Learning From the Master

I sighed as I stepped back from the wall, shaking my head back and forth and frowning at the crooked edge I had just painted. As I let my head fall, discouraged, my eyes were just quick enough to notice a big glob of paint about to drip from the end of my brush. I managed to reach out just quickly enough for the splat of eggshell to land on the drop-cloth rather than the hardwood floor. Nice way to start a Saturday.

It was hopeless, I thought to myself as I set down the brush and picked up a rag to wipe my filthy hands. I just had to face the fact that I wasn't good at this. Easier said than done, as I'm quite a perfectionist. But when it came down to it, I'd have to decide which was more important to me: that I proved I was a great painter, or that I was actually satisfied with the paint job. And as I daydreamed about having friends over, entertaining with pride in my new home, the answer became clear. I'd have to ask for help.

I'd bought this house just a couple of months earlier, after picking up and moving my life half-way across the country. If it hadn't been for my parents' support, and the significant salary I'd be earning in the dream job that had brought me here, I couldn't have afforded the cute bungalow on the tree-lined street in the desirable neighborhood. After all, real estate values were fairly inflated in this suburb consistently named one of the country's 'most livable'. But I was so delighted to be there, I was willing to buy a house that desperately needed landscaping, a new roof, and new paint inside and out.

What I hadn't realized was that my high-achieving nature didn't necessarily translate to success in home improvement. I didn't have the time or skills to do the work myself. And when I reached out for help, inviting contractors over to give an estimate or visiting the hardware store on my way home from work, I inevitably saw my attractive young body reflected as so many dollar signs in the eyes of those I met. This was my first time on my own - no more dad or handy roommate to take care of these things for me - and I can't express how frustrating it was not to be taken seriously. Don't get me wrong, I don't mind guys staring at my chest or ogling my legs - it's just that usually I can use my assets to get free dinner and drinks; this time around, it was just leading to high estimates for the work I needed done!

The first people I hired - to paint the outside of the house - were a couple of college guys. They happened to be going door to door looking for work when I was wrestling with my new lawnmower, assured me of their vast experience painting houses the summer before, and impressed me with their cheap quote and eagerness to start the job right away. What the hell, I figured. They'd probably do a good job, and it wouldn't hurt me to have a little eye candy around. I didn't even have to feel guilty, a single 26-year-old who just happened to enjoy the view of the shirtless 19-year-olds as they climbed up and down ladders. Innocent fun.

Only problem was, they were sloppy. They were careless. For supposedly experienced painters, they didn't seem to have much respect for the subtle differences between colors. If I hadn't been finding excuses to watch them work - OK, so it had been a while since I'd had a date - they would have finished the trim in 'Surf Green', when I'd been very clear that my choice was 'Cilantro'. In the end, they did finish the job, but they got by with just the minimum. Typical of guys their age, I couldn't help chuckling to myself. It was a real 'in and out' job. If I wasn't there to keep an eye on them, and to clean up after them, I never would have gotten what I wanted.

So, things bring us to where this story began - trying and failing on a Saturday morning to paint my own living room. The guys had finished the outside work a few days before; that evening, I stood out on the front lawn in the late summer sun, surveying their work as I nursed a glass of merlot. Not bad, in the end, and certainly a huge improvement since I moved in. But there's no way I would hire the young guys back to paint inside. So that weekend, I told myself, my confidence bolstered by the wine and a successful day at the office, I would get it done myself.

As I headed back into the house, my neighbor waved from his porch. "Looks good," he hollered. I noticed he'd been keeping an eye on the college guys when he could, something I appreciated even though I'd never exchanged more than a few words with him. Terrible, I thought to myself, how little neighbors talk in this day and age. This was something I'd have to work on as I settled into the neighborhood, especially since this guy was so handsome, and appeared to be single.

"Thanks! Although it's nothing compared to your house - beautiful!"

"Hey, thanks. But don't worry, you're still getting settled in. It took me a long time to get things looking this good. Plenty of time for you to catch up!"

I smiled, waved, and walked up the steps and into my house. I wondered how much older he was - I guessed early 40s. And if his handsome face and athletic body weren't enough to catch my attention, he exuded confidence. I had indeed admired his house many times, with its immaculate and historically accurate paint job, gorgeous landscaping, all accented by the always-clean sports car in his driveway. His words echoed in my mind as I settled in for the night. He was supportive, yes, and understanding of the hard work involved with fixing up an old home. But somehow I also took his words as a challenge. Hmm. Guess I should have shared with you that I'm competitive, as well as a perfectionist.

Anyway, if I was hoping to get to know my neighbor better - goodness, I didn't even know his name - the chance came that Saturday morning. Frustrated with my near-spill and below-par painting skills, I fumed out of the house to get some air. With some nasty language that I won't repeat here still on my lips, I practically ran into him as I stormed down my front walk.

"Oh, yikes, sorry!" I looked up into his eyes, and blushed as I realized he'd heard everything I'd said.

"That's OK, no worries! Are you OK?"

"Yeah, I'm fine, just getting frustrated with my painting project."

"I can see that," he replied with a smile, looking down at my dirty overalls, which somehow had almost as much paint on them as what I'd managed to get on the wall.

"Yeah, not my forte. But it's OK, I just needed to get some air, clear my head, then I'll get back at it." Just then, I realized he'd been coming to see me. "Hey, were you coming over for a visit?"

"Well, yes! I was thinking after we chatted last night, what a shame it is that neighbors don't know each other better, and figured I might find you home on a Saturday morning."

I nodded and smiled, not quite ready to admit that he'd read my mind. "What a nice thought. Please, come in, I'll show you around."

"My name's Jake, by the way."

"Nice to meet you, Jake," reaching out to shake the hand he had offered. "I'm Ashley. Come on in."

I gave him the quick tour, pointing out the work I intended to do in each room, and sensed his eyes moving over my body as he followed me through the house. Dirty as I was from attempting to paint, I smiled to myself, I could tell he found me appealing in my cute home improvement outfit. My wavy blonde hair, which normally fell just below my shoulder blades, was up in two pigtails. My paint-covered overalls hugged my figure, showing off my tight little ass, great legs, and especially my tits. I was wearing a lacy red bra that was just barely concealed by a fitted white t-shirt. A sexy outfit, really, and something I wouldn't have been caught dead in outside the comfort of my own home!

He looked, as he always did, exceedingly comfortable and confident in jeans and a polo shirt. He was about 6'1", I estimated, to my 5'7", in great shape, and much to my delight, clearly hadn't shaved that morning. My mind was wandering down a dangerous path when we found ourselves back in the living room and he spoke, bringing me back to reality.

"So, looks like you bought out the whole store here?"

I looked around, taking in the cans of designer paint, drop-cloths, various sizes of brushes and rollers, several rolls of painter's tape, etc. "Well, yeah, I wanted to be prepared."

"It's just that, well, never mind."

"No, tell me, what were you going to say?"

"It's just that, just buying the right supplies doesn't insure that you can paint."

"Yeah, I know..." I let my voice trail off, my eyes following his glance to the crooked edge I'd painted that morning.

"Here," he said, handing me the brush. "Let me watch your technique. Maybe I can help."

Once again, I couldn't decide whether to take his words as supportive or challenging. But as I wanted to do whatever I could to get to know him better, I figured I should go along with it. I looked back at him once more, and he gave me an encouraging nod, so I walked back to the wall, added paint to my brush, and nervously painted another crooked edge, this time along a window. My lack of skill was only amplified by the fact that a sexy older guy was watching my every move.

"So, will you let me give you a few tips?"

"Well, I'm sure it's just a matter of practice, I mean, after I've been at it for a while, I'm sure I'll get better."

"Yes, but meanwhile you'll waste a lot of paint, time, and anguish. Listen, I've got lots of experience, and I'll be happy to help you if you're willing to check your ego at the door before we get started."

"Excuse me?"

"You heard me," he said with a smile and a wink. "I can tell that you're an accomplished young woman, and used to things being under your control. But I think you'll find that when it comes to things like this, listening to me is always the best way to go."

My mouth wanted to drop open, but I caught myself before that could happen. It struck me that he was referring to more than just painting, but I tried to play it cool. "Alright, Jake. You're right. I'm competitive and used to handling things on my own. But I admit I'm a lousy painter. I'd love your help."

"OK! First, you don't need to use that painter's tape. Look," he said, pulling it away from the edge I'd been painting, "your getting paint underneath it anyway. Watch me for a second."

Putting paint on another brush, he smoothly painted a perfect edge, with no irritating blue painter's tape to guide his way.

"Wow, how'd you do that?"

"You can do it too, Ashley, you just need to slow down and have a little patience. Here, you try this edge."

I followed his direction, and did my best to follow his example, but once again I painted a crooked line, globbing paint where I didn't want it and leaving some areas bare that should have been covered.

"You're trying to hurry it. You need to take your time to do it correctly." He came up behind me and took my hand in his, guiding the brush slowly and gently, and I quickly understood the difference between his touch and mine.

"See, you were trying to move too quickly, and in the process, you were making a mess. A little patience..." his voice trailed off as he put more paint on the brush, put it back in my hand, and once again guided my motions. I could feel my body warming as he stood so closely behind me, my heart beating faster as I felt his breath in my ear. But just as soon as I began to melt into him, he pulled away from me, stepping back into the room to survey my work once again.

"That's it, Ashley. Much better. Keep going, I'll be right back, just want to run home to get a few tools."

My mind raced in the few minutes that I was alone. I wanted to stop, to ponder a possible next move with this guy, but I also felt strongly that I needed to keep going, keep painting, show him that I'd made progress by the time he returned. I was overwhelmed with a sense of frustration at how easily he had taken control - in just a matter of minutes, he had made it clear that he was in charge, that he would be calling the shots - and unfortunately I didn't know whether painting was all he had in mind for the day. I just knew I was hoping for more.

Before I knew it, he was back, carrying a cordless drill. "Good job, Ashley, much better. Why don't we try another color now, is this what you wanted to use for an accent wall?"

I looked to see which paint can he was pointing at, and nodded. I reached for a screwdriver to pry open the lid, and with my other hand, grabbed one of the stir sticks I'd been given at the paint store.

"Oh, no, Ashley, I've got something much better." Jake quickly switched attachments on his drill, kneeled next to me, and stirred the paint in just a matter of seconds.

"I didn't know there was such a tool!"

"Oh, yes, stirs the paint much more quickly and effectively. Besides, we'll find a better use for those stir sticks later."

My mind raced once again, searching his face for any clue whether he was talking about home improvement projects or bedroom activities, but I couldn't read anything from his piercing blue eyes. They were at once serious and mischievous. Oh well, nothing I could do but continue to go along with this. He was clearly in the driver's seat.

We worked together in silence for a few more moments before he spoke again. "Do you believe me now, can we get rid of all of this tape? Again, I can think of much better uses for it than cluttering up your living room. And while we're at it, you do realize you don't really need this drop cloth, right?"

"But, um... I just don't want to get anything on the hardwood floor."

"Nor do I. But as with many things in life, if you do it properly, you won't make a mess. Be aware of how much paint is on your brush. Don't rush it. A little patience."

I nodded, allowing his confident voice to wash over me as I worked. Much as I tried to focus on my painting, though, I couldn't help but be distracted by most everything he said. Once it entered my mind that there were double entendres in everything he said, it was difficult to focus on much but the growing warmth between my legs.

"With the drop cloth, you're preparing yourself for failure. You're assuming that you're going to spill a drop. We won't be needing it, trust me."

I nodded my understanding, and he gathered the cloth up from the floor, folded it neatly, and put it in the corner of the room.

"So, how are we doing over here?"

As he had before, he came up behind me, his breath hot on my neck as he watched me paint. I had already improved, my strokes much slower now, and I was no longer spilling paint in all directions. It was actually ending up where I intended - on the wall! Just as I began to take pleasure in this success, I felt his hands on my hips. For a moment, it could have been innocent enough, but then his hands began to wander, reaching underneath the overalls to cup my breasts.

I sighed and melted into him, and nearly dropped the paintbrush. I managed to firm up my grip before it fell to the floor, but in the process, a large drop of green paint fell to the floor, splattering on the hardwood. His hands pulled away from my body, and I spun around to face him.

"I thought you understood that we wouldn't be relying on the drop cloth?"

"But, um, I thought you wanted to..."

"Oh, I do, but not until you accept that there will be a consequence to your sloppiness." His usual confidence remained, but I could tell he was searching my face for a reaction, making sure I was interested in going along with his latest whim.

Oh yes, I was. And I was quick to respond. "I assume that's what the stir stick is for?"

"That's right, Ashley. A few swats should remind you to be more careful in the future."

He picked up one of the virgin sticks, asked me to hold out my hands, palm up, and swatted each of them once, firmly.

"You look disappointed, Ashley. Were you hoping for something more?"

I blushed, realizing that maybe I'd misread his intentions and revealed more about myself than I should have to my neighbor. But my fears were quickly assuaged. "Don't worry, Ashley. There will be more. All in good time. Remember, a little patience."

He tossed the stick to the floor and took me in his arms once again. With a few quick motions, he unhooked the straps of my overalls, letting them fall to my waist, and quickly pulled my t-shirt up and over my head. He pulled my breasts out of the cups of my bra, and took them one by one into his mouth, sucking aggressively. My nipples had always been sensitive but eager, and I arched my back in pleasure as he gently nibbled on them. My hands slipped down to his crotch, and I massaged his growing cock with one hand as the other quickly moved to unbutton his fly and fish it out of his boxers.

"Not so fast, Ashley. A little precision, please?"

He backed away from me and slowly stripped naked, his eyes locked on mine as he removed first his shoes and socks, setting them neatly aside, then his jeans and boxers, and finally his shirt. Only his hard, erect cock revealed that he was aroused - everything else about his movements and the calm of his eyes spoke only of the utmost confidence.

"Now you."

I followed his lead, just as I had a few minutes earlier when I imitated the stroke of his paintbrush. Now it was my turn to peel off what remained of my clothes and set them neatly aside, keeping my eyes fixed on his except for the occasional glance down at his cock.

"Do you want to pleasure me?"

"Oh, yes."

"Then drop to your knees."

Once there, adjusting my kneecaps to the hard, cold floor, I looked up into his eyes, smiling. He continued with his instructions.

"Now," he said calmly, reaching once more for the stir stick. "If I get any sense that you're resorting to the rushed motions you're used to, you're going to get a firm swat, understood? As long as you show some patience, I'll let you work. And remember, don't spill a drop."

I could hardly control my excitement as I eagerly took his cock into my hands and mouth. I moved quickly, lustily, and it wasn't long before I felt the sting of the wood against my skin as he bent down to slap it across my ass. "A little patience, Ashley. All good things to those who wait."

I answered wordlessly, going back to work on his cock with long, slow strokes, as I felt my own juices begin to trickle down my leg. I looked up at him as I took his entire length into my mouth, and, apparently sensing my willingness to follow his rules, he put down the stick. Both hands free, he now grasped my pigtails and gently guided my motions. I was determined to maintain my slow and steady pace, massaging his balls in my hands as I let his cock slide in and out of my mouth, but before long it was he who began to speed things up.

For a few minutes more, he thrust in and out, whispering gentle commands to guide my touch, and I responded instantly to each, eager to please. He raised his voice just a bit to warn me that he was about to orgasm. Then, with a level of control I'd never experienced from a man about to cum, whispered, "Remember, Ashley. Not a drop."

Just at that moment, I felt his warm load shoot deep into my throat. Gagging a bit, I nonetheless continued to suck him off, swallowing every drop, and smiling up at him with pleasure at my success when he finally pulled out of me.

"Nicely done, Ashley. You see, you are a quick learner. Now it's time for your reward."

Before I could respond or react, he picked up the painter's tape and strolled out of the room, down the hall towards my bedroom. My knees both weak and sore, I climbed to my feet as quickly as I could and followed him, arriving just in time to see him pull a long length of tape from the roll and rip it free.

"Now, for your next lesson. For those of us who can paint without this silly guide, there's a much more satisfying use of this tape. On the bed, please."