A Painter's Erotica

The painting was poorly created, but she barely noticed. They stood together at the same piece, his presence so close and intimate with her shoulders and lower back she wondered if he might get an erection, would she feel it. Such thoughts. She had become a monster of passion and desire and she hated herself for it. She'd never wanted anyone so much in her entire life. Not that that meant much in itself. But the very touch of him against her could send her into a chaos of stupid senseless gestures. Such as pushing backward just so that she could feel his prick against her spine. Even if it meant him turning away coldly and leaving her, repulsed by the taboo nature of their relationship. Though he did turn away and move on to the next painting, the sensation of his thick cock buried for a brief moment against the curve of her back was enough to leave her breathless and grinning.

...

One night she sat up for what seemed like hours while the moon glowered an opal skull in the night sky overhead and she watched him paint, waiting for a sign. Waiting for some tiny piece of evidence that he was tired, or weakened at least a little bit. She had planned all day that tonight she would take him. She would make him hard and force him to want her so desperately he couldn't possibly contain himself and he would steal her body as effectively as he might pilfer a secret diary when someone isn't looking. Quietly and calmly she waited, her nerves growing continually tighter as she watched. For hours he painted, the muscles in his arms strong and unhurt, unaffected. The brushstrokes were firmer and more dynamic the longer they both held out. it became an unspoken competition. The moment he would look at her with weakness and need would be the moment she would approach him for the third time and try to entice him to make love to her. But it never came. His eyes didn't peer in her direction, not once. She was left almost breathless, and yawning, her eyes barely able to stay open.

"You should go to bed." He said, finally breaking the silence. "You sound tired."

"No, I'm fine." She replied stubbornly and sat up a little.

"I don't see what you find so fascinating about me painting."

She raised her eyebrows and looked away. The house and the beach were both silent, but for the gushing roar of waves as they shifted. There was no fire. Summer had hit quite suddenly and it was too warm to light one. She lifted an ice cold glass to her mouth and sipped at the juice in it.

"I'm fully entertained."

He continued to paint, generously slapping the paint on with his hands and fingers, then working it through with a large soft brush. She watched the hypnotic strokes and felt her eyelids begin to betray her. Her head fell back and she drifted off into a quiet doze. She felt him lift her up into his arms and carry her to bed so that she was not annoying him or in his way. She lightly pinched his neck in her sleep and murmured.

"You bastard."

...

She was sunken, deep down and slightly comatose, in the soft folds of the bed, it's feathery arms wrapped around her intimately and graciously as she half-slept.

The air was too warm, sickly with a humidity which glued to her skin and made everything uncomfortable. The bed was stifled from perspiration and the minuscule droplets of moisture in the air, the thin sheets half thrown over her body were becoming clinging and stifling.

In her near dream state she imagined the air was solid and heavy and she couldn't breathe. She called out to him as she fell gently into the hot depths of sleep. She could feel her arms reaching up from the bed as she sank lower.

There was no ceremony. She had simply called and he'd come.

He was there. Lingering over her bed. She saw his unlit figure in the dark room and it was huge. A shadow in the air, seemingly massive as he hovered over her bed and then crawled above her to lean on her.

"You're not asleep," he whispered.

She felt the touch of his cheek press against the side of her neck as she pressed back into the pillow and she moaned a little, involuntarily. A breeze hit her as the sheets were removed from her sleeping body. His hand ran up the side of her leg, leaving a trail of warm oil.

He'd been painting. She could smell it on him, feel it in the skin, hardened even on his earlobes. It was caked on parts of his body, plastered dry and flaky in some areas and like watery mud in others. She felt the warm slippery feel of the wet paint as he slid against her and rubbed his hands along her arms and then shoulders, unwittingly massaging her with the oils already soaking his skin. There was a dab of red on his cheek and she kissed it, wiping it as her lips swept across the thick flesh near his mouth.

She could almost taste the ocean in him: a blue hint of translucent water which shimmered liquid and flowing. He tasted like sky and earth and rain intermingled to produce an unusual peppering of Tabari Utamu, an unearthly beautiful flavour which she relished.

Though it was a romantic gesture from him, there was no real romance in the act itself.

He moved up against her, pressuring her leg and then her thigh with his massive body and his prick. He lifted her leg up over his shoulder, tenderling flicking his fingers around the inflamed, swollen lips of her cunt.

He was hard all over. Inflexible like warm stone. Even his arms grew rigid and unbending. He hardly kissed her as his cock pushed into her and they began to move against each other easily. Again, no romance, no flattery, no foreplay to arouse each other's internal desires. It was simple and lacking in elegance, and yet became the most cogent and influential moment of lovemaking of all her living days.

Part of her body was excited and frightened it was finally happening, part of her heart was frustrated and lost that he'd not come to her with declarations of love and eternal romance. But as she closed her eyes, all of those cravings drew away into the image of him riding her, gentle and demanding all at once.

If she lost all other senses and just let herself feel him it was as if she could feel those promises billowing like air from his lungs into her blue sacks of lung. She imagined his thoughts were solid and they pummelled her gently, into her head, into her eyes; while his body rammed lovingly into her physicality and sent her mindlessly whirling into a half-forgotten pleasure. He put his large, hot, unclean fingers into the slit of her cunt, warming her up, moistening and lubricating her with the slippery juices already caking the soft hairs on her pussy. When he didn't kiss her, the creative function of her brain imagined that he had, and it sent her higher into the most pleasurable realm she could muster. The imagined kiss was deep, his tongue moving around hers and licking it as if she was candied.

She wanted to be fully awake to feel the intensity of orgasm and ecstasy of being with him like that but as soon as it was over, he played her bed sheets back over her naked body and left her to sleep. He simply removed himself gently from her bed and left in silence. By the time she closed her eyes again she had almost completely forgotten the conscious sensation of making love to him.

She slept well for the next few hours.