Painting You


Painting You, by Fyre
You come in from the heat of the yard to find a large piece of canvas spread across the kitchen floor. You’re wet and sweaty from mowing the lawn and you wipe your forehead with the flannel sleeve of your rugged shirt. I love it when you look so hot. So masculine.
"Whatcha doing?" You ask, pulling a cold beer out of the fridge.
"I was thinking of painting something. "
"What?" You’ve subconsciously flipped the top open and taken a long draught. I can almost feel it cool you off as you settle down in a sigh on a wooden chair near the canvas.
"I want to paint you. "
"Okay," you say, a little intrigued. After all, you have never been painted before. "Isn't that a pretty big piece of canvas for that?"
"I didn't know how much I would need. "
I step behind you. "I’m going to start now. No more questions. "
I flip on the stereo and music swells out from the speakers, and erupts into the room, leaving no space for conversation.

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   The music is artsy and abstract. Dramatic, then subtle. I stand behind you and start to rub your shoulders. The tension of your day stands in knots behind your neck.
You drink your beer. You hand it to me, and I finish it.
"You want another?" I offer.
"That’d be great. "
This time, I open it, take a long drink, then move to kiss you and push the taste in with my tongue. You kiss me, a little surprised. Sometimes I’m a little stingy with kisses. You grab my ass.
"Not yet," I say and pull your hands away. "Okay, back to the regularly scheduled program. .

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  . "
You wonder what the hell I have up my sleeve.
I cross over to the counter. You take a swig of beer. I bring a tray covered with small bowls and cups from the refrigerator.
"Now what’re you doing?"
"Stop talking. "
"Is this for the painting?" you ask.
"No questions," I insist and answer you with a soft kiss on the forehead. I start to rub a paste on your cheeks. I dab the stuff on, smoothing it over soft skin. The paste is a pale green, containing avocados or cucumbers or some such mess, and I whisper, "close your eyes," and place chilled, damp tea bags over your eyelids. I continue spreading the cream on your face, and leave your lips in the middle, bare, and oh, so kissable. Problem is, I couldn't find your lips without getting some of that thick paste all over my own face.
Another quick preparation, and the microwave pings that something is ready.
I take two bowls out of the microwave and touch the liquid to my wrist, checking the temperature.

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"This is kinda fun," you say, eyes still closed behind tea bags. "I could get into this kind of special treatment. Could I order one up next Thursday?" I try not to laugh, because if you could see how funny your face looks covered with green vegetable goo, you might not want to do it again.
"Shh!" I whisper fiercely, and kneel down and remove your shoes. Nearby, I have a small tub of dissolved Epson salts and I place your feet into the warmth of that. While your feet soak, I take a warm wet cloth and remove the paste from your face. I take away the tea bags. I wash your face one more time, and then clean it with cotton balls soaked in some Mary Kay product that I pulled from the back of the bathroom closet. It smells sweet and clean. I take your feet out of the water, and dry them with a towel.
"Okay, I’m ready to paint you now. "
What’s this? You wonder. You had to clean me up first? You feel a little pampered, but then you also feel pissed. What the hell was that all about? You sit up on the chair. You take a drink of beer.

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   You decide to lay low and go with the flow.
"I’m gonna take your clothes off, ‘kay?"
Intrigued that I plan to paint you nude, you wonder what I will do with the painting after it’s finished. That canvas is pretty big. You hope it doesn't become the next billboard down by city hall.
I crouch in front of you, and start kissing your neck. I move to center front and find the first button with my mouth. I unfasten that with my teeth, grateful that the flannel is soft and the buttonholes are somewhat stretched. With a few twists and some teeth action, I soon have all the buttons undone and start to run my tongue down the front of your body to your belt. You stand to push the discomfort of a crowded cock to the loose part of your jeans. I unfasten faded jeans as you stand, and pull them down. Your huge cock springs into my face, and I ache to take you inside my mouth.
But that’s not the plan.
I want to just look at your body; I want to savor every detail. I pat the center of the canvas, and ask you to lie down on it.
"I am going to paint you.

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With that, I motion for you to roll on your stomach, and turn away to get a tray. You mutter, "What the fuck?" but you are not interested in having some sort of showdown with me now about wills. Your cock knows how to slide home to the back of my throat with no effort, and you know that whatever little game I have going here will lead ultimately to that. Since it means you have to wait, you’ll wait.
I start to squeeze my "paint" out of a tube. I take a brush, and begin painting your back, then I stop. With a grease pencil, I make dark, demanding circles across your back and then the paint brush strokes resume, soft, and deft. At some points they start to tickle, the paint solution drooling down, and then I take a different brush, with different bristles and take a different solution and paint with that. I cover your back and then paint your legs, and then I start to paint your buttocks. I touch your skin only with the fine hairs of the paint brush, then take a small nylon scrubber dipped in a paste, and press that on, stippling, and clouding the area and the effect of the first paint. I paint with tiny brushes that tickle you lightly, then with natural sponges that brush the paints on with wrinkles and chasms folding inside. The aromas from the various oils engulf the two of us, citrusy or spicy, heady and pungent. Some of the solutions I designed myself, searching for an array of scent and color–cinnamon, cloves, limes, peaches, even peppermint.
I trace your skin with strokes. All oiled, the brush feels like a tongue's caress.

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   Many of the oils I’m using are heated, but some are straight from the refrigerator, and when I use a particularly warm one, your skin flickers a cringe as your body gets used to the new temperature. When I see that happen, I stroke, stroke, stroke it into a nearby area, longing to lean forward and smooth it all out with my mouth. I refrain, staining dark areas with vanilla, and other areas with cucumber oil that glistens. One oil is a reddish brown and it smells cinnamony and light. My passion paints visibly all across your back, huge swirls of color, vast sexual overtones. I ache for you.
"Roll over, Sweetie. " I say, softly.
"I’m all wet. " You protest, and I nudge at you, and you roll, leaving a smear of color on the floor cloth. Your erection springs up, and the tip curves almost to your belly button. I stand over you now wearing only a long white shirt, and you decide I must have changed quickly while you were on your stomach, waiting for something to heat up, or when you thought I had stepped away to retrieve something. You can look right up my shirt and see the hairs of my soft pussy, and above, the swish of loose breasts as I stand and reach to grab something on the counter top. I feel you starting to reach up to touch me. Deftly, I take a spray bottle of ice water and squeeze the trigger, jetting a cold stream into your face.

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   It works on the cats.
You laugh at my efforts, "Hey hey" you say before settling back into the canvas so I can start to paint your legs.
One moment, I am using a two inch brush from the hardware store, and then I switch to a sponge brush with some coconut oil and I skip over your eager cock to paint your stomach. I take the grease pencil again, and I draw exotic flower shapes and dark birds across your skin, almost tribal elements. I paint with a small brush and color them in with a bluish tint. Another stain is a dark, coffee brown, and I paint you and you can smell it, it is thick, dark, espresso. I paint this on your chest and the strokes make your nipples stand to a hard ripple that I can hardly resist. I want to run my hands down your body and run all the colors together. I stand up and you look up at me, towering over you, and you can see my own nakedness under the flowing, soft shirt, and you long to reach up.
I laugh and brandish the squirt bottle threateningly, "Not yet!"
Then, I take a large red pomegranate out of the nearby bowl of fresh fruit and begin to pull off the hull in large, pithy pieces. The bright fruit is clinging to the milky flesh, with the pieces of crisp red berries dangling in clusters. I wipe my hair out of my face and a smear of brown covers my cheek. I crouch down over you, my pussy almost touching your stomach. Balanced there, I start to feed you pieces of the fruit. I want to smother you in a wave of erotic gestures, and this fruit with its belly full of eggs, my pussy wavering an inch away from your cock is just about enough to do you in.

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   I put some fruit into my mouth and pass it to you with a kiss. The berries crunch as you bite them, and seeds drop away in pairs and bounce like scattered marbles. Drips of red juice drip away from my hands and splash onto your face on dark features.
I lay the fruit aside, and reach to pick up a stray seed that has fallen on your stomach. As I take the berry between my fingertips, I press it together with a snap, and then paint its redness with my fingertip across the one bare streak left on your shoulder. This is the first time I have touched your skin with my hand, and it signals a change, and soon I feel your hand tentatively snake up under my shirt and its warmth as you take hold of my breast. I relax right into your palm, for it is what I have been aching to yield against. You sit up beneath me, all painted and primitive, and I kiss you. Your hands unbutton my blouse, and at once it becomes an oily stained rag as you pull it off my shoulders.
You see the white canvas of my own skin and you want to paint me. You roll away, taking charge, filling your hands with oils and paints, then streaking them across my skin and body, rubbing and finger-painting the oils and scents into original designs, meticulously at first, then hurried and intense, loud and exclamatory as the music suddenly vibrates through the core of the room. You lower me down to the cloth, and continue to rub and massage color and oil into my skin. As your own body moves across the canvas, the oils and paints smear off in random design.
You spread my thighs apart and take a brush filled with water and rose petals and watch the strokes of warmth settle there on my inner legs. You dip the brush again, with chamomile tea scents and stroke it on my pussy, watching my body react to the heat.

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   You know that the liquid next to it is much colder, so you dip a thick brush there, and then stroke my clitoris with that brush, deep and intense.
I start to feel a sudden tingly, burning sensation and quickly ask, "Which one was THAT. " I clap my hand over my throbbing clit.
"What's wrong?" You ask, laying the paintbrush aside. "What happened?" You point to the dish that you had last dipped the paintbrush in. "What’s in there?"
"Straight tequila. " I answer, "and I’m not sure it was designed to GO there. It doesn’t hurt, but it definitely gave me a kick start. "
You move quickly down and with your warm mouth, lick away the throb of the alcohol and it disappears in a matter of seconds as I relax into your mouth. The music sweeps across me, the scents flooding my senses.
I start to sink into that place where I don't care, and my body reacts in rhythm to yours for a minute or two, then I pull away and stop you. This isn't supposed to be about me, it was intended to be about you.
I lean against you and take your cock abruptly in my mouth, sucking deeply and feeling it respond. I slide it way back and tease the base with my tongue. My hand reaches into one of the cold solutions for a small piece of ice.

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   With you still deep in my face, I rub that ice against my clit. The cold shocks me, then the ice melts and water drips down my thigh, my fingers reaching and finding, my mouth eager. I slip off your dick, and start to touch with the cool hand that held the ice. Your prick springs away and I hear the "Ah!" of your breath as surprise catches you. I lick the colors off your chest, taste the oils away, and they smear into my face, as I swallow the flavor. Coffee, vanilla, stains from berries, I taste them one at a time, and my own face becomes a muddied mass of color as I kiss them away. Some of the stains will stay put for a couple of days, I think playfully. I hope our clothes will cover most of them. Lingering on your thighs, I think about these dark stains, a shared secret, like a hickey we have to hide.
Your balls are cradled in my hand, and I move to the side and take your cock again into my mouth. I long to feel you come inside me.
Your taste is thick. My tongue, patient and firm, finds you there, hips rocking up against me in welcome. The music reaches for us, and we decide on the same beat, and I pulse my tongue against the ridge there, my hands holding you and waiting for cues. In moments, you come.


   It rises out of you with an arch and a quiet thrust. I let the waves subside, stop licking, and hold you in my mouth. Then I roll you on your back and straddle to sit. You feel me selfishly rock flesh against your back to hit a spot and my hand finds it and smooths it away. You feel me above you, fingerfucking myself above your back, and you roll to watch. I scoot and embellish with my hand, the wetness, and the strokes. Later, I drop my hand, to massage your face, rubbing my scent into the stubble of your beard. I have no doubt that you will be hard in moments and this time I will ride it. I love to fuck. You love to watch me. It always lasts longer the second time, after I take the edge off.
* * *
Later, as I wash up the paint pots, I survey the damage. The canvas is colored with a ripple of smears from our passion.   All in all, I think it was just about the right size.

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