The Naked Picture of Dorian Gray

 I have a new story today that is a CFNM parody of The Picture of Dorian Gray, if you ever read that book or seen that movie you might be able to see where this story is going but the twist involves forced nudity rather than aging and I hope you enjoy.

The Naked Picture of Dorian Gray
"You look exactly the same as you did in my mother's wedding photos," Emily said, swirling the ice in her gin and tonic. Dorian Gray only smiled, the dim light catching the sharp angle of his jaw.
    He’d been a fixture at every society event for as long as anyone could remember—always charming, always just slightly out of reach. Tonight, he wore a tailored black suit that fit him like it had been stitched onto his skin, and when he lifted his glass, his hands were smooth, unmarked by time. Emily couldn’t stop staring.
    "Come on," she pressed, leaning closer. "What’s the trick? Serum? Blood sacrifices? Don’t tell me it’s just good genes."
    Dorian’s laughter was low, private. He tilted his head as if considering her question, then took a slow sip of his drink. "Some secrets," he murmured, "are better left unsaid." His eyes flickered toward the grand mirror behind the bar, lingering for a fraction of a second too long.
    In that moment, Emily could have sworn he wasn’t looking at his reflection at all. It was as though he was staring through it, beyond it—into some dark corner of memory where a canvas, heavy with paint and sin, sagged under the weight of decades. His fingertips tightened imperceptibly around the glass, the ghost of a tremor betraying him.
    The attic was always too hot in summer, too cold in winter. Dorian knew every stain on the floorboards, every warp in the wood where the portrait leaned against the wall. Lately, the thing had begun to reek—not of rot, but of something fouler. The oils had darkened, the brushstrokes curdling into something grotesque. The eyes, once so vivid, were now hollowed-out pits crusted with yellowed varnish. He’d stopped uncovering it years ago.
    Emily drummed her nails against the bar, snapping him back. "You’re zoning out," she accused, but there was a thrill in her voice. She wanted to chase this, to peel him open. Dorian exhaled through his nose, smile sharpening. "Apologies," he said, reaching out to tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear. His hand smelled faintly of bergamot and something metallic. "But you’re far more interesting than my thoughts."
    Her pulse kicked. "Oh?" she teased, swirling her drink again just to watch the ice clink. "Then ask me what *I’m* thinking." He obliged, voice silk-wrapped. "Tell me." She bit her lip, gaze dropping to the open collar of his shirt where his pulse should’ve been visible—but wasn’t. The image hit her suddenly: his clothes pooled on her bedroom floor, that perfect body bared for her inspection. She snorted into her glass.
    Dorian arched a brow. "Something amusing?"  
    "Nothing," she lied, grinning wider. "Your turn. What’s occupying that ageless head of yours?"
    He hesitated. The portrait’s stench was memory-deep now—wet canvas and spoiled linseed oil. The last time he’d dared look, the lips had split like overripe fruit, blackened teeth grinning through the cracks. "A painting," he admitted, because half-truths were safer. "Nothing you’d care for."
    Emily scoffed. "Try me." She leaned in, whiskey-sweet breath warming his jaw. "Unless it’s some pretentious abstract shit."
    Dorian’s laugh was hollow. "Quite the opposite." He traced the rim of his glass, the motion deliberate. "It’s… traditional."
    Across the room, the mirror shuddered in its frame—just once. Emily didn’t notice. Dorian did. The cold pricked at his spine. The attic’s draft, impossibly, had followed him here.
    "What if," he murmured, thumb brushing the condensation on his glass, "I told you I sold my soul for this?" His gesture encompassed the sharp cut of his cheekbones, the effortless drape of his suit. The words tasted like ash. He hadn’t spoken them aloud in a century.
    Emily snorted, gin sloshing as she waved her hand. "Wouldn’t surprise me." Her gaze raked him over—lingered on the hollow of his throat, the way his shirt clung to his shoulders. "Bet you got a *hell* of a negotiation." She bit her lip, stifling laughter. "Worth it, though. God, imagine you at ninety. Tragic."
    Dorian stiffened. The painting *was* ninety. Ninety, and worse. He could feel its weight like a stone in his gut. The mirror trembled again, harder this time. A hairline crack split the glass from the bottom up.
    Emily saw it now. Her fingers twitched toward his sleeve. "Did you—?"
    Dorian caught her wrist, pressing her palm flat to his chest where no heartbeat thudded beneath. "What would you do," he said softly, "if I showed you proof?"
    Her breath hitched. Not from fear. From the heat of him, the unnatural stillness. Her thumb brushed his collarbone. "I’d ask where to sign."
    Behind them, the mirror shattered. Shards rained onto the bar top. Emily yelped, twisting—but Dorian didn’t flinch. His reflection hadn’t been in the glass to break.
    A waiter rushed over, apologizing. Dorian tossed a bill onto the counter without looking. His fingers tightened on Emily’s waist. "Come upstairs," he said, and it wasn’t a question.
    She went willingly, drunk on intrigue. The elevator doors slid shut. Dorian exhaled. The closer they got to the penthouse, the stronger the stench—wet canvas, cloying decay. Emily wrinkled her nose. "Someone leave takeout out?"
    His smile was a knife’s edge. "Something like that."
    The doors opened. The hallway stretched too long, too dark. At the end, a single door stood ajar. From within, something wet dripped onto hardwood.
    Emily hesitated. "Dorian—?"
    He stepped behind her, hands sliding over her shoulders. "Curious," he whispered, "isn’t it?"
    Her pulse raced. Not away. *Toward*.
    The door creaked wider.
    Emily stepped inside first, the scent hitting her full-force—spoiled milk and mildew, thick enough to coat her tongue. Dorian’s grip tightened on her shoulders, steering her toward the far wall where a sheet-draped frame leaned, its edges warped with age. “You wanted proof,” he said, voice feather-light. With one smooth motion, he yanked the cloth away.
    Emily blinked. “Oh.” 
    The portrait was worse than she’d imagined. A withered husk of a man glared back, his naked body sagging in grotesque folds, skin mottled with liver spots. His eyes were rheumy, jaundiced, but unmistakably Dorian’s. Her nose wrinkled. “Okay, not gonna lie—this is kinda killing the vibe.” She nudged him with her elbow. “You into geriatric nudes or something? Because I gotta say, not my kink.”
    Dorian’s jaw twitched. “I can’t destroy it.” 
    “Why? It’s creepy as hell.” She squinted at the painting’s gnarled hands, the shriveled… everything. “Like, seriously, who wants to see grampa’s wrinkly nut sack hanging there?” 
    A muscle jumped in Dorian’s temple. “If I could burn it, I would have centuries ago.” 
    Emily rolled her eyes, but her pulse skipped when Dorian’s fingers traced her hipbone. She bit back a grin. Eccentric, sure, but damn if he wasn’t the finest thing she’d ever laid eyes on. Her imagination supplied the image of him peeling off that stupidly perfect suit, all smooth skin and sharp lines—no sagging, no decay. She shivered, pressing closer. “Fine, keep your weird art. Just promise me you won’t whip it out during foreplay.” 
    Dorian exhaled, half-laugh, half-sigh. “You’re impossible.” 
    “And you’re hot.” She nipped his earlobe, laughing when he stiffened. “Relax. I don’t judge.” Her fingers toyed with his tie, loosening the knot. “Unless you’re hiding more naked old men in here.” 
    Behind them, the portrait’s lips cracked open in a soundless snarl. A bead of black sludge oozed from the corner of its mouth, splattering onto the floorboards. Dorian didn’t turn. He caught Emily’s wrist instead, pressing her palm flat to his chest again—still, always still. “Tell me,” he murmured, “what do you *really* want?” 
    Emily’s breath hitched. She knew exactly what she wanted: him, bare, under her hands. No sheets, no shadows. The irony wasn’t lost on her—how boldly she’d imagined others undressed while she clung to her own modesty like armor. But Dorian? He made her want to play with fire. 
    She grinned, tipping her chin up. “Guess.” 
    The portrait’s fingers twitched. Somewhere in the walls, the pipes groaned. 
    Dorian smiled. “Let’s find out.”
    His hands moved faster than she expected—one sliding up her thigh, the other gripping the back of her neck to pull her into a kiss. Emily gasped, then recoiled, her palm connecting with his cheek in a sharp crack that echoed off the attic’s low ceiling.
    “What the fuck?” she spat, shoving him back. Her chest heaved, gin-slick lips twisted in disgust. “I was joking, you creep. You don’t just—*god*.” She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, glaring at the portrait like it was somehow to blame. “This is why you’re single at two hundred, isn’t it?”
    Dorian’s expression darkened. The slap hadn’t hurt—nothing physical could, not really—but the rejection burned like holy water. He straightened his cuffs with deliberate calm. “My mistake,” he said, cool as the grave. “I misread your… enthusiasm.”
    Emily barked a laugh. “Enthusiasm? Dude, I was flirting, not signing a consent form.” She crossed her arms, suddenly aware of how alone they were up here, how the portrait’s eyes seemed to track her. The air smelled thicker now, cloying. She needed out. “You know what? I’m gonna go find someone who doesn’t reek of desperation and mold.”
    Dorian didn’t stop her. He watched her stomp toward the door, the click of her heels too loud in the silence. The moment she vanished into the hall, he kicked the portrait’s frame hard enough to splinter the wood. Black fluid seeped from the canvas, pooling around his polished shoes.
    Downstairs, the party hummed—crystal glasses clinking, laughter rising in champagne bubbles. Emily wove through the crowd, cheeks still hot. She grabbed a fresh drink off a passing tray and downed half in one go.
    Across the room, Dorian emerged from the elevator, his tie perfectly knotted again, his smile effortlessly charming as a brunette in a backless gown leaned into his space. Emily rolled her eyes. *Classic.*
    But then the chandelier flickered. The brunette giggled, oblivious as Dorian’s hand settled possessively on the small of her back. His fingers flexed—too tight, too hungry—and Emily’s stomach lurched. She opened her mouth to shout a warning…when the attic’s stench hit her anew. That *reek* of spoiled linseed and rotting canvas coiled down the staircase like a living thing.
    Her gaze snapped upward. Through the open doorway, the portrait’s sunken eyes seemed to glare at her, its blackened lips peeling back in a silent snarl. *He cares about this*, she realized with sudden, vicious clarity. *This disgusting thing is his heart.* The thought ignited her. Before she could second-guess, Emily was bolting up the stairs, her heels skidding on the polished wood.
    The painting was heavier than she expected, the frame biting into her palms as she wrenched it upright. Dorian’s scream tore through the penthouse—a sound like rent silk, like a man flayed alive. “*Don’t—!*” But she was already stumbling toward the fireplace, the portrait’s oozing surface squelching against her dress. Flames licked hungrily at the kindling.
    The first tendril of smoke curled from the canvas as Emily heaved it into the fire. The reaction was instantaneous: Dorian’s knees hit the floor with a crack, his perfect face contorting in agony. Downstairs, the brunette shrieked as Dorian fell to his knees.
    Then—poof.
    His suit vanished. Every stitch evaporated, leaving him crouched there, naked and exposed. Emily's jaw dropped. His body was *exactly* as she'd imagined—all lean muscle and smooth skin, unblemished by time. But the way he scrambled to cover himself, his cheeks flushing scarlet, was nothing like the cool, untouchable man from the bar.
    The ballroom erupted. Women in designer gowns whipped out their phones, catcalls and whistles slicing through the music. Dorian’s hands flailed—over his crotch, his ass, his face—like he couldn’t decide which part to hide first. “Emily!” he snarled, voice cracking. “Look what you’ve *done*!”
    She gaped. “Me? How the hell is this *my* fault?” But her stomach flipped as she watched a socialite zoom in on his backside, cackling. This made no goddamn sense. Clothes didn’t just *disappear* because you burned a creepy painting.
    She risked another glance at Dorian. His reflection in the shattered mirror was still dressed—pristine suit, perfect tie—while the real him stood bare and trembling. His chest heaved, his thighs flexing as he twisted away from the crowd. The sight sent heat pooling low in her belly.
    “Stop *filming* me!” Dorian roared, but the crowd only surged closer, champagne glasses raised like they were toasting his humiliation.
    Emily bit her lip. She should help him. Probably. But the way his shoulders strained as he tried to shield himself—damn. He was *beautiful*.
    The portrait hissed in the fireplace, its edges blackening. A glob of paint dripped onto the hearth, sizzling. Dorian whimpered, his knees buckling.
    Emily finally snapped into action. She grabbed a velvet curtain and tossed it at him. “Cover up before someone sells those pics to TMZ,” she muttered, though part of her mourned the loss.
    Dorian yanked the fabric around his waist, his glare venomous. “You have no idea what you’ve unleashed,” he spat.
    Emily grinned, popping her hip. “Enlighten me, Picasso.”
    “The terms,” he hissed, “were explicit. Eternal youth—but if the painting burned—” A muscle in his jaw twitched as a flashbulb went off, illuminating his bare shoulders. “—I’d never wear clothing again.”
    Emily’s eyebrows shot up. Then she burst out laughing, doubling over with glee. “Oh my *god*,” she wheezed. “That’s *amazing*.” She straightened, clapping her hands. “Ladies! Get a load of *that* loophole!” The crowd roared, phones lifting higher. Someone wolf-whistled.
    Dorian’s ears burned crimson. “This isn’t *funny*—”
    “It’s *hilarious*,” Emily corrected, wiping tears from her eyes. She fanned herself, still giggling. “I’ve gotten guys naked before, but *damn*—this takes the cake.” She gestured grandly at his predicament. “Going viral in 3… 2…”
    The brunette from earlier swooned dramatically. “Two centuries old and *still* a ten!”
    Dorian lunged for a decorative vase—to cover himself or brain Emily with it, she wasn’t sure—but it shattered the second he touched it. The crowd gasped. Emily cackled. “No props either? *Brutal*.”
    His snarl was half-dignified, half-panicked. “You *ruined* me—”
    “Nah.” Emily smirked, stepping closer. “I *upgraded* you.” She flicked his bare chest, delighting in his flinch. “Now you’re Dorian Gray: immortal, hot, and *commando forever*.” She leaned in, dropping her voice. “Think of the *only fans* potential.”
    His horrified expression sent her into another fit of laughter. The fireplace crackled, the portrait now a smoldering lump. Dorian shuddered, his skin prickling as centuries of curses settled into his bones.
    Emily spun to address the crowd. “Who’s buying this man a drink?” A dozen hands shot up. She grinned. “Attaboy. Now *that’s* how you make an entrance.”
    Dorian groaned, scrubbing his face—then froze when he realized *that* left him exposed too. The crowd erupted. Emily whistled.
    Best. Night. Ever.
    Emily whistled long and low, snapping another picture just as Dorian lunged for a champagne tray—only for the damn thing to evaporate on contact, leaving him sprawled bare-assed on the marble floor. "Nice *form*," she cackled, zooming in on the way his muscles flexed as he scrambled up. She smacked him square on the backside with her clutch, the *thwack* echoing through the ballroom. "Two hundred years and *that's* still perky? Teach me your secrets, grandpa."
    Dorian whirled, clutching the curtain like a Victorian damsel. "You—you *vandal*—"
    "Oh please," Emily snorted, arching a brow as his reflection in the broken mirror adjusted its cuffs primly. "You're literally the only guy here who *improved* when his clothes came off." She gestured to the sea of gawking socialites, half of whom were already hashtagging #DorianGate. "Admit it. This is the most fun you've had since the invention of the zipper."
    The air smelled like burning oil paint and expensive perfume. Dorian's nostrils flared—then twitched violently as a bead of black sludge dripped from the attic's doorway overhead, splattering onto his shoulder. He recoiled with a sound that was absolutely *not* a squeak. Emily grinned, snapping another pic. "Ew, is that your soul?" She leaned in, faux-whispering to the crowd: "Tastes like *regret*."
    Someone tossed a napkin at him. It disintegrated midair.
    Dorian's eye twitched. "This isn't—"
    "—hilarious? Agreed." Emily winked at a bartender, who promptly sprayed champagne out his nose. Even the *staff* was losing it.
    Then the chandelier swayed. The portrait's remnants in the fireplace *hissed*, the sound slithering through the room like a dying breath. Dorian went statue-still, his skin prickling with goosebumps that had nothing to do with the draft.
    Emily felt it too—the shift. The *weight*. She glanced up just as another glob of paint oozed from the ceiling, this one striking the floor between them with a wet *splat*. It writhed.
    The crowd fell silent.
    Dorian stared at the blackened puddle, his throat working. "Oh," he said softly. "That's... new."
    The puddle *rippled*.
    Emily's phone was still raised. "Okay," she admitted, "that's kinda metal."
    The puddle *lunged*.
    Emily barely had time to yelp before Dorian vaulted over a chaise lounge, curtain flapping behind him like the world’s most ridiculous cape. His bare ass clenched as he landed—round, taut, and *gloriously* exposed—and she howled with laughter, doubling over as his reflection in the mirror facepalmed. "Oh my *god*!" she wheezed, pointing as he skidded on a champagne puddle. "Your *balls* are *swinging*—!"
    Dorian shot her a look of pure murder, which only made it funnier. He sprinted for the exit, his cheeks (both sets) flushed crimson, while the possessed paint slithered after him with unnerving speed. Emily clutched her stomach, tears streaming. She could *not* breathe. This was it. This was how she died—watching a two-hundred-year-old vampire’s testicles bounce like goddamn pendulums while cursed art tried to eat him. Worth it.
    "Run, Forrest, *run*!" she shrieked, collapsing onto a divan. The entire ballroom had devolved into chaos—women fanning themselves, men clutching their pearls, phones capturing every second of Dorian’s mortified, nude sprint. A waiter dropped a tray of caviar canapés. Emily snorted so hard she hiccuped. She’d *live* on this memory. Two centuries from now, she’d still be cackling about it in her nursing home.
    Dorian hit the doors at full tilt, his perfect ass jiggling with each frantic step. The paint puddle *hissed*, elongating into a tendril that lashed at his heels—only to recoil when a paparazzo’s flash went off. Dorian seized the moment, bare feet slapping against marble as he vanished into the night. Emily wiped her eyes, gasping. "I hope—*oh god*—I hope he *trips* on that curtain—"
    The remaining sludge quivered, as if considering its options, then *plopped* despondently onto the floor. The crowd edged away. Emily, still giggling, nudged it with her shoe. "Nice try, Satan Jr." 
    Silence. Then—from somewhere outside—a distant, enraged scream. *"EMILY!"*
    She beamed. "You’re *welcome*, Casanova!" 
    The puddle bubbled mournfully.
    Emily arched an eyebrow, nudging it again with the toe of her Louboutin. "You gonna cry about it?" The sludge recoiled, quivering like a chastised puppy before slinking toward the fireplace—only to sizzle pathetically against the already-burning portrait. She snorted. "Drama queen."
    Meanwhile, one century later—
    "Two hundred and three years old and *still* getting ID'd for martinis," Emily mused, swirling her glass as sunlight streamed through her penthouse windows. The vodka was crisp, her reflection flawless—no liver spots, no crow's feet. Just endless youth courtesy of that idiot Dorian's curse loophole. She smirked. Who knew burning magical art made *you* the new canvas? Not her problem. Mostly.
    The fireplace roared to life without warning.
    Emily blinked. She hadn't lit it. Ice slithered down her spine as something *dripped* from the mantel—thick, black, and reeking of linseed oil. "Oh, *hell* no," she muttered, reaching for the poker. But before she could strike, a shadow loomed in the flames.
    Naked. Statuesque. *Furious.*
    Dorian stepped through the fire like some deranged phoenix, his body still absurdly perfect—if slightly singed—and his glare hot enough to melt titanium. "Miss me?" he purred, tossing a sheet-draped frame onto the hearth.
    Emily choked on her drink. "*You*—"
    "Me." He smirked, flexing just to watch her eyes track the movement. Then, with a flourish, he yanked the sheet away.
    The portrait was *her.* Wrinkled. Sagging. Hideous. Her own face stared back, slack-jawed and liver-spotted, the brushstrokes capturing every flaw with cruel precision. Emily's glass slipped from her fingers. "*What the fuck?*"
    Dorian's smile was a razor. "Turns out," he murmured, nudging the painting toward the flames with his foot, "curses *love* irony." 
    Emily lunged—too late. The fire roared as canvas caught, heat blistering her cheeks. She screamed, clutching her face as her skin *twisted*, muscles liquefying—
    Dorian caught her wrist, his grip iron. "*Now,*" he whispered, breath hot against her ear, "*you’ll learn what eternity really feels like.*"

This is another story with a weird supernatural twist that is directly inspired by the classic work The Picture of Dorian Gray, which is about a man who stays young and lives forever basically, while a portrait of him continues to get older and older because he sold his soul to pursue a hedonistic lifestyle of sensual delights. And I thought that it would be a funny story to do with a CFNM twist where basically you have this guy who has a portrait of him as a wrinkly naked old man that nobody would want to see, and that manages to keep him young, and Emily wants to see him naked because she finds him to be attractive but she doesn't want to get naked herself, and he ends up being a creep.

    Where it deviates from the original source material is that instead of the portrait being destroyed causing him to become old it still keeps him young, but it makes it such that he can never wear clothing or cover up his naked body with anything ever again, which I thought was a hilarious concept, where he kind of gets what is coming to him, and Emily gets exactly what she wants to see him naked without having to get naked herself, but then the curse or the enchantment but whatever goes to her, and after a century or so Dorian finally catches up with her to get revenge, and it just sort of ends where she realizes the implication of what is about to happen, which I thought was sort of a great way of ending it in all honesty, so the characters are basically taking centuries to get revenge upon each other, and I thought that was just a great twist in general, and I thought that this was one of the funnier ones that I have written in a while.

    This story is exclusively a CFNM story, even though it's implied at the end Emily is going to suffer a similar fate, but I thought it was better to just end it like that where she sees that her portrait is going to be burned and being horrified and just ending on that note. But yeah I thought that this one was pretty clever in all honesty, so I hope you enjoyed it.

I didn't go overboard with the illustrations this time but the illustrations I did make I think came out especially well perhaps because I gave a really detailed prompt and description that thing that these came out especially well, some of the better naked illustrations for CFNM story that I have done so far.