Total pages in book: 140
Estimated words: 137588 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 688(@200wpm)___ 550(@250wpm)___ 459(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 137588 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 688(@200wpm)___ 550(@250wpm)___ 459(@300wpm)
“But I want you. I need you.”
“You’ll have me. Just relax.”
I broke the contact and she took a breath.
Her eyes widened as I reached for a palette, watching as I set out my colours.
“This is going to take a little while, Helen.” I smiled. “Breathe.”
She took a deep breath, and then she giggled. The sound was perfect, sweet and mischievous all in one. She watched me as I wiped her down with the towel, and hitched her ass so I could dry underneath, then closed her eyes as I pressed the towel against her pussy and patted her dry.
“That’s nice… so nice,” she said, and I loved her for it, loved her so much.
I placed myself at her side, surveying my bare canvas, and it was perfect. Just perfect. She started as the brush made contact with her hip. The first stroke was soft and light, a thin line of purple, curling across to her belly.
“Tickles,” she said.
I smiled up at her, and her beauty captured me, all damp and flushed and nipples puckered.
She closed her eyes and I watched the shadows of the fire play across her breasts, taking my time before continuing my pattern. My brush moved with precise abandon, controlled freedom, seeking out the contours and the curves of Helen’s perfect form.
“That feels amazing,” she whispered, and her fingers reached for me, rested on my thigh. Her eyes were hazy when they opened and her smile was enough to condemn me to any fate. And I didn’t care. I didn’t care at all.
Colour on colour, bleeding and curling. Spirals of perfection kissing her skin, the brush nothing but a silent caress, an extension of my very soul as I decorated that girl’s perfect body. She watched me, not my brush, her eyes soaking in my choice of colours.
“The Starry Night,” she said.
“Loosely.” I smiled. “Very loosely.”
The brush loved Helen’s breasts almost as much as I did. Her nipples pebbled at the contact, stiffening to sweet little peaks that made my mouth water. I watched the rise and fall of her chest, matching the finer brush strokes so perfectly, our breathing in sync, as one.
“I love you so much,” she whispered, and her fingers tightened on my leg. “I never want this to end. Never.”
“Me neither, Helen. Me neither.”
I layered paint on paint, highlights on darker hues, and she was transformed. Her breath turned shallow as I positioned myself between her thighs.
“Be still,” I said.
“Yes, sir.” Her eyes twinkled.
I raised her knees and my canvas opened up for me. I had to take a steadying breath before my brush made contact, and Helen let out the softest moan.
I dropped the brush for the most delicate aspects, smoothing colour onto her with my fingers. One solid flick of yellow for her clit, and she moaned but didn’t move an inch, not an inch as I painted her pussy lips the most delicate blue, not an inch as I spread her open and painted her tenderness pink.
My palette was splattered, paint on paint, ultramarine, and cobalt blue, and Indian yellow.
Dark pigment for the cypress tree, and it grew tall under my brush, right the way up her left side to consume the curve of her breast.
White swirls, and I was a man possessed, no longer just me, the muse on my shoulder guiding and demanding and laughing with joy.
I caught my breath before filling in the detail of the landscape, and Helen reclined easily, the softest smile on her lips.
I smoothed her damp hair from her forehead, leaving a smear of paint behind me.
“Comfortable?”
She nodded. “You’re amazing. I want to do this all the time.”
“Thank you, but I don’t think it’s one for the classroom somehow.”
She giggled. “Shame.”
I loved that timeless space. The gentle bliss of Helen’s body laid so willingly for me. The urge of the creative unconscious. The fine concentration of brushwork.
The candles had burned out by the time I filled in the last of the detail, and the fire was merely a glow.
I soaked in my work, and Helen, the perfect canvas. She looked otherworldly, a beautiful creature from the deep.
I reached for my camera, and she teased her hair around her head, a messy halo that worked real magic.
I captured the memory, then dropped to my knees.
“Can I see?” she asked, but I shook my head.
And she knew, her eyes reflected mine.
She raised herself from the floor, and her fingers were at my shirt, her mouth on mine. My hands tangled in her hair, holding her tight as I kissed her, and she moaned as she flattened her chest to mine. I pushed her down into the cushions, and pressed my body to hers, and the paint was hot and clammy, smearing against my clothes, and it didn’t matter.
Nothing mattered.
Between us we pulled off my shirt, and I wriggled out of my jeans and sunk into her with the most natural movement.