She didn’t know what the brush meant as he held it between his fingers. But upon first contact, she suppressed a moan. The softness of the bristles, the delicate strokes he bestowed upon her. She understood. At least, she was beginning to understand. He stroked her all over, her inner thighs, her inner lips and out. Slow, light, and methodical strokes across her clit.
“Do you know why I chose you?” he asked her, uninterested in her answer, wanting only to gauge her ability to speak, to see how much longer he would continue.
Indeed, her ability to speak was gone. She barely heard his words, straining as she was through the pleasure. Pressure that was building now, with a vengeance. She was amazed: she might actually come. With another person. For the first time. but could she let it happen when she was spread so lewdly before him? Could she really come right before his eyes?
She needn’t have concerned herself with these thoughts. He stopped, putting the brush down on the table beside her, in full view, so she could contemplate it while he went back to his clay.
Her throbbing flesh begged for touch. Almost unconsciously, she reached for the brush, wanting to feel its touch once more, just a little bit more.
“No.”
Her eyes flew open, only then realizing she’d closed them to the world, everything except the sensations thrumming through her body.
“Put your hand back where it was,” he told her.
At first, she was indignant. Who’s he to tell me what I can and can’t do? But she remembered her place. She was the subject. The paid model. Her only job was to be a still life, a bowl of fruit. Fine.
But as she clasped her ankle once more, she ruminated on this word. No. Why was so darkly captivating about it? Why did her pussy throb at the memory of it?
On the session went. Every fifteen minutes or so, he would dip his hands into the water again, towelling them off, moving slowly, giving her time to anticipate what was to come next. He didn’t need to touch her so often, but it was now a matter of desire for him. He wanted to make her ordeal as intense and difficult as possible. To see how far he could push her. He would take up the brush, or he would use his fingers, relishing her soft moans, curses muttered under her breath as her body strained for more. He was very pleased to discover she was not one of those women who could come easily. She was checking so many of his favorite boxes.
He also discovered her sensitivity around her ass. When he’d passed the brush across it, she squealed, catching hold of his hand.
“No,” she said. “I don’t like that.”
It was the only time she so directly disobeyed. As difficult as it was to restrain himself from admonishing her, he consoled himself with the fact of having acquired this potentially very useful information.
Eventually, his sculpture was nearing completion. He guessed around two hours had passed, but he wasn’t counting, and he knew she wasn’t either. Soon, there was one last part to finish.
When he approached her this time, he retrieved an object from his pocket, holding it out for her to see. It was a small clear dildo, only a few inches in length, tapering out into a wide base with a handle at the end.
“Mind if I use this on you?” he asked. “I’d like to open you up a little.”
“Sure,” she panted, calling to mind the sculpture on the wall, the dark opening, as if speaking a silent invitation. She wondered what she looked like, what her sculpture would look like, and for a moment, shame flared up.
But the instant he put the thing to her flesh, all thoughts ceased once more. It was warm, having been in his pocket. Warmed with his body heat, she knew, and suddenly wished it was him, instead of the dildo, that would be entering her.
He started slow, slipping the tip in and out of her, teasingly stabbing at her entrance.
“Please,” she moaned, unravelling.
“Please what?” he asked.
“Please fuck me with that,” she said.
His cock twitched. She was being so good.
He forced it into her suddenly, pushing passed her tight entrance, only to pull it out an instant later. She cried out in surprise, a cry that devolved into a long, hungry moan. He loved the way her hips rocked so pathetically, trying to invite it back in.
“You’re tight,” he told her as he resumed the light stabbing. “When’s the last time you were fucked?”
She leaned back into the cushion, eyes closed, unable to process everything that was happening. She felt as though she might explode. She wanted to explode. But he was preventing her, somehow.
He wanted her full attention. He snaked a hand into her hair, wrenching her head forward. “Why don’t you watch?” he said softly. Simple, innocent-sounding suggestions with his words, coupled with demanding touches as he roughly gripped her hair. He strove to confuse her mind, casting it aside in order to directly access her subconscious.
She did watch as he began plunging it in and out of her, watching his strong arm with its lithe muscles working her. The sounds of her juices filled the air as he pummelled her, a rare respite for his pent-up aggression.
When her tightness was utterly gone, the dildo passing in and out of her as smoothly as butter, he stopped, placing the dildo beside the paint brush, ignoring her plaintive cries for more. As he stood back at his table, admiring his work, he was filled with nearly irrepressible glee, feeling his cock straining against the confines of his clothes. If she didn’t come from that, it meant she couldn’t come from penetration.
She was perfect.
The deep, urgent heat the fucking left her with was nearly unbearable. She wanted to be filled up completely, not the meager few inches the dildo provided. She wanted him, all of him, in her. Now.
A short while later, when he told her he was finished, she couldn’t quite understand what was happening. Before she could utter a rebuttal he was guiding her off the table, holding out her clothes for her to put on. Stuffing bills into her hand. Then she was in the hallway, looking back at him.
For a moment he was hesitant to let her go in this dazed state. But he knew the cool outdoor air would perk her up enough to return her wits to her, to get herself safely home.
More important was the boundary he must maintain. The appearance of the transaction completed. Their relationship terminated. Her body used for his purposes and nothing more.
As he shut the door, he already knew precisely when he would call her back. And he knew, without a doubt, that she would come.