girl-

Rothko painting: https://smartcollection.uchicago.edu/objects/4062/no-2