I want to paint you. Not as you might think though. No, not in the traditional sense.
Why should we be slaves to convention?
I’ve no canvas on which to daub your likeness in oils, no sketch book to cast your water-coloured features upon.
All I have is a medley of brushes with which to capture your soul.
I need you naked first, though. Will you undress for me? Please – do it slowly. Doucement. I want time to sip my whisky, to drink you in as you unveil yourself, as you offer your body to my steady gaze.
Lie down, here, upon this firm mattress, atop this crisp Egyptian cotton sheet. Enjoy its cool tautness against your skin. Relax. Feel my warmth pass to you as I take your hand, as I stroke your arm. Look into my eyes. Breathe deeply, languidly. Let go.
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He raises the first brush so that she can see it too. It looks as though someone has sliced its top away with a brilliantly sharp blade. The flat end looks precise.
“This is a one-stroke brush,” he tells her in his deep, calm voice. “I sometimes use it for washing over backgrounds, for painting skies on landscapes.” He draws the soft bristles slowly over the gentle undulations of her belly, along the tops of her closest thigh. The caress of the bristles is unbelievably soft, devilishly ticklish.
“The bristles are Kolinsky Sable. The very best.” He smiles at her. “Tell me how they feel.”
He’s reached her knee, continues down along the outside of her calf.
“They feel … wonderful,” she whispers, entranced by the delicacy of his strokes. “So light. So … graceful.”
He moves back along her body, switching his attentions from outside to in, drawing the brush along the inside of her thigh. She tries to still her trembling and fails, gasping aloud as the brush slips into the narrow crease between her thigh and her sex. He skirts the plump flesh with such cunning, she actually fancies that she hears the bristles tangling lightly with her own intimate tresses.
He pauses, lifting up a small porcelain bowl. He dips the brush within; when it withdraws, the bristles glisten, and a thin line of viscous dew descends from its tip.
“Warm oil,” he says, pressing the brush back to her flesh. She sighs contentedly as he paints seemingly random tracks across her belly, her breasts. He coats her nipples with languorous circles until they glisten, until they’re hard and proud; begging to be licked and sucked, squeezed between thumb and forefinger, gnawed upon by keen, knowing teeth. She yearns to see him press his cockhead to each peak of marbled desire, squeezing and stroking his thick shaft until his own gleaming oil is dispensed upon her, until she can cup her breast and lift it to her mouth, and then greedily lap his seed from her flesh.
The thought makes her shudder. She looks down at her naked, glistening body, and realises that he has painted the words ‘desirable whore’ upon her torso.
“Oh fuck,” she whispers.
He moves so that he is kneeling beside her head. She watches transfixed as he draws the zip on his trousers downwards. He’s naked underneath, and his cock, thick and hard and deliciously curved, is easily drawn out into the light.
“Suck me,” he tells her. “Paint me with your lips, with your tongue.”
She needs no second invitation. She grasps his shaft, marveling at its rigidity as she guides it towards her open mouth. Her tongue laps out, relishing the vaguely salty, aromatic taste. As his glans slips over her tongue, she feels the brush tracing the outside of her sex, drawing gleaming paths of oil down over her labia, and then up through her cleft. She cries out around his hard flesh as the soft bristles flicker across her aching clit.
“You like that,” he chuckles, doing it to her again, and again, and again. Eventually, she has to ease his cock from her mouth so that she can draw enough breath to keep pace with her racing heart.
“That’s so delicious,” she gasps, and then she draws his cock back inside her avid mouth. She works his foreskin with a fluid grace, bringing forth a heavy drop of precum onto her tongue, which she swallows greedily, gratefully. The artist’s brush slips between her swollen lips, pressing into the stifling heat of her sex, the bristles now heavy with her own secret oils. Then the brush is withdrawn, only to be replaced by his strong, knowing fingers. He opens her with two fingers, a third raking up through the now-sodden valley. The pads of two fingers circle over her clitoris, and then they’re slipping inside her, fucking her, curling up against the front wall of her cunt, stroking firmly until she thinks she’s going to lose control of herself, void herself all over his palm. And then with hardly any warning, she’s coming, hard, so fucking hard, her insides flipping over, inside out, the waves of pleasure crashing into her, over her, through her, and she cries out again around his hard flesh.
She collapses back, the breath rasping maniacally in her throat, the Egyptian cotton rumpled beneath her, around her. Eyes closed, she is barely aware of the sounds of clothes being dropped to the floor. She feels her thighs being parted, feels his weight between them, his smooth glans pressing against her sex, slipping inside her cunt. She gasps with decadent relief, with wanton pleasure.
Desirable whore, she thinks.
The full length of him embedded within her velvet wetness, he begins to thrust long and steadily, kissing her mouth, her face, her ears, her neck and her breasts as he fucks her with swiftly rising passion. She entwines her calves behind his thighs, binding him to her.
“Are you finished painting me now?” she gasps.
“Not by a long way.”
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We’re not done yet. Mount me now. Swing your thigh across mine, hold your greedy cunt open with your fingers and ease yourself slowly down onto my aching prick. Ride me, languidly at first, then harder, faster, the breath rasping in your throat as my cockhead presses against your womb, as my oiled brush presses against your skin once more, describing the sweet contours of your breasts, circling the stiff peaks that crown them, gliding across the softness of your belly, and the succulent nub of your clitoris.
I’ll still want more though.
I want to take you from behind, my cock implanted within your ass, the soft bristles exploring your wondrous arse, tracing lightly around the roseate place where my flesh becomes yours even as my hot seed erupts into that forbidden darkness. And then I want to paint the lips of your cunt as I tongue you, taste you, make you come again and again and again.
And when we are done, when we’re both finally spent, drained, exhausted, the image of the gleaming, pleasured body that we’ve created together will be etched upon the canvas of our minds forever.
