"C'mon, it'll be fun! Worth it," you plead.
I look at you incredulously. "You can't be SERIOUS! You can't be. Serious."
You grab my hand, ignoring my qualms and reservations. You pull me up the stairs to our bedroom, flinging open the double doors like a showgirl on a game show, revealing our king-size bed, adorned with plain uniform white sheets, white pillows, and a brass headboard. At the foot of the bed is an empty trunk, which we've never used, but on top of it are five paint cans, filled to capacity.
"It didn't matter what I said! You were gonna force it on me either way!" I complain.
"What are you complaining about? Don't be such a square. Let loose, this is for your own good." you counsel.
I realize the stupidity in which I protest, and submit to your will. You order me to lie on the bed. I comply. You cock your head, and tell me to get off the bed. I roll my eyes.
"What are you playing at now?"
"You know what the plan is, don't you?" you ask. "Let's not beat around the bush. Well, let's not beat around the bush just yet. Strip."
I finally take a deep breath and let myself slip into your fantasy wholeheartedly. I unbutton my collared shirt, pulling it up to untuck it, and let it slide down my arms onto the floor. You watch with a captivated amusement, a slight smile pulling at your mouth. Your tight black yoga pants bunch as you cross one leg over the other, and your ample breasts are pushed up and to attention by your arms, which you've crossed in front of you.
I begin to pull my plain white tee up my muscled stomach and you rush over, unable to merely watch, slide your hands up my stomach, following the path of my retreating tee shirt. As I pull my shirt up and over my head, your hands, still tracing a path, go up and over my shoulders, eventually clasping behind my neck. I smile and grab you around your waist, pulling you against me. You smile up at me and offer your lips for sacrifice. I give you a small peck, to see your reaction. You wait expectantly, and when I don't kiss you again, you pout. I laugh out loud and press my lips against yours. As our kissing intensifies, our mouths open together, and our tongues confidently meet, embracing, flickering, retreating, and then attacking with renewed vigor. You wiggle your ass closer to me, grinding against my growing manhood. Your hands at the back of my neck begin to tickle up and down my neck, barely touching the hairs that are raised. My tongue betrays my enjoyment.
You suddenly use all your willpower to break away. "I want to do what we said we'd do!" You pout.
"I love your pouting! Pouting will only get you what you want," I warn you. "Don't do it unless you know you want what you wish for."
"I want it!"
"Done." I flash a satanic grin. My hands drop to my waistline and I unbuckle the button on my jeans. The zipper zips down before my captivated audience of one. I shimmy the jeans down my tree trunk quadriceps and leave them in the growing pile of my clothes. I am left standing with only my navy boxers on, conspicuously adorned with humanoid wolves wearing university sweaters. I know you love them and I blush as you give me the look that lets me know that you love them, and you love that I hate that you love them.
My boxers are made prominent by a half erected tent in the middle. "You're a work of art," you breathe. "... and you're about to be immortalized. Strip more and lie down."
I slip my last piece of clothing off, revealing a half-cocked male masterpiece. Not limp but not hard; it looks like the nose of a dog sniffing for a smell. I lie down and you grab the blue paint can. You order me to close my eyes and relax. My defined muscles relax into
semi-distinctive curves as I let my body calm. My cock is slumped to one side, dejected. You begin at my feet, letting a dribble of blue paint fall onto the bed. It tickles my right big toe, and I snap my foot in minor surprise.
The paint works its way up my leg, slowly, in zigzags, giving me visible goosebumps, my hair standing on end. Higher and higher the paint comes, till you're pouring it right onto my upper thigh. My cock gives an imperceptible twitch, and I imagine your smile.
"It's edible," you say. "The paint, I mean."
Still only a drizzle, you trace a blue line up over my pelvic bone to my lower abdomen, coming around the top in a wide arc and finally letting the smallest stream hit the side of my shaft. Growing like a mythical magical beast, my cock springs to life slapping my painted stomach as it collapses in its erectness. You let the stream increase in volume until you dump the